b'^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n,0 s \'^^wy % ^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*O0 \n\n\n\nA \n\n\n\nO \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nV k \n\n\n\nmaoiam m-tb \\ \xe2\x96\xa0 - aon ti \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^K \n\n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\n^C^i \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBIOGRAI \n\n\n\nCRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\n\nWILLIAM H^PRESGOTT, \n\nAUTHOR OF \nTHE HISTORY OF FERDINAND AND ISABELLA." "THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO," ETC, \n\n\n\nPHILADELPHIA: \n\nJ. B. LIPPINCOTT k CO. \n\n1868 \n\n\n\nlew \n\n\n\nEntered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, l>y \n\nHARPER & BROTHERS, \n\nin the Clerk\'s Office of the Southern District of New York. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO \n\nGEORGE TICKNOR, ESQ. \n\nTHIS VOLUME, \n\nWHICH MAY REMIND HIM OF STUDIES PURSUED TOGETHER IX EARLIER TEARS. \n\nf\'jg Affectionately Dedicated \n\nBY HIS FRIEND, \n\nWILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. \n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT \n\n\n\nTHE AMERICAN PUBLISHERS. \n\n\n\nAs man j of the pieces in this volume are the re- \nsult of more care than is usually bestowed on peri- \nodical writing, and as they embrace a range of study \nvery different from that by which Mr. Prescott has \nbeen hitherto known as an author, it is thought that \nthe republication of them in tins form will be accept- \nable to his countrymen. The publishers have taken \ncare that the mechanical execution of the book shall \nbe uniform with that of his historical works. \n\n##* In addition to the matter published in the \nformer editions of these "Miscellanies," will now \nbe found an article of considerable length upon \nSpanish Literature, which appeared in the " North \nAmerican Heview" for January, 1S50. It forms \nthe last in the series of essays. \n\n\n\nPREFACE \n\nTO THE ENGLISH EDITION. \n\nThe following Essays, with a single exception, \nhave been selected from contributions originally \nmade to the North American Review. They are \npurely of a literary character; and as they have \nlittle reference to local or temporary topics, and as \nthe journal in which they appeared, though the \nmost considerable in the United States, is not widely \ncirculated in Great Britain, it has been thought that \na republication of the articles might have some \nnovelty and interest for the English reader. \n\nSeveral of the papers were written many years \nsince ; and the author is aware that they betray \nthose crudities in the execution which belong to an \nunpractised writer, while others of more recent date \nmay be charged with the inaccuracies incident to \nrapid, and, sometimes, careless composition. The \nmore obvious blemishes he has endeavoured to cor- \nrect, without attempting to reform the critical judg- \nments, which, in some cases, he could wish had been \nexpressed in a more qualified and temperate man- \nner; and he dismisses the volume with the hope \nthat, in submitting it to the British public, he may \nnot be thought to have relied too far on that indul- \ngence which has been so freely extended to his more \nelaborate efforts. \n\nBoston, March 30th, 1845. \n\n\n\nCONTENTS. \n\n\n\ncharles brockden brown, the american novelist . 1 \n\nasylum for the blind 57 \n\nirving\'s conquest of granada 8s \n\ncervantes ....... . 123 \n\nsir walter scott . . . . . . .176 \n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature . . . 245 \n\nBancroft\'s united states ...... 294 \n\nmadame calderon\'s life in mexico .... 340 \n\nMOLIERE ......... 361 \n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY 410 \n\nPOETRY VlID ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS , . . 486 \n\nscoTrisR song \xe2\x96\xa0 . 5G8 \n\nDA PONTE\'S OBSERVATIONS 596 \n\nIICKNOR\'S HISTORY OF SfANISH LITERATURE . . 639 \n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL \n\nMISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nMEMOIR OF \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, \n\nTHE AMERICAN NOVELIST.* \n\nThe class of professed men of letters, if we ex- \nclude from the account the conductors of periodical \njournals, is certainly not very large, even at the \npresent day, in our country ; but before the close \nof the last century it was nearly impossible to meet \nwith an individual who looked to authorship as his \nonly, or, indeed, his principal means of subsistence. \nThis was somewhat the more remarkable, consider- \ning the extraordinary development of intellectual \npower exhibited in every quarter of the country, \nand applied to every variety of moral and social \nculture, and formed a singular contrast with more \nthan one nation in Europe, where literature still \ncontinued to be followed as a distinct profession, \namid all the difficulties resulting from an arbitrary \ngovernment, and popular imbecility and ignorance. \n\nAbundant reasons are suggested for this by the \nvarious occupations afforded to talent of all kinds, \nnot only in the exercise of political functions, but \n\n* From Sparks\'s American Biography, 1834 \n4 A \n\n\n\n2 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin the splendid career opened to enterprise of every \ndescription in our free and thriving community. \nWe were in the morning of life, as it were, when \neverything summoned us to action ; when the spirit \nwas quickened by hope and youthful confidence ; \nand we felt that we had our race to run, unlike \nthose nations who, having reached the noontide of \ntheir glory, or sunk into their decline, were natu- \nrally led to dwell on the soothing recollections of \nthe past, and to repose themselves, after a tumultu- \nous existence, in the quiet pleasures of study and \ncontemplation. " It was amid the ruins of the \nCapitol," says Gibbon, "that I first conceived the \nidea of writing the History of the Roman Empire." \nThe occupation suited well with the spirit of the \nplace, but would scarcely have harmonized with \nthe life of bustling energy, and the thousand novel- \nties which were perpetually stimulating the appe- \ntite for adventure in our new and unexplored hem- \nisphere. In short, to express it in one word, the \npeculiarities of our situation as naturally disposed \nus to active life as those of the old countries of Eu- \nrope to contemplative. \n\nThe subject of the present memoir affords an al- \nmost solitary example, at this period, of a scholar, \nin the enlarged application of the term, who culti- \nvated letters as a distinct and exclusive profession, \nresting his means of support, as well as his fame, \non his success ; and who, as a writer of fiction, is \nstill farther entitled to credit for having quitted the \nbeaten grounds of the Old Country, and sought his \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 3 \n\nsubjects in the untried wilderness of his own. The \nparticulars of his unostentatious life have been col- \nlected with sufficient industry by his friend, Mr. \nWilliam Dunlap, to whom our native literature is \nunder such large obligations for the extent and fidel- \nity of his researches. We will select a few of the \nmost prominent incidents from a mass of miscella- \nneous fragments and literary lumber with which \nhis work is somewhat encumbered. It were to be \nwished that, in the place of some of them, more \ncopious extracts had been substituted for his jour- \nnal and correspondence, which, doubtless, in this as \nin other cases, must afford the most interesting, as \nwell as authentic materials for biography. \n\nCharles Brockden Brown was born at Phila- \ndelphia, January 17, 1771. He was descended \nfrom a highly respectable family, whose ancestors \nwere of that estimable sect who came over with \nWilliam Penn to seek an asylum where they might \nworship their Creator unmolested in the meek and \nhumble spirit of their own faith. From his earliest \nchildhood Brown gave evidence of his studious pro- \npensities, being frequently noticed by his father, on \nhis return from school, poring over some heavy \ntome, nothing daunted by the formidable words it \ncontained, or mounted on a table, and busily en- \ngaged in exploring a map which hung on the par- \nlour wall. This infantine predilection for geograph- \nical studies ripened into a passion in later years. \nAnother anecdote, recorded of him at the age of \nten, sets in a still stronger light his appreciation of \n\n\n\n4 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nintellectual pursuits far above his years. A visitei \nat his father\'s having rebuked him, as it would seem, \nwithout cause, for some remark he had made, gave \nhim the contemptuous epithet of " boy." " What \ndoes he mean," said the young philosopher, after the \nguest\'s departure, " by calling me boy ? Does he \nnot know that it is neither size nor age, but sense, \nthat makes the man 1 I could ask him a hundred \nquestions, none of which he could answer." \n\nAt eleven years of age he was placed under the \ntuition of Mr. Robert Proud, well known as the au- \nthor of the History of Pennsylvania. Under his \ndirection he went over a large course of English \nreading, and acquired the elements of Greek and \nLatin, applying himself with great assiduity to his \nstudies. His bodily health was naturally delicate, \nand indisposed him to engage in the robust, athletic \nexercises of boyhood. His sedentary habits, how- \never, began so evidently to impair his health, that \nhis master recommended him to withdraw from his \nbooks, and recruit his strength by excursions on foot \ninto the country. These pedestrian rambles suited \nthe taste of the pupil, and the length of his absence \noften excited the apprehensions of his friends for \nhis safety. He may be thought to have sat to him- \nself for this portrait of one of his heroes. " I pre- \nferred to ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill ; \nperpetually to change the scene ; to scrutinize the \nendless variety of objects ; to compare one leaf and \npebble with another; to pursue those trains of \nthought which their resemblances and differences \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 5 \n\nsuggested ; to inquire what it was that gave them \nthis place, structure, and form, were more agreeable \nemployments than ploughing and threshing." "My \nframe was delicate and feeble. Exposure to wet \nblasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick." \nThe fondness for these solitary rambles continued \nthrough life, and the familiarity which they opened \nto him with the grand and beautiful scenes of na- \nture undoubtedly contributed to nourish the habit \nof revery and abstraction, and to deepen the ro- \nmantic sensibilities from which flowed so much of \nhis misery, as well as happiness, in after life. \n\nHe quitted Mr. Proud\'s school before the age of \nsixteen. He had previously made some small po- \netical attempts, and soon after sketched the plans \nof three several epics, on the discovery of America, \nand the conquests of Peru and Mexico. For some \ntime they engaged his attention to the exclusion of \nevery other object. No vestige of them now re- \nmains, or, at least, has been given to the public, by \nwhich we can ascertain the progress made towards \ntheir completion. The publication of such imma- \nture juvenile productions may gratify curiosity by \naffording a point of comparison with later excel- \nlence. They are rarely, however, of value in them- \nselves sufficient to authorize their exposure to the \nworld, and notwithstanding the occasional excep- \ntion of a Pope or a Pascal, may very safely put up \nwith Uncle Toby\'s recommendation on a similar \ndisplay of precocity, " to hush it up, and say as little \nabout it as possible." \n\n\n\nO BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nAmong the contributions which, at a later period \nof life, he was in the habit of making to different \njournals, the fate of one was too singular to be pass- \ned over in silence. It was a poetical address to \nFranklin, prepared for the Edentown newspaper. \n*\' The blundering printer," says Brown, in his jour- \nnal, " from zeal or ignorance, or perhaps from both, \nsubstituted the name of Washington. Washington, \ntherefore, stands arrayed in awkward colours; phi- \nlosophy smiles to behold her darling son ; she turns \nwith horror and disgust from those who have won \nthe laurel of victory in the field of battle, to this her \nfavourite candidate, who had never participated in \nsuch hloody glory, and whose fame was derived \nfrom the conquest of philosophy alone. The print- \ner, by his blundering ingenuity, made the subject \nridiculous. Every word of this clumsy panegyric \nwas a direct slander upon Washington, and so it \nwas regarded at the time. ,, There could not well \nbe imagined a more expeditious or effectual recipe \nfor converting eulogy into satire. \n\nYoung Brown had now reached a period of life \nwhen it became necessary to decide on a profession. \nAfter due deliberation, he determined on the lav. ; \na choice which received the cordial approbation of \nhis friends, who saw in his habitual diligence and \nthe character of his mind, at once comprehensive \nand logical, the most essential requisites for success. \nHe entered ou the studies of his profession with his \nusual ardour ; and the acuteness and copiousness of \nhis arguments on various topics proposed for (lis- \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 7 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2jussion in a law-society over which he presided, \nbear ample testimony to his ability and industry. \nBat, however suited to his talents the profession of \nthe law might be, it was not at all to his taste. He \nbecame a member of a literary club, in which he \nmade frequent essays in composition and eloquence. \nHe kept a copious journal, and by familiar exercise \nendeavoured to acquire a pleasing and graceful style \nof writing ; and every hour that he could steal from \nprofessional schooling was devoted to the cultiva- \ntion of more attractive literature. In one of his \ncontributions to a journal, just before this period, \nhe speaks of " the rapture with which he held com- \nmunion with his own thoughts amid the gloom of \nsurrounding woods, where his fancy peopled every \nobject with ideal beings, and the barrier between \nhimself and the w T orld of spirits seemed burst by the \nforce of meditation. In this solitude, he felt him- \nself surrounded by a delightful society ; but when \ntransported from thence, and compelled to listen to \nthe frivolous chat of his fellow-beings, he suffered \nall the miseries of solitude " He declares that his \nintercourse and conversation with mankind had \nv;rought a salutary change ; that he can now min- \ngle in the concerns of life, perform his appropriate \nduties, and reserve that higher species of discourse \nfor the solitude and silence of his study. In this \nsupposed control over his romantic fancies he gross- \nly deceived himself. \n\nAs the time approached for entering on the prac- \ntice of his profession, he felt his repugnance to it \n\n\n\n8 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nincrease more and more ; and he sought to justify a \nretreat from it altogether by such poor sophistry as \nhis imagination could suggest. He objected to the \nprofession as having something in it immoral. He \ncould not reconcile it with his notions of duty to come \nforward as the champion indiscriminately of right and \nwrong; and he considered the stipendiary advocate \nof a guilty party as becoming, by that very act, parti- \ncipator in the guilt. He did not allow T himself to \nreflect that no more equitable arrangement could be \ndevised, none which would give the humblest indi- \nvidual so fair a chance for maintaining his rights \nas the employment of competent and upright coun- \nsel, familiar with the forms of legal practice, neces- \nsarily so embarrassing to a stranger ; that, so fai \nfrom being compelled to undertake a cause mani- \nfestly unjust, it is always in the power of an honest \nlawyer to decline it; but that such contingencies \nare of most rare occurrence, as few cases are litiga- \nted where each party has not previously plausible \ngrounds for believing himself in the right, a ques- \ntion only to be settled by fair discussion on both \nsides ; that opportunities are not wanting, on the \nother hand, which invite the highest display of elo- \nquence and professional science in detecting and \ndefeating villany, in vindicating slandered innocence, \nand in expounding the great principles of law on \nwhich the foundations of personal security and prop- \nerty are established ; and, finally, that the most illus- \ntrious names in his own and every other civilized \ncountry have been drawn from the * Jinks of a pio- \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 9 \n\nfession whose habitual discipline so well trains them \nfor legislative action, and the exercise of the high- \nest political functions. \n\nBrown cannot be supposed to have been insensi- \nble to these obvious riews; and, indeed, from one of \nhis letters in later life, he appears to have clearly \nrecognised the value of the profession he had de \nserted. But his object was, at this time, to justify \nhimself in his fickleness of purpose, as he best might, \nin his own eyes and those of his friends. Brown \nwas certainly not the first man of genius who found \nhimself incapable of resigning the romantic world \nof fiction, and the uncontrolled revels of the imagi- \nnation, for the dull and prosaic realities of the law. \nFew, indeed, like Mansfield, have been able so far \nto constrain their young and buoyant imaginations \nas to merit the beautiful eulogium of the English \npoet; while many more comparatively, from the \ntime of Juvenal downward, fortunately for the world, \nhave been willing to sacrifice the affections plighted \nto Themis on the altars of the Muse. \n\nBrown\'s resolution at this crisis caused sincere \nregret to his friends, which they could not conceal, \non seeing him thus suddenly turn from the path of \nhonourable fame at the very moment when he was \nprepared to enter on it. His prospects, but lately \nso brilliant, seemed now overcast with a deep gloom. \nThe embarrassments of his situation had also a most \nunfavourable effect on his own mind. Instead of \nthe careful discipFne to which it had been lately \nsubjected, it was now left to rove at large wherever \n\nB \n\n\n\n10 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncaprice should dictate, and waste itself on those \nromantic reveries and speculations to which he was \nnaturally too much addicted. This was the period \nwhen the French Revolution was in its heat, and \nthe awful convulsion experienced in one unhappv \ncountry seemed to be felt in every quarter of the \nglobe ; men grew familiar with the wildest para- \ndoxes, and the spirit of innovation menaced the \noldest and best established principles in morals and \ngovernment. Brown\'s inquisitive and speculative \nmind partook of the prevailing skepticism. Some \nof his compositions, and especially one on the \nRights of Women, published in 1797, show to what \nextravagance a benevolent mind may be led by fast- \nening too exclusively on the contemplation of the \nevils of existing institutions, and indulging in indef- \ninite dreams of perfectibility. \n\nThere is no period of existence when the spirit \nof a man is more apt to be depressed than when he \nis about to quit the safe and quiet harbour in which \nhe has rode in safety from childhood, and to launch \non the dark and unknown ocean where so many a \ngallant bark has gone down before him. How much \nmust this disquietude be increased in the case of one \nwho, like Brown, has thrown away the very chart \nand compass by which he was prepared to guide \nhimself through the dcubtful perils of the voyage! \nHow heavily the gloom of despondency fell on his \nspirits at this time is attested by various extracts \nfrom his private correspondence. "As for me," he \nsays, in one of his letters, " I long ago discovered \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 11 \n\nthat Nature had not qualified me for an actoi on this \nstage. The nature of my education only added to \nthese disqualifications, and I experienced all those \ndeviations from the centre which arise when all our \nlessons are taken from books, and the scholar makes \nhis own character the comment. A happy destiny, \nindeed, brought me to the knowledge of two or three \nminds which Nature had fashioned in the same \nmould with my own, but these are gone. And, O \nGod ! enable me to wait the moment when it is thy \nwill that I should follow them." In another epistle \nhe remarks, "I have not been deficient in the pur- \nsuit of that necessary branch of knowledge, the study \nof myself. I will not explain the result, for have I \nnot already sufficiently endeavoured to make my \nfriends unhappy by communications which, though \nthey might easily be injurious, could not be of any \npossible advantage 1 I really, dear W., regret that \nperiod when your pity was first excited in my fa- \nvour. I sincerely lament that I ever gave you rea- \nson to imagine that I was not so happy as a gay in- \ndifference with regard to the present, stubborn for- \ngetfulness with respect to the uneasy past, and ex- \ncursions into lightsome futurity could make me; for \nwhat end, what useful purposes were promoted by \nthe discovery ? It could not take away from the \nnumber of the unhappy, but only add to it, by ma- \nking those who loved me participate in my uneasi- \nness, which each participation, so far from tending \nto diminish, would, in reality, increase, by adding \nShose regrets, of which I had been the author in \n\n\n\n12 KIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthem, to my own original stock." It is painful to \nwitness the struggles of a generous spirit endeavour- \ning to suppress the anguish thus involuntarily esca- \nping in the warmth of affectionate intercourse. This \nbecomes still more striking in the contrast exhibited \nbetween the assumed cheerfulness of much of his \ncorrespondence at this period and the uniform mel- \nancholy tone of his private journal, the genuine rec- \nord of his emotions. \n\nFortunately, his taste, refined by intellectual cul- \nture, and the elevation and spotless purity of his \nmoral principles, raised him above the temptations \nof sensual indulgence, in which minds of weaker \nmould might have sought a temporary relief. His \nsoul was steeled against the grosser seductions of ap- \npetite. The only avenue through which his prin- \nciples could in any way be assailed was the under- \nstanding ; and it would appear, from some dark hints \nin his correspondence at this period, that the rash \nidea of relieving himself from the w T eight of earthly \nsorrows by some voluntary deed of violence had \nmore than once flitted across his mind. It is pleas- \ning to observe with what beautiful modesty and sim- \nplicity of character he refers his abstinence from \ncoarser indulgences to his constitutional infirmities, \nand consequent disinclination to them, which, in \ntruth, could be only imputed to the excellence of his \nheart and his understanding. In one of his letters \nhe remarks, " that the benevolence of Nature ren- \ndered him, in a manner, an exile from many of the \ntemptations that infest the minds of ardent youth \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 13 \n\nWhatever his wishes might have been, his benevo- \nlent destiny had prevented him from running into \nthe frivolities of youth." He ascribes to this cause \nhis love of letters, and his predominant anxiety to \nexcel in whatever was a glorious subject of compe- \ntition. " Had he been furnished with the nerves and \nmuscles of his comrades, it was very far from impos- \nsible that he might have relinquished intellectual \npleasures. Nature had benevolently rendered him \nincapable of encountering such severe trials." \n\nBrown\'s principal resources for dissipating the \nmelancholy which hung over him were his inex- \ntinguishable love of letters, and the society of a few \nfriends, to whom congeniality of taste and temper had \nunited him from early years. In addition to these re- \nsources, we may mention his fondness for pedestri- \nan rambles, which sometimes were of several weeks\' \nduration. In the course of these excursions, the cir- \ncle of his acquaintance and friends was gradually \nenlarged. In the city of New- York, in particular, \nhe contracted an intimacy with several individuals \nof similar age and kindred mould with himself. \nAmong these, his earliest associate was Dr. E. H. \nSmith, a young gentleman of great promise in the \nmedical profession. Brown had become known to \nhim during the residence of the latter as a student \nin Philadelphia. By him our hero was introduced \nto Mr. Dunlap, who has survived to commemorate \nthe virtues of his friend in a biography already no- \nticed, and to Mr. Johnson, the accomplished author \nof the New-York Law Reports. The society of \n4 b \n\n\n\n14 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthese friends had sufficient attractions to induce him \nto repeat his visit to New- York, until at length, in \nthe beginning of 1798, he may be said to have es- \ntablished his permanent residence there, passing \nmuch of his time under the same roof with them. \nHis amiable manners and accomplishments soon rec- \nommended him to the notice of other eminent indi- \nviduals. He became a member of a literary soci- \nety, called the Friendly Club, comprehending names \nwhich have since shed a distinguished lustre over the \nvarious walks of literature and science. \n\nThe spirits of Brown seemed to be exalted in this \nnew atmosphere. His sensibilities found a grateful \nexercise in the sympathies of friendship, and the pow- \ners of his mind were called into action by collision \nwith others of similar tone with his own. His mem- \nory was enriched with the stores of various reading, \nhitherto conducted at random, with no higher object \nthan temporary amnsement, or the gratification of \nan indefinite curiosity. He now concentrated his \nattention on some determinate object, and proposed \nto give full scope to his various talents and acquisi- \ntions in the career of an author, as yet so little trav- \nelled in our own country. \n\nHis first publication was that before noticed, en- \ntitled "Alcuin, a dialogue on the Rights of Women." \nIt exhibits the crude and fanciful speculations of a \ntheorist, who, in his dreams of optimism, charges \nexclusively on human institutions the imperfections \nnecessarily incident to human nature. The work, \nwith all its ingenuity, made little impression on the \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 15 \n\npublic : it found few purchasers, and made, it may \nbe presumed, still fewer converts. \n\nHe soon after began a romance, which he never \ncompleted, from which his biographer has given \ncopious extracts. It is conducted in the epistolary \nform, and, although exhibiting little of his subse- \nquent power and passion, is recommended by a \ngraceful and easy manner of narration, more attract- \nive than the more elaborate and artificial style of \nhis latter novels. \n\nThis abortive attempt was succeeded, in 1798, \nby the publication of Wieland, the first of that re- \nmarkable series of fictions which flowed in such \nrapid succession from his pen in this and the three \nfollowing years. In this romance, the author, de- \nviating from the usual track of domestic or historic \nincident, proposed to delineate the powerful work- \nings of passion, displayed by a mind constitutionally \nexcitable, under the control of some terrible and \nmysterious agency. The scene is laid in Pennsyl- \nvania. The action takes place in a family by the \nname of Wieland, the principal member of which \nhad inherited a melancholy and somewhat super- \nstitious constitution of mind, which his habitual \nreading and contemplation deepened into a calm \nbut steady fanaticism. This temper is nourished \nstill farther by the occurrence of certain inexplica- \nble circumstances of ominous import. Strange \nvoices are heard by different members of the family, \nsometimes warning them of danger, sometimes an- \nnouncing events seeming beyond the reach of hu \n\n\n\n16 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nman knowledge. The still and solemn hours of \nnight are disturbed by the unearthly summons. \nThe other actors of the drama are thrown into \nstrange perplexity, and an underplot of events is \ncuriously entangled by the occurrence of unaccount- \nable sights as well as sounds. By the heated fancy \nof Wieland they are referred to supernatural agency. \nA fearful destiny seems to preside over the scene, \nand to carry the actors onward to some awful ca- \ntastrophe. At length the hour arrives. A solemn, \nmysterious voice announces to Wieland that he is \nnow called on to testify his submission to the Di- \nvine will by the sacrifice of his earthly affections \xe2\x80\x94 \nto surrender up the affectionate partner of his bo- \nsom, on whom he had reposed all his hopes of \nhappiness in this life. He obeys the mandate of \nHeaven. The stormy conflict of passion into which \nhis mind is thrown, as the fearful sacrifice he is \nabout to make calls up all the tender remembrances \nof conjugal fidelity and love, is painted with fright- \nful strength of colouring. Although it presents, on \nthe whole, as pertinent an example as we could \noffer from any of Brown\'s writings of the peculiar \npower and vividness of his conceptions, the whole \nscene is too long for insertion here. We will mu- \ntilate it, however, by a brief extract, as an illustra- \ntion of our author\'s manner, more satisfactory than \nany criticism can be. Wieland, after receiving the \nfatal mandate, is represented in an apartment alone \nwith his wife. His courage, or, rather, his despera- \ntion, fails him, and he sends her, on some pretext, \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 17 \n\nfrom the chamber. An interval, during which his \ninsane passions have time to rally, ensues. \n\n" She returned with a light ; I led the way to the \nchamber ; she looked round her ; she lifted the cur- \ntain of the bed ; she saw nothing. At length she \nfixed inquiring eyes upon me. The light now en- \nabled her to discover in my visage what darkness \nhad hitherto concealed. Her cares were now trans- \nferred from my sister to myself, and she said, in a \ntremulous voice, \'Wieland! you are not well; what \nails you? Can I do nothing for you?\' That accents \nand looks so winning should disarm me of my resolu- \ntion was to be expected. My thoughts were thrown \nanew into anarchy. T spread my hand before my \neyes that I might not see her, and answered only \nby groans. She took my other hand between hers, \nand, pressing it to her heart, spoke with that voice \nwhich had ever swayed my will and wafted away \nsorrow. * My friend ! my soul\'s friend ! tell me thy \ncause of grief. Do I not merit to partake with \nthee in thy cares 1 Am I not thy wife V \n\n" This was too much. I broke from her em- \nbrace, and retired to a corner of the room. In this \npause, courage was once more infused into me. I \nresolved to execute my duty. She followed me, \nand renewed her passionate entreaty to know the \ncause of my distress. \n\n" I raised my head and regarded her with stead- \nfast looks. I muttered something about death, and \nthe injunctions of my duty. At these words she \nshrunk back, and looked at me with a new expres- \n4 B* \n\n\n\n18 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsion of anguish. After a pause, she clasped her \nhands and exclaimed, \n\n"\'0 Wieland! Wieland ! God grant that I am \nmistaken ; but surely something is wrong. I see it; \nit is too plain ; thou art undone \xe2\x80\x94 lost to me and to \nthyself.\' At the same time she gazed on my fea- \ntures with intensest anxiety, in hope that different \nsymptoms would take place. I replied with vehe- \nmence, \' Undone ! No ; my duty is known, and I \nthank my God that my cowardice is now vanquish- \ned, and I have power to fulfil it. Catharine ! I pity \nthe weakness of nature ; I pity thee, but must not \nspare. Thy life is claimed from my hands : thou \nmust die !\' \n\n" Fear was now added to her grief. \' What \nmean you 1 Why talk you of death ? Bethink \nyourself, Wieland ; bethink yourself, and this fit will \npass. O! why came I hither 1 Why did you drag \nme hither V \n\n"T brought thee hither to fulfil a divine command. \nI am appointed thy destroyer, and destroy thee I \nmust.\' Saying this, I seized her wrists. She shriek- \ned aloud, and endeavoured to free herself from my \ngrasp, but her efforts were vain. \n\n" \' Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. \nAm I not thy wife 1 and wouldst thou kill me ? \nThou wilt not ; and yet \xe2\x80\x94 I see \xe2\x80\x94 thou art Wieland \nno longer ! A fury, resistless and horrible, possesses \nthee : spare me \xe2\x80\x94 spare \xe2\x80\x94 help \xe2\x80\x94 help \xe2\x80\x94 \' \n\n" Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for \nhelp\xe2\x80\x94 for mercy. When she could speak no longer. \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 19 \n\nher gestures, her looks appealed to my compassion \nMy accursed hand was irresolute . and tremulous. \nI meant thy death to be sudden, thy struggles to be \nbrief. Alas ! my heart was infirm, my resolves mu- \ntable. Thrice I slackened my grasp, and life kept \nits hold, though in the midst of pangs. Her eye- \nballs started from their sockets. Grimness and dis- \ntortion took place of all that used to bewitch me \ninto transport and subdue me into reverence. \n\n" I was commissioned to kill thee, but not to tor- \nment thee with the foresight of thy death ; not to \nmultiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies. Hag- \ngard, and pale, and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst \nto contend with thy destiny. \n\n" This was a moment of triumph. Thus had I \nsuccessfully subdued the stubbornness of human \npassions ; the victim which had been demanded \nwas given ; the deed was done past recall. \n\n" I lifted the corpse in my arms, and laid it on \nthe bed. I gazed upon it with delight. Such was \nthe elation of my thoughts that I even broke into \nlaughter. I clapped my hands, and exclaimed, * It \nis done ! My sacred duty is fulfilled ! To that 1 \nhave sacrified, O my God ! thy last and best gift, \nmy wife !\' \n\n" For a while I thus soared above frailty. I \nimagined I had set myself forever beyond the reach \nof selfishness, but my imaginations were false. This \n\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2apture quickly subsided. I looked again at my \nwife. My j ryous ebullitions vanished, and I asked \nnivself who it was whom I saw. Methought it \n\n\n\n20 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncould not be Catharine. It could not be the wom- \nan who had lodged for years in my heart; who had \nslept nightly in my bosom ; who had borne in her \nwomb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings \nwho called me father ; whom I had watched with \ndelight, and cherished with a fondness ever new \nand perpetually growing : it could not be the \nsame. \n\n" Where was her bloom 1 These deadly and \nblood-suffused orbs but ill resemble the azure and \necstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid stream \nthat meandered over that bosom, tbe glow of love \nthat was wont to sit upon that cheek, are much \nunlike these livid stains and this hideous deformity. \nAlas ! these were the traces of agony : the gripe of \nthe assassin had been here ! \n\n" I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate \nand outrageous sorrow. The breath of Heaven that \nsustained me was withdrawn, and I sunk into mere \nman. I leaped from the floor; I dashed my head \nagainst the wall ; I uttered screams of horror ; I \npanted after torment and pain. Eternal fire and \nthe bickerings of hell, compared with what I felt, \nwere music and a bed of roses. \n\n" I thank my God that this degeneracy was tran- \nsient \xe2\x80\x94 that he deigned once more to raise me aloft. \nI thought upon what I had done as a sacrifice to \nduty, and was calm. My wife was dead ; but I re* \nfleeted that, though this source of human consola- \ntion was closed, yet others were still open. If the \ntransports of a husband were no more, the feelings \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 21 \n\nof a father had still scope for exercise. When re- \nmembrance of their mother should excite too keen \na pang, I would look upon them and be comforted. \n\n" While I revolved these ideas, new warmth \nflowed in upon my heart. I was wrong. These \nfeelings were the growth of selfishness. Of this I \nwas not aware ; and, to dispel the mist that ob- \nscured my perceptions, a new effulgence and a new \nmandate were necessary. \n\n" From these thoughts I was recalled by a ray \nthat was shot into the room. A voice spake like \nthat which I had before heard, \' Thou hast done \nwell ; but all is not done \xe2\x80\x94 the sacrifice is incom- \nplete \xe2\x80\x94 thy children must be offered \xe2\x80\x94 they must \nperish with their mother! \'" \n\nThis, too, is accomplished by the same remorse- \nless arm, although the author has judiciously re- \nfrained from attempting to prolong the note of \nfeeling, struck with so powerful a hand, by the re- \ncital of the particulars. The wretched fanatic is \nbrought to trial for the murder, but is acquitted on \nthe ground of insanity. The illusion which has \nbewildered him at length breaks on his understand- \ning in its whole truth. He cannot sustain the \nshock, and the tragic tale closes with the suicide of \nthe victim of superstition and imposture. The key \nto the whole of this mysterious agency which con- \ntrols the circumstances of the story is \xe2\x80\x94 ventrilo- \nquism ! ventriloquism exerted for the very purpose \nby a human fiend, from no motives of revenge or \nhaired, but pure diabolical malice, or, as he would \n\n\n\n22 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nm ike us believe, and the author seems willing to \nendorse this absurd version of it, as a mere practi- \ncal joke! The reader, who has been gorged with \nthis feast of horrors, is tempted to throw away the \nbook in disgust at finding himself the dupe of sucli \npaltry jugglery ; which, whatever sense be given to \nthe term ventriloquism, is altogether incompetent to \nthe various phenomena of sight and sound with \nwhich the story is so plentifully seasoned. We can \nfeel the force of Dryden\'s imprecation, when he \ncursed the inventors of those fifth acts which are \nbound to unravel all the fine mesh of impossibilities \nwhich the author\'s wits had been so busy entan- \ngling in the four preceding. \n\nThe explication of the mysteries of Wieland \nnaturally suggests the question how far an author \nis bound to explain the super naturalities, if we may \nso call them, of his fictions ; and whether it is not \nbetter, on the whole, to trust to the willing super- \nstition and credulity of the reader (of which there is \nperhaps store enough in almost every bosom, at the \npresent enlightened day even, for poetical purposes) \nthan to attempt a solution on purely natural or me- \nchanical principles. It was thought no harm for the \nancients to bring the use of machinery into their \nepics, and a similar freedom was conceded to the \nold English dramatists, whose ghosts and witches \nwere placed in the much more perilous predicament \nof being subjected to the scrutiny of the spectator, \nwhose senses are not near so likely to be duped as \nthe sensitive and excited imagination oi the readei \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 23 \n\nin his solitary chamber. It must be admitted, now \never, that the public of those days, when the \n\n" Undoubting mind \nBelieved the magic wonders that were sung," \n\nwere admirably seasoned for the action of super- \nstition in all forms, and furnished, therefore, a most \nenviable audience for the melo-dramatic artist, \nwhether dramatist or romance-writer. But all this \nis changed. No witches ride the air nowadays, \nand fairies no longer " dance their rounds by the \npale moonlight," as the worthy Bishop Corbet, in- \ndeed, lamented a century and a half ago. \n\nStill it may be allowed, perhaps, if the scene is laid \nin some remote age or country, to borrow the ancient \nsuperstitions of the place, and incorporate them into, \nor, at least, colour the story with them, without shock- \ning the w T ellbred prejudices of the modern reader. \nSir Walter Scott has done this with good effect in \nmore than one of his romances, as every one will \nreadily call to mind. A fine example occurs in the \nBoden Glass apparition in Waverley, which the \ngreat novelist, far from attempting to explain on \nany philosophical principles, or even by an intima- \ntion of its being the mere creation of a feverish \nimagination, has left as he found it, trusting that \nthe reader\'s poetic feeling will readily accommo- \ndate itself to the popular superstitions of the coun- \ntry he is depicting. This reserve on his part, in- \ndeed, arising from a truly poetic view of the subject, \nand an honest reliance on a similar spirit in his \nreader, has laid him open, with some matter-of-fact \n\n\n\n24 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npeople, to the imputation of not being wholly un- \ntouched himself by the national superstitions. Yet \nhow much would the whole scene have lost in its \npermanent effect if the author had attempted an \nexplanation of the apparition on the ground of an \noptical illusion not infrequent among the mountain \nmists of the Highlands, or any other of the ingenious \nsolutions so readily at the command of the thorough- \nbred story-teller ! \n\nIt must be acknowledged, however, that this way \nof solving the riddles of romance would hardly be \nadmissible in a story drawn from familiar scenes \nand situations in modern life, and especially in our \nown country. The lights of education are flung \ntoo bright and broad over the land to allow any \nlurking-hole for the shadows of a twilight age. So \nmuch the worse for the poet and the novelist. \nTheir province must now be confined to poor hu- \nman nature, without meddling with the " Gorgons \nand chimeras dire" which floated through the be- \nwildered brains of our forefathers, at least on the \nother side of the water. At any rate, if a writer, \nin this broad sunshine, ventures on any sort of dia- \nblerie, he is forced to explain it by all the thousand \ncontrivances of trapdoors, secret passages, waxen \nimages, and other makeshifts from the property- \nroom of Mrs. Radcliffe and Company. \n\nBrown, indeed, has resorted to a somewhat highei \nmode of elucidating his mysteries by a remarkable \nphenomenon of our nature. But the misfortune of \nall these attempts to account for the marvels of the \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 25 \n\nstory oy natural or mechanical causes is, that they \nare very seldom satisfactory, or competent to their \nobject. This is eminently the case with the ven- \ntriloquism in Wieland. Even where they are com- \npetent, it may be doubted whether the reader, who \nhas suffered his credulous fancy to be entranced by \nthe spell of the magician, will be gratified to learn, \nat the end, by what cheap mechanical contrivance \nhe has been duped. However this may be, it is \ncertain that a very unfavourable effect, in another \nrespect, is produced on his mind, after he is made \nacquainted with the nature of the secret spring by \nwhich the machinery is played, more especially \nwhen one leading circumstance, like ventriloquism \nin Wieland, is made the master-key, as it were, by \nwhich all the mysteries are to be unlocked and \nopened at once. With this explanation at hand, it \nis extremely difficult to rise to that sensation of \nmysterious awe and apprehension on which so \nmuch of the sublimity and general effect of the nar- \nrative necessarily depends. Instead of such feel- \nings, the only ones which can enable us to do full \njustice to the author\'s conceptions, we sometimes, \non the contrary, may detect a smile lurking in the \ncorner of the mouth as we peruse scenes of posi- \ntive power, from the contrast obviously suggested \nof the impotence of the apparatus and the porten- \ntous character of the results. The critic, therefore, \npossessed of the real key to the mysteries of the \nstory, if he would do justice to his authors merits, \nmust divest himself, as it were, of his previous \n4 C \n\n\n\n26 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\nknowledge, by fastening his attention on the re- \nsults, to the exclusion of the insignificant means by \nwhich they are achieved. He will not always find \nthis an easy matter. \n\nBut to return from this rambling digression : in \nthe following year, 1799, Brown published his sec- \nond novel, entitled Ormond. The story presents \nfew of the deeply agitating scenes and powerful \nbursts of passion which distinguish the first. It is \ndesigned to exhibit a model of surpassing excellence \nin a female rising superior to all the shocks of ad- \nversity and the more perilous blandishments of se- \nduction, and who, as the scene grows darker and \ndarker around her, seems to illumine the whole \nwith the radiance of her celestial virtues. The \nreader is reminded of the " patient Griselda," so \ndelicately portrayed by the pencils of Boccaccio \nand Chaucer. It must be admitted, however, that \nthe contemplation of such a character in the abstract \nis more imposing than the minute details by which \nwe attain to the knowledge of it; and although \nthere is nothing, w T e are told, which the gods look- \ned down upon with more satisfaction than a brave \nmind struggling with the storms of adversity, yet, \nwhen these come in the guise of poverty and all the \ntrain of teasing annoyances in domestic life, the tale, \nif long protracted, too often produces a sensation of \nweariness scarcely to be compensated by the moral \ngrandeur of the spectacle. \n\nThe appearance of these two novels constitutes \nan epoch in the ornamental literature of America. \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 27 \n\nThey are the first decidedly successful attempts in \nthe walk of romantic fiction. They are still farther \nremarkable as illustrating the character and state \nol society on this side of the Atlantic, instead of \nresorting to the exhausted springs of European in- \nvention. These circumstances, as well as the un- \ncommon powers they displayed both of conception \nand execution, recommended them to the notice \nof the literary world, although their philosophical \nmethod of dissecting passion and analyzing motives \nof action placed them somewhat beyond the reach \nof vulgar popularity. Brown was sensible of the \nfavourable impression which he had made, and men- \ntions it in one of his epistles to his brother with his \nusual unaffected modesty : "I add somewhat, though \nnot so much as I might if I were so inclined, to the \nnumber of my friends. I find to be the writer of \nWieland and Ormond is a greater recommendation \nthan I ever imagined it would be." \n\nIn the course of the same year, the quiet tenour \nof his life was interrupted by the visitation of that \nfearful pestilence, the yellow fever, which had for \nseveral successive years made its appearance in the \ncity of New- York, but which in 1798 fell upon it \nwith a violence similar to that with which it had \ndesolated Philadelphia in 1793. Brown had taken \nthe precaution of withdrawing from the latter city, \nwhere he then resided, on its first appearance there. \nHe prolonged his stay in New- York, however, re- \niyiug on the healthiness of the quarter of the town \nwhere he lived, and the habitual abstemiousness of \n\n\n\n28 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhis diet. His friend Smith was necessarily detain- \ned there by the duties of his profession ; and Brown, \nin answer to the reiterated importunities of his ab- \nsent relatives to withdraw from the infected city, \nrefused to do so, on the ground that his personal \nservices might be required by the friends who re- \nmained in it ; a disinterestedness well meriting the \nstrength of attachment which he excited in the \nbosom of his companions. \n\nUnhappily, Brown was right in his prognostics, \nand his services were too soon required in behalf \nof his friend Dr. Smith, who fell a victim to his \nown benevolence, having caught the fatal malady \nfrom an Italian gentleman, a stranger in the city, \nwhom he received, when infected with the disease, \ninto his house, relinquishing to him his own apart- \nment. Brown had the melancholy satisfaction of \nperforming the last sad offices of affection to his \ndying friend. He himself soon became affected \nwith the same disorder ; and it was not till after a \nsevere illness that he so far recovered as to be able \nto transfer his residence to Perth Amboy, the abode \nof Mr. Dunlap, where a pure and invigorating at- \nmosphere, aided by the kind attentions of his host, \ngradually restored him to a sufficient degree of \nhealth and spirits for the prosecution of his literary \nlabours. \n\nThe spectacle he had witnessed made too deep \nan impression on him to be readily effaced, and he \nresolved to transfer his own conceptions of it, whne \nvet fresh, to the page o f fiction, or, as it might \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 29 \n\nrather be called, of history, for the purpose, as he \nintimates in his preface, of imparting to others some \nof the fruits of the melancholy lesson he had him- \nself experienced. Such was the origin of his next \nnovel, Arthur Mervyn ; or, Memoirs of the Yea? \n1793. This was the fatal year of the yellow fever \nin Philadelphia. The action of the story is chiefly \nconfined to that city, but seems to be prepared with \nlittle contrivance, on no regular or systematic plan, \nconsisting simply of a succession of incidents, hav- \ning little cohesion except in reference to the hero, \nbut affording situations of great interest, and fright- \nful fidelity of colouring. The pestilence wasting a \nthriving and populous city has furnished a topic for \nmore than one great master. It will be remember- \ned as the terror of every schoolboy in the pages \nof Thucydides ; it forms the gloomy portal to the \nlight and airy fictions of Boccaccio ; and it has fur- \nnished a subject for the graphic pencil of the Eng- \nlish novelist De Foe, the only one of the three who \nnever witnessed the horrors which he paints, but \nwhose fictions wear an aspect of reality which his- \ntory can rarely reach. \n\nBrown has succeeded in giving the same terrible \ndistinctness to his impressions by means of indi- \nvidual portraiture. He has, however, not confined \nhimself to this, but, by a var\'ety of touches, lays \nopen to our view the whole interior of the city of \nthe plague. Instead of expatiating on the loathsome \nsymptoms and physical ravages of the disease, he \nselects the most striking moral circumstances which \n\n\n\n30 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nattend ir \xe2\x80\xa2 he dwells on the withering sensation \nthat falls so heavily on the heart in the streets of \nthe once busy and crowded city, now deserted and \nsilent, save only where the wheels of the melan- \ncholy hearse are heard to rumble along the pave- \nment. Our author not unfrequently succeeds in \ncon /eying more to the heart by the skilful selection \nof a single circumstance than would have flowed \nfrom a multitude of petty details. It is the art of \nthe great masters of poetry and painting. \n\nThe same year in which Brown produced the \nfirst part of "Arthur Mervyn," he entered on the \npublication of a periodical entitled The Monthly \nMagazine and American Review, a work that, du- \nring its brief existence, which terminated in the \nfollowing year, afforded abundant evidence of its \neditor\'s versatility of talent and the ample range of \nhis literary acquisitions. Our hero was now fairly \nin the traces of authorship. He looked to it as his \npermanent vocation ; and the indefatigable diligence \nwith which he devoted himself to it may at least \nserve to show that he did not shrink from his pro- \nfessional engagements from any lack of industry or \nenterprise. \n\nThe publication of "Arthur Mervyn" was suc- \nceeded not long after by that of Edgar Huntly ; \nor, the Adventures of a SZeepivalker, a romance pre- \nsenting a greater variety of wild and picturesque \nadventure, with more copious delineations of natu \xe2\x80\xa2 \nral scenery, than is to be found in his other fictions; \ncircumstances, no doubt, possessing more attiaclious \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 31 \n\nfor the mass of readers than the peculiarities of his \nother novels. Indeed, the author has succeeded \nperfectly in constantly stimulating the curiosity by a \nsuccession of as original incidents, perils, and hair- \nbreadth escapes as ever flitted across a poet\'s fancy. \nIt is no small triumph of the art to be able to main- \ntain the curiosity of the reader unflagging through \na succession of incidents, which, far from being \nsustained by one predominant passion, and forming \nparts of one whole, rely each for its interest on its \nown independent merits. \n\nThe story is laid in the western part of Pennsyl- \nvania, where the author has diversified his descrip- \ntions of a simple and almost primitive state of society \nwith uncommonly animated sketches of rural sce- \nnery. It is worth observing how the sombre com- \nplexion of Brown\'s imagination, which so deeply \ntinges his moral portraiture, sheds its gloom over \nhis pictures of material nature, raising the land- \nscape into all the severe and savage sublimity of a \nSalvator Rosa. The somnambulism of this novel, \nwhich, like the ventriloquism of " Wieland," is the \nmoving principle of all the machinery, has this ad- \nvantage over the latter, that it does not necessarily \nimpair the effect by perpetually suggesting a solu- \ntion of mysteries, and thus dispelling the illusion \non whose existence the effect of the whole story \nmainly depends. The adventures, indeed, built \nupon it are not the most probable in the world ; \nbut, waving this \xe2\x80\x94 we shall be well rewarded for \nsuch concession\xe2\x80\x94- there is no farther difficulty. \n\n\n\n32 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nThe extract already cited by us from the first of \nour author\'s novels has furnished the reader with \nan illustration of his power in displaying the con- \nflict of passion under high moral excitement. We \nwill now venture another quotation from the work \nbefore us, in order to exhibit more fully his talent \nfor the description of external objects. \n\nEdgar Huntly, the hero of the story, is repre- \nsented in one of the wild mountain fastnesses of \nNorwalk, a district in the western part of Penn- \nsylvania. He is on the brink of a ravine, from \nwhich the only avenue lies over the body of a \ntree thrown across the chasm, through whose dark \ndepths below a rushing torrent is heard to pour its \nwaters. \n\n" While occupied with these reflections, my eyes \nwere fixed upon the opposite steeps. The tops of \nthe trees, waving to and fro in the wildest commo- \ntion, and their trunks occasionally bending to the \nblast, which, in these lofty regions, blew with a \nviolence unknown in the tracts below, exhibited an \nawful spectacle. At length my attention was at- \ntracted by the trunk which lay across the gulf, and \nwhich I had converted into a bridge. I perceived \nthat it had already swerved somewhat from its \noriginal position ; that every blast broke or loosened \nsome of the fibres by which its roots were connect- \ned with the opposite bank; and that, if the storm \ndid not speedily abate, there was imminent danger \nof its being torn from the rock and precipitated into \nthe chasm. Thus my retreat would be cut olf, and \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 33 \n\nthe evils from which I was endeavouring to rescue \nanother would he experienced by myself. \n\n" I believed my destiny to hang upon the expe- \ndition with which I should recross this gulf. The \nmoments that were spent in these deliberations \nwere critical, and I shuddered to observe that the \ntrunk was held in its place by one or two fibres, \nwhich were already stretched almost to breaking. \n\n" To pass along the trunk, rendered slippery by \nthe wet, and unsteadfast by the wind, was eminent- \nly dangerous. To maintain my hold in passing, in \ndefiance of the whirlwind, required the most vigor- \nous exertions. For this end, it was necessary to \ndiscommode myself of my cloak, and of the volume \nwhich I carried in the pocket of my coat. \n\n"Just as I had disposed of these encumbrances, \nand had risen from my seat, my attention was again \ncalled to the opposite steep by the most unwelcome \nobject that at this time could possibly occur. Some- \nthing was perceived moving among the bushes and \nrocks, which, for a time, I hoped was nothing more \nthan a racoon or opossum, but which presently \nappeared to be a panther. His gray coat, extended \nclaws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that mo- \nment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the \nhuman voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him to \nbe the most ferocious and untameable of that de- \ntested race. The industry of our hunters has nearly \nbanished animals of prey from these precincts \nThe fastnesses of Norwalk, however, could not but \nafford refuge to some of them. Of late I had met \n\nE \n\n\n\n34 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthem so rarely that my fears were seldom alive, \nand I trod without caution the ruggedest and most \nsolitary haunts. Still, however, I had seldom been \nunfurnished in my rambles with the means of de- \nfence. \n\n" The unfrequency with which I had lately en- \ncountered this foe, and the encumbrance of provis- \nion, made me neglect, on this occasion, to bring \nwith me my usual arms. The beast that was now \nbefore me, when stimulated by hunger, was accus- \ntomed to assail whatever could provide him with a \nbanquet of blood. He would set upon the man and \nthe deer with equal and irresistible ferocity. His \nsagacity was equal to his strength, and he seemed \nable to discover when his antagonist was armed \nand prepared for defence. \n\n" My past experience enabled me to estimate the \nfull extent of my danger. He sat on the brow of \nthe steep, eyeing the bridge, and apparently delib- \nerating whether, he should cross it. It was proba- \nble that he had scented my footsteps thus far, and, \nshould he pass over, his vigilance could scarcely fail \nof detecting my asylum. \n\n" Should he retain his present station, my danger \nwas scarcely lessened. To pass over in the face \nof a famished tiger was only to rush upon my fate. \nThe falling of the trunk, which had lately been so \nanxiously deprecated, was now, with no less solici- \ntude, desired. Every new gust, I hoped, would teai \nasunder its remaining bands, and, by cutting off all \ncommunication between the opposite steeps, place \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 3L \n\nuie in security. My hopes, however, were destined \nto be frustrated. The fibres of the prostrate tres \nwere obstinately tenacious of their hold, and pres- \nently the animal scrambled down the rock and pro- \nceeded to cross it. \n\n" Of all kinds of death, that which now menaced \nme was the most abhorred. To die by disease, or \nby the hand of a fellow-creature, was propitious \nand lenient in comparison with being rent to pieces \nby the fangs of this savage. To perish in this ob- \nscure retreat by means so impervious to the anxious \ncuriosity of my friends, to lose my portion of exist- \nence by so untoward and ignoble a desiiny, was \ninsupportable. I bitterly deplored my rashness in \ncoming hither unprovided for an encounter like \nthis. \n\n" The evil of my present circumstances consisted \nchiefly in suspense. My death w 7 as unavoidable, \nbut my imagination had leisure to torment itself by \nanticipations. One fojt of the savage was slowly \nand cautiously moved after the other. He struck \nhis claws so deeply into the bark that they were \nwith difficulty withdrawn. At length he leaped \nupon the ground. We w r ere now separated by an \ninterval of scarcely eight feet. To leave the spot \nwhere I crouched was impossible. Behind and be- \nside me the cliff rose perpendicularly, and before me \nwas this grim and terrible visage. I shrunk still \ncloser to the ground, and closed my eyes. \n* " From this pause of horror I was aroused by the \nuoise occasioned by a second spring of the animal. \n\n\n\n36 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nHe leaped into the pit, in which I had so deep!) \nregretted that I had not taken refuge, and disap- \npeared. My rescue was so sudden, and so much \nbeyond my belief or my hope, that I doubted for a \nmoment whether my senses did not deceive me. \nThis opportunity of escape was not to be neglected. \nI left my place and scrambled over the trunk with \na precipitation which had like to have proved fatal. \nThe tree groaned and shook under me, the wind \nblew with unexampled violence, and I had scarcely \nreached the opposite steep when the roots were \nsevered from the rock, and the whole fell thunder- \ning to the bottom of the chasm. \n\n" My trepidations were not speedily quieted. I \nlooked back with wonder on my hair-breadth es- \ncape, and on that singular concurrence of events \nwhich had placed me in so short a period in abso- \nlute security. Had the trunk fallen a moment ear- \nlier, I should have been imprisoned on the hill or \nthrown headlong. Had its fall been delayed an- \nother moment, I should have been pursued ; for the \nbeast now issued from his den, and testified his sur- \nprise and disappointment by tokens the sight of \nwhich made my blood run cold. \n\n" He saw me, and hastened to the verge of the \nchasm. He squatted on his hind legs, and assumed \nthe attitude of one preparing to leap. My conster- \nnation was excited afresh by these appearances. It \nseemed at first as if the rift was too wide for any \npower of muscles to carry him in safety over ; but \nI knew the unparalleled agility of this animal, and \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 37 \n\nthat his experience had made him a better judge of \nthe practicability of this exploit than I was. \n\n" Still there was hope that he would relinquish \nthis design as desperate. This hope was quickl) \nat an end. He sprung, and his fore legs touched \nthe verge of the rock on which I stood. In spite \nof vehement exertions, however, the surface was too \nsmooth and too hard to allow him to make good \nhis hold. He fell, and a piercing cry uttered below \nshowed that nothing had obstructed his descent to \nthe bottom." \n\nThe subsequent narrative leads the hero through \na variety of romantic adventures, especially with \nthe savages, with whom he has several desperate \nrencounters and critical escapes. The track of ad- \nventure, indeed, strikes into the same wild solitudes \nof the forest that have since been so frequently \ntravelled over by our ingenious countryman Cooper \nThe light in which the character of the North \nAmerican Indian has been exhibited by the two \nwriters has little resemblance. Brown\'s sketches, \nit is true, are few and faint. As far as they go, \nhowever, they are confined to such views as are \nmost conformable to the popular conceptions, bring- \ning into full relief the rude and uncouth lineaments \nof the Indian character, its cunning, cruelty, and \nunmitigated ferocity, with no intimations of a more \ngenerous nature. Cooper, on the other hand, dis- \ncards all the coarser elements of savage life, reserv- \ning those only of a picturesque and romantic cast, \nand elevating the souls of his warriors by such sen- \n4 D \n\n\n\n38 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntiments of courtesy, high-toned gallantry, and pas- \nsionate tenderness as belong to the riper period of \ncivilization. Thus idealized, the portrait, if not \nstrictly that of the fierce and untamed son of the \nforest, is at least sufficiently true for poetical pur- \nposes. Cooper is indeed a poet. His descriptions \nof inanimate nature, no less than of savage man, \nare instinct with the breath of poetry. Witness \nhis infinitely various pictures of the ocean ; or still \nmore, of the beautiful spirit that rides upon its bo- \nsom, the gallant ship, which under his touches \nbecomes an animated thing, inspired by a living \nsoul ; reminding us of the beautiful superstition of \nthe simple-hearted natives, who fancied the bark of \nColumbus some celestial visitant, descending on his \nbroad pinions from the skies. \n\nBrown is far less of a colourist. He deals less \nin external nature, but searches the depths of the \nsoul. He may be rather called a philosophical than \na poetical writer ; for, though he has that intensity \nof feeling which constitutes one of the distinguish- \ning attributes of the latter, yet in his most tumultu- \nous bursts of passion we frequently find him paus- \ning to analyze and coolly speculate on the elements \nwhich have raised it. This intrusion, indeed, of \nreason, la raison froide, into scenes of the greatest \ninterest and emotion, has sometimes the unhappy \neffect of chilling them altogether. \n\nIn 1800 Brown published the second part of his \nArthur Mervyn, whose occasional displays of en- \nergy and pathos by no means compensate the vio- \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 39 \n\nlent dislocations and general improbabilities cf the \nnarrative. Our author was led into these defects \nby the unpardonable precipitancy of his composi- \ntion. Three of his romances were thrown off in \nthe course of one year. These were written with \nthe printer\'s devil literally at his elbow, one being \nbegun before another was completed, and all of \nthem before a regular, well-digested plan was de- \nvised for their execution. \n\nThe consequences of this curious style of doing \nbusiness are such as might have been predicted. \nThe incidents are strung together with about as \nlittle connexion as the rhymes in "the House that \nJack built ;" and the whole reminds us of some \nbizarre, antiquated edifice, exhibiting a dozen styles \nof architecture, according to the caprice or conve- \nnience of its successive owners. \n\nThe reader is ever at a loss for a clew to guide \nhim through the labyrinth of strange, incongruous \nincident. It would seem as if the great object of \nthe author was to keep alive the state of suspense, \non the player\'s principle, in the " Rehearsal," that \n" on the stage it is best to keep the audience in sus- \npense ; for to guess presently at the plot or the \nsense tires them at. the end of the first act. Now \nhere every line surprises you, and brings in new \nmatter !" Perhaps, however, all this proceeds less \nfrom calculation than from the embarrassment \nwhich the novelist feels in attempting a solution of \nhis own riddles, and which leads him to put off the \nreader, by multiplying incident after incident, unti \n\n\n\n40 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nat length, entangled in the complicated snarl of his \nown intrigue, he is finally obliged, when the fatal \nhour arrives, to cut the knot which he cannot un- \nravel. There is no other way by which we can \naccount for the forced and violent denouemens which \nbring up so many of Brown\'s fictions. Voltaire has \nremarked, somewhere in his Commentaries on Cor- \nneille, that " an author may write with the rapidity \nof genius, but should correct with scrupulous delib- \neration." Our author seems to have thought it suf- \nficient to comply with the first half of the maxim. \n\nIn 1801 Brown published his novel of Clara \nHoward, and in 1804 closed the series with Jane \nTalbot, first printed in England. They are com- \nposed in a more subdued tone, discarding those \nstartling preternatural incidents of which he had \nmade such free use in his former fictions. In the \npreface to his first romance, " Wieland," he remarks, \nin allusion to the mystery on which the story is \nmade to depend, that " it is a sufficient vindication \nof the writer if history furnishes one parallel fact." \nBut the French critic, who tells us le vrai peut quel- \nquefois netre pas vraisemblable, has, with more judg- \nment, condemned this vicious recurrence to extrav- \nagant and improbable incident. Truth cannot al- \nways be pleaded in vindication of the author of a \nfiction any more than of a libel. Brown seems to \nhave subsequently come into the same opinion ; for, \nin a letter addressed to his brother James, after the \npublication of " Edgar Huntly," he observes, " Your \nremarks upon the gloominess and out-of-nature in- \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 41 \n\ncidents of \' Huntly,\' if they be not just in their full \nextent, are doubtless such as most readers will \nmake, which alone is a sufficient reason for drop- \nping the doleful tone and assuming a cheerful one, \nor, at least, substituting moral causes and daily inci- \ndents in place of the prodigious or the singular. I \nshall not fall hereafter into that strain." The two \nlast novels of our author, however, although purified \nfrom the more glaring defects of the preceding, were \nso inferior in their general power and originality of \nconception, that they never rose to the same level \nin public favour. \n\nIn the year 1801 Brown returned to his native \ncity, Philadelphia, where he established his resi- \ndence in the family of his brother. Here he con- \ntinued, steadily pursuing his literary avocations ; \nand in 1803 undertook the conduct of a periodical, \nentitled The Literary Magazine and American Re- \ngister. A great change had taken place in his opin- \nions on more than one important topic connected \nwith human life and happiness, and, indeed, in his \ngeneral tone of thinking, since abandoning his pro- \nfessional career. Brighter prospects, no doubt, sug- \ngested to him more cheerful considerations. In- \nstead of a mere dreamer in the world of fancy, he \nhad now become a practical man : larger experi- \nence and deeper meditation had shown him the \nemptiness of his Utopian theories ; and, though his \nsensibilities were as ardent, and as easily enlisted \nas ever in the cause of humanity, his schemes of \namelioration were built upon, not against the exist* \n4 D* \n\n\n\n42 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ning institutions of society. The enunciation of the \nprinciples on which the periodical above alluded to \nwas to be conducted, is so honourable every way \nto his heart and his understanding that we cannot \nrefrain from making a brief extract from it. \n\n" In an age like this, when the foundations of \nreligion and morality have been so boldly attacked, \nit seems necessary, in announcing a work of this \nnature, to be particularly explicit as to the path \nwhich the editor means to pursue. He therefore \navows himself to be, without equivocation or re- \nserve, the ardent friend and the willing champion \nof the Christian religion. Christian piety he reveres \nas the highest excellence of human beings ; and the \namplest reward he can seek for his labour is the \nconsciousness of having, in some degree, however \ninconsiderable, contributed to recommend the prac- \ntice of religious duties. As in the conduct of this \nwork a supreme regard will be paid to the interests \nof religion and morality, he will scrupulously guard \nagainst all that dishonours and impairs that princi- \nple. Everything that savours of indelicacy or licen - \ntiousness will be rigorously proscribed. His poet- \nical pieces may be dull, but they shall at least be \nfree from voluptuousness or sensuality ; and his \nprose, whether seconded or not by genius and \nknowledge, shall scrupulously aim at the promotion \nof public and private virtue." \n\nDuring his abode in New- York our author had \nformed an attachment to an amiable and accom- \nplished young lady, Miss Elizabeth Linn, daughter \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEIN BROWN. 43 \n\nof the excellent and highly- gifted Presbyterian di- \nvine, Dr. William Linn, of that city. Their mu- \ntual attachment, in which the impulses of the heart \nwere sanctioned by the understanding, was followed \nby their marriage in November, 1804, after which \nhe never again removed his residence from Phila- \ndeljDhia. \n\nWith the additional responsibilities of his new \nstation, he pursued his literary labours with increased \ndiligence. He projected the plan of an Annual \nRegister, the first work of the kind in the country, \nand in 1806 edited the first volume of the publica- \ntion, which was undertaken at the risk of an emi- \nnent bookseller of Philadelphia, Mr. Conrad, who \nhad engaged his editorial labours in the conduct of \nthe former Magazine, begun in 1803. When it is \nconsidered that both these periodicals were placed \nunder the superintendence of one individual, and \nthat he bestowed such indefatigable attention on \nthem that they were not only prepared, but a large \nportion actually executed by his own hands, we \nshall form no mean opinion of the extent and vari- \nety of his stores of information and his facility in \napplying them. Both works are replete with evi- \ndences of the taste and erudition of their editor, \nembracing a wide range of miscellaneous articles, \nessays, literary criticism, and scientific researches. \nThe historical portion of " The Register" in par- \nticular, comprehending, in addition to the political \nannals of the principal states of Europe and of our \nown country, an elaborate inquiry into the origin \n\n\n\n44 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand organization of our domestic institutions, dis- \nplays a discrimination in the selection of incidents, \nand a good faith and candour in the mode of dis- \ncussing them, that entitle it to great authority as a \nrecord of contemporary transactions. Eight vol- \numes were published of the first-mentioned period- \nical, and the latter was continued under his direc- \ntion till the end of the fifth volume, 1809. \n\nIn addition to these regular, and, as they may \nbe called, professional labours, he indulged his pro- \nlific pen in various speculations, both of a literary \nand political character, many of which appeared in \nthe pages of the " Portfolio." Among other occa- \nsional productions, we may notice a beautiful bio- \ngraphical sketch of his wife\'s brother, Dr. J. B. \nLinn, pastor of the Presbyterian church in Phila- \ndelphia, whose lamented death occurred in the year \nsucceeding Brown\'s marriage. We must not leave \nout of the account three elaborate and extended \npamphlets, published between 1803 and 1809, on \npolitical topics of deep interest to the community \nat that time. The first of these, on the cession of \nLouisiana to the French, soon went into a second \nedition. They all excited general attention at the \ntime of their appearance by the novelty of their \narguments, the variety and copiousness of their in- \nformation, the liberality of their views, the independ- \nence, so rare at that day, of foreign prejudices; the \nexemption, still rarer, from the bitterness of party \nspirit; and, lastly, the tone of loyal and heartfelt \npatriotism \xe2\x80\x94 a patriotism without cant \xe2\x80\x94 with which \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 45 \n\nthe author dwells on the expanding glory and pros- \nperity of his country in a strain of prophecy that it \nis our boast has now become history. \n\nThus occupied, Brown\'s situation seemed now \nto afford him all the means for happiness attainable \nin this life. His own labours secured to him an \nhonourable independence and a high reputation, \nwhich, to a mind devoted to professional or other \nintellectual pursuits, is usually of far higher estima- \ntion than gain. Round his own fireside he found \nample scope for the exercise of his affectionate sen- \nsibilities, while the tranquil pleasures of domestic \nlife proved the best possible relaxation for a mind \nwearied by severe intellectual effort. His grateful \nheart was deeply sensible to the extent of his bless- \nings ; and in more than one letter he indulges in \na vein of reflection which shows that his only soli- \ncitude was from the fear of their instability. His \nown health furnished too well-grounded cause for \nsuch apprehensions. \n\nWe have already noticed that he set out in life \nwith a feeble constitution. His sedentary habits \nand intense application had not, as it may w 7 ell be \nbelieved, contributed to repair the defects of Nature. \nHe had for some time shown a disposition to pul- \nmonary complaints, and had raised blood more than \nonce, which he in vain endeavoured to persuade \nhimself did not proceed from the lungs. As the \nreal character of the disease disclosed itself in a \nmanner not to be mistaken, his anxious friends \nwould have persuaded him to cross the water in \n\n\n\n46 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe hope of re-establishing his health bj a season- \nable change of climate. But Brown could not en- \ndure the thoughts of so long a separation from his \nbeloved family, and he trusted to the effect of a \ntemporary abstinence from business, and of one of \nthose excursions into the country by which he had \nso often recruited his health and spirits. \n\nIn the summer of 1809 he made a tour into \nNew-Jersey and New- York. A letter addressed to \none of his family from the banks of the Hudson, \nduring this journey, exhibits in melancholy colours \nhow large a portion of his life had been clouded by \ndisease, which now, indeed, was too oppressive to \nadmit of any other alleviation than what he could \nfind in the bosom of his own family. \n\n" My dearest Mary \xe2\x80\x94 Instead of wandering \nabout, and viewing more nearly a place that affords \nvery pleasing landscapes, here am I, hovering over \nthe images of wife, children, and sisters. I want \nto write to you and home ; and though unable to \nprocure paper enough to form a letter, I cannot \nhelp saying something even on this scrap. \n\n" I am mortified to think how incurious and in- \nactive a mind has fallen to my lot. I left home \nwith reluctance. If I had not brought a beloved \npart of my home along with me, I should probably \nhave not left it at all. At a distance from home, \nmy enjoyments, my affections are beside you. If \nswayed by mere inclination, I should not be out of \nyour company a quarter of an hour between my \n\n\n\nCHARLES BR0CKDEN BROWN 47 \n\nparting and returning hour; but I have some mercy \non you and Susan, and a due conviction of my \nwant of power to beguile your vacant hour with \namusement, or improve it by instruction. Even if \nI were ever so well, and if my spirits did not con- \ntinually hover on the brink of dejection, my talk \ncould only make you yawn ; as things are, my com- \npany can only tend to create a gap indeed. \n\n" When have I known that lightness and vivacity \nof mind which the divine flow of health, even in \ncalamity, produces in some men, and would pro- \nduce in me, no doubt \xe2\x80\x94 at least, w 7 hen not soured \nby misfortune ? Never ; scarcely ever ; not longer \nthan half an hour at a time since I have called my- \nself man, and not a moment since I left you." \n\nFinding these brief excursions productive of no \nsalutary change in his health, he at length complied \nwith the entreaties of his friends, and determined \nto try the effect of a voyage to Europe in the fol- \nlowing spring. That spring he was doomed never \nto behold. About the middle of November he was \ntaken with a violent pain in his left side, for which \nhe was bled. From that time forward he was con- \nfined to his chamber. His malady was not attend- \ned with the exemption from actual pain with which \nNature seems sometimes willing to compensate the \nsufferer for the length of its duration. His suffer- \nings were incessant and acute ; and they were sup- \nported, not only without a murmur, but with an \nappearance of cheerfulness, to which the hearts of \nhis friends could but ill respond. He met the ap- \n\n\n\n48 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nproach of Death in the true spirit of Christian phi- \nlosophy. No other dread but that of separation \nfrom those dear to him on earth had power to dis- \nturb his tranquillity for a moment. But the tem- \nper of his mind in his last hours is best disclosed \nin a communication from that faithful partner who \ncontributed more than any other to support him \nthrough them. " He always felt for others more \nthan for himself; and the evidences of sorrow in \nthose around him, which could not at all times be \nsuppressed, appeared to affect him more than his \nown sufferings. Whenever he spoke of the proba- \nbility of a fatal termination to his disease, it was in \nan indirect and covert manner, as, \'you must do so \nand so when I am absent,\' or \' when I am asleep/ \nHe surrendered not up one faculty of his soul but \nwith his last breath. He saw death in every step \nof his approach, and viewed him as a messenger \nthat brought with him no terrors. He frequently \nexpressed his resignation ; but his resignation was \nnot produced by apathy or pain; for while he bowed \nwith submission to the Divine will, he felt with the \nkeenest sensibility his separation from those who \nmade this world but too dear to him. Towards \nthe last he spoke of death without disguise, and \nappeared to wish to prepare his friends for the \nevent, which he felt to be approaching. A few \ndays previous to his change, as sitting up in the \nbed, he fixed his eyes on the sky, and desired not \nto be spoken to until he first spoke. In this posi- \ntion, and with a serene countenance, he continued \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 49 \n\nfor some minutes, and then said to his wife, * When \nI desired you not to speak to me, I had the most \ntransporting and sublime feelings I have ever expe- \nrienced ; I wanted to enjoy them, and know how \nlong they would last;\' concluding with requesting \nher to remember the circumstance." \n\nA visible change took place in him on the morn- \ning of the 19th of February, 1810, and he caused \nhis family to be assembled around his bed, when he \ntook leave of each one of them in the most tender \nand impressive manner. He lingered, however, a \nfew days longer, remaining in the full possession of \nhis faculties to the 22d of the month, when he ex- \npired without a struggle. He had reached the thir- \nty-ninth year of his age the month preceding his \ndeath. The family which he left consisted of a \nwife and four children. \n\nThere was nothing striking in Brown\'s personal \nappearance. His manners, however, were distin- \nguished by a gentleness and unaffected simplicity \nwhich rendered them extremely agreeable. He pos- \nsessed colloquial powers which do not always fall \nto the lot of the practised and ready writer. His \nrich and various acquisitions supplied an unfailing \nfund for the edification of his hearers. They did \nnot lead him, however, to affect an air of superior- \nity, or to assume too prominent a part in the dia- \nlogue, especially in large or mixed company, where \nhe was rather disposed to be silent, reserving the \ndisplay of his powers for the unrestrained inter- \ncourse of friendship. He was a stranger not only \n4 E \n\n\n\n50 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto base and malignant passions, but to the paltry \njealousies which sometimes sour the intercourse of \nmen of letters. On the contrary, he was ever prompt \nto do ample justice to the merits of others. His \nheart was warm with the feeling of universal benev- \nolence. Too sanguine and romantic views had \nexposed him to some miscalculations and conse- \nquent disappointments in youth, from which, how- \never, he was subsequently retrieved by the strength \nof his understanding, which, combining with what \nmay be called his natural elevation of soul, enabled \nhim to settle the soundest principles for the regula- \ntion of his opinions and conduct in after life. His \nreading was careless and desultory, but his appetite \nwas voracious ; and the great amount of miscella- \nneous information which he thus amassed was all \ndemanded to supply the outpourings of his mind in \na thousand channels of entertainment and instruc- \ntion. His unwearied application is attested by the \nlarge amount of his works, large even for the pres- \nent day, when mind seems to have caught the accel- \nerated movement so generally given to the opera- \ntions of machinery. The whole number of Brown\'s \nprinted works, comprehending his editorial as well \nas original productions, to the former of which his \nown pen contributed a very disproportionate share, \nis not less than four-and-twenty printed volumes, \nnot to mention various pamphlets, anonymous con- \ntributions to divers periodicals, as well as more than \none compilation of laborious research which he left \nunfinished at his death. \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 51 \n\nOf this vast amount of matter, produced within \nthe brief compass of little more than ten years, that \nportion on which his fame as an author must per- \nmanently rest is his novels. We have already en- \ntered too minutely into the merits of these produc- \ntions to require anything farther than a few general \nobservations. They may probably claim to be re- \ngarded as having first opened the way to the suc- \ncessful cultivation of romantic fiction in this coun- \ntry. Great doubts were long entertained of our \ncapabilities for immediate success in this depart- \nment. We had none of the buoyant, stirring asso- \nciations of a romantic age ; none of the chivalrous \npageantry, the feudal and border story, or Robin \nHood adventure ; none of the dim, shadowy super- \nstitions, and the traditional legends, which had gath- \nered like moss round every stone, hill, and valley of \nthe olden countries. Everything here wore a spick- \nand-span new aspect, and lay in the broad, garish \nsunshine of everyday life. We had none of the pic- \nturesque varieties of situation or costume ; every- \nthing lay on the same dull, prosaic level ; in short, \nwe had none of the most obvious elements of po- \netry : at least so it appeared to the vulgar eye. It \nrequired the eye of genius to detect the rich stores \nof romantic and poetic interest that lay beneath the \ncrust of society. Brown was aware of the capabil- \nities of our country, and the poverty of the results \nhe was less inclined to impute to the soil than to \nthe cultivation of it ; at least this would appear from \nsome remarks dropped in his correspondence in \n\n\n\n52 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n1794, several years before he broke ground in this \nfield himself. " It used to be a favourite maxim \nwith me, that the genius of a poet should be sacred \nto the glory of his country. How far this rule can \nbe reduced to practice by an American bard, how \nfar he can prudently observe it, and what success \nhas crowned the efforts of those who, in their com- \npositions, have shown that they have not been un- \nmindful of it, is perhaps not worth the inquiry. \n\n" Does it not appear to you that, to give poetry a \npopular currency and universal reputation, a partic- \nular cast of manners and state of civilization is ne- \ncessary 1 I have sometimes thought so, but perhaps \nit is an error ; and the want of popular poems ar- \ngues only the demerit of those who have already \nwritten, or some defect in their works, which unfits \nthem for every taste or understanding." \n\nThe success of our author\'s experiment, which \nwas entirely devoted to American subjects, fully es- \ntablished the soundness of his opinions, which have \nbeen abundantly confirmed by the prolific pens of \nIrving, Cooper, Sedgwick, and other accomplished \nwriters, who, in their diversified sketches of national \ncharacter and scenery, have shown the full capacity \nof our country for all the purposes of fiction. Brown \ndoes not direct himself, like them, to the illustration \nof social life and character. He is little occupied \nwith the exterior forms of society. He works in \nthe depths of the heart, dwelling less on human ac- \ntion than the sources of it. He has been said to \nhave formed himself on Godwin. Indeed, he open- \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BRC.WN 53 \n\nly avowed his admiration of that eminent writer, ana \nhas certainly, in some respects, adopted his mode of \noperation, studying character with a philosophic \nrather than a poetic eye. But there is no servile im- \nitation in all this. He has borrowed the same \ntorch, indeed, to read the page of human nature, but \nthe lesson he derives from it is totally different. His \ngreat object seems to be to exhibit the soul in scenes \nof extraordinary interest. For this purpose, striking \nand perilous situations are devised, or circumstan- \nces of strong moral excitement, a troubled con \nscience, partial gleams of insanity, or bodings of \nimaginary evil, which haunt the soul, and force it \ninto all the agonies of terror. In the midst of the \nfearful strife, we are coolly invited to investigate its \ncauses and all the various phenomena which attend \nit; every contingency, probability, nay, possibility, \nhowever remote, is discussed and nicely balanced. \nThe heat of the reader is seen to evaporate in this \ncold-blooded dissection, in which our author seems \nto rival Butler\'s hero, who, \n\n" Profoundly skilled in analytic, \nCould distinguish and divide \nA hair \'twixt south and southwest side." \n\nWe are constantly struck with the strange contrast \nof over-passion and over-reasoning. But perhaps, \nafter all, these defects could not be pruned away \nfrom Brown\'s composition without detriment to his \npeculiar excellences. Si no?i errasset, fecerat itte \nminus. If so, we may willingly pardon the one for \nthe sake of the other. \n\nWe cannot close without adverting to our au- \n4 E* \n\n\n\n54 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthor\'s style. He bestowed great pains on the for- \nmation of it ; but, in our opinion, without great suc- \ncess, at least in his novels. It has an elaborate, fac- \ntitious air, contrasting singularly with the general \nsimplicity of his taste and the careless rapidity of \nhis composition. We are aware, indeed, that works \nof imagination may bear a higher flush of colour, a \npoetical varnish, in short, that must be refused to \ngraver and more studied narrative. No writer has \nbeen so felicitous in reaching the exact point of \ngood taste in this particular as Scott, who, on a \ngroundwork of prose, may be said to have enabled \nhis readers to breathe an atmosphere of poetry. \nMore than one author, on the other hand, as Flo- \nrian, in French, for example, and Lady Morgan, in \nEnglish, in their attempts to reach this middle re- \ngion, are eternally fluttering on the wing of senti- \nment, equally removed from good prose and good \npoetry. \n\nBrown, perhaps willing to avoid this extreme, \nhas fallen into the opposite one, forcing his style \ninto unnatural vigour and condensation. Unusual \nand pedantic epithets, and elliptical forms of ex- \npression, in perpetual violation of idiom, are resort- \ned to at the expense of simplicity and nature. He \nseems averse to telling simple things in a simple \nway. Thus, for example, we have such expres- \nsions as these : " I was fraught ivith the persuasion \nthat my life was endangered." " The outer door \nwas ajar. I shut it with trembling eagerness, and \ndrew every bolt that appended to it." " His brain \nseemed to swell bevond its continent" " 1 waited \n\n\n\nCHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 55 \n\ntill their slow and hoarser inspirations showed them \nto be both asleep. Just then, on changing my po- \nsition, my head struck against some things which \ndepended from the ceiling of the closet." " It was \nstill dark, but my sleep was at an end, and by a \ncommon apparatus (tinder-box X) that lay beside my \nbed, I could instantly produce a light." " On re- \ncovering from deliquium, you found it where it had \nbeen dropped." It is unnecessary to multiply ex- \namples, which we should not have adverted to at \nall had not our opinions in this matter been at va- \nriance with those of more than one respectable \ncritic. This sort of language is no doubt in very \nbad taste. It cannot be denied, however, that, al- \nthough these defects are sufficiently general to give \na colouring to the whole of his composition, yet \nhis works afford many passages of undeniable elo- \nquence and rhetorical beauty. It must be remem- \nbered, too, that his novels were his first productions, \nthrown off with careless profusion, and exhibiting \nmany of the defects of an immature mind, which \nlonger experience and practice might have correct- \ned. Indeed, his later writings are recommended by \na more correct and natural phraseology, although \nit must be allowed that the graver topics to which \nthey are devoted, if they did not authorize, w T ould \nat least render less conspicuous any studied formal- \nity and artifice of expression. \n\nThese verbal blemishes, combined with defects \nalready alluded to in the development of his plots, \nbut w r hich all relate to the form rather than the \nfond of his subject, have made our author less ex- \n\n\n\n56 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntensively popular than his extraordinary powers \nwould have entitled him to be. His peculiar mer- \nits, indeed, appeal to a higher order of criticism \nthan is to be found in ordinary and superficial read- \ners. Like the productions of Coleridge or Words- \nworth, they seem to rely on deeper sensibilities than \nmost men possess, and tax the reasoning powers \nmore severely than is agreeable to readers who re- \nsort to works of fiction only as an epicurean indul- \ngence. The number of their admirers is therefore \nnecessarily more limited than that of writers of less \ntalent, who have shown more tact in accommoda- \nting themselves to the tone of popular feeling or \nprejudice. \n\nBut we are unwilling to part, with anything like \na tone of disparagement lingering on our lips, with \nthe amiable author to whom our rising literature is \nunder such large and various obligations; who first \nopened a view into the boundless fields of fiction, \nwhich subsequent adventurers have successfully ex- \nplored ; who has furnished so much for our instruc- \ntion in the several departments of history and criti- \ncism, and has rendered still more effectual service \nby kindling in the bosom of the youthful scholar \nthe same generous love of letters which glowed in \nhis own ; whose writings, in fine, have uniformly \ninculcated the pure and elevated morality exem- \nplified in his life. The only thing we can regret \nis, that a life so useful should have been so short, \nif, indeed, that can be considered short which has \ndone so much towards attaining life\'s great end. \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 57 \n\n\n\nASYLUM TOR THE BLIND.* \n\nJULY, 1830. \n\nThere is nothing in which the moderns surpass \nthe ancients more conspicuously than in their noble \nprovisions for the relief of indigence and distress. \nThe public policy of the ancients seems to have \nembraced only whatever might promote the aggran- \ndizement or the direct prosperity of the state, and \nto have cared little for those unfortunate beings \nwho, from disease or incapacity of any kind, were \ndisqualified from contributing to this. But the be- \nneficent influence of Christianity, combined with \nthe general tendency of our social institutions, has \nled to the recognition of rights in the individual as \nsacred as those of the community, and has suggest- \ned manifold provisions for personal comfort and hap- \npiness. \n\nThe spirit of benevolence, thus widely, and often- \ntimes judiciously exerted, continued, until a very re- \ncent period, however, strangely insensible to the \nclaims of a large class of objects, to whom nature, \nand no misconduct or imprudence of their own, as \nis too often the case with the subjects of public \nchar J y, had denied some of the most estimable fac- \nulties of man. No suitable institutions, until the \nclose of the last century, have been provided for the \nnurture of the deaf and dumb, or the blind. Immu- \n\n* An Act to Incorporate the New-England Asylum for the Blind. Ar>- \nproved March 2d, 1829. \n\nH \n\n\n\n58 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\nred within hospitals and almshouses, like so many \nlunatics and incurables, they have been delivered \nover, if they escaped the physical, to all the moral \ncontagion too frequently incident to such abodes, \nand have thus been involved in a mental darkness \nfar more deplorable than their bodily one. \n\nThis injudicious treatment has resulted from the \nerroneous principle of viewing these unfortunate be- \nings as an absolute burden on the public, utterly in- \ncapable of contributing to their own subsistence, or \nof ministering in any degree to their own intellect- \nual wants. Instead, however, of being degraded by \nsuch unworthy views, they should have been regard- \ned as, what in truth they are, possessed of corpo- \nreal and mental capacities perfectly competent, un- \nder proper management, to the production of the \nmost useful results. If wisdom from one entrance \nwas quite shut out, other avenues for its admission \nstill remained to be opened. \n\nIn order to give effective aid to persons in this \npredicament, it is necessary to place ourselves as \nfar as possible in their peculiar situation, to consid- \ner to what faculties this insulated condition is, on \nthe whole, most favourable, and in what direction \nthey can be exercised with the best chance of suc- \ncess. Without such foresight, all our endeavours to \naid them will only put them upon efforts above their \nstrength, and result in serious mortification. \n\nThe blind, from the cheerful ways of men cut off, \nare necessarily excluded from the busy theatre of \nhuman action. Their infirmity, however, which \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLLND. 6D \n\nconsigns them to darkness, and often to solitude, \nwould seem favourable to contemplative habits, and \nto the pursuits of abstract science and pure specu- \nlation. Undisturbed by external objects, the mind \nnecessarily turns within, and concentrates its ideas \non any point of investigation with greater intensity \nand perseverance. It is no uncommon thing, there- \nfore, to find persons setting apart the silent hours of \nthe evening for the purpose of composition or other \npurely intellectual exercise. Malebranche, when he \nwished to think intensely, used to close his shutteis \nin the daytime, excluding every ray of light ; and \nhence Democritus is said to have put out his eyes \nin order that he might philosophize the better \xe2\x80\x94 a \nstory, the veracity of which Cicero, who relates it, \nis prudent enough not to vouch for. \n\nBlindness must also be exceedingly favourable to \nthe discipline of the memory. Whoever has had \nthe misfortune, from any derangement of the organ, \nto be compelled to derive his knowledge of books \nless from the eye than the ear, will feel the truth of \nthis. The difficulty of recalling what has once es- \ncaped, of reverting to, or dwelling on the passages \nread aloud by another, compels the hearer to give \nundivided attention to the subject, and to impress it \nmore forcibly on his own mind by subsequent and \nmethodical reflection. Instances of the cultivation \nof this faculty to an extraordinary extent have been \nwitnessed among the blind, and it has been most ad- \nvantageously applied to the pursuit of abstract sci- \nence, especially mathematics. \n\n\n\nGO BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nOne of the most eminent illustrations of these \nremarks is the well-known history of Saunderson, \nwho, though deprived in his infancy not only of \nsight, but of the organ itself, contrived to become so \nwell acquainted with the Greek tongue as to read \nthe works of the ancient mathematicians in the ori- \nginal. He made such advances in the higher de- \npartments of the science, that he was appointed, \n"though not matriculated at the University," to fill \nthe chair which a short time previous had been oc- \ncupied by Sir Isaac Newton at Cambridge. The \nlectures of this blind professor on the most abstruse \npoints of the Newtonian philosophy, and especially \non optics, naturally filled his audience with admira- \ntion ; and the perspicuity with which he communi- \ncated his ideas is said to have been unequalled. He \nwas enabled, by the force of his memory, to perform \nmany long operations in arithmetic, and to carry in \nhis mind the most complex geometrical figures. As, \nhowever, it became necessary to supply the want of \nvision by some symbols which might be sensible to \nthe touch, he contrived a table in which pins, whose \nvalue was determined principally by their relative \nposition to each other, served him instead of figures, \nwhile for his diagrams he employed pegs, inserted at \nthe requisite angles to each other, representing the \nlines by threads drawn around them. He was so \nexpert in his use of these materials, that, when per- \nforming his calculations, he would change the posi- \ntion of the pins with nearly the same facility that \nanother person would indite figures, and when dis- \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND 61 \n\nturbed m an operation would afterward resume a \nagain, ascertaining the posture in which he had left \nit by passing his hand carefully over the table. To \nsuch shifts and inventions does human ingenuity re- \nsort when stimulated by the thirst of knowledge; \nas the plant, when thrown into shade on one side, \nsends forth its branches eagerly in that direction \nwhere the light is permitted to fall upon it. \n\nIn tike manner, the celebrated mathematician, \nEuler, continued, for many years after he became \nblind, to indite and publish the results of his scien- \ntific labours, and at the time of his decease left \nnearly a hundred memoirs ready for the press, most \nof which have since been given to the world. An \nexample of diligence equally indefatigable, though \nturned in a different channel, occurs in our contem- \nporary Huber, who has contributed one of the most \ndelightful volumes within the compass of natural \nhistory, and who, if he employed the eyes of an- \nother, guided them in their investigation to the \nright results by the light of his own mind. \n\nBlindness would seem to be propitious, also, to \nthe exercise of the inventive powers. Hence po- \netry, from the time of Thamyris and the blind Mse- \nonides down to the Welsh harper and the ballad- \ngrinder of our day, has been assigned as the pecu- \nliar province of those bereft of vision, \n\n" As the wakeful bird \nSings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, \nTunes her nocturnal note." \n\nThe greatest epic poem of antiquity was probably, \n4 P \n\n\n\n62 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nas that of the moderns was certainly, composed iu \ndarkness. It is easy to understand how the man \nwho has once seen can recall and body forth in his \nconceptions new combinations of material beauty ; \nbut it would seem scarcely possible that one born \nblind, excluded from all acquaintance with " colour- \ned nature," as Condillac finely styles it, should ex- \ncel in descriptive poetry. Yet there are eminent \nexamples of this ; among others, that of Blacklock, \nwhose verses abound in the most agreeable and pic- \nturesque images. Yet he could have formed no \nother idea of colours than was conveyed by their \nmoral associations, the source, indeed, of most of \nthe pleasures we derive from descriptive poetry. It \nwas thus that he studied the variegated aspect of \nnature, and read in it the successive revolutions of \nthe seasons, their freshness, their prime, and. decay. \nMons. Guillie, in an interesting essay on the in- \nstruction of the blind, to which we shall have occa- \nsion repeatedly to refer, quotes an example of the \nassociation of ideas in regard to colours, which oc- \ncurred in one of his own pupils, who, in reciting the \nwell-known passage in Horace, " rvbenle dexterasa- \ncras jaculatus arces" translated the first two words \nby " fiery" or " burning right hand." On being re- \nquested to render it literally, he called it. " red right \nhand," and gave as the reason for his former ver- \nsion, that he could form no positive conception of \na red colour; hut that, as fire was said to be red, he \nconnected the idea of heat with this colour, and had \n\xe2\x80\xa2merefore interpreted the wrath of Jupiter, demolish- \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 63 \n\ning town and tower, by the epithet " fiery or burn- \ning ;" for " when people are angry," he added, "they \nare hot, and when they are hot, they must of course \nbe red." He certainly seems to have formed a much \nmore accurate notion of red than Locke\'s blind \nman. \n\nBut while a gift for poetry belongs only to the \ninspired few, and while many have neither taste \nnor talent for mathematical or speculative science, \nit is a consolation to reflect that the humblest indi- \nvidual who is destitute of sight may so far supply \nthis deficiency by the perfection of the other senses \nas by their aid to attain a considerable degree of \nintellectual culture, as well as a familiarity with \nsome of the most useful mechanic arts. It will be \neasier to conceive to what extent the perceptions \nof touch and hearing may be refined if we reflect \nhow far that of sight is sharpened by exclusive re- \nliance on it in certain situations. Thus the mari- \nner descries objects at night, and at a distance upon \nthe ocean, altogether imperceptible to the unprac- \ntised eye of a landsman. And the North American \nIndian steers his course undeviatingly through the \ntrackless wilderness, guided only by such signs as \nescape the eye of the most inquisitive white man. \n\nIn like manner, the senses of hearing and feeling \nare capable of attaining such a degree of perfection \nin a blind person, that by them alone he can distin- \nguish his various acquaintances, and even the pres- \nence of persons whom he has but rarely met be- \nfore, the size of the apartment, and the general lo- \n\n\n\n64 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncality of the spots in which he may happen to be, \nand guide himself safely across the most solitary \ndistricts and amid the throng of towns. Dr. Bew, \nin a paper in the Manchester Collection of Me- \nmoirs, gives an account of a blind man of his ac- \nquaintance in Derbyshire, who was much used as a \nguide for travellers in the night over certain intri- \ncate roads, and particularly when the tracks were \ncovered with snow. This same man was afterward \nemployed as a projector and surveyor of roads in \nthat county. We well remember a blind man in \nthe neighbouring town of Salem, who officiated \nsome twenty years since as the tow r n crier, when \nthat functionary performed many of the advertising \nduties now usurped by the newspaper, making his \ndiurnal round, and stopping with great precision at \nevery corner, trivium or quodrivium, to chime his \n" melodious twang." Yet this feat, the familiarity \nof which prevented it from occasioning any sur- \nprise, could have resulted only from the nicest, ob- \nservation of the undulations of the ground, or by an \nattention to the currents of air, or the different sound \nof the voice or other noises in these openings, signs \naltogether lost upon the man of eyes. \n\nMons. Guillie mentions several apparently well- \nattested anecdotes of blind persons who had the \npower of discriminating colours by the touch. One \nof the individuals noticed by him, a Dutchman, was \nso expert in this way that he was sure to come off \nconqueror at the card-table by the knowledge which \nhe thus obtained of his adversary\'s hand, whenever \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 65 \n\nit came to his turn to deal. This power of discrim- \nination of colours, which seems to be a gift only of \na very few of the finer-fingered gentry, must be found- \ned on the different consistency or smoothness of the \ningredients used in the various dyes. A more cer- \ntain method of ascertaining these colours, that of \ntasting or touching them with the tongue, is fre- \nquently resorted to by the blind, who by this means \noften distinguish between those analogous colours, \nas black and dark blue, red and pink, which, having \nthe greatest apparent affinity, not unfrequently de- \nceive the eye. \n\nDiderot, in an ingenious letter on the blind, a \nV usage de ceux qui voienl, has given a circumstan- \ntial narration of his visit to a blind man at Puis- \nseaux, the son of a professor in the University of \nParis, and well known in his day from the various \naccomplishments and manual dexterity which he \nexhibited, remarkable in a person in his situation. \nBeing asked what notion he had formed of an eye, \nhe replied, " I conceive it to be an organ on which \nthe air produces the same effect as this staff on my \nhand. If, when you are looking at an object, I \nshould interpose anything between your eyes and \nthat object, it would prevent you from seeing it. \nAnd I am in the same predicament when I seek \none thing with my staff and come across another." \nAn explanation, says Diderot, as lucid as any which \ncould be given by Descartes, who, it is singular, at- \ntempts, in his Dioptrics, to explain the analogy be- \ntween the senses of feeling and seeing by figures oi \n4 F* \n\n\n\n66 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmen blindfolded, groping their way with staffs in \ntheir hands. This same intelligent personage be- \ncame so familiar with the properties of touch that \nhe seems to have accounted them almost equally \nvaluable with those of vision. On being interro- \ngated if he felt a great desire to have eyes, he an- \nswered, " Were it not for the mere gratification of \ncuriosity, I think I should do as well to wish for \nlong arms. It seems to me that my hands would \ninform me better of what is going on in the moon \nthan your eyes and telescopes ; and then the eyes \nlose the power of vision more readily than the hands \nthat of feeling. It would be better to perfect the \norgan which I have than to bestow on me that \nwhich I have not." \n\nIndeed, the " geometric sense" of touch, as BurTon \nterms it, as far as it reaches, is more faithful, and \nconveys oftentimes a more satisfactory idea of ex- \nternal forms than the eye itself. The great defect \nis that its range is necessarily so limited. It is told \nof Saunderson that on one occasion he detected by \nhis finger a counterfeit coin which had deceived the \neye of a connoisseur. We are hardly aware how \nmuch of our dexterity in the use of the eye arises \nfrom incessant practice. Those who have been re- \nlieved from blindness at an advanced, or even early \nperiod of life, have been found frequently to recur \nto the old and more familiar sense of touch, in pref- \nerence to the sight. The celebrated English anat- \nomist, Cheselden, mentions several illustrations of \nthis fact in an account given by him of a blind boy \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 67 \n\nwhom he had successfully couched for cataracts, \nat the age of fourteen. It was long before the youth \ncould discriminate by his eye between his old com- \npanions, the family cat and dog, dissimilar as such \nanimals appear to us in colour and conformation. \nBeing ashamed to ask the oft-repeated question, he \nwas observed one day to pass his hand carefully \nover the cat, and then, looking at her steadfastly, to \nexclaim, " So, puss, I shall know you another time.\'* \nIt is more natural that he should have been deceiv- \ned by the illusory art of painting, and it was long \nbefore he could comprehend that the objects depict- \ned did not possess the same relief on the canvass \nas in nature. He inquired, "Which is the lying \nsense here, the sight or the touch V \n\nThe faculty of hearing would seem susceptible of \na similar refinement with that of seeing. To prove \nthis without going into farther detail, it is only ne- \ncessary to observe that much the larger proportion \nof blind persons are, more or less, proficients in mu- \nsic, and that in some of the institutions for their edu- \ncation, as that in Paris, for instance, all the pupils \nare instructed in this delightful art. The gift of a \nnatural ear for melody, therefore, deemed compara- \ntively rare with the clairvoyans, would seem to exist \nso far in every individual as to be capable, by a suit- \nable cultivation, of affording a high degree of relish, \nat least to himself. \n\nAs, in order to a successful education of the blind, \nit becomes necessary to understand what are the fac- \nulties, intellectual and corporeal, to the development \n\n\n\n58 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand exercise of which their peculiar condition is best \nadapted, so it is equally necessary to understand how \nfar, and in what manner, their moral constitution is \nlikely to be affected by the insulated position in \nwhich they are placed. The blind man, shut up \nwithin the precincts of his own microcosm, is sub- \njected to influences of a very different complexion \nfrom the bulk of mankind, inasmuch a*s each of the \nsenses is best fitted to the introduction of a certain \nclass of ideas into the mind, and he is deprived of \nthat one through which the rest of his species receive \nby far the greatest number of theirs. Thus it will be \nreadily understood that his notions of modesty and \ndelicacy may a good deal differ from those of the \nworld at large. The blind man of Puisseaux con- \nfessed that he could not comprehend why it should \nbe reckoned improper to expose one part of the per- \nson rather than another. Indeed, the conventional \nrules, so necessarily adopted in society in this rela- \ntion, might seem, in a great degree, superfluous in a \nblind community. \n\nThe blind man would seem, also, to be less likely \nto be endowed with the degree of sensibility usual \nwith those who enjoy the blessing of sight. It is \ndifficult to say how much of our early education de- \npends on the looks, the frowns, the smiles, the tears, \nthe example, in fact, of those placed over and around \nus. From all this the blind child is necessarily ex- \ncluded. These, however, are the great sources of \nsympathy. We feel little for the joys or the sorrows \nwhich we do not witness. " Out of sight, out of \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 69 \n\nmind," says the old proverb. Hence people are so \nready to turn away from distress which they cannot, \nor their avarice will not suffer them to relieve. \nHence, too, persons whose compassionate hearts \nwould bleed at the infliction of an act of cruelty on \nso large an animal as a horse or a dog, for example, \nwill crush without concern a wilderness of insects, \nwhose delicate organization, and whose bodily ago- \nnies are imperceptible to the naked eye. The \nslightest injury occurring in our own presence af- \nfects us infinitely more than the tidings of the most \nmurderous battle, or the sack of the most populous \nand flourishing city at the extremity of the globe. \nYet such, without much exaggeration, is the relative \nposition of the blind, removed by their infirmity at a \ndistance from the world, from the daily exhibition \nof those mingled scenes of grief and gladness, which \nhave their most important uses, perhaps, in calling \nforth our sympathies for our fellow-creatures. \n\nIt has been affirmed that the situation of the blind \nis unpropitious to religious sentiment. They are ne- \ncessarily insensible to the grandeur of the spectacle \nwhich forces itself upon our senses every day of our \nexistence. The magnificent map of the heavens, with \n\n" Every star \nWhich the clear concave of a winter\'s night \nPours on the eye," \n\nis not unrolled for them. The revolutions of the \nseasons, with all their beautiful varieties of form and \ncolour, and whatever glories of the creation lift the \nsoul in wonder and gratitude to the Creator, are not \nfor them. Their world is circumscribed by the little \n\n\n\n70 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncircle which they can span with their own arms. \nAll beyond has for them no real existence. This \nseems to have passed within the mind of the mathe- \nmatician Saunderson, whose notions of a Deity \nwould seem^ to have been, to the last, exceedingly \nvague and unsettled. The clergyman who visited \nhim in his latter hours endeavoured to impress upon \nhim the evidence of a God as afforded by the aston- \nishing mechanism of the universe. " Alas !" said \nthe dying philosopher, " I have been condemned to \npass my life in darkness, and you speak to me of \nprodigies which I cannot comprehend, and which \ncan only be felt by you, and those who see like you!" \nWhen reminded of the faith of Newton, Leibnitz, \nand Clarke, minds from whom he had drunk so \ndeeply of instruction, and for whom he entertained \nthe profoundest veneration, he remarked, "The testi- \nmony of Newton is not so strong for me as that of \nNature was for him ; Newton believed on the Word \nof God himself, while I am reduced to believe on that \nof Newton." He expired with this ejaculation on \nhis lips, " God of Newton, have mercy on me !" \n\nThese, however, may be considered as the pee- \nvish ebullitions of a naturally skeptical and some- \nwhat disappointed spirit, impatient of an infirmity \nwhich obstructed, as he conceived, his advancement \nin the career of science to which he had so zealously \ndevoted himself. It was in allusion to this, undoubt- \nedly, that he depicted his life as having been " cne \nlong desire and continued privation." \n\nIt is far more reasonable to believe that there are \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE r BLIND. 71 \n\ncertain peculiarities in tbe condition of the blind \nwhich more than counterbalance the unpropitious \ncircumstances above described, and which have a \ndecided tendency to awaken devotional sentiment \nin their minds. They are the subjects of a griev- \nous calamity, which, as in all such cases, naturally \ndisposes the heart to sober reflection, and, when \npermanent and irremediable, to passive resignation. \nTheir situation necessarily excludes most of those \ntemptations which so sorely beset us in the world \xe2\x80\x94 \nthose tumultuous passions which, in the general ri- \nvalry, divide man from man, and imbitter the sweet \ncup of social life \xe2\x80\x94 those sordid appetites which de- \ngrade us to the level of the brutes. They are sub- \njected, on the contrary, to the most healthful influ- \nences. Their occupations are of a tranquil, and \noftentimes of a purely intellectual character. Their \npleasures are derived from the endearments of do- \nmestic intercourse, and the attentions almost always \nconceded to persons in their dependant condition \nmust necessarily beget a reciprocal kindliness of \nfeeling in their own bosoms. In short, the uniform \ntenour of their lives is such as naturally to dispose \nthem to resignation, serenity, and cheerfulness ; and \naccordingly, as far as our own experience goes, \nthese have usually been the characteristics of the \nblind. \n\nIndeed, the cheerfulness almost universally inci- \ndent to persons deprived of sight leads us to con- \nsider blindness as, on the whole, a less calamity than \ndeafness. The deaf man is continually exposed to \n\n\n\n72 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe sight of pleasures and to society in which he \ncan take no part. He is the guest at a banquet of \nwhich he is not permitted to partake, the spectator \nat a theatre where he cannot comprehend a sylla- \nble. If the blind man is excluded from sources of \nenjoyment equally important, he has, at least, the \nadvantage of not perceiving, and not even compre- \nhending what he has lost. It may be added, that \nperhaps the greatest privation consequent on blind- \nness is the inability to read, as that on deafness is \nthe loss of the pleasures of society. Now the eyes \nof another may be made, in a great degree, to sup- \nply this defect of the blind man, while no art can \nafford a corresponding substitute to the deaf for the \nprivations to which he is doomed in social inter- \ncourse. He cannot hear with the ears of another. \nAs, however, it is undeniable that blindness makes \none more dependant than deafness, we may be con- \ntent with the conclusion that the former would be \nthe most eligible for the rich, and the latter for the \npoor. Our remarks will be understood as applying \nto those only wdio are wholly destitute of the facul- \nties of sight and hearing. A person afflicted only \nwith a partial derangement or infirmity of vision is \nplaced in the same tantalizing predicament above \ndescribed of the deaf, and is, consequently, found to \nbe usually of a far more impatient and irritable tem- \nperament, and, consequently, less happy than the \ntotally blind. With all this, we doubt whether there \nbe one of our readers, even should he assent to the \ngeneral truth of our remarks, who would iiot infi- \n\n\n\n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 73 \n\nnitely prefer to incur partial to total blindness, and \ndeafness to either. Such is the prejudice in favour \nof eyes ! \n\nPatience, perseverance, habits of industry, and, \nabove all, a craving appetite for knowledge, are suf- \nficiently common to be considered as characteris- \ntics of the blind, and have tended greatly to facili- \ntate their education, which must otherwise prove \nsomewhat tedious, and, indeed, doubtful as to its re- \nsalts, considering the formidable character of the \nobstacles to be encountered. A curious instance \nof perseverance in overcoming such obstacles oc- \ncurred at Paris, when the institutions for the deaf \nand dumb and for the blind were assembled under \nthe same roof in the convent of the Celestines. \nThe pupils of the two seminaries, notwithstanding \nthe apparently insurmountable barrier interposed \nbetween them by their respective infirmities, con- \ntrived to open a communication with each other, \nwhich they carried on with the greatest vivacity. \n\nIt was probably the consideration of those moral \nqualities, as well as of the capacity for improve- \nment which we have described as belonging to the \nblind, which induced the benevolent Haiiy, in con- \njunction with the Philanthropic Society of Paris, to \nopen there, in 1784, the first regular seminary for \ntheir education ever attempted. This institution \nunderwent several modifications, not for the better, \nduring the revolutionary period which followed; \nuntil, in 1816, it was placed on the respectable ba- \nsis* on which it now exists, under the direction of \n4 G \n\n\n\n74 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nDr. Guillie, whose untiring exertions have been \nblessed with the most beneficial results. \n\nWe shall give a brief view of the course of edu- \ncation pursued under his direction, as exhibited by \nhim in the valuable treatise to which we have al- \nready referred, occasionally glancing at the method \nadopted in the corresponding institution at Edin- \nburgh. \n\nThe fundamental object proposed in every scheme \nof education for the blind is, to direct the attention \nof the pupil to those studies and mechanic arts \nwhich he will be able afterward to pursue by means \nof his own exertions and resources, without anv \nexternal aid. The sense of touch is the one, there- \nfore, almost exclusively relied on. The fingers are \nthe eyes of the blind. They are taught to read in \nParis by feeling the surface of metallic types, and \nin Edinburgh by means of letters raised on a blank \nleaf of paper. If they are previously acquainted \nwith spelling, which may be easily taught them be- \nfore entering the institution, they learn to discrimi- \nnate the several letters with great facility. Their \nperceptions become so fine by practice, that they \ncan discern even the finest print, and when the fin- \ngers fail them, readily distinguish it by applying the \ntongue. A similar method is employed for instruct- \ning them in figures ; the notation table, invented by \nSaunderson, and once used in the Paris seminary, \nhaving been abandoned as less simple and obvious, \nalthough his symbols for the representation of geo- \nmetrical diagrams are still retained. \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 75 \n\nAs it would be labour lost to learn the art of read- \ning without having books to read, various attempts \nhave been made to supply this desideratum. The \nfirst hint of the form now adopted for the impres- \nsion of these books was suggested by the appear- \nance exhibited on the reverse side of a copy as re- \nmoved fresh from the printing-press. In imitation \nof this, a leaf of paper of a firm texture is forcibly \nimpressed with types unstained by ink, and larger \nthan the ordinary size, until a sufficiently bold relief \nhas been obtained to enable the blind person to dis- \ntinguish the characters by the touch. The French \nhave adopted the Italian hand, or one very like it, \nfor the fashion of the letters, while the Scotch have \ninvented one more angular and rectilinear, which, \nbesides the advantage of greater compactness, is \nfound better suited to accurate discrimination by the \ntouch than smooth and extended curves and circles. \n\nSeveral important works have been already print- \ned on this plan, viz., a portion of the Scriptures, \ncatechisms, and offices for daily prayer; grammars \nin the Greek, Latin, French, English, Italian, and \nSpanish languages ; a Latin selecta, a geography, a \ncourse of general history, a selection from English \npoets and prose- writers, a course of literature, with \na compilation of the choicest specimens of French \neloquence. With all this, the art of printing for the \nblind is still in its infancy. The characters are so \nunwieldy, and the leaves (which cannot be printed \non the reverse side, as this would flatten the letters \nupon the other) are necessarily so numerous as to \n\n\n\n76 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmake the volume exceedingly bulky, and of course \nexpensive. The Gospel of St. John, for example, \nexpands into three large octavo volumes. Some \nfarther improvement must occur, therefore, before \nthe invention can become extensively useful. There \ncan be no reason to doubt of such a result eventu- \nally, for it is only by long and repeated experiment \nthat the art of printing in the usual way, and every \nother art, indeed, has been brought to its present \nperfection. Perhaps some mode may be adopted \nlike that of stenography, which, although encum- \nbering: the learner with some additional difficulties \nat first, may abundantly compensate him in the con- \ndensed forms, and consequently cheaper and more \nnumerous publications which could be afforded by \nit. Perhaps ink, or some other material of greater \nconsistency than that ordinarily used in printing \nmay be devised, which, when communicated by the \ntype to the paper, will leave a character sufficiently \nraised to be distinguished by the touch. We have \nknown a blind person able to decipher the charac- \nters in a piece of music to which the ink had been \nimparted more liberally than usual. In the mean \ntime, what has been already done has conferred a \nservice on the blind which we, who become insen- \nsible from the very prodigality of our blessings, can- \nnot rightly estimate. The glimmering of the taper, \nwhich is lost in the blaze of day, is sufficient to \nguide the steps of the wanderer in darkness. The \nunsealed volume of Scripture will furnish him with \nthe best sources of consolation under every priva- \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 77 \n\ntion ; the various grammars are so many keys with \nwhich to unlock the stores of knowledge to enrich \nhis after life, and the selections from the most beau- \ntiful portions of elegant literature will afford him a \npermanent source of recreation and delight. \n\nOne method used for instruction in writing is, to \ndirect the pencil, or stylus, in a groove cut in the \nfashion of the different letters. Other modes, how- \never, too complex for description here, are resorted \nto, by which the blind person is enabled not only to \nwrite, but to read what he has thus traced. A port- \nable w T riting-case for this purpose has also been in- \nvented by one of the blind, who, it is observed, are \nthe most ingenious in supplying, as they are best \nacquainted with, their own wants. A very simple \nmethod of epistolary correspondence, by means of a \nstring-alphabet, as it is called, consisting of a cord \nor riband in which knots of various dimensions \nrepresent certain classes of letters, has been devised \nby two blind men at Edinburgh. This contrivance, \nwhich is so simple that it can be acquired in an \nhour\'s time by the most ordinary capacity, is as- \nserted to have the pow r er of conveying ideas with \nequal precision with the pen. A blind lady of our \nacquaintance, however, whose fine understanding \nand temper have enabled her to surmount many of \nthe difficulties of her situation, after a trial of this \ninvention, gives the preference to the mode usually \nadopted by her of pricking the letters on the paper \nwith a pin \xe2\x80\x94 an operation which she performs with \nastonishing rapidity, and which, in addition to the \n\n4 a* \n\n\n\n78 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nadvantage possessed by the string-alphabet of being \nlegible by the touch, answers more completely the \npurposes of epistolary correspondence, since it may \nbe readily interpreted by any one on being held up \nto the light. \n\nThe scheme of instruction at the institution fol \nthe blind in Paris comprehends geography, history, \nthe Greek and Latin, together with the Frencb, \nItalian, and English languages, arithmetic, and the \nhigher branches of mathematics, music, and some \nof the most useful mechanic arts. For mathemat- \nics, the pupils appear to discover a natural aptitude, \nmany of them attaining such proficiency as not only \nto profit by the public lectures of the most eminent \nprofessors in the sciences, but to carry away the high- \nest prizes in the lyceums in a competition with those \nwho possess the advantages of sight. In music, as \nwe have before remarked, they all make greater or \nless proficiency. They are especially instructed in \nthe organ, which, from its frequency in the churches, \naffords one of the most obvious means of obtaining \na livelihood. \n\nThe method of tuition adopted is that of mutual \ninstruction. The blind are ascertained to learn most \neasily and expeditiously from those in the same con- \ndition with themselves. Two male teachers, with \none female, are in this way found adequate to the \nsuperintendence of eighty scholars, which, consid- \nering the obstacles to be encountered, must be ad- \nmitted to be a small apparatus for the production \nof such extensive results. \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 79 \n\nIn teaching them the mechanic arts, two princi- \nples appear to be kept in view, namely, to select \nsuch for each individual respectively as may be best \nadapted to his future residence and destination ; the \ntrades, for example, most suitable for a seaport be- \ning those least so for the country, and vice versa. \nSecondly, to confine their attention to such occu- \npations as from their nature are most accessible to, \nand which can be most perfectly attained by, per- \nsons in their situation. It is absurd to multiply ob- \nstacles from the mere vanity of conquering them. \n\nPrinting is an art for which the blind show par- \nticular talent, going through all the processes of \ncomposing, serving the press, and distributing the \ntypes with the same accuracy with those who can \nsee. Indeed, much of this mechanical occupation \nwith the clairvoyans (we are in want of some such \ncompendious phrase in our language) appears to be \nthe result rather of habit than any exercise of the \neye. The blind print all the books for their own \nuse. They are taught also to spin, to knit, in which \nlast operation they are extremely ready, knitting \nvery finely, with open work, &c, and are much \nemployed by the Parisian hosiers in the manufac- \nture of elastic vests, shirts, and petticoats. They \nmake purses, delicately embroidered with figures of \nanimals and flowers, whose various tints are select- \ned with perfect propriety. The fingers of the fe- \nmales are observed to be particularly adapted to this \nnicer sort of work, from their superior delicacy, or- \ndinarily, to those of men. They are employed also \n\n\n\n80 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin manufacturing girths, in netting in all its branches, \nin making shoes of list, plush, cloth, coloured skin, \nand list carpets, of which a vast number is annually \ndisposed of. Weaving is particularly adapted to the \nblind, who perform all the requisite manipulation \nwithout any other assistance but that of setting up \nthe warp. They manufacture whips, straw bot- \ntoms for chairs, coarse straw hats, rope, cord, pack- \nthread, baskets, straw, rush, and plush mats, which \nare very saleable in France. \n\nThe articles manufactured in the Asylum for the \nBlind in Scotland are somewhat different ; and as \nthey show for what an extensive variety of occupa- \ntions they may be qualified in despite of their in- \nfirmity, we will take the liberty, at the hazard of \nbeing somewhat tedious, of quoting the catalogue \nof them exhibited in one of their advertisements. \nThe articles offered for sale consist of cotton and \nlinen cloths, ticked and striped Hollands, towelling \nand diapers, worsted net for fruit-trees ; hair cloth, \nhair mats, and hair ropes ; basket-work of every de- \nscription; hair, India hemp, and straw door-mats; \nsaddle girths; rope and twines of all kinds; netting \nfor sheep-pens; garden and onion twine nets; fishing \nnets, beehives, mattresses, and cushions; feather beds, \nbolsters, and pillows ; mattresses and beds of every \ndescription cleaned and repaired. The labours in \nthis department are performed by the boys. The girls \nare employed in sewing, knitting stockings, spinning, \nmaking fine banker\'s twine, and various works be- \nsides, usually executed by well-educated females \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 81 \n\nSuch is the emulation of the blind, according to \nDr. Guillie, in the institution of Paris, that hitherto \nthere has been no necessity of stimulating their ex- \nertions by the usual motives of reward or punish- \nment. Delighted with their sensible progress in \nvanquishing the difficulties incident to their condi- \ntion, they are content if they can but place them- \nselves on a level with the more fortunate of their \nfellow-creatures. And it is observed that many, \nwho in the solitude of their own homes have failed \nin their attempts to learn some of the arts taught \nin this institution, have acquired a knowledge of \nthem with great alacrity when cheered by the sym- \npathy of individuals involved in the same calamity \nwith themselves, and with whom, of course, the}\' \ncould compete with equal probability of success. \n\nThe example of Paris has been followed in the \nprincipal cities in most of the other countries of \nEurope: in England, Scotland, Russia, Prussia, Aus- \ntria, Switzerland, Holland, and Denmark. These \nestablishments, which are conducted on the same \ngeneral principles, have adopted a plan of educa- \ntion more or less comprehensive, some of them, like \nthose of Paris and Edinburgh, involving the higher \nbranches of intellectual education, and others, as in \nLondon and Liverpool, confining themselves chiefly \nto practical arts. The results, however, have been \nin the highest degree cheering to the philanthropist \nin the light thus poured in upon minds to which all \nthe usual avenues were sealed up \xe2\x80\x94 in the opportu- \nnity afforded them of developing those latent pow \n\nL \n\n\n\n82 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ners which had been hitherto wasted in inaction, and \nin the happiness thus imparted to an unfortunate \nclass of beings, who now, for the first time, were \npermitted to assume their proper station in society, \nand instead of encumbering, to contribute, by their \nown exertions, to the general prosperity. \n\nWe rejoice that the inhabitants of our own city \nhave been the first to give an example of such be- \nneficent institutions in the New World. And it is \nprincipally with the view of directing the attention \nof the public towards it that we have gone into a \nreview of what has been effected in this way in \nEurope. The credit of having first suggested the \nundertaking here is due to our townsman, Dr. John \nD. Fisher, through whose exertions, aided by those \nof several other benevolent individuals, the subject \nwas brought before the Legislature of this state, \nand an act of incorporation was granted to the pe- \ntitioners, bearing date March 2d, 1829, authorizing \nthem, under the title of the "New-England Asylum \nfor the Blind," to hold property, receive donations \nand bequests, and to exercise the other functions \nusually appertaining to similar corporations. \n\nA resolution was subsequently passed, during the \nsame session, requiring the selectmen of the several \ntowns throughout the commonwealth to make re- \nturns of the number of blind inhabitants, with their \nages, periods of blindness, personal condition, &c. \nBy far the larger proportion of these functionaries, \nhowever, with a degree of apathy which does them \nvery little credit, paid no attention whatever to this \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 83 \n\nrequisition. By the aid of such as did comply with \nit, and by means of circulars addressed to the cler- \ngymen of the various parishes, advices have been \nreceived from one hundred and forty-one towns, \ncomprising somewhat less than half of the whole \nnumber within the state. From this imperfect es- \ntimate it would appear that the number of blind \npersons in these towns amounts to two hundred and \nforty-three, of whom more than one fifth are under \nthirty years of age, which period is assigned as the \nlimit within which they cannot fail of receiving all \nthe benefit to be derived from the system of instruc- \ntion pursued in the institutions for the blind. \n\nThe proportion of the blind to our whole popu- \nlation, as founded on the above estimate, is some- \nwhat higher than that established by Zeune for the \ncorresponding latitudes in Europe, where blindness \ndecreases in advancing from the equator to the poles, \nit being computed in Egypt at the rate of one to one \nhundred, and in Norway of one to one thousand, \nwhich last is conformable to ours. \n\nAssuming the preceding estimate as the basis, it \nwill appear that there are about five hundred blind \npersons in the State of Massachusetts at the present \nmoment ; and, adopting the census of 1820, there \ncould not at that time, according to the same rate, \nbe less than sixteen hundred and fifty in all New- \nEngland, one fifth being under thirty years of age ; \na number which, as the blind are usually retired \nfrom public observation, far exceeds what might be \njonceived on a cursory inspection. \n\n\n\n84 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nFrom the returns it would appear that a large \nproportion of the blind in Massachusetts are in hum- \nble circumstances, and a still larger proportion of \nthose in years indigent or paupers. This is impu- \ntable to their having learned no trade or profession \nin their youth, so that, when deprived of their nat- \nural guardians, they have necessarily become a charge \nupon the public. \n\nSince the year 1825 an appropriation has been \ncontinued by the Legislature for the purpose of \nmaintaining a certain number of pupils at the Asy- \nlum for the Deaf and Dumb at Hartford. A reso- \nlution was obtained during the last session of the \nGeneral Court authorizing the governor to pay \nover to the Asylum for the Blind whatever balance \nof the sum thus appropriated might remain in the \ntreasury unexpended at the end of the current year, \nand the same with every subsequent year to which \nthe grant extended, unless otherwise advised. Seven \nhundred dollars only have been received as the bal- \nance of the past year, a sum obviously inadequate \nto the production of any important result, and far \ninferior to what had been anticipated by the friends \nof the measure. On the whole, we are inclined to \ndoubt whether this will be found the most suitable \nmode of creating resources for the asylum. Al- \nthough, in fact, it disposes only of the superfluity, \nit has the appearance of subtracting from the posi- \ntive revenues of the Deaf and Dumb, an institution \nof equal merit and claims with any other whatever \nThe Asylum for the Blind is an establishment of \n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 85 \n\ntoo much importance to be left thus dependant on \na precarious contingent, and is worthy, were it only \nin an economical point of view, of being placed by \nthe state on some more secure and ample basis. \n\nAs it is, the want of funds opposes a sensible ob- \nstruction to its progress. The pressure of the times \nhas made the present moment exceedingly unfavour- \nable to personal solicitation, although so much has \nbeen effected in this way, through the liberality of \na few individuals, that, as we understand, prepara- \ntions are now making for procuring the requisite \ninstructers and apparatus on a moderate and some- \nwhat reduced scale. \n\nAs to the comprehensiveness of the scheme of \neducation to be pursued at the the asylum, whether \nit shall embrace intellectual culture, or be confined \nsimply to the mechanic arts, this must, of course, be \nultimately determined by the extent of its resources. \nWe trust, however, it will be enabled to adopt the \nformer arrangement, at least so far as to afford the \npupils an acquaintance with the elements of the \nmore popular sciences. There is such a diffusion \nof liberal knowledge among all classes in this coun- \ntry, that if the blind are suffered to go without any \ntincture of it from the institution, they will always, \nwhatever be the skill acquired by them in mechan- \nical occupations, continue to feel a sense of their \nown mental inferiority. The connexion of these \nhigher with the more direct objects of the institu- \ntion will serve, moreover, to give it greater dignity \n\nand importance. And while it will open sources \n4 * H \n\n\n\n36 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof knowledge from which many may be in a situa- \ntion to derive permanent consolation, it will instruct \nthe humblest individual in what may be of essential \nutility to him, as writing and arithmetic, for exam- \nple, in his intercourse with the w T orld. \n\nTo what extent it is desirable that the asylum \nbe placed on a charitable foundation is another \nsubject of consideration. This, we believe, is the \ncharacter of most of the establishments in Europe. \nThat in Scotland, for instance, contains about a \nhundred subjects, who, with their families included, \namount to two hundred and fifty souls, all support- \ned from the labours of the blind, conjointly with the \nfuuds of the institution. This is undoubtedly one \nof the noblest and most discriminating charities in \nthe world. It seems probable, however, that this is \nnot the plan best adapted to our exigencies. We \nwant not to maintain the blind, but to put them in \nthe w T ay of contributing to their own maintenance. \nBy placing the expenses of tuition and board as low \nas possible, the means of effecting this will be brought \nwithin the reach of a large class of them ; and for \nthe rest, it will be obvious economy in the state to \nprovide them with the means of acquiring an edu- \ncation at once that may enable them to contribute \npermanently towards their own support, which, in \nsome shape or other, is now chargeable on the pub- \nlic. Perhaps, however, some scheme may be de- \nvised for combining both these objects, if this be \ndeemed preferable to the adoption of eithev exclu- \nsively. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nASYLUM FOR THE BLIND. 87 \n\nWe are convinced that, as far as the institution \nis to rely for its success on public patronage, it will \nnot be disappointed. If once successfully in oper- \nation, and brought before the public eye, it cannot \nfail of exciting a very general sympathy, which, in \nthis country, has never been refused to the calls of \nhumanity. No one, we think, who has visited the \nsimilar endowments in Paris or in Edinburgh will \neasily forget the sensations which he experienced \non witnessing so large a class of his unfortunate \nfellow-creatures thus restored from intellectual dark- \nness to the blessings, if we may so speak, of light \nand liberty. There is no higher evidence of the \nworth of the human mind than its capacity of draw- \ning consolation from its own resources under so \nheavy a privation ; so that it not only can exhibit \nresignation and cheerfulness, but energy to burst the \nfetters with which it is encumbered. Who could \nrefuse his sympathy to the success of these efforts, \nor withhold from the subject of them the means of \nattaining his natural level and usefulness in society, \nfrom which circumstances, less favourable to him \nthan to ourselves, have hitherto excluded him \\ \n\n\n\n88 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nIRVING\'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA.* \n\nOCTOBER, 182 9. \n\nAlmost as many qualifications may be demanded \nfor a perfect historian, indeed the Abbe Mably has \nenumerated as many, as Cicero stipulates for a per- \nfect orator. He must be strictly impartial ; a lover \nof truth under all circumstances, and ready to de- \nclare it at all hazards: he must be deeply conver- \nsant with whatever may bring into relief the char- \nacter of the people he is depicting, not merely with \ntheir laws, constitution, general resources, and all \nthe other more visible parts of the machinery of \ngovernment, but with the nicer moral and social re- \nlations, the informing spirit which gives life to the \nwhole, but escapes the eye of a vulgar observer. If \nhe has to do with other ages and nations, he must \ntransport himself into them, expatriating himself, as \nit were, from his own, in order to get the very form \nand pressure of the times he is delineating. He \nmust be conscientious in his attention to geogra- \nphy, chronology, &c, an inaccuracy in which has \nbeen fatal to more than one good philosophical his- \ntory ; and, mixed up with all these drier details, he \nmust display the various powers of a novelist or \ndramatist, throwing his characters into suitable lights \nand shades, disposing his scenes so as to awaken \n\n* " A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada. By Fray Antonia Aga- \npida." 1829 : 2 vols., 12mo. Philadelphia : Carey, Lea, and Caroy. \n\n\n\nIRVING\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 89 \n\nand maintain an unflagging interest, and diffusing \nover the whole that finished style, without which \nhis work will only become a magazine of materials \nfor the more elegant edifices of subsequent writers. \nHe must be \xe2\x80\x94 in short, there is no end to what a \nperfect historian must be and do. It is hardly ne- \ncessary to add that such a monster never did and \nnever will exist. \n\nBut, although we cannot attain to perfect excel- \nlence in this or any other science in this world, con- \nsiderable approaches have been made to it, and dif- \nferent individuals have arisen at different periods, \npossessed, in an eminent degree, of some of the prin- \ncipal qualities which go to make up the aggregate \nof the character we have been describing. The \npeculiar character of these qualities will generally \nbe determined in the writer by that of the age in \nwhich he lives. Thus, the earlier historians of \nGreece and Rome sought less to instruct than to \namuse. They filled their pictures with dazzling \nand seductive images. In their researches into an- \ntiquity, they were not startled by the marvellous, \nlike the more prudish critics of our day, but wel- \ncomed it as likely to stir the imaginations of their \nreaders. They seldom interrupted the story by im- \npertinent reflection. They bestowed infinite pains \non the costume, the style of their history, and, in \nfine, made everything subordinate to the main pur- \npose of conveying an elegant and interesting narra- \ntive. Such was Herodotus, such Livy, and such, \ntoo, the earlier chroniclers of modern Europe, whose \n4 H* \n\n\n\n90 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npages glow with the picturesque and brilliant pa- \ngeants of an age of chivalry. These last, as well \nas Herodotus, may be said to have written in the \ninfancy of their nations, when the imagination is \nmore willingly addressed than the understanding. \nLivy, who wrote in a riper age, lived, nevertheless, \nin a court and a period where tranquillity and opu- \nlence disposed the minds of men to elegant recrea- \ntion rather than to severe discipline and exertion. \n\nAs, however, the nation advanced in years, or be- \ncame oppressed with calamity, history also assumed \na graver complexion. Fancy gave way to reflec- \ntion. The mind, no longer invited to rove abroad \nin quest of elegant and alluring pictures, was driven \nback upon itself, speculated more deeply, and sought \nfor support under the external evils of life in mor- \nal and philosophical truth. Description was aban- \ndoned for the study of character; men took the \nplace of events ; and the romance was converted \ninto the drama. Thus it was with Tacitus, who \nlived under those imperial monsters who turned \nRome into a charnel-house, and his compact nar- \nratives are filled with moral and political axioms \nsufficiently numerous to make a volume; and, in- \ndeed, Brotier has made one of them in his edition \nof the historian. The same philosophical spirit an- \nimates the page of Thucydides, himself one of the \nprincipal actors in the long, disastrous struggle that \nterminated in the ruin of his nation. \n\nBut, notwithstanding the deeper and more com- \nprehensive thought of these later writers, there was \n\n\n\nIRVING\'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 9i \n\nstill a wide difference between the complexion giv- \nen to history under their hands and that which it \nhas assumed in our time. We would not he un- \nderstood as determining, but simply as discrimina- \nting their relative merits. The Greeks and Ro- \nmans lived when the world, at least when the mind \nwas in its comparative infancy \xe2\x80\x94 when fancy and \nfeeling were most easily, and loved most to be ex- \ncited. They possessed a finer sense of beauty than \nthe moderns. They were infinitely more solicitous \nabout the external dress, the finish, and all that \nmakes up the poetry of a composition. Poetry, in- \ndeed, mingled in their daily pursuits as well as pleas- \nures; it determined their gravest deliberations. The \ncommand of their armies was given, not to the best \ngeneral, but ofttimes to the most eloquent orator. \nPoetry entered into their religion, and created those \nbeautiful monuments of architecture and sculpture \nwhich the breath of time has not tarnished. It en- \ntered into their philosophy; and no one confessed its \ninfluence more deeply than he who would have ban- \nished it from his republic. It informed the souls of \ntheir orators, and prompted those magnificent rhap- \nsodies which fall lifeless enough from the stammer- \ning tongue of the schoolboy, but which once awaked \nto ecstasy the living populace of Athens. It enter- \ned deeply even into their latest history. It was first \nexhibited in the national chronicles of Homer. It \nlost little of its colouring, though it conformed to \nthe general laws of prosaic composition, under He- \nrodotus. And it shed a pleasing grace over the so- \n\n\n\n92 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nber pages of Thucydides and Xenophon. The \nmuse, indeed, was stripped of her wings. She no \nlonger made her airy excursions into the fairy re- \ngions of romance ; but, as she moved along the \nearth, the sweetest wild-flowers seemed to spring \nup unbidden at her feet. We would not be under- \nstood as implying that Grecian history was ambi- \ntious of florid or meretricious ornament. Nothing \ncould be more simple than its general plan and ex- \necution ; far too simple, we fear, for imitation in \nour day. Thus Thucydides, for example, distrib- \nutes his events most inartificially, according to the \nregular revolutions of the seasons ; and the rear of \nevery section is brought up with the same eternal \n\nrepetion of erog tw 7roAe|UG> krsXevra r&de, bv QovKvdcSrjg \n\ngweypaipe. But in the fictitious speeches with which \nhe has illumined his narrative, he has left the choi- \ncest specimens of Attic eloquence ; and he elabora- \nted his general diction into so high a finish, that \nDemosthenes, as is well known, in the hope of \ncatching some of his rhetorical graces, thought him \nworthy of being thrice transcribed with his \'own \nhand. \n\nFar different has been the general conception, as \nwell as execution, of history by the moderns. In \nthis, however, it was accommodated to the exigen- \ncies of their situation, and, as with the ancients, \nstill reflected the spirit of the age. If the Greeks \nlived in the infancy of civilization, the contempo- \nraries of our day may be said to have reached its \nprime. The same revolution has taken place as in \n\n\n\nIRVING\'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 93 \n\nthe growth of an individual. The vivacity of the \nimagination has been blunted, but reason is matu- \nred. The credulity of youth has given way to hab- \nits of cautious inquiry, and sometimes to a phleg- \nmatic skepticism. The productions, indeed, which \nfirst appeared in the doubtful twilight of morning \nexhibited the love of the marvellous, the light and \nfanciful spirit of a green and tender age. But a \nnew order of things commenced as the stores of \nclassical learning were unrolled to the eye of the \nscholar. The mind seemed at once to enter upon \n* the rich inheritance which the sages of antiquity \nhad been ages in accumulating, and to start, as it \nwere, from the very point where they had termina- \nted their career. Thus raised by learning and ex- \nperience, it was enabled to take a wider view of \nits proper destiny \xe2\x80\x94 to understand that truth is the \ngreatest good, and to discern the surest method of \narriving at it. The Christian doctrine, too, incul- \ncated that the end of being was best answered by \na life of active usefulness, and not by one of ab- \nstract contemplation, or selfish indulgence, or pass- \nive fortitude, as variously taught by the various \nsects of antiquity. Hence a new standard of mor- \nal excellence was formed. Pursuits were estima- \nted by their practical results, and the useful was \npreferred to the ornamental. Poetry, confined to \nher own sphere, was no longer permitted to mingle \nin the councils of philosophy. Intellectual and \nphysical science, instead of floating on vague spec- \nulation, as with the ancients, was established on \n\n\n\n94 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncareful induction and experiment. The orator, in \nstead of adorning himself with the pomp and gar- \nniture of verse, sought only to acquire greater dex- \nterity in the management of the true weapons of \ndebate. The passions were less frequently assail- \ned, the reason more. A wider field was open to \nthe historian. He was no longer to concoct his \nnarrative, if the scene lay in a remote period, from \nthe superficial rumours of oral tradition. Libra- \nries were to be ransacked ; medals and monuments \nto be studied; obsolete manuscripts to be decipher- \ned. Every assertion was to be fortified by an au- \nthority ; and the opinions of others, instead of be- \ning admitted on easy faith, were to be carefully col- \nlated, and the balance of probability struck between \nthem. With these qualifications of antiquarian and \ncritic, the modern historian was to combine that of \nthe philosopher, deducing from his mass of facts \ngeneral theorems, and giving to them their most \nextended application. \n\nBy all this process, poetry lost much, but philos- \nophy gained more. The elegant arts sensibly de- \nclined, but the most important and recondite secrets \nof nature were laid open. All those sciences which \nhave for their object the happiness and improvement \nof the species, the science of government, of politi- \ncal economy, of education \xe2\x80\x94 natural and experiment- \nal science \xe2\x80\x94 were carried far beyond the boundaries \nwhich they could possibly have reached under the \nancient systems. \n\nThe peculiar forms of historic writing, as it ex- \n\n\n\nIRVING\'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 95 \n\nists with the moderns, were not fully developed u?7- \ntil the last century. It may be well to notice the in- \ntermediate shape which it assumed before it. reach- \ned this period in Spain and Italy, but especially this \nlatter country, in the sixteenth century. The Ital- \nian historians of that age seemed to have combined \nthe generalizing and reflecting spirit characteristic \nof the moderns, with the simple and graceful forms \nof composition which have descended to us from \nthe ancients. Machiavelli, in particular, may re- \nmind us of some recent statue which exhibits all \nthe lineaments and proportions of a contemporary, \nbut to which the sculptor has given a sort of an- \ntique dignity by enveloping it in the folds of the \nRoman toga. No one of the Spanish historians is \nto be named with him. Mariana, who enjoys among \nthem the greatest celebrity, has, it is true, given to \nhis style, both in the Latin and Castilian, the ele- \ngant transparency of an ancient classic, but the mass \nof detail is not quickened by a single spark of phi- \nlosophy or original reflection. Mariana was a monk, \none of a community who have formed the most co- \npious, but, in many respects, the most incompetent \nchroniclers in the world, cut off, as they are, from \nall sympathy with any portion of the species save \ntheir own order, and predisposed by education to \nadmit as truth the grossest forgeries of fanaticism. \nWhat can their narratives be worth, distorted thus \nby prejudice and credulity 1 The Aragonese wri- \nters, and Zurita in particular, though far inferior as \nto the literary execution of their works, exhibit a \n\n\n\n96 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npregnant thought and a manly independence of ex- \npression far superior to the Jesuit Mariana. \n\nThe Italian historians of the sixteenth century, \nmoreover, had the good fortune not only to have \nbeen eyewitnesses, but to have played prominent \nparts in the events which they commemorated. \nAnd this gives a vitality to their touches which is \nin vain to be expected from those of a closet poli- \ntician. This rare union of public and private ex- \ncellence is delicately intimated in the inscription \non Guicciardini\'s monument, "Cujus negotium, an \noliu??i, gloriosius incertum." \n\nThe personage by whom the present laws of his- \ntoric composition maybe said to have been first ar- \nranged into a regular system was Voltaire. This \nextraordinary genius, whose works have been pro- \nductive of so much mingled good and evil, discov- \ners in them many traces of a humane and beneficent \ndisposition. Nowhere is his invective more keenly \ndirected than against acts of cruelty and oppres- \nsion \xe2\x80\x94 above all, of religious oppression. He lived \nin an age of crying abuses both in Church and gov- \nernment. Unfortunately, he employed a weapon \nagainst them whose influence is not to be control- \nled by the most expert hand. The envenomed \nshaft of irony not only wounds the member at \nwhich it is aimed, but diffuses its poison to the \nhealthiest and remotest regions of the body. \n\nThe free and volatile temper of Voltaire forms a \nsingular contrast with his resolute pertinacity of \npurpose. Bard, philosopher, historian, this literary \n\n\n\nIRVINCS CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 9? \n\nProteus animated every shape with the same mis- \nchievous spirit of philosophy. It never deserted \nhim, even in the most sportive sallies of his fancy. \nIt seasons his romances equally with his gravest \npieces in the encyclopedia ; his familiar letters and \nmost licentious doggerel no less than his histories. \nThe leading ohject of this philosophy may be de- \nfined by the single cant phrase, "the abolition of \nprejudices." But in Voltaire prejudices were too \noften confounded with principles. \n\nIn his histories, he seems ever intent on exhibit- \ning, in the most glaring colours, the manifold incon- \nsistencies of the human race ; in showing the con- \ntradiction between profession and practice ; in con- \ntrasting the magnificence of the apparatus with the \nimpotence of the results. The enormous abuses of \nChristianity are brought into juxtaposition with the \nmost meritorious features in other religions, and \nthus all are reduced to nearly the same level. The \ncredulity of one half of mankind is set in opposition \nto the cunning of the other. The most momentous \nevents are traced to the most insignificant causes, \nand the ripest schemes of wisdom are shown to \nhave been baffled by the intervention of the most \ntrivial accidents. Thus the conduct of the world \nseems to be regulated by chance ; the springs of \nhuman action are resolved into selfishness ; and re- \nligion, of whatever denomination, is only a different \nform of superstition. It is true that his satire is \ndirected not so much against any particular system \nas the vices of that system ; but the result left upon \n4 I \n\n\n\n98 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\nthe mind is not a whit less pernicious. His philo* \nsopnical romance of " Candide" affords a good ex- \nemplification of his manner. The thesis of perfect \noptimism in this world, at which he levels this yew \nd? esprit, is manifestly indefensible. But then he \nsupports his position with such an array of gross \nand hyperbolical atrocities, without the intervention \nof a single palliative circumstance, and, withal, in \nsuch a tone of keen derision, that, if any serious im- \npression be left on the mind, it can be no other than \nthat of a baleful, withering skepticism. The histo- \nrian rarely so far forgets his philosophy as to kindle \ninto high and generous emotion the glow of patri- \notism, or moral and religious enthusiasm. And \nhence, too, his style, though always graceful, and \noften seasoned with the sallies of a piquant wit, \nnever rises into eloquence or sublimity. \n\nVoltaire has been frequently reproached for want \nof historical accuracy. But if we make due allow- \nance for the sweeping tenour of his reflections, and \nfor the infinite variety of his topics., we shall be \nslow in giving credit, to this charge.* He was, in- \ndeed, oftentimes misled by his inveterate Pyrrho- \nnism ; a defect, when carried to the excess in which \nhe indulged it, almost equally fatal to the historian \nwith credulity or superstition. His researches fre- \nquently led him into dark, untravelled regions ; but \nthe aliment which he imported thence served only \n\n* Irideed, Hallam and Warton \xe2\x80\x94 the one as diligent a labourer in the \nfield of civil history as the other has been in literary \xe2\x80\x94 both bear testi- \nmony to his genera 1 veracity. \n\n\n\nIRVING\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 99 \n\ntoo often to minister to his pernicious philosophy \nHe resembled the allegorical agents of Milton, pa- \nving a way across the gulf of Chaos for the spirits \nof mischief to enter more easily upon the earth. \n\nVoltaire effected a no less sensible revolution in \nthe structure than in the spirit of history. Thus, \ninstead of following the natural consecutive order \nof events, the* work was distributed, on the princi- \nple of a Catalogue raisonne, into sections arranged \naccording to their subjects, and copious disserta- \ntions were introduced into the body of the narra- \ntive. Thus, in his Essai sur les Masters, &c, one \nchapter is devoted to letters, another to religion, a \nthird to manners, and so on. And in the same way, \nin his "Age of Louis tho Fourteenth," he has thrown \nIlls various illustrations of the policy of government, \nand of the social habits of the court, into a detach- \ned portion at the close of the book. \n\nThis would seem to be deviating from the natu- \nral course of things as they occur in the world, \nwhere the multifarious pursuits of pleasure and bu- \nsiness, the lights and shadows, as it were, of life \nare daily intermingled in the motley panorama of \nhuman existence. But, however artificial this di- \nvision, it enabled the reader to arrive more expedi- \ntiously at the results, for which alone history is val- \nuable, while, at the same time, it put it in the power \nof the writer to convey with more certainty and fa- \ncility his own impressions. \n\nThis system was subsequently so much refined \nupon, that Montesquieu, in his "Grandeur et Deca- \n\n\n\ntOC BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndence cles Ro mains," laid no farther stress on his- \ntorical facts than as they furnished him with illus- \ntrations of his particular theorems. Indeed, so lit- \ntle did his work rest upon the veracity of such facts, \nthat, although the industry of Niebuhr, or, rather, of \nBeaufort, has knocked away almost all the founda- \ntions of early Rome, Montesquieu\'s treatise remains \nas essentially unimpaired in credit as-before. Thus \nthe materials which anciently formed the body of \nhistory now served only as ingredients from which \nits spirit was to be extracted. But this was not al- \nways the spirit of truth. And the arbitrary selection \nas well as disposition of incidents which this new \nmethod allowed, and the colouring which they were \nto receive from the author^made it easy to pervert \nthem to the construction of the wildest hypotheses. \nThe progress of philosophical history is particu- \nlarly observable in Great Britain, where it seems to \nhave been admirably suited to the grave, reflecting \ntemper of the people. In the graces of narrative \nthey have ever been unequal to their French neigh- \nbours. Their ancient chronicles are inferior in spirit \nand execution to those either of France or Spain; \nand their more elaborate histories, down to the mid- \ndle of the eighteenth century, could not in any way \ncompete with the illustrious models of Italy. But \nsoon after this period several writers appeared, ex- \nhibiting a combination of qualities, erudition, criti- \ncal penetration, powers of generalization, and a po- \nlitical sagacity unrivalled in any other age or coun- \n?rv. \n\n\n\nIRVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 101 \n\nThe influence of the new forms of historical com- \nposition, however, was here, as elsewhere, made too \nfrequently subservient to party and sectarian preju- \ndices. Tory histories and Whig histories, Prot- \nestant and Catholic histories, successively appear- \ned, and seemed to neutralize each other. The most \nvenerable traditions were exploded as nursery tales. \nThe statues decreed by antiquity were cast down, \nand the characters of miscreants whom the general \nsuffrage of mankind had damned to infamy \xe2\x80\x94 of a \nDionysius, a Borgia, or a Richard the Third \xe2\x80\x94 were \nnow i ^traced by what Jovius distinguishes as "the \ngolden pen" of the historian, until the reader, bewil- \ndered in the maze of uncertainty, is almost ready to \njoin in the exclamation of Lord Orford to his son, "Oh \nquote me not history, for that I know to be false!" \nIt is remarkable, indeed, that the last-mentioned mon- \narch, Richard the Third, whose name has become a \nbyword of atrocity, the burden of the ballad and \nthe moral of the drama, should have been the sub- \nject of elaborate vindication by two eminent writers \nof the most opposite characters, the pragmatical Hor- \nace Walpole, and the circumspect and conscientious \nSharon Turner. The apology of the latter exhib- \nits a technical precision, a severe scrutiny into the \nauthenticity of records, and a nice balancing of con- \ntradictory testimony, that give it all the air of a legal \ninvestigation. Thus history seems to be conducted \non the principles of a judicial process, in which the \nwriter, assuming the functions of an advocate, stu- \ndiously suppresses whatever may make against his \n4 I* \n\n\n\n102 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nown side, supports himself by the strongest array of \nevidence which he can muster, discredits, as far as \npossible, that of the opposite party, and, by dexter- \nous interpretation and ingenious inference, makes \nout the most plausible argument for his client that \nthe case will admit. \n\nBut these, after all, are only the abuses of philo- \nsophical history, and the unseasonable length of re- \nmark into which vve have been unwarily led in re- \nspect to them may give us the appearance of laying \non them greater emphasis than they actually de- \nserve. There are few writers in any country whose \njudgment has not been sometimes warped by per- \nsonal prejudices. But it is to the credit, of the prin- \ncipal British historians that, however they may have \nbeen occasionally under the influence of such hu- \nman infirmity, they have conducted their researches, \nin the main, with equal integrity and impartiality. \nAnd while they have enriched their writings with \nthe stores of a various erudition, they have digested \nfrom these details results of the most enlarged and \npractical application. History in their hands, al- \nthough it may have lost much of the simplicity and \ngraphic vivacity which it maintained with the an- \ncients, has gained much more in the amount of use- \nful knowledge and the lessons of sound philosophy \nwhich it inculcates. \n\nThere is no writer who exhibits more distinctly \nthe full development of the principles of modern \nhistory, with all its virtues and defects, than Gib- \nbon. His learning was fully equal to his vast sub- \n\n\n\nIRVJNG\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 103 \n\njcct. This, commencing with expiring civilization \nn ancient Rome, continues on until the period of \nits final and perfect resurrection in Italy in the fif- \nteenth century, and thus may be said to furnish the \nlights which are to guide us through the long in- \nterval of darkness which divides the Old from the \nModern world. The range of his subject was fully \nequal to its duration. Goths, Huns, Tartars, and \nall the rude tribes of the North, are brought upon \nthe stage, together with the more cultivated natives \nof the South, the Greeks, Italians, and the intellect- \nual Arab; and, as the scene shifts from one country \nto another, we behold its population depicted with \nthat peculiarity of physiognomy and studied pro- \npriety of costume which belong to dramatic exhi- \nbition ; for Gibbon was a more vivacious draughts- \nman than most writers of his school. He was, \nmoreover, deeply versed in geography, chronology, \nantiquities, verbal criticism \xe2\x80\x94 in short, in all the sci- \nences in any way subsidiary to his art. The ex- \ntent of his subject permitted him to indulge in those \nelaborate disquisitions so congenial to the spirit of \nmodern history on the most momentous and inter- \nesting topics, while his early studies enabled him to \nembellish the drier details of his narrative with the \ncharms of a liberal and elegant scholarship. \n\nWhat, then, was wanting to this accomplished \nwriter 1 \xe2\x80\xa2 Good faith. His defects were precisely \nof the class of which we have before been speak- \ning, and his most elaborate efforts exhibit too often \nihe perversion of learning and ingenuity to the vin- \n\n\n\n1(4 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL x^ISCELLANIES. \n\ndication of preconceived hypotheses. He cannot; \nindeed, be convicted of ignorance or literal inaccu- \nracy, as he has triumphantly proved in his discom- \nfiture of the unfortunate Davis. But his disingen- \nuous mode of conducting the argument leads pre- \ncisely to the same unfair result. Thus, in his cel- \nebrated chapters on the " Progress of Christianity," \nwhich he tells us were " reduced by three success- \nive revisals from a bulky volume to their present \nsize," he has often slurred over in the text such par- \nticulars as might reflect most credit on the charac- \nter of the religion, or shuffled them into a note at \nthe bottom of the page, while all that admits of a \ndoubtful complexion in its early propagation is os- \ntentatiously blazoned, and set in contrast to the most \namiable features of paganism. At the same time, by \na style of innuendo that conveys "more than meets \nthe ear," he has contrived, with lago-like duplicity, \nto breathe a taint of suspicion on the purity which he \ndares not openly assail. It would be easy to furnish \nexamples of all this were this the place for them ; \nbut the charges have no novelty, and have been \nabundantly substantiated by others. \n\nIt is a consequence of this skepticism in Gibbon, \nas with Voltaire, that his writings are nowhere \nwarmed with a generous moral sentiment. The \nmost sublime of all spectacles, that of the martyr \nwho suffers for conscience sake, and this equally \nwhether his creed be founded in truth or error, is \ncontemplated by the historian with the smile, or, \nrather, sneer of philosophic indifference. This is \n\n\n\nIRVING\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 105 \n\nnot only bad taste, as be is addressing a Christian \naudience, but he thus voluntarily relinquishes one \nof the most powerful engines for the movement of \nhuman passion, which is never so easily excited as \nby deeds of suffering, self-devoted heroism. \n\nBut, although Gibbon was wholly defective in \nmoral enthusiasm, his style is vivified by a certain ex- \nhilarating glow that kindles a corresponding warmth \nin the bosom of his reader. This may, perhaps, be \ntraced to his egotism, or, to speak more liberally, to \nan ardent attachment to his professional pursuits, \nand to his inextinguishable love of letters. This \nenthusiasm appears in almost every page of his great \nwork, and enabled him to triumph over all its diffi- \nculties. It is particularly conspicuous whenever \nhe touches upon Rome, the alma mater of science, \nwhose adopted son he may be said to have been \nfrom his earliest boyhood. Whenever he contem- \nplates her fallen fortunes, he mourns over her with \nthe fond solicitude that might become an ancient \nRoman ; and when he depicts her pristine glories, \ndimly seen through the mist of so many centuries, \nhe does it with such vivid accuracy of conception, \nthat the reader, like the traveller who wanders \nthrough the excavations of Pompeii, seems to be \ngazing on the original forms and brilliant colours \nof antiquity. \n\nTo Gibbon\'s egotism \xe2\x80\x94 in its most literal sense, \nto his personal vanity \xe2\x80\x94 may be traced some of the \npeculiar defects for which his style is conspicuous. \nThe " historian of the Decline and Fall" too rarely \n\nO \n\n\n\n106 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nforgets bis own importance in that of his subject \nThe consequence which be attaches to bis personal \nlabours is shown in a bloated dignity of expression, \nand an ostentation of ornament that contrast whim- \nsically enough with the trifling topics and common- \nplace thoughts on which, in the course of his long \nwork, they are occasionally employed. He no- \nwhere moves along with the easy freedom of na- \nture, but seems to leap, as it were, from triad to \ntriad by a succession of strained, convulsive efforts. \nHe affected, as he tells us, the light, festive raillery \nof Voltaire ; but his cumbrous imitation of the mer- \ncurial Frenchman may remind one, to make use of \na homely simile, of the ass in JE sop\'s fable, who \nfrisked upon his master in imitation of the sportive \ngambols of the spaniel. The first two octavo vol- \numes of Gibbon\'s history were written in a compar- \natively modest and unaffected manner, for he was \nthen uncertain of the public favour ; and, indeed, \nhis style was exceedingly commended by the most \ncompetent critics of that day, as Hume, Joseph War- \nton, and others, as is abundantly shown in their cor- \nrespondence ; but when he had tasted the sweets of \npopular applause, and had been crowned as the his- \ntorian of the day, his increased consequence becomes \nat once visible in the assumed stateliness and mag- \nnificence of his bearing. But even after this period, \nwhenever the subject is suited to his style, and when \nhis phlegmatic temper is warmed by those generous \nemotions, of which, as we have said, it was some- \ntimes susceptible, he exhibits his ideas in the most \n\n\n\nIRVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 107 \n\nsplendid and imposing forms of which the English \nlanguage is capable. \n\nThe most eminent illustrations of the system of \nhistorical writing, which we have been discussing, \nthat have appeared in England in the present cen- \ntury, are the works of Mr. Hallam, in which the \nauthor, discarding: most of the circumstances that \ngo to make up mere narrative, endeavours to fix the \nattention of the reader on the more important fea- \ntures of constitutional polity, employing his wide \nrange of materials in strict subordination to this \npurpose. \n\nBut while history has thus been conducted on \nnearly the same principles in England for the last \ncentury, a new path has been struck out in France, \nor, rather, an attempt has lately been made there to \nretrace the old one. M. de Barante, no less estima- \nble as a literary critic than as a historian, in the pre- \nliminary remarks to his "Histoire des Dues de Bour- \ngogne," considers the draughts of modern compilers \nas altogether wanting in the vivacity and freshness \nof their originals. They tell the reader how he \nshould feel, instead of making him do so. They \ngive him their own results, instead of enabling him, \nby a fair delineation of incidents, to form his own. \nAnd while the early chroniclers, in spite of their un- \nformed and obsolete idiom, are still read with delight, \nthe narratives of the former are too often dry, lan- \nguid, and uninteresting. He proposes, therefore, by \na close adherence to his originals, to extract, as it \nwere, the spirit of their works, without any affecta- \n\n\n\n108 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndon, however, of their antiquated phraseology, and \nto exhibit as vivid and veracious a portraiture as \npossible of the times he is delineating, unbroken by \nany discussions or reflections of his own. The re- \nsult has been a work in eleven octavo volumes, \nwhich, notwithstanding its bulk, has already passed \ninto four editions. \n\nThe two last productions of our countryman, Mr. \nIrving, undoubtedly fall within the class of narrative \nhistory. To this he seems peculiarly suited by his \ngenius, his fine perception of moral and natural \nbeauty, his power of discriminating the most deli- \ncate shades of character, and of unfolding a series \nof events so as to maintain a lively interest in the \nreader, and a lactea ubertas of expression which can \nimpart a living eloquence even to the most common- \nplace sentiments. Had the "Life of Columbus" \nbeen written by a historian of the other school of \nwhich we have been speaking, he would have en- \nlarged with greater circumstantiality on the system \nadopted by Ferdinand and Isabella for the adminis- \ntration of their colonies, and for the regulation of \ntrade ; nor would he have neglected to descant on \na topic, worn somewhat threadbare, it must be own- \ned, so momentous as the moral and political conse- \nquences of the discovery of America; neither would \nsuch a writer, in an account of the conquest of \nGranada, have omitted to collect such particulars \nas might throw light on the genius, social institu- \ntions, and civil polity of the Spanish Arabs. But \nall these particulars, however pertinent to a philo- \n\n\n\nIRVING S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 109 \n\nsophical history, would have been entirely out of \nkeeping in Mr. Irving\' s, and might have produced a \ndisagreeable discordance in the general harmony of \nhis plan. \n\nMr. Irving has seldom selected a subject better \nsuited to his peculiar powers than the conquest of \nGranada. Indeed, it would hardly have been pos- \nsible for one of his warm sensibilities to linger so \nlong^ among the remains of Moorish magnificence \nwith which Spain is covered, without being inter- \nested in the fortunes of a people whose memory has \nalmost passed into oblivion, but who once preserved \nthe " sacred flame" when it had become extinct in \nevery corner of Christendom, and whose influence \nis still visible on the intellectual culture of Modern \nEurope. It has been found no easy matter, how- \never, to compile a satisfactory and authentic account \nof the Arabians, notwithstanding that the number \nof their historians, cited by D\'Herbelot and Casiri, \nwould appear to exceed that of any European na- \ntion. The despotic governments of the East have \nnever been found propitious to that independence \nof opinion so essential to historical composition : \n" ubi sentire quae velis, et quae sentias dicere licet." \nAnd their copious compilations, prolific in*frivolous \nand barren detail, are too often wholly destitute of \nthe sap and vitality of history. \n\nThe social and moral institutions of Arabian \n\nSpain experienced a considerable modification from \n\nher long intercourse with the Europeans, and she \n\noffers a nobler field of research for the chronicler \n\n4 K \n\n\n\n110 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthan is to be found in any other country of the \nMoslem. Notwithstanding this, the Castilian schol- \nars, until of late, have done little towards elucidating \nthe national antiquities of their Saracen brethren; \nand our most copious notices of their political his- \ntory, until the recent posthumous publication of \nConde, have been drawn from the extracts which \nM. Cardonne translated from the Arabic Manu- \nscripts in the Royal Library at Paris.* \n\nThe most interesting periods of the Saracen do- \nminion in Spain are that embraced by the empire \nof the Omeyades of Cordova, between the years \n755 and 1030, and that of the kingdom of Granada, \nextending from the middle of the thirteenth to the \nclose of the fifteenth century. The intervening pe- \nriod of their existence in the Peninsula offers only a \nspectacle of inextricable anarchy. The first of those \nperiods was that in which the Arabs attained their \nmeridian of opulence and power, and in which their \ngeneral illumination affords a striking contrast with \nthe deep barbarism of the rest of Europe; but it \nwas that, too, in which their character, having been \nbut little affected by contact with the Spaniards, re- \ntained most of its original Asiatic peculiarities. This \nhas never been regarded, therefore, by European \nscholars, as a period of greatest interest in their his- \n\n* [Since this article was written, the deficiency noticed in the text has \nbeen supplied by the translation into English of Al-Makkari\'s "Moham- \nmedan Dynasties," with copious notes and illustrations by Don Pascual \nde Gayangos, a scholar whose acute criticism has enabled him to rectify \nmany of the errors of his laborious predecessors, and whose profound \nOriental learning sheds a flood of light on both the civil and jiterary his- \ntory of the Spanish Arabs.] \n\n\n\nIRVING\'S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. Ill \n\ntorj, nor has it ever, so far as we are aware, been \nselected for the purposes of romantic fiction. But \nwhen their territories became reduced within the \nlimits of Granada, the Moors had insensibly submit- \nted to the superior influences of their Christian \nneighbours. Their story, at this time, abounds in \npassages of uncommon beauty and interest. Their \nwars were marked by feats of personal prowess and \nromantic adventure, while the intervals of peace \nwere abandoned to all the license of luxurious rev- \nelry. Their character, therefore, blending the va- \nrious peculiarities of Oriental and European civili- \nzation, offers a rich study for the poet and the nov \nelist. As such, it has been liberally employed by \nthe Spaniards, and has not been altogether neglect- \ned by the writers of other nations. Thus Florian, \nwhose seutitnents, as well as his style, seem to be \nalways floundering midway between the regions of \nprose and poetry, has made out of the story of this \npeople his popular romance of " Gonsalvo of Cor- \ndova." It also forms the burden of an Italian epic, \nentitled "II Conquista di Granata," by Girolamo \nGratiani, a Florentine \xe2\x80\x94 much lauded by his coun- \ntrymen. The ground, how T ever, before the appear- \nance of Mr. Irving, had not been occupied by any \nwriter of eminence in the English language for the \npurposes either of romance or history. \n\nThe conquest of Granada, to which Mr. Irving \nhas confined himself, so disastrous to the Moors, \nwas one of the most brilliant achievements in the \nmost brilliant period of Spanish history. Nothing is \n\n\n\n[12 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmore usual than overweening commendations of \nantiquity ; the " good old times," whose harsher fea- \ntures, like those of a rugged landscape, lose all their \nasperity in the distance. But tke period of which \nwe are speaking, embracing the reigns of Ferdinand \nand Isabella, at the close of the fifteenth and begin- \nning of the sixteenth centuries, w T as undoubtedly \nthat in which the Spanish nation displayed the ful- \nness of its moral and physical energies, when, esca- \nping from the license of a youthful age, it seems to \nhave reached the prime of manhood and the perfect \ndevelopment of those faculties, whose overstrained \nexertions were soon to be followed by exhaustion \nand premature decrepitude. \n\nThe remnant of Spaniards, who, retreating to the \nmountains of the north, escaped the overwhelming \ninundation of the Saracens at the beginning of the \neighth century, continued to cherish the free insti- \ntutions of their Gothic ancestors. The " Fuero \nJuzgo," the ancient Visi- Gothic code, was still re- \ntained by the people of Castile and Leon, and may \nbe said to form the basis of all their subsequent le- \ngislation, while in Aragon the dissolution of the \nprimitive monarchy opened the way for even more \nliberal and equitable forms of government. The in- \ndependence of character thus fostered by the pecu- \nliar constitutions of these petty states, was still far- \nther promoted by the circumstances of their situ- \nation. Their uninterrupted wars with the infidel\xe2\x80\x94 \nthe necessity of winning back from him, inch by \ninch, as it were, the conquered soil \xe2\x80\x94 required the \n\n\n\nIEVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 113 \n\nactive co-operation of every class of the communi- \nty, and gave to the mass of the people an intrepidi- \nty, a personal consequence, and an extent of immu- \nnities, such as were not enjoyed by them in any \nother country of Europe. The free cities acquired \nconsiderable tracts of the reconquered territory, \nwith rights of jurisdiction over them, and sent their \nrepresentatives to Cortes, near a century before a \nsimilar privilege was conceded to them in England. \nEven the peasantry, so degraded, at this period, \nthroughout the rest of Europe, assumed under this \nstate of things a conscious dignity and importance, \nwhich are visible in their manners at this day ; and \nit was in this class, during the late French inva- \nsions, that the fire of ancient patriotism revived with \ngreatest force, when it seemed almost extinct in the \nbreasts of the degenerate nobles. \n\nThe religious feeling which mingled in their wars \nwith the infidels, gave to their characters a tinge of \nlofty enthusiasm ; and the irregular nature of this \nwarfare suggested abundant topics for that popular \nminstrelsy which acts so powerfully on the passions \nof a people. The " Poem of the Cid," which ap- \npeared, accordiug to Sanchez, before the middle of \nthe twelfth century, contributed, in no slight degree, \nby calling up the most inspiring national recollec \ntions, to keep alive the generous glow of patriotism. \nThis influence is not imaginary. Heeren pronoun- \nces the " poems of Homer to have been the princi- \npal bond which united the Grecian states;" and \nevery one knows the influence exercised over the \n4 K* \n\n\n\n13 4 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nScottish peasantry by the Border minstrelsy. Many \nanecdotes might be quoted to show the veneration \nuniversally entertained by the Spaniards, broken, as \nthey were, into as many discordant states as ever \nswarmed over Greece, for their favourite hero of ro \nmance and history. Among others, Mariana relates \none of a king of Navarre, who, making an incursion \ninto Castile about a century after the warrior\'s \ndeath, was carrying off a rich booty, when he was \nmet by an abbot of a neighbouring convent, with \nhis monks, bearing aloft the standard of the Cid, \nwho implored him to restore the plunder to the in- \nhabitants from whom he had ravished it. And the \nmonarch, moved by the sight of the sacred relic, \nafter complying with his request, escorted back the \nbanner in solemn procession with his whole army \nto the place of its deposite. \n\nBut, while all these circumstances conspired to \ngive an uncommon elevation to the character of the \nancient Spaniard, even of the humblest rank, and \nwhile the prerogative of the monarch was more pre- \ncisely as well as narrowly defined, than in most of \nthe other nations of Christendom, the aristocracy of \nthe country was insensibly extending its privileges, \nand laying the foundation of a power that eventu- \nally overshadowed the throne, and well nigh sub- \nverted the liberties of the state. In addition to the \nusual enormous immunities claimed by this order in \nfeudal governments (although there is no reason to \nbelieve that the system of feudal tenure obtained in \nCastile, as it certainly did in Aragon), they enjoyed \n\n\n\nIRVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 115 \n\na constitutional privilege of withdrawing their alle- \ngiance from their sovereign on sending him a forma \nnotice of such renunciation, and the sovereign, on \nhis part, was obliged to provide for the security of \ntheir estates and families so long as they might \nchoose to continue in such overt rebellion. These \nanarchical provisions in their Constitution did not \nremain a dead letter, and repeated examples of their \npernicious application are enumerated both by the \nhistorians of Aragon and Castile. The long minor- \nities with which the latter country was afflicted, \nmoreover, contributed still farther to swell the over- \ngrown power of the privileged orders ; and the vio- \nlent revolution which, in 1368, placed the house of \nTrastamarre upon the throne, by impairing the rev- \nenues, and consequently the authority of the crown, \nopened the way for the wild uproar which reigned \nthroughout the kingdom during the succeeding cen- \ntury. Alonso de Paleneia, a contemporary chron- \nicler, dwells with melancholy minuteness on the \ncalamities of this unhappy period, when the whole \ncountry was split into factions of the nobles, the \nmonarch openly contemned, the commons trodden \nin the dust, the court become a brothel, the treasury \nbankrupt, public faith a jest, and private morals too \nloose and audacious to court even the veil of hy- \npocrisy. \n\nThe wise administration of Ferdinand and Isa- \nbella could alone have saved the state in this hour \nof peril. It effected, indeed, a change on the face \nof things as magical as that produced by the wand \n\n\n\n1.16 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof an enchanter in some Eastern tale. Their reign \nwears a more glorious aspect from its contrast with \nthe turbulent period which preceded it, as the land- \nscape glows with redoubled brilliancy when the sun- \nshine has scattered the tempest. We shall briefly \nnotice some of the features of the policy by which \nthey effected this change. \n\nThey obtained from the Cortes an act for the re- \nsumption of the improvident grants made by their \npredecessor, by which means an immense accession \nof revenue, which had been squandered upon un- \nworthy favourites, was brought back to the royal \ntreasury. They compelled many of the nobility to \nresign, in favour of the crown, such of its posses- \nsions as they had acquired by force, fraud, or in- \ntrigue, during the late season of anarchy. The son \nof that gallant Marquis Duke of Cadiz, for instance, \nwith whom the reader has become so familiar in \nMr. Irving\'s Chronicle, was stripped of his patri- \nmony of Cadiz, and compelled to exchange it for \nthe humbler territory of Arcos, from whence the \nfamily henceforth derived their title. By all these \nexpedients, the revenues of the state, at the demise \nof Isabella, were increased twelvefold beyond what \nthey had been at the time of her accession. They \nreorganized the ancient institution of the "Herman- \ndad" \xe2\x80\x94 a very different association, under their hands, \nfrom the " Holy Brotherhood" which w r e meet with \nin Gil Bias. Every hundred householders were \nobliged to equip and maintain a horseman at theii \njoint expense; and this corps furnished a vigilant \n\n\n\nIRVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. Ill \n\npolice in civil emergencies, and an effectual aid in \nwar. It was found, moreover, of especial service in \nsuppressing the insurrections and disorders of the \nnobility. They were particularly solicitous to abol- \nish the right and usage of private war, claimed by \nthis haughty order, compelling them, on all occa- \nsions, to refer their disputes to the constituted tri- \nbunals of justice. But it was a capital feature in the \npolicy of the Catholic sovereigns to counterbalance \nthe authority of the aristocracy by exalting, as far \nas prudent, that of the commons. In the various \nconvocations of the national Legislature, or Cortes, \nin this reign, no instance occurs of any city having \nlost its prescriptive right of furnishing representa- \ntives, as had frequently happened under preceding \nmonarchs, who, from negligence or policy, had omit- \nted to summon them. \n\nBut it would be tedious to go into all the details \nof the system employed by Ferdinand and Isabella \nfor the regeneration of the decayed fabric of govern- \nment ; of their wholesome regulations for the en- \ncouragement of industry ; of their organization of a \nnational militia and an efficient marine ; of the se- \nvere decorum which they introduced within the \ncorrupt precincts of the court ; of the temporary \neconomy by which they controlled the public ex- \npenditures, and of the munificent patronage which \nthey, or, rather, their almoner on this occasion, thai \nmost enlightened of bigots, Cardinal Ximenes, dis- \npensed to science and letters. In short, their saga- \ncious provisions were not merely remedial of former \n\n\n\n113 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nabuses, but were intended to call forth all the latent \nenergies of the Spanish character, and, with these \nexcellent materials, to erect a constitution of gov- \nernment which should secure to the nation tran- \nquillity at home, and enable it to go forward in its \nambitious career of discovery and conquest. \n\nThe results were certainly equal to the wisdom \nof the preparations. The first of the series of brill- \niant enterprises was the conquest of the Moorish \nkingdom of Granada \xe2\x80\x94 those rich and lovely regions \nof the Peninsula, the last retreat of the infidel, and \nwhich he had held for nearly eight centuries. This, \ntogether with the subsequent occupation of Navarre \nby the crafty Ferdinand, consolidated the various \nprincipalities of Spain into one monarchy, and, by \nextending its boundaries in the Peninsula to their \npresent dimensions, raised it from a subordinate sit- \nuation to the first class of European powers. The \nItalian wars, under the conduct of the " Great Cap- \ntain," secured to Spain the more specious, but less \nuseful acquisition of Naples, and formed that invin- \ncible infantry which enabled Charles the Fifth to \ndictate laws to Europe for nearly half a century. \nAnd, lastly, as if the Old World could not afford a \ntheatre sufficiently vast for their ambition, Colum- \nbus gave a New World to Castile and Leon. \n\nSuch was the attitude assumed by the nation un- \nder the Catholic kings, as they were called. It was \nthe season of hope and youthful enterprise, when \nthe nation seemed to be renewing its ancient ener- \ngies, and to prepare like a giant to run its coursa \n\n\n\nIRVINg\'s CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 119 \n\nThe modern Spaniard who casts his eye over the \nlong interval that has since elapsed, during the first \nhalf of which the nation seemed to waste itself on \nschemes of mad ambition or fierce fanaticism, and, \nin the latter half to sink into a state of paralytic \ntorpor \xe2\x80\x94 the Spaniard, we say, who casts a melan- \ncholy glance over this dreary interval, will turn with \nsatisfaction to the close of the fifteenth century as \nthe most glorious epoch in the annals of his coun- \ntry. This is the period to which Mr. Irving has \nintroduced us in his late work. And if his portrai- \nture of the Castilian of that day wears somewhat of \na romantic, and, it may be, incredible aspect to \nthose who contrast it with the present, they must \nremember that he is only reviving the tints which \nhad faded on the canvass of history. But it is time \nthat we should return from this long digression, into \nwhich we have been led by the desire of exhibiting \nin stronger relief some peculiarities in the situation \nand spirit of the nation at the period from which \nMr. Irving has selected the materials of his last, in- \ndeed, bis last two publications. \n\nOur author, in his " Chronicle of Granada," has \nbeen but slightly indebted to Arabic authorities. \nNeither Conde nor Cardonne has expended more \nthan fifty or sixty pages on this humiliating topic, \nbut ample amends have been offered in the copious \nprolixity of the Castilian writers. The Spaniards \ncan boast a succession of chronicles from the period \nof the great Saracen invasion. Those of a more \nearly date, compiled in rude Latin, are sufficiently \n\n\n\n120 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmeager and unsatisfactory; but from the middle ot \nthe thirteenth century the stream of history runs full \nand clear, and their chronicles, composed in the \nvernacular, exhibit a richness and picturesque vari- \nety of incident that gave them inestimable value as \na body of genuine historical documents. The reigns \nof Ferdinand and Isabella were particularly fruitful \nin these sources of information. History then, like \nmost of the other departments of literature, seemed \nto be in a state of transition, when the fashions of \nits more antiquated costume began to mingle insen- \nsibly with the peculiarities of the modern ; when, in \nshort, the garrulous graces of narration were begin- \nning to be tempered by the tone of grave and philo- \nsophical reflection. \n\nWe will briefly notice a few of the eminent sour- \nces from which Mr. Irving has drawn his account of \nthe "Conquest of Granada." The first of these is \nthe Epistles of Peter Martyr, an Italian savnnt, who, \nhaving passed over with the Spanish ambassador \ninto Spain, and being introduced \'into the court of \nIsabella, was employed by her in some important \nembassies. He was personally present at several \ncampaigns of this war. In his " Letters" he occa- \nsionally smiles at the caprice which had led him to \nexchange the pen for the sword, while his specula- \ntions on the events passing before him, being those \nof a scholar rather than of a soldier, afford in their \nmoral complexion a pleasing contrast to the dreary \ndetails of blood and battle. Another authority i<> \nthe Chronicle of Bernaldez, a worthy ecclesiastic of \n\n\n\nIRVING S CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 121 \n\nthat period, whose bulky manuscript, like that ol \nmany a better writer, lies still ingulfed in the dust \nof some Spanish library, having never been admit- \nted to the honours of the press. Copies of it, how- \never, are freely circulated. It is one of those good- \nnatured, gossiping memorials of an antique age, \nabounding equally in curious and commonplace in- \ncident, told in a way sufficiently prolix, but not \nwithout considerable interest. The testimony of \nthis writer is of particular value, moreover, on this \noccasion, from the proximity of his residence in An- \ndalusia to those scenes which were the seat of the \nwar. His style overflows w T ith that religious loyalty \nwith which Mr. Irving has liberally seasoned the \neffusions of Fra Antonio Agapida. Hernando del \nPulgar, another contemporary historian, was the \nsecretary and counsellor of their Catholic majesties, \najid appointed by them to the post of national chron- \nicler, an office familiar both to the courts of Castile \nand Aragon, in which latter country, especially, it \nhas been occupied by some of its most distinguished \nhistorians. Pulgar\'s long residence at court, his \npractical acquaintance with affairs, and, above all, \nthe access which he obtained, by means of his offi- \ncial station, to the best sources of information, have \nenabled him to make his work a rich repository of \nfacts relating to the general resources of government, \nthe policy of its administration, and, more particu- \nlarly, the conduct of the military operations in the \nclosing war of Granada, of which he was himself an \neyewitness. In addition to these writers, this period \n4 L \n\n\n\n122 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhas been illumined by the labours of the most cele- \nbrated historians of Castile and Aragon, Mariana \nand Zurita, both of whom conclude their narratives \nwith it, the last expanding the biography of Ferdi- \nnand alone into two volumes folio. Besides these, \nMr. Irving has derived collateral lights from many \nsourees-of inferior celebrity, but not less unsuspicious \ncredit. So that, in conclusion, notwithstanding a \ncertain dramatic colouring which Fra Agapida\'s \n" Chronicle" occasionally wears, and notwithstand- \ning the romantic forms of a style which, to borrow \nthe language of Cicero, seems " to flow, as it were, \nfrom the very lips of the Muses," we may honestly \nrecommend it as substantially an authentic record \nof one of the most interesting, and, as far as English \nscholars are concerned, one of the most untravelled \nportions of Spanish history \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 123 \n\n\n\nCERVANTES.* \n\nJuly, 1837. \n\nThe publication, in this country, of an importanf \nSpanish classic in the original, with a valuable com- \nmentary, is an event of some moment in our literary \nannals, and indicates a familiarity, rapidly increas- \ning, with the beautiful literature to which it belongs. \nIt may be received as an omen favourable to the \ncause of modern literature in general, the study of \nwhich, in all its varieties, may be urged on substan- \ntially the same grounds. The growing importance \nattached to this branch of education is visible in \nother countries quite as much as in our own. It is \nthe natural, or, rather, necessary result of the chan- \nges which have taken place in the social relations \nof man in this revolutionary age. Formerly, a na- \ntion, pent up within its own barriers, knew less of \nits neighbours than we now know of what is going \non in Siam or Japan. A river, a chain of mount- \nains, an imaginary line, even, parted them as far \nasunder as if oceans had rolled between. To speak \ncorrectly, it was their imperfect civilization, their \n\n* " El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha, compuesto por Mi- \nguel de Cervantes Saavedra. Nueva Edicion Clasica, illustrada con \nNotas Historicas, Grammaticales y Criticas, por la Academia Espafiola, \nsus Individuos de Numero Pellicer, Arrieta, y Clemertcin. Einmendada \ny corregida por Francisco Sales, A.M., Instructor de Frances y Espanol \nen la Universidad de Harvard, en Cambrigia, Estado de Massachusetts, \nNorte America," 2 vols. 12mo, Boston, 1836. \n\n\n\n124 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nignorance of the means and the subjects of commu- \nnication, which thus kept them asunder. Now, on \nthe contrary, a change in the domestic institutions \nDf one country can hardly be effected without a \ncorresponding agitation in those of its neighbours. \nA. treaty of alliance can scarcely be adjusted with- \nout the intervention of a general Congress. The \nsword cannot be unsheathed in one part of Chris- \ntendom without thousands leaping from their scab- \nbards in every other. The whole system is bound \ntogether by as nice sympathies as if animated by a \ncommon pulse, and the remotest countries of Eu- \nrope are brought into contiguity as intimate as were \nin ancient times the provinces of a single monarchy. \nThis intimate association has been prodigiously \nincreased of late years by the unprecedented dis- \ncoveries which science has made for facilitating in- \ntercommunication. The inhabitant of Great Brit- \nain, that " ultima Thule" of the ancients, can now \nrun down to the extremity of Italy in less time than \nit took Horace to go from Rome to Bmndusium. \nA steamboat of fashionable tourists will touch at all \nthe places of note in the Iliad and Odyssey in fewer \nweeks than it. would have cost years to an ancient \nArgonaut, or a crusader of the Middle Ages. Ev- \nery one, of course, travels, and almost every capital \nand noted watering-place on the Continent swarms \nwith its thousands, and Paris with its tens of thou- \nsands of itinerant Cockneys, many of whom, per- \nhaps, have not wandered beyond the sound of Bow \nbells in their own little island. \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 125 \n\nFew of these adventurers are so dull as not to be \nquickened into something like curiosity respecting \nthe language and institutions of the strange people \namong whom they are thrown, while the better \nsort and more intelligent are led to study more \ncarefully the new forms, whether in arts or letters, \nunder which human genius is unveiled to them. \n\nThe effect of all this is especially visible in the \nreforms introduced into the modern systems of edu \ncation. In both the universities recently established \nin London, the apparatus for instruction, instead of \nbeing limited to the ancient tongues, is extended to \nthe whole circle of modern literature ; and the edi- \ntorial labours of many of the professors show that \nthey do not sleep on their posts. Periodicals, un- \nder the management of the ablest writers, furnish \nvaluable contributions of foreign criticism and intel- \nligence ; and regular histories of the various Conti- \nnental literatures, a department in which the Eng- \nlish are singularly barren, are understood to be now \nin actual preparation. \n\nBut, although barren of literary, the English have \nmade important contributions to the political his- \ntory of the Continental nations. That of Spain has \nemployed some of their best writers, who, it must \nbe admitted, however, have confined themselves so \nfar to the foreign relations of the country as to \nhave left the domestic in comparative obscurity. \nThus Robertson\'s great work is quite as much the \nhistory of Europe as of Spain under Charles the \nFifth ;\' and Watson\'s " Reign of Philip the Second" \n4 L* \n\n\n\n1.26 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmight with equal propriety be styled " The War of \nthe Netherlands," which is its principal burden. \n\nA few works recently published in the United \nStates have shed far more light on the interior or- \nganization and intellectual culture of the Spanish \nnation. Such, for example, are the writings of Ir- \nving, whose gorgeous colouring reflects so clearly \nthe chivalrous splendours of the fifteenth century, \nand the travels of Lieutenant Slidell, presenting \nsketches equally animated of the social aspect of \nthat, most picturesque of all lands in the present cen- \ntury. In Mr. Cushing\'s " Reminiscences of Spain" \nwe find, mingled with much characteristic fiction, \nsome very laborious inquiries into curious and recon- \ndite points of history. In the purely literary depart- \nment, Mr. Ticknor\'s beautiful lectures before the \nclasses of Ilarvard University, still in manuscript, \nembrace a far more extensive range of criticism than \nis to be found in any Spanish work, and display, at \nthe same time, a degree of thoroughness and re- \nsearch which the comparative paucity of materials \nwill compel us to look for in vain in Bouterwek or \nSismondi. Mr. Ticknor\'s successor, Professor Long- \nfellow, favourably known by other compositions, has \nenriched our language with a noble version of the \n* Coplas de Manrique," the finest gem, beyond all \ncomparison, in the Castilian verse of the fifteenth \ncentury. We have also read with pleasure a clever \ntranslation of Quevedo\'s " Visions," no very easy \nachievement, by Mr. Elliot, of Philadelphia, though \nthe translator is wrong in supposing his the fust Eng- \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 127 \n\nlish version. T l, e first is as old as Queen Anne\'s \ntime, and was made by the famous Sir Roger \nL\'E strange. To close the account, Mr. Sales, the \nvenerable instructer in Harvard College, has now \ngiven, for the first time in the New World, an elab- \norate edition of the prince of Castilian classics, in a \nform which may claim, to a certain extent, the merit \nof originality. \n\nWe shall postpone the few remarks we have to \nmake on this edition to the close of our article ; and, \nin the mean time, we propose, not to give the life of \nCervantes, but to notice such points as are least fa- \nmiliar in his literary history, and especially in regard \nto the composition and publication of his great work, \nthe Don Quixote ; a work which, from its wide and \nlong-established popularity, may be said to consti- \ntute part of the literature, not merely of Spain, but \nof every country in Europe. \n\nThe age of Cervantes was that of Philip the Sec- \nond, when the Spanish monarchy, declining some- \nwhat from its palmy state, was still making extraor- \ndinary efforts to maintain, and even to extend its al- \nready overgrown empire. Its navies were on every \nsea, and its armies in every quarter of the Old World \nand in the New. Arms was the only profession \nworthy of a gentleman ; and there was scarcely a \nwriter of any eminence \xe2\x80\x94 certainly no bard- \xe2\x80\x94 of the \nage, who, if he were not in orders, had not borne \narms, at some period, in the service of his country. \nCervantes, who, though poor, was born of an an- \ncient family (it must go hard with a Castilian who \n\n\n\n128 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n<annot make out a pedigree for himself), had a full \nmeasure of this chivalrous spirit, and, during the first \nhalf of his life, we find him in the midst of all the \nstormy and disastrous scenes of the iron trade of \nwar. His love of the military profession, even after \nthe loss of his hand, or of the use of it, for it is un- \ncertain which, is sufficient proof of\'his adventurous \nspirit. In the course of his checkered career he \nvisited the principal countries in the Mediterranean, \nand passed five years in melancholy captivity at Al- \ngiers. The time was not lost, however, which fur- \nnished his keen eye with those glowing pictures of \nMoslem luxury and magnificence with which he has \nenriched his pages. After a life of unprecedented \nhardship, he returned to his own country, covered \nwith laurels and scars, with very little money in his \npocket, but with plenty of that experience which, \nregarding him as a novelist, might be considered his \nstock in trade. \n\nThe poet may draw from the depths of his own \nfancy ; the scholar from his library ; but the proper \nstudy of the dramatic writer, whether in verse or in \nprose, is man \xe2\x80\x94 man, as he exists in society. He \nwho would faithfully depict human character can- \nnot study it too nearly and variously. He must sit \ndown, like Scott, by the fireside of the peasant, and \nlisten to the " auld wife\'s" tale ; he must preside, \nwith Fielding, at a petty justice Sessions, or share \nwith some Squire Western in the glorious hazards \nof a foxhunt; he must, like Smollett and Cooper, \nstudy the mysteries of the deep, and mingle on th\xc2\xab \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 129 \n\nstormy element itself with the singular beings whose \ndestinies he is to describe ; or, like Cervantes, he \nmust wander among other races and in other climes \nbefore his pencil can give those chameleon touches \nwhich reflect the shifting, many-coloured hues of \nactual life. He may, indeed, like Rousseau, if it \nwere possible to imagine another Rousseau, turn \nhis thoughts inward, and draw from the depths of \nhis own soul ; but he would see there only his own \nindividual passions and prejudices, and the portraits \nhe might sketch, however various in subordinate de- \ntails, would be, in their characteristic features, only \nthe reproduction of himself. He might, in short, be \na poet, a philosopher, but not a painter of life and \nmanners. \n\nCervantes had ample means for pursuing the \nstudy of human character, after his return to Spain, \nin the active life which engaged him in various parts \nof the country. In Andalusia he might have found \nthe models of the sprightly wit and delicate irony \nwith which he has seasoned his fictions ; in Se- \nville, in particular, he was brought in contact with \nthe fry of small sharpers and pickpockets, who make \nso respectable a figure in his jpicaresco novels ; and \nin La Mancha he not only found the geography of \nhis Don Quixote, but that whimsical contrast of \npride and poverty in the natives, which has furnish- \ned the outlines of many a broad caricature to the \ncomic writers of Spain. \n\nDuring all this while he had made himself known \nonly by his pastoral fiction, the " Galatea," a beau- \n\nR \n\n\n\n130 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntiiul specimen of an insipid class, which, with all \nits literary merits, afforded no scope for the power \nof depicting human character, which he possessed, \nperhaps, unknown to himself. He wrote, also, a \ngood number of plays, ail of which, except two, and \nthese recovered only at the close of the last centu- \nry, have perished. One of these, " The Siege of \nNumantia," displays that truth of drawing and \nstrength of colour which mark the consummate \nartist. It was not until he had reached his fifty- \nseventh year that he completed the First Part of his \ngreat work, the Don Quixote. The most celebrated \nnovels, unlike most works of imagination, seem to \nhave been the production of the later period of life. \nFielding was between forty and fifty when he wrote \n" Tom Jones." Richardson was sixty, or very near \nit, when he wrote " Clarissa ;" and Scott was some \nyears over forty when he began the series of the \nWaverley novels. The world, the school of the \nnovelist, cannot be run through like the terms of a \nuniversity, and the knowledge of its manifold vari- \neties must be the result of long and diligent training. \nThe First Part of the Quixote was begun, as the \nauthor tells us, in a prison, to which he had been \nbrought, not by crime or debt, but by some offence, \nprobably, to the worthy people of La Mancha. It \nis not the only work of genius which has struggled \ninto being in such unfavourable quarters. The "Pil- \ngrim\'s Progress," the most popular, probably, of Eng- \nlish fictions, was composed under similar circum- \nstances. But we doubt if such brilliant fancier and \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 131 \n\nsuch flashes of humour ever lighted up the walls of \nthe prison-house before the time of Cervantes. \n\nThe First Part of the Don Quixote was given to \nthe public in 1605. Cervantes, when the time ar- \nrived for launching his satire against the old, deep- \nrooted prejudices of his countrymen, probably re- \ngarded it, as well he might, as little less rash than \nnis own hero\'s tilt against the windmills. He sought, \naccordingly, to shield himself under the cover of a \npowerful name, and asked leave to dedicate the book \nto a Castilian grandee, the Duke de Bejar. The \nduke, it is said, whether ignorant of the design, or \ndoubting the success of the work, would have de- \nclined, but Cervantes urged him first to peruse a \nsingle chapter. The audience summoned to sit in \njudgment were so delighted with the first pages, \nthat they would not abandon the novel till they had \nheard the whole of it. The duke, of course, with- \nout farther hesitation, condescended to allow his \nname to be inserted in this passport to immortality. \n\nThere is nothing very improbable in the story. \nIt reminds one of a similar experiment by St. Pierre, \nwho submitted his manuscript of " Paul and Vir- \nginia" to a circle of French litterateurs, Monsieur \nand Madame Necker, the Abbe Galiani, Thomas, \nBuffon, and some others, all wits of the first water \nin the metropolis. Hear the result, in the words of \nhis biographer, or. rather, his agreeable translator : \n" At first the author was heard in silence ; by de- \ngrees the attention grew languid ; they began to \nwhisper, to gape, and listened no longer. M. de \n\n\n\n132 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nBuffon looked at his watch, and called for his \nhorses; those near the door slipped out; Thomas \nwent to sleep ; M. Necker laughed to see the ladies \nweep ; and the ladies, ashamed of their tears, did \nnot dare to confess that they had been interested., \nThe reading being finished, nothing was praised. \nMadame Necker alone criticised the conversation \nof Paul and the old man. This moral appeared to \nher tedious and commonplace ; it broke the action, \nchilled the reader, and was a sort of glass of iced \nwater. M. de St. Pierre retired in a state of inde- \nscribable depression. He regarded what had passed \nas his sentence of death. The effect of his work \non an audience like that to which he had read it \nleft him no hope for the future." Yet this work \nwas " Paul and Virginia," one of the most popular \nbooks in the French language. So much for criti- \ncism ! \n\nThe truth seems to be, that the judgment of no \nprivate circle, however well qualified by taste and \ntalent, can afford a sure prognostic of that of the \ngreat public. If the manuscript to be criticised is \nour friend\'s, of course the verdict is made up before \nperusal. If some great man modestly sues for our \napprobation, our self-complacency has been too \nmuch flattered for us to withhold it. If it be a little \nman (and St. Pierre was but a little man at that \ntime), our prejudices \xe2\x80\x94 the prejudices of poor human \nnature \xe2\x80\x94 will be very apt to take an opposite direc- \ntion. Be the cause what it may, whoever rests his \nhopes of public favour on the smiles of a coterit \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 133 \n\nruns the risk of finding himself very unpleasantly \ndeceived. Many a trim bark which has flaunted \ngayly in a summer lake has gone to pieces amid the \nbillows and breakers of the rude ocean. \n\nThe prognostic, in the case of Cervantes, how* \never, proved more correct. His work produced an \ninstantaneous effect on the community. He had \nstruck a note which found an echo in every bosom. \nFour editions were published in the course of the \nfirst year; two in Madrid, one in Valencia, and an- \nother at Lisbon. \n\nThis success, almost unexampled in any age, was \nstill mpre extraordinary in one in which the read- \ning public was comparatively limited. That the \nbook found its way speedily into the very highest \ncircles in the kingdom is evident from the well- \nknown explanation of Philip the Third, when he \nsaw a student laughing immoderately over some vol- \nume : " The man must be either out of his wits, or \nreading Don Quixote." Notwithstanding this, its au- \nthor felt none of that sunshine of royal favour whicl \nwould have been so grateful in his necessities. \n\nThe period was that of the golden prime of Cas- \n\ntilian literature. But the monarch on the throne, \n\none of the ill-starred dynasty of Austria, would have \n\nbeen better suited to the darkest of the Middle Ages. \n\nHis hours, divided between his devotions and his \n\ndebaucheries, left nothing to spare for letters ; and \n\nhis minister, the arrogant Duke of Lerma, was too \n\nmuch absorbed by his own selfish, though shallow \n\nschemes of policy, to trouble himself with romance \n4 M \n\n\n\nI 34 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwriters, or their satirist. Cervantes, however, had \nentered on a career which, as he intimates in some \nof his verses, might lead to fame, but not to fortune. \nHappily, he did not compromise his fame by precip- \nitating the execution of his works from motives of \ntemporary profit. It was not till several years after \nthe publication of the Don duixote that he gave to \nthe world his Exemplary Novels, as he called them; \nfictions which, differing from anything before known, \nnot only in the Castilian, but, in some respects, in \nany other literature, gave ample scope to his dra- \nmatic talent, in the contrivance of situations, and \nthe nice delineation of character. These works, \nwhose diction was uncommonly rich and attractive, \nwere popular from the first. \n\nOne cannot but be led to inquire why, with such \nsuccess as an author, he continued to be so strait- \nened in his circumstances, as he plainly intimates \nwas the case more than once in his writings. From \nthe Don Quixote, notwithstanding its great run, he \nprobably received little, since he had parted with \nthe entire copyright before publication, when the \nwork was regarded as an experiment, the result of \nwhich was quite doubtful. It is not so easy to ex- \nplain the difficulty, when his success as an author \nhad been so completely established. Cervantes in- \ntimates his dissatisfaction, in more than one place \nin his writings, with the booksellers themselves. \n" What, sir !" replies an author introduced into his \nDon Quixote, " would you have me sell the profit \nof my labour to a bookseller for three maravedis a \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 135 \n\nsheet I for that is the most they will bid, nay, and \nexpect, too, I should thank them for the offer." This \nburden of lamentation, the alleged illiberality of the \npublisher towards the poor author, is as old as the \nart of book-making itself. But the public receive \nthe account from the party aggrieved only. If the \nbookseller reported his own case, we should, no \ndoubt, have a different version. If Cervantes was \nin the right, the trade in Castile showed a degree of \ndexterity in their proceedings which richly entitled \nthem to the pillory. In one of his tales, we find a \ncertain licentiate complaining of " the tricks and \ndeceptions they put upon an author when they buy \na copyright from him ; and still more, the manner \nin which they cheat him if he prints the book at \nhis own charges ; since nothing is more common \nthan for them to agree for fifteen hundred, and have \nprivily, perhaps, as many as three thousand thrown \noff, one half, at the least, of which they sell, not for \nhis profit, but their own. \n\nThe writings of Cervantes appear to have gain- \ned him, however, two substantial friends in Cabra, \nthe Count of Lemos, and the Archbishop of Toledo, \nof the ancient family of Rojas ; and the patronage of \nthese illustrious individuals has been nobly recom- \npensed by having their names forever associated with \nthe imperishable productions of genius. \n\nThere was still one kind of patronage wanting \nm this early age, that of a great, enlightened com- \nmunity \xe2\x80\x94 the only patronage which can be received \nwithout some sense of degradation by a generous \n\n\n\n136 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmind. There was, indeed, one golden channel of \npublic favour, and that was the theatre. The drama \nhas usually flourished most at the period when a na- \ntion is beginning to taste the sweets of literary cul- \nture. Such was the early part of the seventeenth \ncentury in Europe; the age of Shakspeare, Jonson, \nand Fletcher in England; of Ariosto, Machiavelli, \nand the wits who first successfully wooed the comic \nmuse of Italy ; of the great Corneille, some years \nlater, in France ; and of that miracle, or, rather, \n"monster of nature," as Cervantes styled him, Lope \nde Vega in Spain. Theatrical exhibitions are a \ncombination of the material with the intellectual, at \nwhich the ordinary spectator derives less pleasure, \nprobably, from the beautiful creations of the poet \nthan from the scenic decorations, music, and other \naccessories which address themselves to the senses \nThe fondness for spectacle is characteristic of an \nearly period of society, and the theatre is the most \nbrilliant of pageants. With the progress of educa- \ntion and refinement, men become less open to, or, \nat least, less dependant on the pleasures of sense, and \nseek their enjoyment in more elevated and purer \nsources. Thus it is that, instead of \n\n" Sweating in the crowded theatre, squeezed \nAnd bored with elbow-points through both our sides," \n\nas the sad minstrel of nature sings, we sit quietly at \nhome, enjoying the pleasures of fiction around our \nown firesides, and the poem or the novel takes \nthe place of the acted drama. The decline of dra \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 137 \n\nmatic writing may justly be lamented as that of one \nof the most beautiful varieties in the garden of liter- \nature. But it must be admitted to be both a symp- \ntom and a necessary consequence of the advance of \ncivilization. \n\nThe popularity of the stage, at the period of which \nwe are speaking, in Spain, was greatly augmented \nby the personal influence and reputation of Lope de \nVega, the idol of his countrymen, who threw off the \nvarious inventions of his genius with a rapidity and \nprofusion that almost staggers credibility. It is im- \npossible to state the results of his labours in any form \nthat will not powerfully strike the imagination. Thus, \nhe has left 21,300,000 verses in print, besides a mass \nof manuscript. He furnished the theatre, according \nto the statement of his intimate friend, Montalvan, \nwith. 1800 regular plays, and 400 autos or religious \ndramas \xe2\x80\x94 all acted. He composed, according to his \nown statement, more than 100 comedies in the al- \nmost incredible space of twenty-four hours each, and \na comedy averaged between two and three thousand \nverses, great part of them rhymed and interspersed \nwith sonnets and other more difficult forms of ver- \nsification. He lived seventy-two years; and suppo- \nsing him to have employed fifty of that period in \ncomposition, although he filled a variety of engross- \ning vocations during that time, he must have aver- \naged a play a week, to say nothing of twenty-one \nvolumes quarto of miscellaneous works, including \nfive epics, written in his leisure moments, and all \nnow in print ! \n\n4 M* \n\n\n\n138 BI03kAPRTCAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nThe only achievements we can recall in literary \nnistory bearing any resemblance to, though falling \nfar short of this, are those of our illustrious contem- \nporary, Sir Walter Scott. The complete edition of \nhis works, recently advertised by Murray, with the \naddition of two volumes, of which Murray has not \nthe copyright, probably contains ninety volumes \nsmall octavo. To these should farther be added a \nlarge supply of matter for the Edinburgh Annual \nRegister, as well as other anonymous contributions. \nOf these, forty-eight volumes of novels and twenty- \none of history and biography were produced be- \ntween 1814 and 1831, or in seventeen years. These \nwould give an average of four volumes a year, or \none for every three months during the whole of that \nperiod, to which must be added twenty-one volumes \nof poetry and prose previously published. The mere \nmechanical execution of so much work, both in his \ncase and Lope de Vega\'s, would seem to be scarce \npossible in the limits assigned. Scott, too, was as \nvariously occupied in other ways as his Spanish ri- \nval, and probably, from the social hospitality of his \nlife, spent a much larger portion of his time in no \nliterary occupation at all. \n\nNotwithstanding we have amused ourselves, at \nthe expense of the reader\'s patience perhaps, with \nthese calculations, this certainly is not the standard \nby which we should recommend to estimate works \nof genius. Wit is not to be measured, like broad- \ncloth, by the yard. Easy writing, as the adage says, \nand as we all know, is apt to be very hard reading. \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 139 \n\nThis brings to our recollection a conversation, in the \npresence of Captain Basil Hall, in which some allu- \nsion having been made to the astonishing amount of \nScott\'s daily composition, the literary argonaut re \nmarked, " There was nothing astonishing in all that, \nand that he did as much himself nearly every day \nbefore breakfast." Some one of the company un- \nkindly asked " whether he thought the quality was \nthe same." It is the quality, undoubtedly, which \nmakes the difference. And in this view Lope de \nVega\'s miracles lose much of their effect. Of all \nhis multitudinous dramas, one or two only retain \npossession of the stage, and few, very few are now \neven read. His facility of composition was like that \nof an Italian improvisatore, whose fertile fancy ea- \nsily clothes itself in verse, in a language the vowel \nterminations of which afford such a plenitude of \nrhymes. The Castilian presents even greater facil- \nities for this than the Italian. Lope de Vega was an \nimprovisatore. \n\nWith all his negligences and defects, however, \nLope\'s interesting intrigues, easy, sprightly dialogue, \ninfinite variety of inventions, and the breathless ra- \npidity with which they followed one another, so \ndazzled and bewildered the imagination, that he \ncompletely controlled the public, and became, in \nthe words of Cervantes, "sole monarch of the stage." \nThe public repaid him with such substantial grati- \ntude as has never been shown, probably, to any other \nof its favourites. His fortune at one time, although \nhe was careless of his expenses, amounted to one \n\n\n\n140 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhundred thousand ducats, equal, probably, to between \nseven and eight hundred thousand dollars of the pres- \nent day. In the same street in which dwelt this \nspoiled child of fortune, who, amid the caresses of \nthe great, and the lavish smiles of the public, could \ncomplain that his merits were negleted, lived Cer- \nvantes, struggling under adversity, or at least earning \na painful subsistence by the labours of his immortal \npen. What a contrast do these pictures present to \nthe imagination ! If the suffrages of a coterie, as \nwe have said, afford no warrant for those of the pub- \nlic, the example before us proves that the award of \none\'s contemporaries is quite as likely to be set aside \nby posterity. Lope de Vega, who gave his name to \nhis age, has now fallen into neglect even among his \ncountrymen, while the fame of Cervantes, gathering \nstrength with time, has become the pride of his own \nnation, as his works still continue to be the delight \nof the whole civilized world. \n\nHowever stinted may have been the recompense \nof his deserts at home, it is gratifying to observe how \nwidely his fame was diffused in his own lifetime, and \nthat in foreign countries, at least, he enjoyed the fuh \nconsideration to which he was entitled. An inter- \nesting anecdote illustrating this is recorded, which, \nas we have never seen it in English, we will lay be- \nfore the reader. On occasion of a visit made by the \nArchbishop of Toledo to the French ambassador, \nresident at Madrid, the prelate\'s suite fell into con- \nversation with the attendants of the minister, in tb\xc2\xab \ncourse of which Cervantes was mentioned The \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 141 \n\nFrench gentlemen expressed their unqualified admi- \nration of his writings, specifying the Galatea, Don \nQuixote, and the Novels, which, they said, were \nread in all the countries round, and in France par- \nticularly, where there were some who might be said \nto know them actually by heart. They intimated \ntheir desire to become personally acquainted with so \neminent a man, and asked many questions respect- \ning his present occupations, his circumstances, and \nway of life. To all this the Castilians could only \nreply that he had borne arms in the service of his \ncountry, and was now old and poor. " What !" ex- \nclaimed one of the strangers, "is Seiior Cervantes \nnot in good circumstances I Why is he not main- \ntained, then, out of the public treasury V " Heaven \nforbid," rejoined another, " that his necessities should \nbe ever relieved, if it is these which make him write, \nsince it is his poverty that makes the world rich." \n\nThere are other evidences, though not of so pleas- \ning a character, of the eminence which he had reach- \ned at home in the jealousy and ill will of his broth- \ner poets. The Castilian poets of that day seem to \nhave possessed a full measure of that irritability \nwhich has been laid at the door of all their tribe \nsince the days of Horace ; and the freedom of Cer- \nvantes\'s literary criticisms, in his Don Quixote and \nother writings, though never personal in their char- \nacter, brought down on his head a storm of arrows, \nsome of which, if not sent with much force, were, \nat leasf, well steeped in venom. Lope de Vega is \neven said to have appeared among the assailants, \n\n\n\n14\'2 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand a sonnet, still preserved, is currently imputed to \nhim, in which, after much eulogy on himself, he pre- \ndicts that the works of his rival will find their way \ninto the kennel. But the author of this bad proph- \necy and worse poetry could never have been the \ngreat Lope, who showed, on all occasions, a gener- \nous spirit, and whose literary success must have \nmade such an assault unnecessary, and in the high- \nest degree unmanly. On the contrary, we have ev- \nidence of a very different feeling, in the homage \nwhich he renders to the merits of his illustrious con- \ntemporary, In more than one passage of his acknowl- \nedged works, especially in his "Laurel de Apolo," \nin which he concludes his poetical panegyric with \nthe following touching conceit : \n\n" Porque se diga que una mano herida, \nPudo dar a su dueno etema vida." \n\nThis poem was published by Lope in 1630, four- \nteen years after the death of his rival ; notwithstand- \ning, Mr. Lockhart informs his readers, in his bio- \ngraphical preface to the Don Quixote, that "as Lope \nde Vega was dead (1615), there was no one to di- \nvide with Cervantes the literary empire of his coun- \ntry." \n\nIn the dedication of his ill-fated comedies, 1615 \n(for Cervantes, like most other celebrated novelists, \nfound it difficult to concentrate his expansive vein \nwithin the compass of dramatic rules), the public \nwas informed that " Don Quixote was already boot- \ned," and preparing for another sally. It may seem \nstrange that the author, considering the great popu \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 143 \n\nIarity of his hero, had not sent him on his adven- \ntures before. Bat he had probably regarded them \nas already terminated ; and he had good reason to \ndo so, since every incident in the First Part, as it \nhas been styled only since the publication of the \nSecond, is complete in itself, and the Don, although \nnot actually killed on the stage, is noticed as dead, \nand his epitaph transcribed for the reader. How- \never this may be, the immediate execution of his \npurpose, so long delayed, was precipitated by an \nevent equally unwelcome and unexpected. This \nwas the continuation of his work by another hand. \nThe author\'s name, his nom de guerre, was Avel- \nlaneda, a native of Tordesillas. Adopting the ori- \nginal idea of Cervantes, he goes forward with the \nsame characters, through similar scenes of comic \nextravagance, in the course of which he perpetrates \nsundry plagiarisms from the First Part, and has some \nincidents so much resembling those in the Second \nPart, already written by Cervantes, that it has been \nsupposed he must have had access to his manuscript. \nIt is more probable, as the resemblance is but gen- \neral, that he obtained his knowledge through hiuts, \nwhich may have fallen in conversation, from Cer- \nvantes, in the progress of his own work. The spu- \nrious continuation had some little merit, and attract- \ned, probably, some interest, as any work conducted \nunder so popular a name could not have failed to \ndo. It was, however, on the whole, a vulgar per- \nformance, thickly sprinkled with such gross scurril- \nity and indecency, as was too strong even for the \n\n\n\n144 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npalate of that not very fastidious age. The public \nfeeling may be gathered from the fact that the author \ndid not dare to depart from his incognito, and claim \ntlie honours of a triumph. The most diligent in- \nquiries have established nothing farther than that he \nwas an Aragonese, judging from his diction, and \nfrom the complexion of certain passages in the work \nprobably an ecclesiastic, and one of the swarm of \nsmall dramatists, who felt themselves rudely handled \nby the criticism of Cervantes. The work was sub- \nsequently translated, or rather paraphrased, by Le \nSage, who has more than once given a substantial \nvalue to gems of little price in Castilian literature \nby the brilliancy of his setting. The original work \nof Avellaneda, always deriving an interest from the \ncircumstances of its production, has been reprinted \nin the present century, and is not difficult to be met \nwith. To have thus coolly invaded an author\'s \nown property, to have filched from him the splendid, \nthough unfinished creations of his genius, before his \nown face, and while, as was publicly known, he was \nin the very process of completing them, must be ad- \nmitted to be an act of unblushing effrontery, not \nsurpassed in the annals of literature. \n\nCervantes was much annoyed, it appears, by the \ncircumstance. , The continuation of Avellaneda \nreached him, probably, when on the fifty-ninth \nchapter of the Second Part. At least, from that time \nhe begins to discharge his gall on the head of the of- \nfender, who, it should be added, had consummated \nbis impudence by sneering, in his introduction, at the \n\n\n\nCERVANTES 145 \n\nqualifications of Cervantes. The best retort of the \nlatter, however, was the publication of his own book, \nwhich followed at the close of 1615. \n\nThe English novelist, Richardson, experienced a \ntreatment not unlike that of the Oastilian. His pop- \nular story of Pamela was continued by another and \nvery inferior hand, under the title of " Pamela in \nHigh Life." The circumstance prompted Richard- \nson to undertake the continuation himself; and it \nturned out, like most others, a decided failure. In- \ndeed, a skilful continuation seems to be the most \ndifficult work of art. The first effort of the author \nbreaks, as it were, unexpectedly on the public, taking \ntheir judgments by surprise, and by its very success \ncreating a standard by which the author himself is \nsubsequently to be tried. Before, he was compared \nwith others; he is now to be compared with him- \nself. The public expectation has been raised. A \ndegree of excellence, which might have found favour \nat first, will now scarcely be tolerated. It will not \neven suffice for him to maintain his own level. He \nmust rise above himself. The reader, in the mean \nwhile, has naturally filled up the blank, and insen- \nsibly conducted the characters and the story to a \ntermination in his own way. As the reality sel- \ndom keeps pace with the ideal, the author\'s execu- \ntion will hardly come up to the imagination of his \nreaders ; at any rate, it will differ from them, and \nso far be displeasing. We experience something of \nthis disappointment in the dramas borrowed from \n\npopular novels, where the development of the char- \n\n4 N \n\n\n\n146 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nacters by the dramatic author, and the new direction \ngiven to the original story in his hands, rarely fail \nto offend the taste and preconceived ideas of the \nspectator. To feel the force of this, it is only \nnecessary to see the Guy Mannering, Rob Roy \nand other plays dramatized from the Waverley \nnovels. \n\nSome part of the failure of such continuations is \nno doubt, fairly chargeable, in most instances, on the \nauthor himself, who goes to his new task with little \nof his primitive buoyancy and vigour. He no long- \ner feels the same interest in his own labours, which, \nlosing their freshness, have become as familiar to \nhis imagination as a thrice-told tale. The new \ncomposition has, of course, a different complexion \nfrom the former, cold, stiff, and disjointed, like a \nbronze statue, whose parts have been separately put \ntogether, instead of being cast in one mould when \nthe whole metal was in a state of fusion. \n\nThe continuation of Cervantes forms a splendid \nexception to the general rule. The popularity of \nhis First Part had drawn forth abundance of criti- \ncism, and he availed himself of it to correct some \nmaterial blemishes in the design of the Second, \nwhile an assiduous culture of the Castilian enabled \nhim to enrich his style with greater variety and \nbeauty. \n\nHe had now reached the zenith of his fame, and \nthe profits of his continuation may have relieved \nthe pecuniary embarrassments under which he had \nstruggled. But he was not long to enjoy his \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 147 \n\ntriumph, Before his death, which took place in \nthe following year, he completed his romance of \n" Persiles and Sigismunda," the dedication to which, \nwritten a few days before his death, is strongly char- \nacteristic of its writer. It is addressed to his old \npatron, the Conde de Lemos, then absent from the \ncountry. After saying, in the words of the old \nSpanish proverb, that he had " one foot in the stir- \nrup" in allusion to the distant journey on which he \nwas soon to set out, he adds, " Yesterday I received \nthe extreme unction; but, now that the shadows of \ndeath are closing around me, I still cling to life, \nfrom the love of it, as well as from the desire to be- \nhold you again. But if it is decreed otherwise (and \nthe will of Heaven be done), your excellency will \nat least feel assured there was one person whose \nwish to serve you was greater than the love of life \nitself." After these reminiscences of his benefactor \nhe expresses his own purpose, should life be spared, \nto complete several wwks he had already begun. \nSuch were the last words of this illustrious man ; \nbreathing the same generous sensibility, the same \nardent love of letters, and beautiful serenity of tem- \nper which distinguished him through life. He died \na few days after, on the 23d of April, 1616. His \nremains were laid, without funeral pomp, in the mon- \nastery of the Holy Trinity at Madrid. No memo- \nrial points out the spot to the eye of the traveller, \nnor is it known at this day. And, while many a \ncostly construction has been piled on the ashes of \nthe little great, to the shame of Spain be it spoken, \n\n\n\n148 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nno monument has yet been erected in honour of \nthe greatest genius she has produced. He has built, \nhowever, a monument for himself more durable than \nbrass or sculptured marble. \n\nDon Quixote is too familiar to the reader to re- \nquire any analysis ; but we will enlarge on a few \ncircumstances attending its composition but liule \nknown to the English scholar, which may enable \nhim to form a better judgment for himself. The \nage of chivalry, as depicted in romances, could nev- \ner, of course, have had any real existence; but the \nsentiments which are described as animating that \nage have been found more or less operative in differ- \nent countries and different periods of society. In \nSpain, especially, this influence is to be discerned \nfrom a very early date. Its inhabitants may be said \nto have lived in a romantic atmosphere, in which \nall the extravagances of chivalry were nourished by \ntheir peculiar situation. Their hostile relations with \nthe Moslem kept alive the full glow of religious and \npatriotic feeling. Their history is one interminable \ncrusade. An enemy always on the borders, invited \nperpetual displays of personal daring and adventure. \nThe refinement and magnificence of the Spanish \nArabs throw a lustre over these contests, such as \ncould not be reflected from the rade skirmishes with \ntheir Christian neighbours. Lofty sentiments, em- \nbellished by the softer refinements of courtesy, were \nblended in the martial bosom of the Spaniard, and \nSpain became emphatically the land of romantic \nchivalry. \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 149 \n\nThe very laws themselves, conceived in this spirit, \ncontributed greatly to foster it. The ancient code \nof Alfonso the Tenth, in the thirteenth century, \nafter many minute regulations for the deportment of \nihe good knight, enjoins on him to \'"invoke the name \nof his mistress in the fight, that it may infuse new \nardour into his soul, and preserve him from the com- \nmission of tin knightly actions." Such laws were \nnot a dead letter. The history of Spain shows that \nthe sentiment of romantic gallantry penetrated the \nnation more deeply, aud continued longer than in \nany other quarter of Christendom. \n\nForeign chroniclers, as well as domestic, of .the \nfifteenth and sixteenth centuries, notice the frequent \nappearance of Spanish knights in different courts of \nEurope, whither they had travelled, in the language, \nof an old writer, "to seek honour and reverence" by \ntheir feats of arms. In the Paston Letters, written \nin the time of Henry the Sixth of England, we find \na notice of a Castilian knight who presented him- \nself before the court, and, with his mistress\'s favour \naround his. arm. challenged the English cavaliers \nu to run a course of sharp spears with him for his \nsovereign lady\'s sake." Pulgar, a Spanish chron- \nicler of the close of the sixteenth century, speaks of \nthis roving knight-errantry as a thing of familiar oc- \ncurrence among the young cavaliers of his day ; and \nOviedo. who lived somewhat later, notices the ne- \ncessity under which every true knight found himself, \nof being in love, or feigning to be so, in order to \n\ngive a suitable lustre and incentive to his achieve- \n4 N* \n\n\n\nIbti BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmerits. But the most singular proof of the extrava- \ngant pitch to which these romantic feelings were \ncarried in Spain occurs in the account of the jousts \nappended to the fine old chronicle of Alvaro de \nLuna, published by the Academy in 1784. The \nprincipal champion was named Sueno de Quenones, \nwho, with nine companions in arms, defended a pass \nat Orbigo, not far from the shrine of Compostella, \nagainst all comers, in the presence of King John the \nSecond and his court. The object of this passage \nof arms, as it was called, was to release the knight \nfrom the obligation imposed on him by his mistress, \nof publicly wearing an iron collar round his neck \nevery Thursday. The jousts continued for thirty \ndays, and the doughty champions fought without \nshield or target, with weapons bearing points of \nMilan steel. Six hundred and twenty-seven en- \ncounters took place, and one hundred and sixty-six \nlances were broken, when the emprise was declared \nto be fairly achieved. The whole affair is narrated, \nwith becoming gravity, by an eyewitness, and the \nreader may fancy himself perusing the adventures of \na Launcelot or an Amadis. The particulars of this \ntourney are detailed at length in Mills\'s Chivalry \n(vol. ii., chap, v.), where, however, the author has \ndefrauded the successful champions of their full hon- \nours by incorrectly reporting the number of lances \nbroken as only sixty-six. \n\nThe taste for these romantic extravagances natu- \nrally fostered a corresponding taste for the perusal \nof tales of chivalry. Indeed, they acted recipror ally \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 151 \n\non each other. These chimerical legends had once, \nalso, beguiled the long evenings of our Norman an- \ncestors ; but, in the progress of civilization, had \ngradually given way to other and more natural forms \nof composition. They still maintained their ground \nin Italy, whither they had passed later, and where \nthey were consecrated by the hand of genius. But \nItaly was not the true soil of chivalry, and the inim- \nitable fictions of Bojardo, Pulci, and Ariosto were \ncomposed with that lurking smile of half-suppressed \nmirth which, far from a serious tone, could raise \nonly a corresponding smile of incredulity in the \nreader. \n\nIn Spain, however, the marvels of romance were \nall taken in perfect good faith. Not that they were \nreceived as literally true ; but the reader surrendered \nhimself up to the illusion, and was moved to admi- \nration by the recital of deeds which, viewed in any \nother light than as a wild frolic of imagination, would \nbe supremely ridiculous ; for these tales had not the \nmerit of a seductive style and melodious versifica- \ntion to relieve them. They were, for the most part, \nan ill-digested mass of incongruities, in which there \nwas as little keeping and probability in the charac- \nters as in the incidents, while the whole was told in \nthat stilted " Hercles\' vein," and with that licen- \ntiousness of allusion and imagery which could not \nfail to debauch both the taste and the morals of the \nyouthful reader. The mind, familiarized with these \nmonstrous, over-coloured pictures, lost all relish for \nthe chaste and sober productions of art. The love \n\n\n\n152 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof the gigantic and the marvellous indisposed the \nreader for the simple delineations of truth in real \nhistory. The feelings expressed by a sensible Span- \niard of the sixteenth century, the anonymous author \nof the " Dialogo de las Lenguas," probably represent \nthose of many of his contemporaries. " Ten of the \nbest years of my life," says he, " were spent no more \nprofitably than in devouring these lies, which I did \neven while eating my meals; and the consequence \nof this depraved appetite was, that if I took in hand \nany true book of history, or one that passed for such, \nI was unable to wade through it." \n\nThe influence of this meretricious taste was near- \nly as fatal on the historian himself as on his readers, \nsince he felt compelled to minister to the public ap- \npetite such a mixture of the marvellous in all his \nnarrations as materially discredited the veracity of \nhis writings. Every hero became a demigod, who \nput the labours of Hercules to shame ; and every \nmonk or old hermit was converted into a saint, who \nwrought more miracles, before and after death, than \nwould have sufficed to canonize a monastery. The \nfabulous ages of Greece are scarcely more fabulous \nthan the close of the Middle Ages in Spanish his- \ntory, which compares very discreditably, in this par- \nticular, with similar periods in most European coun- \ntries. The confusion of fact and fiction continues \nto a very late age ; and as one gropes his way \nthrough the twilight, of tradition, he is at a loss \nwhether the dim objects are men or shadows. The \nmost splendid names in Castilian annals \xe2\x80\x94 names m- \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 153 \n\ncorporated with the glorious achievements of the \nland, and embalmed alike in the page of the chron- \nicler and the song of the minstrel \xe2\x80\x94 names associated \nwith the most stirring, patriotic recollections \xe2\x80\x94 are \nnow found to have been the mere coinage of fancy. \nThere seems to be no more reason for believing in \nthe real existence of Bernardo del Carpio, of whom \nso much has been said and sung, than in that of \nCharlemagne\'s paladins, or of the Knights of the \nRound Table. Even the Cid, the national hero of \nSpain, is contended, by some of the shrewdest na- \ntive critics of our own times, to be an imaginary be- \ning; and it is certain that the splendid fabric of his \nexploits, familiar as household words to every Span- \niard, has crumbled to pieces under the rude touch \nof modern criticism. These heroes, it is true, flour- \nished before the introduction of romances of chiv- \nalry ; but the legends of their prowess have been \nmultiplied beyond bounds, in consequence of the \ntaste created by these romances, and an easy faith \naccorded to them at the same time, such as would \nnever have been conceded in any other civilized \nnation. In short, the elements of truth and false- \nhood became so blended, that history was converted \ninto romance, and romance received the credit due \nonly to history. \n\nThese mischievous consequences drew down the \nanimadversions of thinking men, and at length pro- \nvoked the interference of government itself. In \n1543, Charles the Fifth, by an edict, prohibited books \nof chivalry from being imported into his Ameri- \n\nU \n\n\n\n164 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\n\n\n\ncan colonies, or being printed, or even read there. \nThe legislation for America proceeded from the \ncrown alone, which had always regarded the New \nWorld as its own exclusive property. In 1555, \nhowever, the Cortes of the kingdom presented a \n\'petition (which requires only the royal signature to \nbecome at once the law), setting forth the manifold \nevils resulting from these romances. There is an \nair at once both of simplicity and solemnity in the \nlanguage of this instrument which may amuse the \nreader : " Moreover, we say that it is very notorious \nwhat mischief has been done to young men and \nmaidens, and other persons, by the perusal of books \nfull of lies and vanities, like Amadis, and works of \nthat description, since young people especially, from \ntheir natural idleness, resort to this kind of reading, \nand, becoming enamoured of passages of love or \narms, or other nonsense which they find set forth \ntherein, when situations at all analogous offer, are \nled to act much more extravagantly than they other- \nwise would have done. And many times the daugh- \nter, when her mother has locked her up safely at \nhome, amuses herself with reading these books, which \ndo her more hurt than she would have received from \ngoing abroad. All which redounds, not only to the \ndishonour of individuals, but to the great detriment \nof conscience, by diverting the affections from holy, \ntrue, and Christian doctrine, to those wicked vani- \nties with which the wits, as we have intimated, are \ncompletely bewildered. To remedy this, we entreat \nyour majesty that no book treating of such matters \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 155 \n\nhe henceforth permitted to be read, tnat those now \nprinted be collected and burned, and that none oe \npublished hereafter without special license; by which \nmeasures your majesty will render great service to \nGod as well as to these kingdoms," &c, &c. \n\nNotwithstanding this emphatic expression of pub- \nlic disapprobation, these enticing works maintained \ntheir popularity. The Emperor Charles, unmindful \nof his own interdict, took great satisfaction in their \nperusal. The royal fetes frequently commemorated \nthe fabulous exploits of chivalry, and Philip the Sec- \nond, then a young man, appeared in these spectacles \nin the character of an adventurous knight-errant. \nMoratin enumerates more than seventy bulky ro- \nmances, all produced in the sixteenth century, some \nof which passed through several editions, while \nmany more works of the kind have, doubtless, es- \ncaped his researches. The last on his catalogue \nwas printed in 1602, and was composed by one of \nthe nobles at the court. Such was the state of \nthings when Cervantes gave to the world the First \nPart of his Don Quixote ; and it was against prej- \nudices which had so long bade defiance to public \nopinion and the law itself that he now aimed the \ndelicate shafts of his irony. It was a perilous em- \nprise. \n\nTo effect his end, he did not produce a mere hu- \nmorous travesty, like several of the Italian poets, \nwho, having selected some well-known character in \nromance, make him fall into such low dialogue and \nsuch gross buffoonery as contrast most ridiculously \n\n\n\n156 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwith his assumed name; for this, though a very good \njest in its way, was but a jest, and Cervantes want- \ned the biting edge of satire. He was, besides, too \nmuch of a poet \xe2\x80\x94 was too deeply penetrated with \nthe true spirit of chivalry not to respect the noble \nqualities which were the basis of it. He shows this \nin the auto dafe of the Don\'s library, where he spares \nthe Amadis de Gaula and some others, the best of \ntheir kind. He had once himself, as he tells us, ac- \ntually commenced a serious tale of chivalry. \n\nCervantes brought forward a personage, therefore, \nin whom were imbodied all those generous virtues \nwhich belong to chivalry : disinterestedness, con- \ntempt of danger, unblemished honour, knightly cour- \ntesy, and those aspirations after ideal excellence \nwhich, if empty dreams, are the dreams of a mag- \nnanimous spirit. They are, indeed, represented by \nCervantes as too ethereal for this world, and are \nsuccessively dispelled as they come in contact with \nthe coarse realities of life. It is this view r of the \nsubject which has led Sismondi, among other crit- \nics, to consider that the principal end of the author \nw 7 as "the ridicule of enthusiasm \xe2\x80\x94 the contrast of the \nheroic with the vulgar," and he sees something pro- \nfoundly sad in the conclusions to which it leads. \nThis sort of criticism appears to be over-refined. It \nresembles the efforts of some commentators to alle- \ngorize the great epics of Homer and Virgil, throw- \ning a disagreeable mistiness over the story by con- \nverting mere shadows into substances, and substan- \nces into shadows. \n\n\n\n! \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 157 \n\nThe great purpose of Cervantes was, doubtless \nthat expressly avowed by himself, namely, to correc \nthe popular taste for romances of chivalry. It is \nunnecessary to look for any other in so plain a tale, \nalthough, it is true, the conduct of the story produ- \nces impressions on the reader, to a certain extent, \nlike those suggested by Sismondi. The melancholy \ntendency, however, is, in a great degree, counteract- \ned by the exquisitely ludicrous character of the in- \ncidents. Perhaps, after all, if we are to hunt for a \nmoral as the key of the fiction, we may, with more \nreason, pronounce it to be the necessity of propor- \ntioning our undertakings to our capacities. \n\nThe mind of the hero, Don Quixote, is an ideal \nworld, into which Cervantes has poured all the rich \nstores of his own imagination, the poet\'s golden \ndreams, high romantic exploit, and the sweet vis- \nions of pastoral happiness; the gorgeous chimeras \nof the fancied age of chivalry, which had so long \nentranced the world; splendid illusions, which, float- \ning before us like the airy bubbles which the child \nthrows off from his pipe, reflect, in a thousand va- \nriegated tints, the rude objects around, until, brought \ninto collision with these, they are dashed in pieces, \nand melt into air. These splendid images derive \ntenfold beauty from the rich, antique colouring of \nthe author\'s language, skilfully imitated from the old \nromances, but which necessarily escapes in the trans- \nlation into a foreign tongue. Don Quixote\'s insan- \nity operates both in mistaking the ideal for the real, \n\nand the real for the ideal. Whatever he has found \n4 \n\n\n\nJ 58 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin romances, he believes to exist in the world ; and \nhe converts all he meets with in the world into the \nvisions of his romances. It is difficult to say which \nof the two produces the most ludicrous results. \n\nFor the better exposure of these mad fancies. \nCervantes has not only put them into action in real \nlife, but contrasted them with another character \nwhich may be said to form the reverse side of his \nhero\'s. Honest Sancho represents the material \nprinciple as perfectly as his master does the intel- \nlectual or ideal. He is of the earth, earthy. Sly, \nselfish, sensual, his dreams are not of glory, but of \ngood feeding. His only concern is for his carcass. \nHis notions of honour appear to be much the same \nwith those of his jovial contemporary, Falstaff. as \nconveyed in his memorable soliloquy. In the sub- \nlime night-piece which ends with the fulling-mills \xe2\x80\x94 \ntruly sublime until we reach the denouement \xe2\x80\x94 San- \ncho asks his master, " Why need you go about this \nadventure ? It is main dark, and there is never a \nliving soul sees us ; we have nothing to do but to \nsheer off and get out of harm\'s way. Who is there \nto take notice of our flinching V Can anything be \nimagined more exquisitely opposed to the true spirit \nof chivalry \\ The whole compass of fiction no- \nwhere displays the power of contrast so forcibly as \nin these two characters: perfectly opposed to each \nother, not only in their minds and general habits, \nbut in the minutest details of personal appearance. \n\nIt was a great effort of art for Cervantes to main- \ntain the dignity of his hero\'s character in the midst \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 159 \n\noi the whimsical and ridiculous distresses in which \nhe has perpetually involved him. His infirmity \nleads us to distinguish between his character and \nhis conduct^ and to absolve him from all responsi- \nbility for the latter. The author\'s art is no less \nshown in regard to the other principal figure in the \npiece, Sancho Panza, who, with the most contempt- \nible qualities, contrives to keep a strong hold on our \ninterest by the kindness of his nature and his shrewd \nunderstanding. He is far too shrewd a person, in- \ndeed, to make it natural for him to have followed so \ncrack-brained a master unless bribed by the promise \nof a substantial recompense. He is a personifica- \ntion, as it were, of the popular wisdom \xe2\x80\x94 a " bundle \nof proverbs," as his master somewhere styles him ; \nand proverbs are the most compact form in which \nthe wisdom of a people is digested. They have \nbeen collected into several distinct works in Spain, \nwhere they exceed in number those of any other, \nif not every other, country in Europe. As many of \nthem are of great antiquity, they are of inestimable \nprice with the Castilian purists, as affording rich \nsamples of obsolete idioms and the various muta- \ntions of the language. \n\nThe subordinate portraits in the romance, though \nnot wrought with the same care, are admirable stud- \nies of national character. In this view, the Don \n(iuixote may be said to form an epoch in the his- \ntory of letters, as the original of that kind of compo- \nsition, the Novel of Character, which is one of the \ndistinguishing peculiarities of modern literature. \n\n\n\n160 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nWhen well executed, this sort of writing rises to \nthe dignity of history itself, and may be said to per- \nform no insignificant part of the functions of the \nlatter. History describes men less as they are than \nas they appear, as they are playing a part on the \ngreat political theatre \xe2\x80\x94 men in masquerade. Jt \nrests on state documents, which too often cloak real \npurposes under an artful veil of policy, or on the ac- \ncounts of contemporaries blinded by passion or in- \nterest. Even without these deductions, the revolu- \ntions of states, their wars, and their intrigues do not \npresent the only aspect, nor, perhaps, the most in- \nteresting under which human nature can be studied. \nIt is man in his domestic relations, around his own \nfireside, where alone his real character can be truly \ndisclosed : in his ordinary occupations in society, \nwhether for purposes of profit or of pleasure ; in his \ne very-day manner of living, his tastes and opinions, \nas drawn out in social intercourse ; it is, in short, \nunder all those forms which make up the interior of \nsociety that man is to be studied, if we would get \nthe true form and pressure of the age \xe2\x80\x94 if, in short, \nwe would obtain clear and correct ideas of the ac- \ntual progress of civilization. \n\nBut these topics do not fall within the scope of \nthe historian. He cannot find authentic materials \nfor them. They belong to the novelist, who, in- \ndeed, contrives his incidents and creates his charac- \nters, but who, if true to his art, animates them with \nthe same tastes, sentiments, and motives of action \nwhich belong to the period of his fiction. His por- \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 161 \n\ntrait is not the less true because no individual has \nsat for it. He has seized the physiognomy of the \ntimes. Who is there that does not derive a more \ndistinct idea of the state of society and manners in \nScotland from the Waverley novels than from the \nbest of its historians? of the condition of the Mid- \ndle Ages, from the single romance of 1 vanhoe, than \nfrom the volumes of Hume or Hallam } In like \nmanner, the pencil of Cervantes has given a far \nmore distinct and a richer portraiture of life in \nSpain in the sixteenth century than can be gather- \ned from a library of monkish chronicles. \n\nSpain, which furnished the first good model of \nthis kind of writing, seems to have possessed more \nample materials for it than any other country ex- \ncept England. This is perhaps owing, in a great \ndegree, to the freedom and originality of the popular \ncharacter. It is the country where the lower class- \nes make the nearest approach, in their conversation, \nto what is called humour. Many of the national \nproverbs are seasoned with it, as well as the picares- \nco tales, the indigenous growth of the soil, where, \nhowever, the humour runs rather too much to mere \npractical jokes. The free expansion cf the popular \ncharacteristics may be traced, in part, to the free- \ndom of the political institutions of the country be- \nfore the iron hand of the Austrian dynasty was laid \non it. The long wars with the Moslem invaders \ncalled every peasant into the field, and gave him a \ndegree of personal consideration. In some of the \nprovinces, as Catalonia, the Democratic spirit fre- \n4 0* \n\n\n\n162 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nquently rose to an uncontrollable height. Iij this \nfree atmosphere the rich and peculiar traits of na- \ntional character were unfolded. The territorial di- \nvisions which marked the Peninsula, broken up an- \nciently into a number of petty and independent \nslates, gave, moreover, great variety to the national \nportraiture. The rude Asturian, the haughty and \nindolent Castilian, the industrious Aragonese, ihe \nindependent Catalan, the jealous and wily Andalu- \nsian, the effeminate Valencian, and magnificent Gran- \nadine, furnished an infinite variety of character and \ncostume for the study of the artist. The intermix- \nture of Asiatic races, to an extent unknown in any \nother European land, was favourable to the same \nresult. The Jews and the Moors were settled in \ntoo great numbers, and for too many centuries, in \nthe land, not to have left traces of their Oriental \ncivilization. The best blood of the country has \nflowed from what the modern Spaniard \xe2\x80\x94 the Span- \niard of the Inquisition \xe2\x80\x94 regards as impure sources; \nand a work, popular in the Peninsula, under the \nname of Tizon de Esparia, or " Brand of Spain,\'\' \nmaliciously traces back the pedigrees of the noblest \nhouses in the kingdom to a Jewish or Morisco ori- \ngin. All these circumstances have conspired to \ngive a highly poetic interest to the character of the \nSpaniards ; to make them, in fact, the most pictu- \nresque of European nations, affording richer and far \nmore various subjects for the novelist than other na- \ntions whose peculiarities have been kept down by \nthe weight of a despotic government, or the artificial \nand levelling laws of fashion. \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 163 \n\nThere is one other point of view in which the \nDon Quixote presents itself, that of its didactic im- \nport. It is not merely moral in its general tendency, \nthough this w 7 as a rare virtue in the age in which it \nwas written, but is replete with admonition and crit- \nicism, oftentimes requiring great boldness, as well as \noriginality, in the author. Such, for instance, are \nthe derision of witchcraft, and other superstitions \ncommon to the Spaniards ; the ridicule of torture, \nwhich, though not used in the ordinary courts, w 7 as \nfamiliar to the Inquisition ; the frequent strictures \non various departments and productions of literature. \nThe literary criticism scattered throughout the work \nshows a profound acquaintance with the true prin- \nciples of taste far before his time, and which has \nleft his judgments of the writings of his countrymen \nstill of paramount authority. In truth, the great \nscope of his work was didactic, for it was a satire \nagainst the false taste of his age. And never was \nthere a satire so completely successful. The last \nromance of chivalry, before the appearance of the \nDon Quixote, came out in 1602. It was the last \nthat w 7 as ever published in Spain. So completely \nwas this kind of writing, which had bade defiance \nto every serious effort, now 7 extinguished by the \nbreath of ridicule, \n\n" That soft and summer breath, whose subtile power \nPasses the strength of storms in their most desolate hour." \n\nIt w 7 as impossible for any new 7 author to gain an \naudience. The public had seen how the thunder \nwas fabricated. The spectator had been behind the \n\n\n\n164 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nscenes, and witnessed of what cheap materials kings \nand queens were made. It was impossible for him \nby any stretch of imagination, to convert the tinsel \nand painted bawbles which he had seen there into \ndiadems and sceptres. The illusion had fled forever. \n\nSatire seldom survives the local or temporary in- \nterests against which it is directed. It loses its life \nwith its sting. The satire of Cervantes is an ex- \nception. The objects at which it was aimed have \nlong since ceased to interest. The modern reader \nis attracted to the book simply by its execution as \na work of art, and, from want of previous knowledge, \ncomprehends few of the allusions which gave such \ninfinite zest to the perusal in its own day. Yet, \nunder all these disadvantages, it not only maintains \nits popularity, but is far more widely extended, and \nenjoys far higher consideration, than in the life of \nits author. Such are the triumphs of genius ! \n\nCervantes correctly appreciated his own work. \nHe more than once predicted its popularity. " I will \nlay a wager," says Sancho, "that before long there \nwill not be a chophouse, tavern, or barber\'s stall \nbut will have a painting of our achievements." The \nhonest squire\'s prediction was verified in his own \nday ; and the author might have seen paintings of \nhis work on wood and on canvass, as well as cop- \nper-plate engravings of it. Besides several editions \nof it at home, it was printed, in his own time, in \nPortugal, Flanders, and Italy. Since that period it \nhas passed into numberless editions both in Spain \nand other countries. It has been translated intc \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 165 \n\nnearly every European tongue over and over again; \ninto English ten times, into French eight, and others \nless frequently. We will close the present notice \nwith a brief view of some of the principal editions, \ntogether with that at the head of our article. \n\nThe currency of the romance among all classes \nfrequently invited its publication by incompetent \nhands ; and the consequence was a plentiful crop \nof errors, until the original text was nearly despoiled \nof its beauty, while some passages were omitted, and \nforeign ones still more shamefully interpolated. The \nfirst attempt to retrieve the original from these har- \npies, who thus foully violated it, singularly enough, \nwas made in England. Queen Caroline, the wife \nof George the Second, had formed a collection of \nbooks of romance, which she playfully named the \n" library of the sage Merlin." The romance of Cer- \nvantes alone was wanting; and a nobleman, Lord \nCarteret, undertook to provide her with a suitable \ncopy at his own expense. This was the origin of \nthe celebrated edition published by Tonson, in Lon- \ndon, 1738, 4 torn. 4to. It contained the Life of the \nAuthor, written for it by the learned Mayans y Sis- \ncar. It was the first biography (which merits the \nname) of Cervantes ; and it shows into what obliv- \nion his personal history had already fallen, that no \nless than seven towns claimed each the honour of \ngiving him birth. The fate of Cervantes resembled \nthat of Homer. \n\nThe example thus set by foreigners excited an \nhonourable emulation at home ; and at length, in \n\n\n\n166 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n1780, a magnificent edition, from the far-famed press \nof Ibarra, was published at Madrid, in 4 torn. 4to, \nunder the auspices of the Royal Spanish Academy; \nwhich, unlike many other literary bodies of sound- \ning name, has contributed most essentially to the \nadvancement of letters, not merely by original me- \nmoirs, but by learned and very beautiful editions of \nancient writers. Its Don Quixote exhibits a most \ncareful revision of the text, collated from the several \ncopies printed in the author\'s lifetime, and supposed \nto have received his own emendations. There is \ntoo good reason to believe that these corrections \nwere made with a careless hand; at all events, there \nis a plentiful harvest of typographical blunders in \nthese primitive editions. \n\nPrefixed to the publication of the Academy is the \nLife of Cervantes, by Rios, written with uncommon \nelegance, and containing nearly all that is of much \ninterest in his personal history. A copious analysis oi \nthe romance follows, in which a parallel is closely \nelaborated between it and the poems of Homer. But \nthe romantic and the classical differ too widely from \neach other to admit of such an approximation ; and \nthe method of proceeding necessarily involves its \nauthor in infinite absurdities, which show an entire \nignorance of the true principles of philosophical \ncriticism, and which he would scarcely have fallen \ninto had he given heed to the maxims of Cervantes \nhimself. \n\nIn the following year, 1781, there appeared an- \nother edition in England deserving of particular \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 167 \n\nnotice. It was prepared by the Rev. Mr. Bowie, a \nclergyman at Idemestone, who was so enamoured \nof the romance of Cervantes, that, after collecting a \nlibrary of such works as could any way illustrate his \nauthor, he spent fourteen years in preparing a suit- \nable commentary on him. There was ample scope \nfor such a commentary. Many of the satirical al- \nlusions of the romance were misunderstood, as we \nhave said, owing to ignorance of the books of chiv- \nalry at which they were aimed. Many incidents \nand usages, familiar to the age of Cervantes, had \nlong since fallen into oblivion ; and much of the \nidiomatic phraseology had grown to be obsolete, \nand required explanation. Cervantes himself had \nfallen into some egregious blunders, which in his \nsubsequent revision of the work he had neglected \nto set right. The reader will readily call to mind \nthe confusion as to Sancho\'s Dapple, who appears \nand disappears, most unaccountably, on the scene, \naccording as the author happens to remember or \nforget that he was stolen. He afterward corrected \nthis in two or three instances, but left three or four \nothers unheeded. To the same account must be \ncharged numberless gross anachronisms. Indeed, \nthe whole Second Part is an anachronism, since the \nauthor introduces his hero criticising his First Part, \nin which his own epitaph is recorded. \n\nCervantes seems to have had a great distaste for \nthe work of revision. Some of his blunders he laid \nat the printer\'s door, and others he dismissed with \nthe remark, more ingenious than true, that they \n\n\n\n168 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\nwere like moles, which, though blemishes in them- \nselves, add to the beauty of the countenance. He \nlittle dreamed that his lapses were to be watched so \nnarrowly, that a catalogue was actually to be set \ndown of all his repetitious and inconsistencies, and \nthat each of his hero\'s sallies was to be adjusted by \nan accurate chronological table like any real history. \nHe would have been still slower to believe that in \nthe middle of the eighteenth century a learned so- \nciety, the Academy of Literature and Fine Arts at \nTroyes, in Champagne, should have chosen a depu- \ntation of their body to visit Spain and examine the \nlibrary of the Escurial, in order to obtain, if possi- \nble, the original MS. of that Arabian sage from whom \nCervantes professed to have translated his romance. \nThis was to be more mad than Don Quixote him- \nself; yet this actually happened. \n\nBowie\'s edition was printed in six volumes quar- \nto ; the two last contained notes, illustrations, and \nindex, all, as well as the text, in Castilian. Watt, in \nhis laborious "Bibliotheca Britannica," remarks, thai \nthe book did not come up to the public expectation. \nIf so, the public must have been very unreasonable. \nIt was a marvellous achievement for a foreigner. It \nwas the first attempt at a commentary on the Quix- \note, and, although doubtless exhibiting inaccuracies \nwhich a native might have escaped, has been a rich \nmine of illustration, from which native critics have \nhelped themselves most liberally, and sometimes with \nscanty acknowledgment. \n\nThe example of the English critic led to similar \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. . 1 1>9 \n\nlabours in Spain, among the most successful of which \nmay be mentioned the edition by Pellicer, which has \ncommended itself to every scholar by its very learn- \ned disquisitions on many topics both of history and \ncriticism. It also contains a valuable memoir of \nCervantes, whose life has since been written in a \nmanner which leaves nothing farther to be desired \nby Navarrete, well known by his laborious publica- \ntion of documents relative to the early Spanish dis- \ncoveries. His biography of the novelist compre- \nhends all the information, direct and subsidiary, \nwhich can now be brought together for the eluci- \ndation of his personal or literary history. If Cer- \nvantes, like his great contemporary, Shakspeare, has \nleft few authentic details of bis existence, the defi- \nciency has been diligently supplied in both cases by \nspeculation and conjecture. \n\nThere was still wanting a classical commentary \non the Quixote devoted to the literary execution of \nthe work. Such a commentary has at length ap- \npeared from the pen of Clemencin, the accomplish- \ned secretary of the Spanish Academy of History, \nwho had acquired a high reputation for himself by \nthe publication of the sixth volume of its memoirs \nthe exclusive work of his own hand. In his edition \nof the romance, besides illuminating with rare learn- \ning many of the obscure points in the narrative, he \nlias accompanied the text with a severe but enlight- \nened criticism, which, while it boldly exposes occa- \nsional offences against taste or grammar, directs the \neye to those latent beauties which might escape a \n4 P \n\n\n\n170 1UOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nrapid or an ordinary reader. We much doubt if \nany Castilian classic has been so ably illustrated \nUnfortunately, the First Part only was completed \nby the commentator, who died very recently. It \nwill not be easy to find a critic equally qualified by \nhis taste and erudition for the completion of the \nwork. \n\nThe English, as we have noticed, have evinced \ntheir relish for Cervantes, not only by their critical \nlabours, tut by repeated translations. Some of these \nare executed with much skill, considering the diffi- \nculty of correctly rendering the idiomatic phrase- \nology of humorous dialogue. The most popular \nversions are those of Motteux, Jarvis, and Smollett. \nPerhaps the first is the best of all. It was by a \nFrenchman, who came over to England in the time \nof James the Second. It betrays nothing of its for- \neign parentage, however, while its rich and racy \ndiction and its quaint turns of expression are admi \nrably suited to convey a lively and very faithful \nimage of the original. The slight tinge of antiquity \nwhich belongs to the time is not displeasing, and \ncomports well with the tone of knightly dignity \nwhich distinguishes the hero. Lockhart\'s notes \nand poetical versions of old Castilian ballads, ap- \npended to the recent edition of Motteux, have ren- \ndered it by far the most desirable translation. It is \nsingular that the first classical edition of Don Quix- \note, the first commentary, and probably the best for- \neign translation, should have been all produced in \nEngland ; and farther, that the English commenta- \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. \n\n\n\n171 \n\n\n\ntor should have written in Spanish, and the English \ntranslation have been by a Frenchman. \n\nWe now come to Mr. Sales\'s recent edition of \nthe original, the first, probably, which has appeared \nin the New World, of the one half of which the \nSpanish is the spoken language. There was great \nneed of some uniform edition to meet the wants of \nour University, where much inconvenience has been \nlong experienced from the discrepancies of the cop- \nies used. The only ones to be procured in this \ncountry are contemptible both in regard to printing \nand paper, and are defaced by the grossest errors. \nThey are the careless manufacture of ill-informed \nSpanish booksellers, made to sell, and dear to boot. \n\nMr. Sales has adopted a right plan for remedying \nthese several evils. He has carefully formed his text \non that of the last and most correct edition of the \nAcademy, and as he has stereotyped the work, any \nverbal errors may be easily rectified. The Acade- \nmy has substituted the modern orthography for that \nof Cervantes, who, independently of the change which \nhas gradually taken place in the language, seems to \nhave had no uniform system himself. Mr. Sales \nhas conformed to the rules prescribed by this high \nauthority for regulating his orthography, accent, and \npunctuation. In some instances, ouly, he has adopt- \ned the ancient usage in beginning words withy in- \nstead of h, and retaining obsolete terminations of \nverbs, as hablades for hablais, hablabades for liablabais, \namades for amais, amabades for amabais, &c, no doubt \nas better suited to the lofty tone of the good knight\'s \n\n\n\n172 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndiscourses, who himself affected a reverence for the \nantique in his conversation to which his translators \nhave not always sufficiently attended. \n\nIn one respect the present editor has made some \nalterations not before attempted, we believe, in the \ntext of his original. We have already noticed the \ninaccuracies of the early copies of the Don Quix- \note, partly imputable to Cervantes himself, and in a \ngreater degree, doubtless, to his printers. There is \nno way of rectifying such errors by collation with \nthe author\'s manuscript, which has long since disap- \npeared. All that can now be done, therefore, is to \npoint out the purer reading in a note, as Clemencin, \nArrieta, and other commentators have done, or, as \nMr. Sales has preferred, to introduce it into the body \nof the text. We will give one or two specimens of \nthese alterations : \n\n" Poco mas 6 menos." \xe2\x80\x94 Tom. i., p. 141. \n\nThe reading in the old editions is " poco mas a me- \nnos," a phrase as unintelligible in Spanish now as \nits literal translation would be in English, although \nin use, it would seem from other authorities, in the \nage of Cervantes. \n\n\' Por tales os juzgue y tuve." \xe2\x80\x94 Tom. i., p. 104. \n\nThe old editions add "siempre," which clearly is in- \ncorrect, since Don Quixote is speaking of the pres- \nent occasion. \n\n" Don Quijote quedo admirado " \xe2\x80\x94 Tom. i., p. 143. \n\nOther editions read u El mat quedo," &c. The use \n\n\n\nOERVANTEH. 173 \n\nof the relative leaves the reader in doubt who is in- \ntended, and Mr. Sales, in conformity to Clemencin\'s \nsuggestion, has made the sentence clear by substitu- \nting the name of the knight. \n\n" Donde les sucedieron cosas," &e. \xe2\x80\x94 Tom. ii., p. 44. \n\n[n other editions, "sucedio;" bad grammar, since it \nagrees with a plural noun. \n\n"En tan poco espacio de tiempo como ha que \nestuvo alia,\'\' &c. (torn, ii., p. 132), instead of "estd \nalia," clearly the wrong tense, since the verb refers \nto past time. \n\nIt is unnecessary to multiply examples, a sufficient \nnumber of which have been cited to show on what \nprinciples the emendations have been made. They \nhave been confined to the correction of such viola- \ntions of grammar, or such inaccuracies of expression, \nas obscure or distort the meaning. They have been \nmade with great circumspection, and in obedience \nto the suggestion of the highest authorities in the \nlanguage. For the critical scholar, who would nat- \nurally prefer the primitive text with all its impurities, \nthey were not designed. But they are of infinite \nvalue to the general reader and the student, who may \nnow read this beautiful classic purified from those \nverbal blemishes which, however obvious to a native, \ncould not fail to mislead a foreigner. \n\nBesides these emendations, Mr. Sales has illustra- \nted the work by prefixing to it the admirable prelim- \ninary discourse of Clemencin, and by a considerable \nbody of notes, selected and abridged from the most \n\napproved commentators ; and as the object has been \n4 P* \n\n\n\n174 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto explain the text to the reader, not to involve him \nin antiquarian or critical disquisitions, when his au- \nthorities have failed to do this, the editor has sap- \nplied notes of his own, throwing much light on mat- \nters least familiar to a foreigner. In this part of his \nwork we think he might have derived considerable \naid from Bowie, whom he does not appear to have \nconsulted. The Castilian commentator, Arrieta, \nwhom he liberally uses, is largely indebted to the \nEnglish critic, who, as a foreigner, moreover, has \nbeen led into many seasonable explanations that \nwould be superfluous to a Spaniard. \n\nWe may notice another peculiarity in the present \nedition, that of breaking up the text into reasonable \nparagraphs, in imitation of the English translations; \na great relief to the spirits of the reader, which are \nseriously damped, in the ancient copies, by the in- \nterminable waste of page upon page, without these \nconvenient halting-places. \n\nBut our readers, we fear, will think we are run- \nning into an interminable waste of discussion. We \nwill only remark, therefore, in conclusion, that the \nmechanical execution of the book is highly credita- \nable to our press. It is, moreover, adorned with \netchings by our American Cruikshank, Johnston \xe2\x80\x94 \nsome of them original, but mostly copies from the \n(ate English edition of Smollett\'s translations. They \nare designed and executed with much spirit, and, no \ndoubt, would have fully satisfied honest Sancho, who \npredicted this kind of immortality for himself and \nhis master. \n\n\n\nCERVANTES. 175 \n\nWe congratulate the public on the possession of \nan edition of the pride of Castilian literature from \nour own press, in so neat a form, and executed with \nso much correctness and judgment; and we trust \nthat the ambition of its respectable editor will be \ngratified by its becoming, as it well deserves to be, \nthe manual of the student in every seminary through- \nout the country where the noble Castilian language \nis taught. \n\n\n\nL76 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT.* \n\nAPRIL, 1838. \n\nThere is no kind of writing, which has truth and \ninstruction for its main object, so interesting and \npopular, on the whole, as biography. History, in \nits larger sense, has to deal with masses, which, while \nthey divide the attention by the dazzling variety of \nobjects, from their very generality are scarcely ca- \npable of touching the heart. The great objects on \nwhich it is employed have little relation to the daily \noccupations with which the reader is most intimate. \nA nation, like a corporation, seems to have no soul, \narid its checkered vicissitudes may be contemplated \nrather with curiosity ior the lessons they convev \nthan with personal sympathy. How 7 different are \nthe feelings excited by the fortunes of an individual \n\xe2\x80\x94 one of the mighty mass, who in the page of his- \ntory is swept along the current unnoticed and un \nknown ! Instead of a mere abstraction, at once we \nsee a being like ourselves, " fed with the same food, \nhurt with the same weapons, subject to the same \ndiseases, healed by the same means, warmed and \ncooled by the same winter and summer" as we are. \nWe place ourselves in his position, and see the \npassing current of events with the same eyes. We \n\n* 1. "Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., by J. G. Lock- \nhart. Five vols. 12mo. Boston: Otis, Broaders, & Co., 1837." \n\n2. " Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 16mo. London : James \nFraser, 1837." \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 177 \n\nbecome a party to all his little schemes, share in his \ntriumphs, or mourn with him in the disappointment \nof defeat. His friends become our friends. We \nlearn to take an interest in their characters from \ntheir relation to him. As they pass away from the \nstage one after another, and as the clouds of mis- \nfortune, perhaps, or of disease, settle around the \nevening of his own day, we feel the same sadness \nthat steals over us on a retrospect of earlier and \nhappier hours. And when at last we have followed \nhi m to the tomb, we close the volume, and feel that \nwe have turned over another chapter in the history \nof life. \n\nOn the same principles, probably, we are more \nmoved by the exhibition of those characters whose \ndays have been passed in the ordinary routine of \ndomestic and social life than by those most inti- \nmately connected with the great public events of \ntheir age. What, indeed, is the history of such \nmen but that of the times] The life of Welling- \nton or of Bonaparte is the story of the wars and \nrevolutions of Europe. But that of Cowper, gliding \naway in the seclusion of rural solitude, reflects all \nthose domestic joys, and, alas ! more than the sor- \nrows, which gather around every man\'s fireside and \nhis heart. In this way the story of the humblest \nindividual, faithfully recorded, becomes an object of \nlively interest. How much is that interest increas- \ned in the case of a man like Scott, who, from his \nown fireside, has sent forth a voice to cheer and \ndelight millions of his fellow-men ; whose life was \n\nZ \n\n\n\n178 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npassed within the narrow circle of his own village \nas it were, but who, nevertheless, has called up more \nshapes and fantasies within that magic circle, acted \nmore extraordinary parts, and afforded more marvels \nfor the imagination to feed on, than can be furnish- \ned by the most nimble-footed, nimble-tongued tia\\~ \neller, from Marco Polo down to Mrs. Trollope, and \nthat literary Sinbad, Captain Hall. \n\nFortunate as Sir Walter Scott was in his life, it \nis not. the least of his good fortunes that lie left the \ntask of recording it to one so competent as Mr. \nLockhart, who, to a familiarity with the person \nand habits of his illustrious subject, unites such en- \ntire sympathy with his pursuits, and such fine tact \nand discrimination in arranging the materials for \ntheir illustration. We have seen it objected that \nthe biographer has somewhat transcended his law- \nful limits in occasionally exposing what a nice ten- \nderness for the reputation of Scott should have led \nhim to conceal ; but, on reflection, we are not \ninclined to adopt these views. It is difficult to \nprescribe any precise rule by which the biographer \nshould be guided in exhibiting the peculiarities, and, \nstill more, the defects of his subject. He should, \ndoubtless, be slow to draw from obscurity those \nmatters which are of a strictly personal and private \nnature, particularly when they have no material \nbearing on the character of the individual. But \nwhatever the latter has done, said, or written to \nothers can rarely be made to come within this rule. \nA swell of panegyric, where everything is in broad \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 179 \n\nsunshine, without the relief of a shadow to contrast \nit, is out of nature, and must bring discredit on the \nwhole. Nor is it much better when a sort of twi- \nlight mystification is spread over a man\'s actions, \nuntil, as in the case of all biographies of Cowper \nprevious to that of Southey, we are completely be- \nwildered respecting the real motives of conduct. If \never there was a character above the necessity of \nany management of this sort, it was Scott\'s ; and \nwe cannot but think that the frank exposition of the \nminor blemishes which sully it, by securing the con- \nfidence of the reader in the general fidelity of the \nportraiture, and thus disposing him to receive, with- \nout distrust, those favourable statements in his his- \ntory which might seem incredible, as they certainly \nare unprecedented, is, on the whole, advantageous \nto his reputation. As regards the moral effect on \nthe reader, we may apply Scott\'s own argument for \nnot always recompensing suffering virtue, at the \nclose of his fictions, with temporal prosperity \xe2\x80\x94 that \nsuch an arrangement would convey no moral to \nthe heart whatever, since a glance at the great \npicture of life would show that virtue is not always \nthus rewarded. \n\nIn regard to the literary execution of Mr. Lock- \nhart\'s work, the public voice has long since pro- \nnounced on it. A prying criticism may discern a \nfew of those contraband epithets and slipshod sen- \ntences, more excusable in young " Peter\'s Letters to \nhis Kinsfolk," where, indeed, they are thickly sown, \nthan in the production of a grave Aristarch of \n\n\n\nJ.80 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nBritish criticism. But this is small game, where \nevery reader of the least taste and sensibility musi \nfind so much to applaud. It is enough to say, that \nin passing from the letters of Scott, with which the \nwork is enriched, to the text of the biographer, we \nfind none of those chilling transitions which occur \non the like occasions in more bungling prod actions; \nas, for example, in that recent one in which the un- \nfortunate Hannah More is done to death by her \nfriend Roberts. On the contrary, we are sensible \nonly to a new variety of beauty in the style of com- \nposition. The correspondence is illumined by all \nthat is needed to make it intelligible to a stranger, \nand selected with such discernment as to produce \nthe clearest impression of the character of its author. \nThe mass of interesting details is conveyed in lan- \nguage, richly coloured with poetic sentiment, and, at \nthe same time, without a tinge of that mysticism \nwhich, as Scott himself truly remarked, " will never \ndo for a writer of fiction, no, nor of history, nor \nmoral essays, nor sermons ;" but which, nevertheless, \nfinds more or less favour in our own community, \nat the present day, in each and all of these. \n\nThe second work which we have placed at the \nhead of this article, and from which the last remark \nof Sir Walter\'s was borrowed, is a series of notices \noriginally published in " Fraser\'s Magazine," but \nnow collected, with considerable additions, into a \nseparate volume. Its author, Mr. Robert Pierce Gil- \nlies, is a gentleman of the Scotch bar. favourably \nknown by translations from the German. The \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 181 \n\nwork conveys a lively report of several scenes and \nevents, which, before the appearance of Lockhart\'s \nbook, were of more interest and importance than \nthey can now be, lost, as they are, in the flood of \nlight which is poured on us from that source. In \nthe absence of the sixth and last volume, however, \nMr. Gillies may help us to a few particulars respect- \ning the closing years of Sir Walter\'s life, that may \nhave some novelty \xe2\x80\x94 we know not how much to be \nrelied on \xe2\x80\x94 for the reader. In the present notice of \na work so familiar to most persons, we shall confine \nourselves to some of those circumstances which \ncontribute to form, or have an obvious connexion \nwith, his literary character. \n\nWalter Scott was born at Edinburgh, August \n15th, 1771. The character of his father, a respect- \nable member of that class of attorneys who in Scot- \nland are called Writers to the Signet, is best con- \n/eyed to the reader by saying that he sat for the \nportrait of Mr. Saunders Fairford in " Redgauntlet." \nHis mother was a woman of taste and imagination, \nand had an obvious influence in guiding those of \nher son. His ancestors, by both father\'s and moth- \ner\'s side, were of "gentle blood," a position which, \nplaced between the highest and the lower ranks in \nsociety, was extremely favourable, as affording facil- \nities for communication with both. A lameness in \nhis infancy \xe2\x80\x94 a most fortunate lameness for the \nworld, if, as Scott says, it spoiled a soldier \xe2\x80\x94 and a \ndelicate constitution, made it expedient to try the \nefficacy of country air and diet, and he was placed \n4 Q \n\n\n\n182 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nunder the roof of his paternal grandfather at Sandy- \nKnowe, a few miles distant from the capital. Here \nhis days were passed in the open fields, " with no \nother fellowship," as he says, "than that of the \nsheep and lambs ;" and here, in the lap of Nature, \n\n" Meet nurse for a poetic child," \n\nhis infant vision was greeted with those rude, ro- \nmantic scenes which his own verses have since hal- \nlowed for the pilgrims from every clime. In the \nlong evenings, his imagination, as he grew older, \nwas warmed by traditionary legends of border hero- \nism and adventure, repeated by the aged relative, \nwho had herself witnessed the last gleams of border \nchivalry. His memory was one of the first powers \nof his mind which exhibited an extraordinary devel- \nopment. One of the longest of these old ballads, in \nparticular, stuck so close to it, and he repeated it \nwith such stentorian vociferation, as to draw from \nthe minister of a neighbouring kirk the testy excla- \nmation, " One may as well speak in the mouth of a \ncannon as where that child is." \n\nOn his removal to Edinburgh, in his eighth year, \nhe was subjected to different influences. His wor- \nthy father was a severe martinet in all the forms of \nhis profession, and, it may be added, of his religion, \nwhich he contrived to make somewhat hurdensome \nto his more volatile son. The tutor was still more \nstrict in his religious sentiments, and the lightest lit- \nerary diversion in which either of them indulged \nwas such as could be gleaned from the time-honour- \ned folios of Archbishop Spottiswoode or worth) \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 183 \n\nRobert Wodrow. Even here, however, Scott\'s \nyoung mind contrived to gather materials and im- \npulses for future action. In his long arguments with \nMaster Mitchell, he became steeped in the history \nof the Covenanters and the persecuted Church of \nScotland, while he was still more rooted in his own \nJacobite notions, early instilled into his mind by the \ntales of his relatives of Sandy-Knowe, whose own \nfamily had been out in the " affair of forty-five. ,, \nAmid the professional and polemical worthies of his \nfather\'s library, Scott detected a copy of Shakspeare, \nand he relates with what gout he used to creep out \nof his bed, where he had been safely deposited for \nthe night, and, by the light of the fire, in puris natu- \nralibus, pore over the pages of the great magician, \nand study those mighty spells by which he gave to \nairy fantasies the forms and substance of humanity. \nScott distinctly recollected the time and the spot \nwhere he first opened a volume of Percy\'s " Rel- \niques of English Poetry ;" a work which may have \nsuggested to him the plan and the purpose of the \n"Border Minstrelsy." Every day\'s experience shows \nliow much more actively the business of education \ngoes on out of school than in it ; and Scott\'s his- \ntory shows equally that genius, whatever obstacles \nmay be thrown in its way in one direction, will find \nroom for its expansion in another, as the young \ntree sends forth its shoots most prolific in that quar- \ntei where the sunshine is permitted to fall on it. \n\nAt. the High School, in which he w 7 as placed by \nhis father at an early period, he seems not to have \n\n\n\n184 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbeen particularly distinguished in the regular course \nof studies. His voracious appetite for books, how- \never, of a certain cast, as romances, chivalrous tales, \nand worm-eaten chronicles scarcely less chivalrous, \nand his wonderful memory for such reading as struck \nhis fancy, soon made him regarded by his fellows as \na phenomenon of black-letter scholarship, which, in \nprocess of time, achieved for him the cognomen of \nthat redoubtable schoolman, Duns Scotus. He now \nalso gave evidence of his powers of creation as well \nas of acquisition. He became noted for his own \nstories, generally bordering on the marvellous, with \na plentiful seasoning of knight-errantry, which suited \nhis bold and chivalrous temper. " Slink over beside \nme, Jamie," he would whisper to his schoolfellow \nBallantyne, " and I\'ll tell you a story." Jamie was, \nindeed, destined to sit beside him during the greater \npart of his life. \n\nThe same tastes and talents continued to display \nthemselves more strongly with increasing years. \nHaving beaten pretty thoroughly the ground of ro- \nmantic and legendary lore, at least so far as the \nEnglish libraries to which he. had access would per- \nmit, he next endeavoured, while at the University, \nto which he had been transferred from the High \nSchool, to pursue the same subject in the Continent- \nal languages. Many were the strolls which he took \nin the neighbourhood, especially to Arthur\'s Seat \nand Salisbury Crags, where, perched on some almost \ninaccessible eyry, he might be seen conning over \nhis Ariosto or Cervantes, or some other bard of ro \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 185 \n\nmance, with some favourite companion of his stud- \nies, or pouring into the ears of the latter his own \nboyish legends, glowing with \n\n" achievements high, \nAnd circumstance of chivalry." \n\nA critical knowledge of these languages he seems \nnot to have obtained, and even in the French \nmade but an indifferent figure in conversation. An \naccurate acquaintance with the pronunciation and \nprosody of a foreign tongue is undoubtedly a de- \nsirable accomplishment ; but it is, after all, a mere \naccomplishment subordinate to the great purposes \nfor which a language is to be learned. Scott did not, \nas is too often the case, mistake the shell for the \nkernel. He looked on language only as the key to \nunlock the foreign stores of wisdom, the pearls of \ninestimable price, wherever found, with which to en- \nrich his native literature. \n\nAfter a brief residence at the University, he was \nregularly indented as an apprentice to his father in \n178G. One can hardly imagine a situation less con- \ngenial with the ardent, effervescing spirit of a poetic \nfancy, fettered down to a daily routine of drudgery \nscarcely above that of a mere scrivener. It proved, \nhowever, a useful school of discipline to him. It \nformed early habits of method, punctuality, and la- \nborious industry ; business habits, in short, most ad- \nverse to the poetic temperament, but indispensable \nto the accomplishment of the gigantic tasks which \nbe afterward assumed. He has himself borne testi- \nmony to his general diligence in his new vocation, and \n4 Q* \n\n\n\n186 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntells us that on one occasion he transcribed no less \nthan a hundred and twenty folio pages at a sitting. \nIn the midst of these mechanical duties, he did \nnot lose sight of the favourite objects of his study \nand meditation. He made frequent excursions into \nthe Lowland as well as Highland districts in search \nof traditionary relics. These pilgrimages he fre- \nquently performed on foot. His constitution, now \nbecome hardy by severe training, made him care- \nless of exposure, and his frank and warm-hearted \nmanners \xe2\x80\x94 eminently favourable to his purposes, by \nthawing at once any feelings of frosty reserve which \nmight have encountered a stranger \xe2\x80\x94 made him \nequally welcome at the staid and decorous manse, \nand at the rough but hospitable board of the peas- \nant. Here was, indeed, the study of the future nov- \nelist; the very school in which to meditate those \nmodels of character and situation which he was af- \nterward, long afterward, to transfer, in such living \ncolours, to the canvass. " He was makin\' himsell \na\' the time," says one of his companions, "but he \ndidna ken, maybe, what he was about till years had \npassed. At first he thought o\' little, I dare say, but \nthe queerness and the fun." The honest writer to \nthe signet does not seem to have thought it either \nso funny or so profitable ; for on his son\'s return \nfrom one of these raids, as he styled them, the old \ngentleman peevishly inquired how he had been liv- \ning so long. "Pretty much like the young ravens," \nanswered Walter; "I only wished I had been as \ngood a player on the flute as poor George Primrose \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER feCOTT. 187 \n\nui the Vicar of Wakefield. If I had his art, I should \nlike nothing better than to tramp like him from cot- \ntage to cottage over the world." "I doubt" said \nthe grave clerk to the signet, " I greatly doubt, sir, \nyou were born for nae better than a gangrel scrape- \ngut I" Perhaps even the revelation, could it have \nbeen made to him, of his son\'s future literary glory, \nwould scarcely have satisfied the worthy father, who, \nprobably, would have regarded a seat on the bench \nof the Court of Sessions as much higher glory. At \nall events, this -was not far from the judgment of \nDominie Mitchell, who, in his notice of his illustri- \nous pupil, " sincerely regrets that Sir Walter\'s pre- \ncious time was devoted to the duke rather than the \nutile of composition, and that his great talents should \nhave been wasted on such subjects !" \n\nIt is impossible to glance at Scott\'s early life \nwithout perceiving how powerfully all its circum- \nstances, whether accidental or contrived, conspired \nto train him for the peculiar position he was des- \ntined to occupy in the world of letters. There nev- \ner was a character in whose infant germ the mature \nand fully-developed lineaments might be more dis- \ntinctly traced. What he was in his riper age, so \nhe was in his boyhood. We discern the same tastes, \nthe same peculiar talents, the same social temper and \naffections, and, in a great degree, the same habits \xe2\x80\x94 \nin their embryo state, of course, but distinctly mark- \ned \xe2\x80\x94 and his biographer has shown no little skill in \nenabling us to trace their gradual, progressive ex- \npansion, from the hour of his birth up to the full \nprime and maturity of manhood. \n\n\n\nL88 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIn 1792. Scott, whose original destination of a \nwriter had been changed to that of an advocate \xe2\x80\x94 \nfrom his father\'s conviction, as it would seem, of the \nsuperiority of his talents to the former station \xe2\x80\x94 was \nadmitted to the Scottish bar. Here he continued \nin assiduous attendance during the regular terms, \nbut more noted for his stories in the Outer House \nthan his arguments in court. It may appear sin- \ngular, that a person so gifted, both as a writer and \nas a raconteur, should have had no greater success \nin his profession. But the case is -not uncommon \nIndeed, experience shows that the most eminent \nwriters have not made the most successful speakers. \nIt is not more strange than that a good writer of \nnovels should not excel as a dramatic author. Per- \nhaps a consideration of the subject would lead us to \nrefer the phenomena in both cases to the same prin- \nciple. At all events, Scott was an exemplification \nof both, and we leave the solution to those who \nhave more leisure and ingenuity to unravel the mys- \ntery. \n\nScott\'s leisure, in the mean time, was well employ- \ned in storing his mind with German romance, with \nwhose wild fictions, intrenching on the grotesque, \nhe found at that time more sympathy than in later \nlife. In 1796 he first appeared before the public as \na translator of Burger\'s well-known ballads, thrown \noff by him at a heat, and which found favour with \nthe few into whose hands they passed. He subse- \nquently adventured in Monk Lewis\'s crazy bark, \n*\' Tales of Wonder," which soon w r ent to pieces, \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 189 \n\nleaving, however, among its surviving fragments the \nscattered contributions of Scott. \n\nAt last, in 1802, he gave to the world his first two \nvolumes of the " Border Minstrelsy," printed by his \nold schoolfellow Ballantyne, and which, by the beau- \nty of the typography, as well as literary execution, \nmade an epoch in Scottish literary history. There \nwas no work of Scott\'s after life which showed the \nresult of so much preliminary labour. Before ten \nyears old, he had collected several volumes of bal- \nlads and traditions, and we have seen how diligent- \nly he pursued the same vocation in later years. \nThe publication was admitted to be far more faith- \nful, as well as skilfully collated, than its prototype, \nthe " Reliques" of Bishop Percy ; while his notes \ncontained a mass of antiquarian information relative \nto border life, conveyed in a style of beauty unpre- \ncedented in topics of this kind, and enlivenod with \na higher interest than poetic fiction. Percy\'s " Rel- \niques" had prepared the w 7 ay for the kind reception \nof the " Minstrelsy," by the general relish \xe2\x80\x94 notwith- \nstanding Dr. Johnson\'s protest \xe2\x80\x94 -it had created foi \nthe simple pictures of a pastoral and heroic time. \nBurns had since familiarized the English ear with \nthe Doric melodies of his native land ; and now a \ngreater than Burns appeared, whose first production, \nby a singular chance, came into the world in the very \nyear in which the Ayrshire minstrel was withdrawn \nfrom it, as if Nature had intended that the chain of \nooetic inspiration should not be broken. The de- \nlight of ihe public was farther augmented on the ap- \n\n\n\n190 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELEANIES. \n\npearance of the third volume of the ; \' Minstrelsy," \ncontaining various imitations of the old ballad, which \ndisplayed the rich fashion of the antique, purified \nfrom the mould and rust by which the beauties of \nsuch weather-beaten trophies are defaced. \n\nThe first edition of the " Minstrelsy," consisting \nof eight hundred copies, went off, as Lockhart tells \nus, in less than a year ; and the poet, on the publi- \ncation of a second, received five hundred pounds \nsterling from Longman \xe2\x80\x94 an enormous price for such \na commodity, but the best bargain, probably, that \nthe bookseller ever made, as the subsequent sale has \nsince extended to twenty thousand copies. \n\nScott was not in great haste to follow up his suc- \ncess. It was three years later before he took the \nfield as an independent author, in a poem which at \nonce placed him among the great original writers \nof his country. The "Lay of the Last Minstrel," \na complete expansion of the ancient ballad into an \nepic form, was published in 1805. It was opening \na new creation in the realm of fancy. It seemed as \nif the author had transfused into his page the strong \ndelineations of the Homeric pencil, the rude, but \ngenerous gallantry of a primitive period, softened by \nthe more airy and magical inventions of Italian ro- \nmance,* and conveyed in tones of natural melody, \nsuch as had not been heard since the strains of \n\n* " Mettendo lo Turpin, lo metto anch\' io," \n\nBays Ariosto, playfully, when he tells a particularly tougb story. \n\n" I cannot tell how the truth may be, \n\nI say the tale as \'twas said to me," \n\nsays the author of the " Lay" on a similar occasion. The resemblance \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 191 \n\nBurns. The book speedily found that unprecedent- \ned circulation which all his subsequent compositions \nattained. Other writers had addressed themselves \nto a more peculiar and limited feeling; to a nar- \nrower, and, generally, a more select audience. But \nScott was found to combine all the qualities of in- \nterest for every order. He drew from the pure \nsprings which gush forth in every heart. His nar- \nrative chained every reader\'s attention by the stir- \nring variety of its incidents, while the fine touches \nof sentiment with which it abounded, like wild flow- \ners, springing up spontaneously around, were full of \nfreshness and beauty, that made one wonder others \nshould not have stooped to gather them before. \n\nThe success of the " Lay" determined the course \nof its author\'s future life. Notwithstanding his punc- \ntual attention to his profession, his utmost profits for \nany one year of the ten he had been in practice had \nnot exceeded two hundred and thirty pounds ; and \nof late they had sensibly declined. Latterly, indeed, \nhe had coqueted somewhat too openly with the \nMuse for his professional reputation. Themis has \nalways been found a stern and jealous mistress, chary \nof dispensing her golden favours to those who are \nseduced into a flirtation with her more volatile sister. \n\nScott, however, soon found himself in a situation \nthat made him independent of her favours. His in- \n\nmight be traced much farther than mere forms of expression, to the Ital- \nian, who, like \n\n" the Ariosto of the North, \nSung ladye-lovc, and war, romance, and knightly worth." \n\n\n\nL92 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncome from the two offices to which he was pro- \nmoted, of Sheriff of Selkirk, and Clerk of the Court \nof Sessions, was so ample, combined with what fell \nto him by inheritance and marriage, that he was \nleft at liberty freely to consult his own tastes. Amid \nthe seductions of poetry, however, he never shrunk \nfrom his burdensome professional duties ; and he \nsubmitted to all their drudgery with unflinching con- \nstancy, when the labours of his pen made the emolu- \nments almost beneath consideration. He never rel- \nished the idea of being divorced from active life by \nthe solitary occupations of a recluse. And his of- \nficial functions, however severely they taxed his time, \nmay be said to have, in some degree, compensated \nhim by the new scenes of life which they were con- \nstantly disclosing \xe2\x80\x94 the very materials of those fic- \ntions on which his fame and his fortune were to be \nbuilt. \n\nScott\'s situation was eminently propitious to lit- \nerary pursuits. He was married, and passed the \nbetter portion of the year in the country, where the \nquiet pleasures of his fireside circle, and a keen rel- \nish for rural sports, relieved his mind, and invigorated \nboth health and spirits. In early life, it seems, he \nhad been crossed in love; and, like Dante and Byron, \nto whom, in this respect, he is often compared, he \nhad more than once, according to his biographer, \nshadowed forth in his verses the object of his unfor- \ntunate passion. He does not appear to have taken \nit very seriously, however, nor to have shown the \nmorbid sensibility in relation to it discovered by both \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 193 \n\nByron and Dante, whose stern and solitary natures \nwere cast in a very different mould from the social \ntemper of Scott. \n\nHis next great poem was his " Marmion," trans- \ncending, in the judgment of many, all his other epics, \nand containing, in the judgment of all, passages of \npoetic fire which he never equalled, but which, \nnevertheless, was greeted on its entrance into the \nworld by a critique, in the leading journal of the \nday, of the most caustic and unfriendly temper. \nThe journal was the Edinburgh, to which he had \nbeen a frequent contributor, and the reviewer was \nhis intimate friend, Jeffrey. The unkindest cut in \nthe article was the imputation of a neglect of Scot- \ntish character and feeling. " There is scarcely one \ntrait of true Scottish nationality or patriotism intro- \nduced into the whole poem ; and Mr. Scott\'s only \nexpression of admiration for the beautiful country \nto which he belongs is put, if we rightly remember, \ninto the mouth of one of his Southern favourites." \nThis of Walter Scott ! \n\nScott was not slow, after this, in finding the po- \nlitical principles of the Edinburgh so repugnant to \nhis own (and they certainly were as opposite as the \npoles), that he first dropped the journal, and next la- \nboured with unwearied diligence to organize an- \nother, whose main purpose should be to counteract \nthe heresies of the former. This was the origin of \nthe London Quarterly, more imputable to Scott\'s \nexertions than to those of any, indeed all other per- \nsons. The result has been, doubtless, highly ser- \n\\ R \n\n\n\n194 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nviceable to the interests of both morals and letters. \nNot that the new Review was conducted with more \nfairness, or, in this sense, principle, than its antago- \nnist. A remark of Scott\'s own, in a letter to Ellis, \nshows with how much principle. " I have run up \nan attempt on \' The Curse of Kehama\' for the \nQuarterly. It affords cruel openings to the quiz- \nzers, and I suppose will get it roundly in the Edin- \nburgh Review. I would have made a very differ- \nent hand of it, indeed, had the order of the day been \npour declarer." But, although the fate of the indi- \nvidual was thus, to a certain extent, a matter of ca- \nprice, or, rather, prejudgment in the critic, yet the \ngreat abstract questions in morals, politics, and lit- \nerature, by being discussed on both sides, were pre- \nsented in a fuller, and, of course, fairer light to the \npublic. Another beneficial result to letters was \xe2\x80\x94 \nand we shall gain credit, at least, for candour in \nconfessing it \xe2\x80\x94 that it broke down somewhat of that \ndivinity which hedged in the despotic ice of the re- \nviewer, so long as no rival arose to contest the scep- \ntre. The claims to infallibility, so long and slavish- \nly acquiesced in, fell to the ground when thus stout- \nly asserted by conflicting parties. It was pretty \nclear that the same thing could not be all black and \nall white at the same time. In short, it was the old \nstory of pope and anti-pope ; and the public began \nto find out that there might be hopes for the salva- \ntion of an author, though damned by the literary \npopedom. Time, by reversing many of its decisions, \nmust at ength have shown the same thing. \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 195 \n\nBut to return. Scott showed how nearly he had \nbeen touched to the quick by two other acts not so \ndiscreet. These were, the establishment of an An- \nnual Register, and of the great publishing house of \nthe Ballantynes, in which he became a silent part- \nner. The last step involved him in grievous embar- \nrassments, and stimulated him to exertions which \nrequired "a frame of adamant and soul of fire." At \nthe same time, we find him overwhelmed with poet- \nical, biographical, historical, and critical composi- \ntions, together with editorial labours of appalling \nmagnitude. In this multiplication of himself in a \nthousand forms, we see him always the same, vigor- \nous and effective. " Poetry," he says in one of his \nletters, "is a scourging crop, and ought not to be \nhastily repeated. Editing, therefore, may be con- \nsidered as a green crop of turnips or pease, extremely \nuseful to those whose circumstances do not admit \nof giving their farm a summer fallow." It might be \nregretted, however, that he should have wasted pow- \ners fitted for so much higher culture on the coarse \nproducts of a kitchen garden, which might have \nbeen safely trusted to inferior hands. \n\nIn 1811, Scott gave to the world his exquisite \npoem, " The Lady of the Lake." One of his fair \nfriends had remonstrated with him on thus risking \nagain the laurel he had already won. He replied, \nwith characteristic, and, indeed, prophetic spirit, " If \nI fail, I will write prose all my life. But if I succeed, \n\n\' Up wi\' the bonnie blue bonnet, \nThe dirk and the feather an a\' !\' " \n\n\n\n196 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIn hi:; eulogy on Byron, Scott remarks, " There has \nbeen no reposing under the shade of his laurels, no \nliving upon the resource of past reputation ; none of \nthat coddling and petty precaution which little au- \nthors call \' taking care of their fame.\' Byron let his \nfame take care of itself." Scott could not have \nmore accurately described his own character. \n\nThe " Lady of the Lake" was welcomed with an \nenthusiasm surpassing that which attended any oth- \ner of his poems. It seemed like the sweet breath- \nings of his native pibroch, stealing over glen and \nmountain, and calling up all the delicious associa- \ntions of rural solitude, which beautifully contrasted \nwith the din of battle and the shrill cry of the war- \ntrumpet, that stirred the soul in every page of his \n" Marmion." The publication of this work carried \nhis fame as a poet to its most brilliant height. The \npost-horse duty rose to an extraordinary degree in \nScotland, from the eagerness of travellers to visit \nthe localities of the poem. A more substantial evi- \ndence was afforded in its amazing circulation, and, \nconsequently, its profits. The press could scarcely \nkeep pace with the public demand, and no less than \niifty thousand copies of it have been sold since the \ndate of its appearance. The successful author re- \nceived more than two thousand guineas from his \nproduction. Milton received ten pounds for the \ntwo editions which he lived to see of his " Paradise \nLost." The Ayrshire bard had sighed for " a lass \nwi\' a tocher." Scott had now found one where it \nwas hardly to be expected, in the Muse. \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 197 \n\nWhile the poetical fame of Scott was thus at its \nzenith, a new star rose above the horizon, whose \neccentric coarse and dazzling radiance completely \nbewildered the spectator. In 1812, " Childe Har- \nold" appeared, and the attention seemed to be now \ncalled, for the first time, from the outward form of \nman and visible nature, to the secret depths of the \nsoul. The darkest recesses of human passion were \nlaid open, and the note of sorrow was prolonged in \ntones of agonized sensibility, the more touching as \ncoming from one who was placed on those dazzling \nheights of rank and fashion which, to the vulgar \neye at least, seem to lie in unclouded sunshine. \nThose of the present generation who have heard \nonly the same key thrummed ad nauseam by the fee- \nble imitators of his lordship, can form no idea of the \neffect produced w r hen the chords were first swept by \nthe master\'s fingers. It was found impossible foi \nthe ear, once attuned to strains of such compass and \nravishing harmony, to return with the same relish to \npurer, it might be, but tamer melody ; and the sweet \nvoice of the Scottish minstrel lost much of its power \nto charm, let him charm never so wisely. While \n"Rokeby" was in preparation, bets were laid on the \nrival candidates by the wits of the day. The sale \nof this poem, though great, showed a sensible de- \ncline in the popularity of its author. This became \nstill more evident on the publication of " The Lord \nof the Isles ;" and Scott admitted the conviction \nwith his characteristic spirit and good-nature \n\n"\'Well, James\' (he said to his printer), 4 I have giv- \n4 R* \n\n\n\n198 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nen you a week \xe2\x80\x94 what are people saying about the \nI/ord of the Isles V I hesitated a little, after the \nfashion of Gil Bias, but he speedily brought the \nmatter to a point. \' Come,\' he said, \' speak out, my \ngood fellow; what has put it into your head to be \non so much ceremony with me all of a sudden? But \nI see how it is ; the result is given in one word \xe2\x80\x94 \nDisappointment? My silence admitted his infer- \nence to the fullest, extent. His countenance cer- \ntainly did look rather blank for a few seconds ; in \ntruth, he had been wholly unprepared for the event. \nAt length he said, with perfect cheerfulness, \' Well, \nwell, James, so be it ; but you know we must not \ndroop, for we can\'t afford to give over. Since one \nline has failed, we must stick to something else.\'" \nThis something else was a mine he had already hit \nupon, of invention and substantial wealth, such as \nThomas the Rhymer, or Michael Scott, or any other \nadept in the black art had never dreamed of. \n\nEverybody knows the story of the composition of \n"Waverley" \xe2\x80\x94 the most interesting story in the annals \nof letters \xe2\x80\x94 and how, some ten years after its com- \nmencement, it was fished out of some old lumber \nin an attic, and completed in a few weeks for the \npress in 1814. Its appearance marks a more dis- \ntinct epoch in English literature than that of the \npoetry of its author. All previous attempts in the \nsame school of fiction \xe2\x80\x94 a school of English growth \n\xe2\x80\x94 had been cramped by the limited information or \ntalent of the writers. Smollett had produced his \nspirited sea-pieces, and Fielding his warm sketches \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 199 \n\nof country life, both of them mixed up witn so much \nBillingsgate as required a strong flavour of wit to \nmake them tolerable. Richardson had covered \nacres of canvass with his faithful family pictures. \nMrs. Radcliffe had dipped up to the elbows in hor- \nrors ; while Miss Barney\'s fashionable gossip, and \nMiss Edgeworth\'s Hogarth drawings of the prose \xe2\x80\x94 \nnot the poetry \xe2\x80\x94 of life and character, had each and \nall found favour in their respective ways. But a \nwork now appeared in which the author swept over \nthe w r hole range of character with entire freedom as \nwell as fidelity, ennobling the whole by high historic \nassociations, and in a style varying with his theme, \nbut whose pure and classic flow w T as tinctured with \njust so much of poetic colouring as suited the pur- \nposes of romance. It was Shakspeare in prose. \n\nThe work was published, as we know, anony- \nmously. Mr. Gillies states, however, that, while in \nthe press, fragments of it were communicated to \n\' Mr. Mackenzie, Dr. Brown, Mrs. Hamilton, and \nother savans or savantes, whose dicta on the merits \nof a new novel were considered unimpeachable." \nBy their approbation "a strong body of friends was \nformed, and the curiosity of the public prepared the \nway for its reception." This may explain the ra- \npidity with which the anonymous publication rose \ninto a degree of favour, which, though not less sure- \nly, perhaps, it might have been more slow in achiev- \ning. The author jealously preserved his incognito, \nand, in order to heighten the mystification, flung off, \nalmost simuiTaneously, a variety of works, in prose \n\n\n\n200 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand poetry, any one of which might have been the \nlabour of months. The public for a moment was at \nfault. There seemed to be six Richmonds in the \nfield. The world, therefore, was reduced to the di- \nlemma of either supposing that half a dozen differ- \nent hands could work in precisely the same style, or \nthat one could do the work of half a dozen. With \ntime, however, the veil wore thinner and thinner, \nuntil at length, and long before the ingenious argu- \nment of Mr. Adolphus, there was scarcely a critic so \npurblind as not to discern behind it the features of \nthe mighty minstrel. \n\nConstable had offered seven hundred pounds for \nthe new novel. " It was," says Mr. Lockhart, " ten \ntimes as much as Miss Edge worth ever realized from \nany of her popular Irish tales." Scott declined the \noffer, which had been a good one for the bookseller \nhad he made it as many thousand. But it passed \nthe art of necromancy to divine this. \n\nScott, once entered on this new career, followed \nit up with an energy unrivalled in the history of lit- \nerature. The public mind was not suffered to cool \nfor a moment, before its attention was called to an- \nother miracle of creation from the same hand. Even \nillness, that would have broken the spirits of most \nmen, as it prostrated the physical energies of Scott, \nopposed no impediment to the march of composi- \ntion. When he could no longer write he could \ndictate, and in this way, amid the agonies of a rack- \ning disease, he composed " The Bride of Lammer- \nmoor," the " Legend of Montrose," and a great part \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 201 \n\nof " Ivanhoe." The first, indeed, is darkened with \nthose deep shadows that might seem thrown over it \nby the sombre condition of its author. But what \nshall we say of the imperturbable dry humour of the \ngallant Captain Dugald Dalgetty of Drumthwacket, \nor of the gorgeous revelries of Ivanhoe \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n"Such sights as youthful poets dream, \nOn summer eves by haunted stream"- \n\nwhat shall we say of such brilliant day-dreams for a \nbed of torture 1 Never before had the spirit triumph- \ned over such agonies of the flesh. " The best way," \nsaid Scott, in one of his talks with Gillies, " is, if \npossible, to triumph over disease by setting it at de- \nfiance ; somewhat on the same principle as one \navoids being stung by boldly grasping a nettle." \n\nThe prose fictions were addressed to a much lar- \nger audience than the poems could be. They had \nattractions for every age and every class. The prof- \nits, of course, were commensurate. Arithmetic has \nnever been so severely taxed as in the computation \nof Scott\'s productions and the proceeds resulting \nfrom them. In one year he received (or, more prop- \nerly, was credited with, for it is somewhat doubtful \nhow much he actually received) fifteen thousand \npounds for his novels, comprehending the first edi- \ntion and the copyright. The discovery of this rich \nmine furnished its fortunate proprietor with the \nmeans of gratifying the fondest and even most chi- \nmerical desires. He had always coveted the situ- \nation of a lord of acres \xe2\x80\x94 a Scottish laird \xe2\x80\x94 where his \npassion for planting might find scope in the creation \n\nCc \n\n\n\n202 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof whole forests \xe2\x80\x94 for everything with him was on a \nmagnificent scale \xe2\x80\x94 and where he might indulge the \nkindly feelings of his nature in his benevolent offices \nto a numerous and dependant tenantry. The few \nacres 01 the original purchase now swelled into \nhundreds, and, foi au;^ht we know, thousands ; for \none tract alone we find incidentally noticed as cost- \ning thirty thousand pounds. "It rounds ofif the \nproperty so handsomely," he says, in one of his let- \nters. There was always a corner to " round off." \nThe mansion, in the mean time, from a simple cot- \ntage ornee, was amplified into the dimensions almost, \nas well as the bizarre proportions, of some old feu- \ndal castle. The furniture and decorations were of \nthe costliest kind: the wainscots of oak and cedar; \nthe floors tesselaied with marbles, or woods of dif- \nferent dyes ; the ceilings fretted and carved with \nthe delicate tracery of a Gothic abbey ; the storied \nwindows blazoned with the richly-coloured insignia \nof heraldry, the walls garnished with time-honoured \ntrophies, or curious specimens of art, or volumes \nsumptuously bound \xe2\x80\x94 in short, with all that luxury \ncould demand or ingenuity devise ; while a copious \nreservoir of gas supplied every corner of the man- \nsion with such fountains of light as must have puz- \nzled the genius of the lamp to provide for the less \nfortunate Aladdin. \n\nScott\'s exchequer must have been seriously taxed \nin another form by the crowds of visiters whom he \nentertained under his hospitable roof. There was \nscarcely a person of note, or, to say truth, not of \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 20-3 \n\nnote, who visited that country without paying his \nrespects to the Lion of Scotland. Lockhart reck- \nons up a full sixth of the British peerage, who had \nbeen there within his recollection ; and Captain Hall, \nin his amusing Notes, remarks, that it was not un- \nusual for a dozen or more coach loads to find their \nw T ay into his grounds in the course of the day, most \nof whom found or forced an entrance into the man- \nsion. Such was the heavy tax paid by his celeb- \nrity, and, we may add, his good-nature ; for, if the \none had been a whit less than the other, he could \nnever have tolerated such a nuisance. \n\nThe cost of his correspondence gives one no light \nidea of the demands made on his time, as well as \npurse, in another form. His postage for letters, in- \ndependently of franks, by which a large portion of it \nwas covered, amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds, \nit seems, in the course of the year. In this, indeed, \nshould be included ten pounds for a pair of unfortu- \nnate Cherokee Lovers, sent all the way from our own \nhappy land in order to be god-fathered by Sir Wal- \nter on the London boards. Perhaps the smart-money \nhe had to pay on this interesting occasion had its in- \nfluence in mixing up rather more acid than was nat- \nural to him in his judgments of our countrymen. At \nall events, the Yankees find little favour on the few \noccasions on which he has glanced at them in his \ncorrespondence. " I am not at all surprised," he \nsays, in a letter to Miss Edgeworth, "I am not at all \nsurprised at what you say of the Yankees. They \nure a people possessed of very considerable energy, \n\n\n\n204 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nquickened and brought into eager action by an hon- \nourable love of their country and pride in their in- \nstitutions; but they are as yet rude in their ideas of \nsocial intercourse, and tofally ignorant, speaking gen- \nerally, of all the art of good-breeding, which consists \nchiefly in a postponement of one\'s own petty wishes \nor comforts to those of others. By rude questions \nand observations, an absolute disrespect to other peo- \nple\'s feelings, and a ready indulgence of their own, \nthey make one feverish in their company, though \nperhaps you may be ashamed to confess the reason. \nBut this will wear off, and is already wearing away. \nMen, when they have once got benches, will soon \nfall into the use of cushions. They are advancing \nin the lists of our literature, and they will not be \nlong deficient in the petite morale, especially as they \nhave, like ourselves, the rage for travelling." On \nanother occasion, he does, indeed, admit having met \nwith, in the course of his life, " four or five well-let- \ntered Americans, ardent in pursuit of knowledge, \nand free from the ignorance and forward presump- \ntion which distinguish many of their countrymen." \nThis seems hard measure, but perhaps we should \nfind it difficult, among the many who have visited \nthis country, to recollect as great a number of Eng- \nlishmen \xe2\x80\x94 and Scotchmen to boot \xe2\x80\x94 entitled to a high- \ner degree of commendation. It can hardly be that \nthe well-informed and well-bred men of both coun- \ntries make a point of staying at home ; so we sup- \npose we must look for the solution of the matter in \nthe existence of some disagreeable ingredient, com- \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 205 \n\nmon to the characters of both nations, sprouting, as \nthey do, from a common stock, which remains latent \nat home, and is never fully disclosed till they get into \na foreign climate. But as this problem seems preg- \nnant with philosophical, physiological, and, for aught \nwe know, psychological matter, we have not courage \nfor it here, but recommend the solution to Miss Mar- \ntineau, to whom it will afford a very good title for a \nnew chapter in her next edition. The strictures we \nhave quoted, however, to speak more seriously, are \nworth attending to, coming as they do from a shrewd \nobserver, and one whose judgments, though here \nsomewhat coloured, no doubt, by political prejudice, \nare, in the main, distinguished by a sound and liberal \nphilanthropy. But were he ten times an enemy, we \nwould say, " Fas est ab hoste doceri." \n\nWith the splendid picture of the baronial resi- \ndence at Abbotsford, Mr. Lockhart closes all that at \nthis present writing we have received of his delight- \nful work in this country ; and in the last sentence \nthe melancholy sound of " the muffled drum" gives \nominous warning of what we are to expect in the \nsixth and concluding volume. In the dearth of more \nauthentic information, we will piece out our sketch \nwith a few facts gleaned from the somewhat meager \nbill of fare \xe2\x80\x94 meager by comparison with the rich \nbanquet of the true Amphitryon \xe2\x80\x94 afforded by the \n" Recollections" of Mr. Robert Pierce Gillies. \n\nThe unbounded popularity of the Waverley Nov- \nels led to still more extravagant anticipations on the \npart both of the publishers and author. Some hints \n4 S - \n\n\n\n2l)6 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof a faUing off, though but slightly, in the public fa- \nvoir, were unheeded by both parties, though, to say \ntruth, the exact state of things was never disclosed \nto Scott, it being Ballantyne\'s notion that it would \nprove a damper, and that the true course was " to \npress on more sail as the wind lulled." In these \nsanguine calculations, not only enormous sums, or, \nto speak correctly, bills, were given for what had been \nwritten, but the author\'s draughts, to the amount of \nmany thousand pounds, were accepted by Constable \nin favour of works, the very embryos of which lay, \nnot only unformed, but unimagined in the womb of \ntime. In return for this singular accommodation, \nScott was induced to endorse the draughts of his \npublisher, and in this way an amount of liabilities \nwas incurred, which, considering the character of the \nhouse and its transactions, it is altogether inexpli- \ncable that a person in the independent position of \nSir Walter Scott should have subjected himself to \nfor a moment. He seems to have had entire confi- \ndence in the stability of the firm, a confidence to \nwhich it seems, from Mr. Gillies\'s account, not to \nhave been entitled from the first moment of his con- \nnexion with it. The great reputation of the house, \nhowever, the success and magnitude of some of its \ntransactions, especially the publication of these nov- \nels, gave it a large credit, which enabled it to go \nforward with a great show of prosperity in ordinary \ntimes, and veiled its tottering state probably from \nConstable\'s own eyes. It is but the tale of yester- \nday. The case of Constable and Co. is, unhappily. \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 207 \n\na very familiar one to us. But when the hurricane \nof J 825 came on, it swept away all those buildings \nthat were not founded on a rock, and those of \nMessrs. Constable, among others, soon became lit- \nerally mere castles in the air \xe2\x80\x94 in plain English, the \nfirm stopped payment. The assets were very tri- \nfling in comparison with the debts ; and Sir Walter \nScott, was found on their paper to the frightful \namount of one hundred thousand pounds! \n\nHis conduct on the occasion was precisely what \nwas to have been anticipated from one who had de- \nclared on a similar, though much less appalling con- \njuncture, "I am always ready to make any sacri- \nfices to do justice to my engagements, and would \nrather sell anything, or everything, than be less \nthan a true man to the world." He put up his \nhouse and furniture in town at auction, delivered \nover his personal effects at Abbotsford, his plate, \nbooks, furniture, &c, to be held intrust for his cred- \nitors (the estate itself had been recently secured to \nhis son on occasion of his marriage), and bound \nhimself to discharge a certain amount annually of \nthe liabilities of the insolvent firm. He then, with \nhis characteristic energy, set about the performance \nof his Herculean task. He took lodgings in a third- \nrate house in St. David\'s-street, saw but little com- \npany, abridged the hours usually devoted to his meals \nand his family, gave up his ordinary exercise, and, in \nshort, adopted the severe habits of a regular Grub- \nstreet stipendiary. \n\n" For many years," he said to Mr. Gillies, " I have \n\n\n\n208 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbeen accustomed to hard work, because I found it a \npleasure ; now, with all due respect for Falstaff\'s \nprinciple, \'nothing on compulsion,\' I certainly will \nnot shrink from work because it has become neces- \nsary." \n\nOne of his first tasks was his "Life of Bonaparte," \nachieved in the space of thirteen months. For this \nhe received fourteen thousand pounds, about eleven \nhundred per month \xe2\x80\x94 not a bad bargain either, as it \nproved, for the publishers. The first two volumes \nof the nine which make up the English edition were \na rifacimento of what he had before compiled for the \n" Annual Register." With every allowance for the \ninaccuracies, and the excessive expansion incident to \nsuch a flashing rapidity of execution, the work, ta- \nking into view the broad range of its topics, its shrewd \nand sagacious reflections, and the free, bold, and pic- \nturesque colouring of its narration, and, above all, \nconsidering the brief time in ivhich it was written, is \nindisputably one of the most remarkable monuments \nof genius and industry \xe2\x80\x94 perhaps the most remarka- \nble ever recorded. \n\nScott\'s celebrity made everything that fell from \nhim, however trifling \xe2\x80\x94 the dewdrops from the lion\'s \nmane \xe2\x80\x94 of value. But none of the many adventures \nhe embarked in, or, rather, set afloat, proved so prof- \nitable as the republication of his novels, with his notes \nand illustrations. As he felt his own strength in the \nincreasing success of his labours, he appears to have \nrelaxed somewhat from them, and to have again re- \nsumed somewhat of his ancient habits, and, in a mit- \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 209 \n\nigated degree, his ancient hospitality. But still his \nexertions were too severe, and pressed heavily on \nthe springs of his health, already deprived by age of \ntheir former elasticity and vigour. At length, in \n1831, he was overtaken by one of those terrible \nshocks of paralysis which seem to have been con- \nstitutional in his family, but which, with more pre- \ncaution, and under happier auspices, might, doubtless, \nhave been postponed, if not wholly averted. At \nthis time he had, in the short space of little more \nthan five years, by his sacrifices and efforts, dischar- \nged about two thirds of the debt for which he was \nresponsible : an astonishing result, wholly unparal- \nleled in the history of letters ! There is something \ninexpressibly painful in this spectacle of a generous \nheart thus courageously contending with fortune, \nbearing up against the tide with unconquerable spir- \nit, and finally overwhelmed by it just within reach of \nshore. \n\nThe rest of his story is one of humiliation and \nsorrow. He was induced to take a voyage to the \nContinent to try the effect of a more genial climate. \nUnder the sunny sky of Italy, he seemed to gather \nnew strength for a while ; but his eye fell with in- \ndifference on the venerable monuments which, in \nbetter days, would have kindled all his enthusiasm. \nThe invalid sighed for his own home at Abbotsford. \nThe heat of the weather and the fatigue of rapid \n(ravel brought on another shock, which reduced him \nto a state of deplorable imbecility. In this condition \nbe returned to his own halls, where the sight of early \n4 S* \n\n\n\n210 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfriends, and of the beautiful scenery, the creation, as \nit were, of his own hands, seemed to impart a gleam \nof melancholy satisfaction, which soon, however, sunk \ninto insensibility. To his present situation might \nwell be applied the exquisite verses which he indi- \nted on another melancholy occasion : \n\n" Yet not the landscape to mine eye \n\nBears those bright hues that once it bore ; \nThough Evening, with her richest dye, \nFlames o\'er the hills of Ettrick\'s shore. \n\n" With listless look along the plain \nI see Tweed\'s silver current glide, \nAnd coldly mark the holy fane \nOf Melrose rise in ruined pride. \n\n" The quiet lake, the balmy air, \n\nThe hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, \nAre they still such as once they were, \nOr is the dreary change in me V \n\nProvidence, in its mercy, did not suffer the shatter- \ned frame long to outlive the glorious spirit which had \ninformed it. He breathed his last on the 21st of \nSeptember, 1832. His remains were deposited, as \nhe had always desired, in the hoary abbey of Dry- \nburgh, and the pilgrim from many a distant clime \nshall repair to the consecrated spot so long as the \nreverence for exalted genius and worth shall survive \nin the human heart. \n\nThis sketch, brief as we could make it, of the lit- \nerary history of Sir Walter Scott, has extended so far \nas to leave but little space for \xe2\x80\x94 what Lockhart\'s vol- \numes afford ample materials for \xe2\x80\x94 his personal char- \nacter. Take it for all and all, it is not too much to \nsay that this character is probably the mosf remark- \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 211 \n\nable on record. There is no man of historical ce- \nlebrity that we now recall, who combined, in so em- \ninent a degree, the highest qualities of the moral, \nthe intellectual, and the physical. He united in his \nown character what hitherto had been found incom- \npatible. Though a poet, and living in an ideal \nworld, he was an exact, methodical man of busi- \nness; though achieving with the most wonderful fa- \ncility of genius, he was patient and laborious ; a \nmousing antiquarian, yet with the most active in- \nterest in the present, and whatever was going on \naround him ; with a strong turn for a roving life \nand military adventure, he was yet chained to his \ndesk more hours, at some periods of his life, than a \nmonkish recluse ; a man with a heart as capacious \nas his head ; a Tory, brim full of Jacobitism, yet \nfull of sympathy and unaffected familiarity with all \nclasses, even the humblest; a successful author, with- \nout pedantry and without conceit ; one, indeed, at \nthe head of the republic of letters, and yet with a \nlower estimate of letters, as compared with other in- \ntellectual pursuits, than was ever hazarded before. \n\nThe first quality of his character, or, rather, that \nwhich forms the basis of it, as of all great characters, \nwas his energy. We see it, in his early youth, tri- \numphing over the impediments of nature, and, in \nspite of lameness, making him conspicuous in every \nsort of athletic exercise \xe2\x80\x94 clambering up dizzy pre- \ncipices, wading through treacherous fords, and per- \nforming feats of pedestrianism that make one\'s joints \nacne to read of. As he advanced in life, we see the \n\n\n\n212 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsame force of purpose turned to higher objects. A \nstriking example occurs in his organization of the \njournals and the publishing house in opposition to \nConstable. In what Herculean drudgery did not \nthis latter business, in which he undertook to supply \nmatter for the nimble press of Ballantyne, involve \nhim ! while, in addition to his own concerns, he had \nto drag along by his solitary momentum a score of \nheavier undertakings, that led Lockhart to compare \nhim to a steam-engine, with a train of coal wagons \nhitched to it. "Yes," said Scott, laughing, and ma- \nking a crashing cut with his axe (for they were fell- \ning larches), " and there was a cursed lot of dung \ncarts too." \n\nWe see the same powerful energies triumphing \nover disease at a later period, when nothing but a \nresolution to get the better of it enabled him to do \nso. "Be assured," he remarked to Mr. Gillies, "that \nif pain could have prevented my application to lit- \nerary labour, not a page of Ivanhoe would have \nbeen written. Now if I had given way to mere \nfeelings, and ceased to work, it is a question whether \nthe disorder might not have taken a deeper root, and \nbecome incurable." But the most extraordinary in- \nstance of this trait is the readiness with which he \nassumed and the spirit with which he carried through, \ntill his mental strength broke down under it, the gi- \ngantic task imposed on him by the failure of Constable \n\nIt mattered little what the nature of the task was \nwhether it were organizing an opposition to a polit- \nical faction, or a troop of cavalry to resist invasion \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 213 \n\nor a medley of wild Highlanders or Edinburgh cock- \nneys to make up a royal puppet-show \xe2\x80\x94 a loyal eel \nebration \xe2\x80\x94 for "His Most Sacred Majesty" \xe2\x80\x94 he was \nthe master-spirit that gave the cue to the whole \ndramatis personce. This potent impulse showed it- \nself in the thoroughness with which he prescribed, \nnot merely the general orders, but the execution of \nthe minutest details, in his own person. Thus all \naround him was the creation, as it were, of his in- \ndividual exertion. His lands waved with forests \nplanted with his own hands, and, in process of time, \ncleared by his own hands. He did not lay the stones \nin mortar, exactly, for his whimsical castle, but he \nseems to have superintended the operation from the \nfoundation to the battlements. The antique relics, the \ncurious works of art, the hangings and furniture, even, \nwith which his halls were decorated, were specially \ncontrived or selected by him ; and, to read his letters \nat this time to his friend Terry, one might fancy \nhimself perusing the correspondence of an uphol- \nsterer, so exact and technical is he in his instructions \nWe say this not in disparagement of his great qual- \nities. It is only the more extraordinary ; for, while \nhe stooped to such trifles, he was equally thorough \nin matters of the highest moment. It was a trait of \ncharacter. \n\nAnother quality, which, like the last, seems to have \ngiven the tone to his character, was his social or be- \nnevolent feelings. His heart was an unfailing fount- \nain, which not merely the distresses, but the joys of \nhis fellow-creatures made to flow like water. In \n\n\n\n23 4 BxOGRAPHlCAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nearly life, and possibly sometimes in ater, high spir- \nits and a vigorous constitution led him occasionally \nto carry his social propensities into convivial excess; \nbut he never was in danger of the habitual excess \nto which a vulgar mind \xe2\x80\x94 and sometimes, alas ! one \nmore finely tuned \xe2\x80\x94 abandons itself. With all his \nconviviality, it was not the sensual relish, but the so- \ncial, which acted on him. He was neither gourme \nnor gourmand; but his social meetings were endear- \ned to him by the free interchange of kindly feelings \nwith his friends. La Bruyere says (and it is odd \nhe should have found it out in Louis the Four- \nteenth\'s court), " the heart has more to do than the \nhead with the pleasures, or, rather, promoting the \npleasures of society ;" "Un homme est d\'un meilleur \ncommerce dans la societe par le cceur que par l\'es- \nprit." If report \xe2\x80\x94 the report of travellers \xe2\x80\x94 be true, \nwe Americans, at least the New-Englanders, are too \nmuch perplexed with the cares and crosses of life to \nafford many genuine specimens of this boiihommie \nHowever this may be, we all, doubtless, know some \nsuch character, whose shining face, the index of a \ncordial heart, radiant with beneficent pleasure, diffu- \nses its own exhilarating glow wherever it appears. \nRarely, indeed, is this precious quality found united \nwith the most exalted intellect. Whether it be that \nNature, chary of her gifts, does not care to shower \ntoo many of them on one head ; or that the public \nadmiration has led the man of intellect to set too \nhigh a value on himself, or at least his own pursuits, \nto take an interest in the inferior concerns of others; \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 215 \n\n;>r that the fear of compromising bis dignity puts him \n" on points" with those who approach him ; or \nwhether, in truth, the very magnitude of his own \nreputation throws a freezing shadow over us little \npeople in his neighbourhood \xe2\x80\x94 whatever be the \ncause, it is too true that the highest powers of mind \nare very often deficient in the only one which can \nmake the rest of much worth in society \xe2\x80\x94 the power \nof pleasing. \n\nScott was not one of these little great. His was \nnot one of those dark-lantern visages which concen- \ntrate all their light on their own path, and are black \nas midnight to all about them. He had a ready \nsympathy, a word of contagious kindness, or cordial \ngreeting, for all. His manners, too, were of a kind \nto dispel the icy reserve and awe which his great \nname was calculated to inspire. His frank address \nwas a sort of open- sesame to every heart. He did \nnot deal in sneers, the poisoned weapons which \ncome not from the head, as the man who launches \nthem is apt to think, but from an acid heart, or, per- \nhaps, an acid stomach, a very common laboratoiy of \nsuch small artillery. Neither did Scott amuse the \ncompany with parliamentary harangues or meta- \nphysical disquisitions. His conversation was of the \nnarrative kind, not formal, but as casually suggested \n6y some passing circumstance or topic, and thrown \nin by w T ay of illustration. He did not repeat him- \nself, however, but continued to give his anecdotes \nsuch variations, by rigging them out in a new "cc ek- \ned hat and walking-cane," as he called it, that f \\ey \n\n\n\n216 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nnever tired like the thrice-told tale of a chronic ra* \nconteur. He allowed others, too, to take their turn, \nand thought with the Dean of St. Patrick\'s : \n\n" Carve to all, but just enough, \nLet them neither starve nor stuff: \nAnd, that you may have your due, \nLet your neighbours carve for you." \n\nHe relished a good joke, from whatever quarter it \ncame, and was not over-dainty in his manner of \ntestifying his satisfaction. " In the full tide of mirth, \nhe did indeed laugh the heart\'s laugh," says Mr. \nAdolphus. "Give me an honest laugher," said Scott \nhimself, on another occasion, when a buckram man \nof fashion had been paying him a visit at Abbots- \nford. His manners, free from affectation or artifice \nof any sort, exhibited the spontaneous movements \nof a kind disposition, subject to those rules of good \nbreeding which Nature herself might have dictated. \nIn this way he answered his own purpose admira- \nbly as a painter of character, by putting every man \nin good humour with himself, in the same manner \nas a cunning portrait-painter amuses his sitters with \nsuch store of fun and anecdote as may throw them \noff their guard, and call out the happiest expressions \nof their countenances. \n\nScott, in his wide range of friends and compan- \nions, does not seem to have been over-fastidious. \nIn the instance of John Ballantyne, it has exposed \nhim to some censure. In truth, a more worthless \nfellow never hung on the skirts of a great man ; for \nhe did not take the trouble to throw a decent veil \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 217 \n\nover the grossest excesses. But then he had been \nthe schoolboy friend of Scott ; had grown up with \nhim in a sort of dependance \xe2\x80\x94 a relation which be- \ngets a kindly feeling in the party that confers the \nbenefits, at least. How strong it was in him may \nbe inferred from his remark at his funeral. " I feel," \nsaid Scott, mournfully, as the solemnity was con- \ncluded, "I feel as if there would be less sunshine for \nme from this day forth." It must be admitted, how- \never, that his intimacy with little Rigdumfunnidos, \nwhatever apology it may find in Scott\'s heart, was \nnot very creditable to his taste. \n\nBut the benevolent principle showed itself not \nmerely in words, but in the more substantial form \nof actions. How many are the cases recorded of \nindigent merit, which he drew from obscurity, and \nalmost warmed into life by his own generous and \nmost delicate patronage ! Such were the cases, \namong others, of Leyden, Weber, Hogg. How \noften and how cheerfully did he supply such litera- \nry contributions as were solicited by his friends \xe2\x80\x94 \nand they taxed him pretty liberally \xe2\x80\x94 amid all the \npressure of business, and at the height of his fame, \nwhen his hours were golden hours to him ! In the \nmore vulgar and easier forms of charity, he did not \nstint his hand, though, instead of direct assistance, \nhe preferred to enable others to assist themselves ; \nm this way fortifying their good habits, and reliev- \ning them from the sense of personal degradation. \n\nBut the place where his benevolent impulses \nfound their proper theatre for expansion was his \n4 T \n\n\n\n218 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nown home ; surrounded by a happy family, and dis- \npensing all the hospitalities of a great feudal propri- \netor. " There are many good things in life," he \nsays, in one of his letters, "whatever satirists and \nmisanthropes may say to the contrary ;. but proba- \nbly the best of all, next to a conscience void of of- \nfence (without which, by-the-by, they can hardly \nexist), are the quiet exercise and enjoyment of the \nsocial feelings, in which we are at once happy our- \nselves, and the cause of happiness to them who are \ndearest to us." Every page of the work, almost, \nshows us how intimately he blended himself with \nthe pleasures and the pursuits of his own family, \nwatched over the education of his children, shared \nin their rides, their rambles, and sports, losing no op- \nportunity of kindling in their young minds a love of \nvirtue, and honourable principles of action. He de- \nlighted, too, to collect his tenantry around him, mul- \ntiplying holydays, wdien young and old might come \ntogether under his roof-tree, when the jolly punch \nwas liberally dispensed by himself and his wife \namong the elder people, and the Hogmanay cakes \nand pennies were distributed among the young ones; \nwhile his own children mingled in the endless reels \nand hornpipes on the earthen floor, and the laird \nhimself, mixing in the groups of merry faces, had \n" his private joke for every old wife or \'gausie carle,\' \nhis arch compliment for the ear of every bonny lass, \nand his hand and his blessing for the head of every \nlittle Eppie Daidle from Abbotstown or Broomylees." \n" Sir Waiter," said one of his old retainers, " speaks \n\n\n\nSift WALTER SCOTT. 219 \n\nto every man as if he were his blood relation." Ne \nwonder that they should have returned this feeling \nwith something warmer than blood relations usually \ndo. Mr. Gillies tells an anecdote of the Ettrick \nShepherd, showing how deep a root such feelings, \nnotwithstanding his rather odd way of expressing \nthem, sometimes, had taken in his honest nature. \n"Mr. James Ballantyne, walking home with him \none evening from Scott\'s, where, by-the-by, Hogg \nhad gone uninvited, happened to observe, \' I do not \nat all like this illness of Scott\'s. I have often seen \nhim look jaded of late, and am afraid it is serious/ \n\' Haud your tongue, or I\'ll gar you measure your \nlength on the pavement !\' replied Hogg. \' You \nfause, down-hearted loon that you are ; ye daur to \nspeak as if Scott were on his death-bed ! It cannot \nbe \xe2\x80\x94 it must not be ! I will not suffer you to speak \nthat gait.\' The sentiment was like that of Uncle \nToby at the bedside of Le Fevre ; and, at these \nw 7 ords, the Shepherd\'s voice became suppressed with \nemotion." \n\nBut Scott\'s sympathies were not confined to his \nspecies , and if he treated them like blood relations, \nhe treated his brute followers like personal friends. \nEvery one remembers old Maida and faithful Camp, \nthe " dear old friend," whose loss cost him a dinner. \nMr. Gillies tells us that he went into his study on \non* 3 occasion, when he was winding off his " Vision \nof Don Roderick." " \'Look here,\' said the poet, \' I \nhave just begun to copy over the rhymes that you \nheard to-day and applauded so much. Return to \n\n\n\n220 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsupper if you can ; only don\'t, be late, as you per- \nceive we keep early hours, and Wallace will not suf- \nfer me to rest after six in the morning. Come, good \ndog, and help the poet.\' At this hint, Wallace seat- \ned himself upright on a chair next his master, who \noffered him a newspaper, which he directly seized, \nlooking very wise, and holding it firmly and content- \nedly in his mouth. Scott looked at him with great \nsatisfaction, for he was excessively fond of dogs. \n\' Very well,\' said he ; \' now we shall get on/ And so \nI left them abruptly, knowing that my \' absence \nwould be the best company.\' " This fellowship ex- \ntended much farther than to his canine followers, of \nwhich, including hounds, terriers, mastiffs, and mon- \ngrels, he had certainly a goodly assortment. We \nfind, also, Grimalkin installed in a responsible post in \nthe library, and out of doors pet hens, pet donkeys, \nand \xe2\x80\x94 tell it not in Judaea \xe2\x80\x94 a pet pig ! \n\nScott\'s sensibilities, though easily moved and \nwidely diffused, were warm and sincere. None \nshared more cordially in the troubles of his friends ; \nbut on all such occasions, with a true manly feeling, \nhe thought less of mere sympathy than of the most \neffectual way for mitigating their sorrows. After a \ntouching allusion in one of his epistles to his dear \nfriend Erskine\'s death, he concludes, " I must turn \nto and see what can be done about getting some pen- \nsion for his daughters." In another passage, which \nmay remind one of some of the exquisite touches m \nJeremy Taylor, he indulges in the following beauti- \nful strain of philosophy : " The last three or four \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 221 \n\nyears have swept away more than half the friends \nwith whom I lived in habits of great intimacy. So \nit must be with us \n\n\' When ance life\'s day draws near the gloamin\',\' \n\nand yet we proceed with our plantations and plans \nas if any tree but the sad cypress would accompany \nus to the grave, where our friends have gone before \nus. It is the way of the world, however, and must \nhe so ; otherwise life would be spent in unavailing \nmourning for those whom we have lost. It is better \nto enjoy the society of those who remain to us." \nHis well-disciplined heart seems to have confessed \nthe influence of this philosophy in his most ordinary \nrelations. "I can\'t help it," was a favourite maxim \nof his, " and therefore will not think about it ; for \nthat, at least, I can help." \n\nAmong his admirable qualities must not be omit- \nted a certain worldly sagacity or shrewdness, which \nis expressed as strongly as any individual trait can \nbe in some of his portraits, especially in the excellent \none of him by Leslie. Indeed, his countenance \n\'would seem to exhibit, ordinarily, much more of \nDandie Dinmont\'s benevolent shrewdness than of \nthe eye glancing from earth to heaven, which in \nfancy we assign to the poet, and which, in some \nmoods, must have been his. This trait may be \nreadily discerned in his business transactions, which \nhe managed with perfect knowledge of character as \nwell as of his own rights. No one knew better than \nhe the market value of an article ; and, though he \n\xe2\x96\xa04 T* \n\n\n\n222 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nunderrated his literary wares as to their mere liter- \nary rank, he set as high a money value on them, and \nmade as sharp a bargain as any of the trade could \nhave done. In his business concerns, indeed, he \nmanaged rather too much, or, to speak more cor- \nrectly, was too fond of mixing up mystery in his \ntransactions, which, like most mysteries, proved of \nlittle service to their author. Scott\'s correspond- \nence, especially with his son, affords obvious exam- \nples of shrewdness, in the advice he gives as to his \ndeportment in the novel situations and society intc \nwhich the young cornet was thrown. Occasionally, \nin the cautious hints about etiquette and social ob- \nservances, we may be reminded of that ancient \n\' arbiter elegantiarum," Lord Chesterfield, though \nit must be confessed there is throughout a high \nmoral tone, which the noble lord did not very scru- \npulously affect. \n\nAnother feature in Scott\'s character was his loy- \nalty, which some people would extend into a more \ngeneral deference to rank not royal. We do cer- \ntainly meet with a tone of deference, occasionally, \nto the privileged orders (or, rather, privileged per- \nsons, as the king, or his own chief, for to the mass \nof stars and garters he showed no such respect), \nwhich falls rather unpleasantly on the ear of a Re- \npublican. But, independently of the feelings which \nrightfully belonged to him as the subject of a mon- \narchy, and without which he must have been a false- \nhearted subject, his own were heightened by a poet- \nical colouring, that mingled in his mind even with \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 223 \n\nmuch more vulgar relations of life. At the opening \nof the regalia in Holyrood House, when the honest \nburgomaster deposited the crown on the head of one \nof the young ladies present, the good man probably \nsaw nothing more in the clingy diadem than we \nshould have seen \xe2\x80\x94 a headpiece for a set of men no \nbetter than himself, and, if the old adage of a " dead \nlion" holds true, not quite so good. But to Scott\'s \nimagination other views were unfolded. " A thou- \nsand years their cloudy wings expanded" around \nhim, and, in the dim visions of distant times, he be- \nheld the venerable line of monarchs who had swayed \nthe councils of his country in peace and led her ar- \nmies in battle. The " golden round" became in his \neye the symbol of his nation\'s glory ; and as he heav- \ned a heavy oath from his heart, he left the room in \nagitation, from which he did not speedily recover. \nThere was not a spice of affectation in this \xe2\x80\x94 for who \never accused Scott of affectation ? \xe2\x80\x94 but there was a \ngood deal of poetry, the poetry of sentiment. \n\nWe have said that this feeling mingled in the \nmore common concerns of his life. His cranium, \nindeed, to judge from his busts, must have exhibited \na strong development of the organ of veneration. He \nregarded with reverence everything connected with \nantiquity. His establishment was on the feudal \nscale ; his house was fashioned more after the feudal \nages than his own ; and even in the ultimate distri- \nbution of his fortune, although the circumstance of \nhaving made it himself relieved him from any legal \nnecessity of contravening the suggestions of natural \n\n\n\n224 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\njustice, he showed such attachment to the old aristo- \ncratic usage as to settle nearly the whole of it on his \neldest son. \n\nThe influence of this poetic sentiment is discern- \nible in his most trifling acts, in his tastes, his love of \nthe arts, his social habits. His museum, house, and \ngrounds were adorned with relics, curious not so \nmuch from their workmanship as their historic asso- \nciations. It was the ancient fountain from Edin- \nburgh, the Tolbooth lintels, the blunderbuss and \nspleughan of Rob Roy, the drinking-cup of Prince \nCharlie, or the like. It was the same in the arts. \nThe tunes he loved were not the refined and com- \nplex melodies of Italy, but the simple notes of his \nnative minstrelsy, from the bagpipe of John of Skye, \nor from the harp of his own lovely and accomplish- \ned daughter. So, also, in painting. It was not the \nmasterly designs of the great Flemish and Italian \nschools that adorned his walls, but some portrait of \nClaverhouse, or of Queen Mary, or of "glorious old \nJohn." Jn architecture we see the same spirit in \nthe singular " romance of stone and lime," which \nmay be said to have been his own device, dow T n to \nthe minutest details of its finishing. We see it again \nin the joyous celebrations of his feudal tenantry, the \ngood old festivals, the Hogmanay, the Kirn, &c, \nlong fallen into desuetude, when the old Highland \npiper sounded the same wild pibroch that had so \noften summoned the clans together, for war or foi \nwassail, among the fastnesses of the mountains. To \nthe s\'ime source, in fine, may be traced the feelings \n\n\n\nSIR WAL1LR SCOTT. 225 \n\nof superstition which seemed to hover round Scott\'s\' \nmind like some " strange, mysterious dream," giving \na romantic colouring to his conversation and his \nwritings, but rarely, if ever, influencing his actions. \nIt was a poetic sentiment. \n\nScott was a Tory to the backbone. Had he \ncome into the world half a century sooner, he \nwould, no doubt, have made a figure under the ban- \nner of the Pretender. He was at no great pains to \ndisguise his political creed ; witness his jolly drink- \ning-song on the acquittal of Lord Melville. This \nwas verse ; but his prose is not much more qualified. \n" As for Whiggery in general," he says, in one of \nhis letters, " I can only say that, as no man can be \nsaid to be utterly overset until his rump has been \nhigher than his head, so I cannot read in history of \nany free state which has been brought to slavery \nuntil the rascal and uninstructed populace had had \ntheir short hour of anarchical government, which \nnaturally leads to the stern repose of military des- \npotism With these convictions, I am very jeal- \nous of Whiggery under all modifications, and I must \nsay my acquaintance with the total want of principle \nin some of its warmest professors does not tend to \nrecommend it." With all this, however, his Toryism \nwas not, practically, of that sort which blunts a man\'s \nsensibilities for those whc are not of the same por- \ncelain clay with himself. No man, Whig or Radical, \never had less of this pretension, or treated his infe- \nriors with greater kindness, and even familiarity ; a \ncircumstance noticed by every visiter at his hospi- \n\nFf \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n226 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntable mansion who saw him strolling round his \ngrounds, taking his pinch of snuff out of the mull of \nsome " gray- haired old hedger," or leaning on honest \nTom Purdie\'s shoulder, and taking sweet counsel as \nto the right method of thinning a plantation. But, \nwith all this familiarity, no man was better served \nby his domestics. It was the service of love, the \nonly service that power cannot command and money \ncannot buy. \n\nAkin to the feelings of which we have been speak- \ning was the truly chivalrous sense of honour which \nstamped his whole conduct. We do not mean that \nHotspur honour which is roused only by the drum \nand fife \xe2\x80\x94 though he says of himself, " I like the sound \nof a drum as well as Uncle Toby ever did" \xe2\x80\x94 but \nthat honour which is deep-seated in the heart of ev- \nery true gentleman, shrinking w 7 ith sensitive delica- \ncy from the least stain, or imputation of a stain, on \nhis faith. "If we lose everything else," writes he, on \na trying occasion to a friend who was not so nice in \nthis particular, " we will at least keep our honour un- \nblemished." It reminds one of the pithy epistle of a \nkindred chivalrous spirit, Francis the First, to his \nmother, from the unlucky field of Pavia : " Tout esl \nperdu, fors Thonreur." Scott\'s latter years furnished \na noble commentary on the sincerity of his manly \nprinciples. \n\nLittle is said directly of his religious sentiments in \nthe biography. They seem to have harmonized well \nwith his political. He was a member of the English \nChurch, a stanch champion of established forms, and \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 227 \n\na sturdy enemy to everything that savoured of the \nsharp tang of Puritanism. On this ground, indeed, \nthe youthful Samson used to wrestle manfully witn \nworthy Dominie Mitchell, who, no doubt, furnished \nmany a screed of doctrine for the Rev. Peter Pound- \ntext, Master Nehemiah Holdenough, and other lights \nof the Covenant. Scott was no friend to cant under \nany form. But, whatever were his speculative opin- \nions, in practice his heart overflowed with that \ncharity which is the life-spring of our religion ; and \nwhenever he takes occasion to allude to the subject \ndirectly, he testifies a deep reverence for the truths \nof revelation, as well as for its Divine original. \n\nWhatever estimate be formed of Scott\'s moral \nqualities, his intellectual were of a kind which well \nentitled him to the epithet conferred on Lope de \nVega, " monstruo de naturaleza" (a miracle of na- \nture). His mind scarcely seemed to be subjected \nto the same laws that control the rest of his species. \nHis memory, as is usual, was the first of his powers \nfully developed. While an urchin at school, he \ncould repeat w 7 hole cantos, he says, of Ossian and \nof Spenser. In riper years we are constantly meet- \ning with similar feats of his achievement. Thus, \non one occasion, he repeated the whole of a poem \nin some penny magazine, incidentally alluded to, \nwhich he had not seen since he was a schoolboy. \nOn another, when the Ettrick Shepherd was trying \nineffectually to fish up from his own recollections \nsome scraps of a ballad he had himself manufactured \nyears before. Scott called to him, "Take your pencil, \n\n\n\n228 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nJ em my, and I will tell it to you, word for word ;" \nand he accordingly did so. But it is needless to \nmultiply examples of feats so startling as to look \nalmost like the tricks of a conjuror. \n\nWhat is most extraordinary is, that while he ac- \nquired with such facility, that the bare perusal, or \nthe repetition of a thing once to him, was sufficient, \nhe yet retained it with the greatest pertinacity. \nOther men\'s memories are so much jostled in the \nrough and tumble of life, that most of the facts get \nsifted out nearly as fast as they are put in ; so that \nwe are in the same dilemma with those unlucky \ndaughters of Panaris, of schoolboy memory, obliged \nto spend the greater part of the time in replenishing. \nBut Scott\'s memory seemed to be hermetically seal- \ned, suffering nothing once fairly in to leak out again. \nThis was of immense service to him when he took \nup the business of authorship, as his whole multifa \nrious stock of facts, whether from books or observa- \ntion, became, in truth, his stock in trade, ready fur- \nnished to his hands. This may explain in part \xe2\x80\x94 \nthough it is not less marvellous \xe2\x80\x94 the cause of his \nrapid execution of works, often replete with rare \nand curious information. The labour, the prepara- \ntion, had been already completed. His whole life \nhad been a business of preparation. When he ven- \ntured, as in the case of " Rokeby" and of " Quentin \nDurward," on ground with which he had not been \nfamiliar, we see how industriously he set about new \nacquisitions. \n\nIn most of the prodigies of memory which we \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 229 \n\nhave ever known, the overgrowth of that faculty \nseems to have been attained at the expense of all \nthe others ; but in Scott, the directly opposite power \nof the imagination, the inventive power, was equally \nstrongly developed, and at the same early age ; for \nwe find him renowned for story-craft while at \nschool. How many a delightful fiction, warm with \nthe flush of ingenuous youth, did he not throw away \non the ears of thoughtless childhood, which, had \nthey been duly registered, might now have amused \nchildren of a larger growth ! We have seen Scott\'s \ngenius in its prime and its decay. The frolic graces \nof childhood are alone wanting. \n\nThe facility with which he threw his ideas into \nlanguage was also remarked very early. One of his \nfirst ballads, and a long one, was dashed off at the \ndinner-table. His "Lay" was written at the rate \nof a canto a week. " Waverley," or, rather, the last \ntwo volumes of it, cost the evenings of a summer \nmonth. Who that has ever read the account can \nforget the movements of that mysterious hand, as \ndescribed by the two students from the window of \na neighbouring attic, throwing off sheet after sheet, \nwith untiring rapidity, of the pages destined to im- \nmortality 1 Scott speaks pleasantly enough of this \nmarvellous facility in a letter to his friend Morritt: \n" When once I set my pen to the paper, it will walk \nfast enough. I am sometimes tempted to leave it \nalone, and see whether it will not write as well \nwithout the assistance of my head as with it. A \nhopeful prospect for the reader." \n\n\n\n230 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nAs to the time and place of composition, he ap- \npears to have been nearly indifferent. He possessed \nentire power of abstraction, and it mattered little \nwhether he were nailed to his clerk\'s desk, under the \ndrowsy eloquence of some long-winded barrister, or \ndashing his horse into the surf on Portobello sands, \nor rattling in a post-chaise, or amid the hum of guests \nin his overflowing halls at Abbotsford \xe2\x80\x94 it mattered \nnot ; the same well-adjusted little packet, " nicely \ncorded and sealed," was sure to be ready, at the \nregular time, for the Edinburgh mail. His own ac- \ncount of his composition to a friend, who asked \nwhen he found time for it, is striking enough. " Oh," \nsaid Scott, " I lie simmering over things for an hour \nor so before I get up, and there\'s the time I am \ndressing to overhaul my half sleeping, half waking \nprojet de chapitre ; and when I get the paper before \nme, it commonly runs off pretty easily. Besides, I \noften take a doze in the plantations, and while Tom \nmarks out a dike or a drain as I have directed, \none\'s fancy may be running its ain riggs in some \nother w 7 orld." Never did this sort of simmering \nproduce such a splendid bill of fare. \n\nThe quality of the material, under such circum- \nstances, is, in truth, the great miracle of the whole. \nThe execution of so much work, as a mere feat of \npenmanship, would undoubtedly be very extraordi- \nnary, but as a mere scrivener\'s miracle, would be \nhardly worth recording. It is a sort of miiacle that \nis every day performing under our own eyes, as it \nwere, by Messrs James, Bulvver, & Co., who, in all \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 231 \n\nthe various staples of " comedy, history, pastoral- \ncomical, historical-pastoral," &c, supply their own \nmarket, and ours too, with all that can be wanted. \nIn Spain, and in Italy also, we may find abundance \nof improvvisator\'i and improvvisatrici, who perform \nmiracles of the same sort, in verse, too, in languages \nwhose vowel terminations make it very easy for the \nthoughts to tumble into rhyme, without any malice \nprepense. Sir Stamford Raffles, in his account of \nJava, tells us of a splendid avenue of trees before his \nhouse, which in the course of a year shot up to the \nheight of forty feet. But who shall compare the \nbrief, transitory splendours of a fungus vegetation with \nthe mighty monarch of the forest, sending his roots \ndeep into the heart of the earth, and his branches, \namid storm and sunshine, to the heavens 1 And is \nnot the latter the true emblem of Scott 1 For who \ncan doubt that his prose creations, at least, will gath- \ner strength with time, living on through succeed- \ning generations, even when the language in which \nthey are written, like those of Greece and Rome, \nshall cease to be a living language ? \n\nThe only writer deserving, in these respects, to \nbe named with Scott, is Lope de Vega, who in his \nown day held as high a rank in the republic "of let- \nters as our great contemporary. The beautiful dra- \nmas which he threw off for the entertainment of the \ncapital, and whose success drove Cervantes from the \nstage, outstripped the abilities of an amanuensis to \ncopy. His intimate friend, Montalvan, one of the \nmost popular and prolific authors of the time, tells \n\n\n\n232 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nas that he undertook with Lope once to supply the \ntheatre with a comedy \xe2\x80\x94 in verse, and in three acts, \nas the Spanish dramas usually were \xe2\x80\x94 at a very short \nnotice. In order to get through his half as soon as \nhis partner, he rose by two in the morning, and at \neleven had completed it; an extraordinary feat, cer- \ntainly, since a play extended to between thirty and \nforty pages, of a hundred lines each. Walking into \nthe garden, he found his brother poet pruning an \norange-tree. " Well, how do you get on V said \nMontalvan. " Very well," answered Lope. "I rose \nbetimes \xe2\x80\x94 at five ; and after I had got through, eat \nmy breakfast ; since which I have written a letter of \nfifty triplets, and watered the whole of the garden, \nwhich has tired me a good deal." \n\nBut a little arithmetic will best show the compar- \native fertility of Scott and Lope de Vega. It is so \ngerman to the present matter, that we shall make \nno apology for transcribing here some computations \nfrom our last July number ; and as few of our read- \ners, we suspect, have the air-tight memory of Sir \nWalter, we doubt not that enough of it has escaped \nthem by this time to excuse us from equipping it with \none of those " cocked hats and walking-sticks" with \nwhich he furbished up an old story. \n\n" It is impossible to state the results of Lope de \nVega\'s labours in any form that will not powerfully \nstrike the imagination. Thus, he has left twenty- \none million three hundred thousand verses in print, \nbesides a mass of manuscript. He furnished the \ntheatre, according to the statement of his intimate \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 233 \n\nfriend, Montalvan, with eighteen hundred regular \nplays, and lour hundred autos or religious dramas \xe2\x80\x94 \nall acted He composed, according to his own state- \nment, more than one hundred comedies in the al- \nmost incredible space of twenty-four hours each ; \nand a comedy averaged between two and three thou- \nsand verses, great part of them rhymed, and inter- \nspersed with sonnets, and other more difficult forms \nof versification. He lived seventy-two years ; and \nsupposing him to have employed fifty of that period \nin composition, although he filled a variety of en- \ngrossing vocations during that time, he must have \naveraged a play a week, to say nothing of twenty- \none volumes, quarto, of miscellaneous works, inclu- \nding five epics, written in his leisure moments, and \nall now in print ! \n\n" The only achievements we can recall in liter- \nary history bearing any resemblance to, though fall- \ning far short of this, are those of our illustrious con- \ntemporary, Sir Walter Scott. The complete edition \nof his works, recently advertised by Murray, with \nthe edition of two volumes of which Murray has \nnot the copyright, probably contains ninety volumes, \nsmall octavo. [To these should farther be added a \nlarge supply of matter for the Edinburgh Annua! \nRegister, as well as other anonymous contributions.] \nOf these, forty-eight volumes of novels, and twenty- \none of history and biography, were produced be- \ntween 1814 and 1831, or in seventeen years. These \nwould give an average of four volumes a year, or \n\xe2\x80\xa2 me for every three months during the whole of that \n4 U* \n\n\n\n234 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nperiod ; to which must be added twenty-one vol- \numes of poetry and pro.se, previously published. The \nmere mechanical execution of so much work, both \nin his case and Lope de Vega\'s, would seem to be \nscarce possible in the limits assigned. Scott, too, \nwas as variously occupied in other ways as his \nSpanish rival ; and probably, from the social hospi- \ntality of his life, spent a much larger portion of his \ntime in no literary occupation at all." \n\nOf all the wonderful dramatic creations of Lope \nde Vega\'s genius, what now remains 1 Two or \nthree plays only keep possession of the stage, and \nfew, very few, are still read with pleasure in the \ncloset. They have never been collected into a uni- \nform edition, and are now met with in scattered \nsheets only on the shelves of some mousing book- \nseller, or collected in miscellaneous parcels in the \nlibraries of the curious. \n\nScott, with all his facility of execution, had none \nof that pitiable affectation sometimes found in men \nof genius, who think that the possession of this qual- \nity may dispense with regular, methodical habits of \nstudy. He was most economical of time. He did \nnot, like Voltaire, speak of it as " a terrible thing \nthat so much time should be wasted in talking." \nHe was too little of a pedant, and far too benevo- \nlent, not to feel that there are other objects worth \nliving for than mere literary fame ; but he grudged \nthe waste of time on merely frivolous and heartless \nobjects. " As for dressing when we are quite alone," \nhe remarked one day to Mr. Gillies, whom he had \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 235 \n\ntaken home with him to a family dinner, "it is oul \nof the question. Life is not long enough for such \nfiddle-faddle." In the early part of his life he worked \nlate at night, but, subsequently, from a conviction of \nthe superior healthiness of early rising, as well as \nthe desire to secure, at all hazards, a portion of the \nday for literary labour, he rose at five the year \nround ; no small effort, as any one will admit who \nhas seen the pain and difficulty which a regular bird \nof night finds in reconciling his eyes to daylight. \nHe was scrupulously exact, moreover, in tli\xe2\x82\xac distri- \nbution of his hours. In one of his letters to his \nfriend Terry, the player, replete, as usual, with ad- \nvice that seems to flow equally from the head and \nthe heart, he says, in reference to the practice of \ndawdling away one\'s time, " A habit of the mind it \nis which is very apt to beset men of intellect and \ntalent, especially when their time is not regularly \nfilled up, but. left to their own arrangement. But it \nis like the ivy round the oak, and ends by limiting, \nif it does not destroy, the power of manly and ne- \ncessary exertion. I must love a man so well, to \nwhom I offer such a word of advice, that I will not \napologize for it, but expect to hear you are become \nas regular as a Dutch clock \xe2\x80\x94 hours, quarters, minutes, \nall marked and appropriated." With the same em- \nphasis he inculcates the like habits on his son. If \nany man might dispense with them, it was surely \nScott. But he knew that without them the greatest \npowers of mind will run to waste, and water but the \ndesert. \n\n\n\n236 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nSome of the literary opinions of Scott are singu- \nlar, considering, too, the position he occupied in the \nworld of letters. " I promise you," he says, in an \nepistle to an old friend, " my oaks will outlast my \nlaurels ; and I pique myself more on my composi- \ntions for manure than on any other compositions to \nwhich I was ever accessary." This may seem bad- \ninage ; but he repeatedly, both in writing and con- \nversation, places literature, as a profession, below \nother intellectual professions, and especially the mil- \nitary. The Duke of Wellington, the representative \nof the last, seems to have drawn from him a very \nextraordinary degree of deference, which we cannot \nbut think smacks a little of that strong relish for \ngunpowder which he avows in himself. \n\nIt is not very easy to see on what this low esti- \nmate of literature rested. As a profession, it has \ntoo little in common with more active ones, to afford \nmuch ground for running a parallel. The soldier \nhas to do with externals ; and his contests and tri- \numphs are over matter in its various forms, whether \nof man or material nature. The poet deals with \nthe bodiless forms of air, of fancy lighter than air. \nHis business is contemplative, the other\'s is active, \nand depends for its success on strong moral energy \nand presence of mind. He must, indeed, have ge- \nnius of the highest order to effect his own combina- \ntions, anticipate the movements of his enemy, and \ndart with eagle eye on his vulnerable point. But \nwho shall say that this practical genius, if we \nmay so term it, is to rank higher in the scale lh<>n \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 237 \n\nthe creative power of the poet, the spark from the \nmind of divinity itself? \n\nThe orator might seem to afford better ground for \ncomparison, since, though his theatre of action is \nabroad, he may be said to work with much the same \ntools as the writer. Yet how much of his success \ndepends on qualities other than intellectual! "Ac- \ntion," said the father of eloquence, "action, action \nare the three most essential things to an orator." \nHow much depends on the look, the gesture, the \nmagical tones of voice, modulated to the passions he \nhas stirred ; and how much on the contagious sym- \npathies of the audience itself, which drown every- \nthing like criticism in the overwhelming tide of \nemotion ! If any one would know how much, let \nhim, after patiently standing \n\n" till his feet throb, \nAnd his head thumps, to feed upon the breath \nOf patriots bursting with heroic rage," \n\nread the same speech in the columns of a morning \nnewspaper, or in the well-concocted report of the \norator himself. The productions of the writer are \nsubjected to a fiercer ordeal. He has no excited \nsympathies of numbers to hurry his readers along \nover his blunders. He is scanned in the calm silence \nof the closet. Every flower of fancy seems here to \nwither under the rude breath of criticism ; every \nlink in the chain of argument is subjected to the \ntouch of prying scrutiny, and if there be the least \nflaw in it, it is sure to be detected. There is no tri- \nbunal so stern as the secret tribunal of a man\'s own \n\n\n\n238 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncloset, far removed from all the sympathetic impul- \nses of humanity. Surely there is no form in which \nintellect can be exhibited to the world so completely \nstripped of all adventitious aids as the form of writ- \nten composition. But, says the practical man, let \nus estimate things by their utility. " You talk of \nthe poems of Homer," said a mathematician, " but, \nafter all, what do they prove V A question which \ninvolves an answer somewhat too voluminous for \nthe tail of an article. But if the poems of Homer \nwere, as Heeren asserts, the principal bond which \nheld the Grecian states together, and gave them a \nnational feeling, they " prove" more than all the \narithmeticians of Greece \xe2\x80\x94 and there were many \ncunning ones in it \xe2\x80\x94 ever proved. The results of \nmilitary skill are indeed obvious. The soldier, by \na single victory, enlarges the limits of an empire ; \nhe may do more \xe2\x80\x94 he may achieve the liberties of a \nnation, or roll back the tide of barbarism ready to \noverwhelm them. Wellington was placed in such a \nposition, and nobly did he do his work ; or, rather, \nhe was placed at the head of such a gigantic moral \nand physical apparatus as enabled him to do it. \nWith his own unassisted strength, of course, he \ncould have done nothing. But it is on his own sol- \nitary resources that the great writer is to rely. And \nyet, who shall say that the triumphs of Wellington \nhave been greater than those of Scott, whose works \nare familiar as household words to every fireside in \nhis own land, from the castle to the cottage ; have \ncrossed oceans and deserts, and, with healing on \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 239 \n\ntheir wings, found their way to the remotest regions; \nhave helped to form the character, until his own \nmind may he said to he incorporated into those oi \nhundreds of thousands of his fellow-men 1 Who \nis there that has not, at some time or other, felt the \nheaviness of his heart lightened, his pains mitigated, \nand his bright moments of life made still brighter by \nthe magical touches of his genius I And shall we \nspeak of his victories as less real, less serviceable to \nhumanity, less truly glorious than those of the great- \nest captain of his day I The triumphs of the war- \nrior are bounded by the narrow 7 theatre of his own \nage ; but those of a Scott or a Shakspeare will be \nrenewed with greater and greater lustre in ages yet \nunborn, when the victorious chieftain shall be for- \ngotten, or shall live only in the song of the minstrel \nand the page of the chronicler. \n\nBut, after all, this sort of parallel is not very gra- \ncious nor very philosophical, and, to say truth, is \nsomewhat foolish. We have been drawn into it by \nthe not random, but very deliberate, and, in our poor \njudgment, very disparaging estimate by Scott of his \nown vocation ; and, as we have taken the trouble to \nwrite it, our readers will excuse us from blotting it \nout. There is too little ground for the respective \nparties to stand on for a parallel. As to the pedan- \ntic cui bono standard, it is impossible to tell the final \nissues of a single act ; how can we then hope to \nthose of a course of action 1 As for the honour of \ndifferent vocations, there never was a truer sentence \nthan the stale one of Pope \xe2\x80\x94 stale now, because it is \nso true\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n240 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n" Act well your part \xe2\x80\x94 there all the honour lies." \n\nAnd it is the just boast of our own country, that in \nno civilized nation is the force of this philanthropic \nmaxim so nobly illustrated as in ours \xe2\x80\x94 thanks to our \nglorious institutions. \n\nA great cause, probably, of Scott\'s low estimate of \nletters was the facility with which he wrote. What \ncosts us little we are apt to prize little. If diamonds \nwere as common as pebbles, and gold-dust as any \nother, who would stoop to gather them I It was the \nprostitution of his muse, by-the-by, for this same \ngold-dust, which brought a sharp rebuke on the poet \nfrom Lord Byron, in his " English Bards :" \n\n" For this we spurn Apollo\'s venal son ;" \n\na coarse cut, and the imputation about as true as \nmost satire, that is, not true at all. This was indi- \nted in his lordship\'s earlier days, when he most \nchivalrously disclaimed all purpose of bartering his \nrhymes for gold. He lived long enough, however, \nto weigh his literary wares in the same money-bal- \nance used by more vulgar manufacturers ; and, in \ntruth, it. would be ridiculous if the produce of the \nbrain should not bring its price in this form as well \nas any other. There is little danger, we imagine, of \nfinding too much gold in the bowels of Parnassus. \n\nScott took a more sensible view of things. In a \nletter to Ellis, written soon after the publication of \n" The Minstrelsy," he observes, " People may say \nthis and that of the pleasure of fame, or of profit, as \na motive of writing, I think the only pleasure is in \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 241 \n\nthe actual exertion and research, and I would no \nmore write upon* any other terms than I would hunt \nmerely to dine upon hare soup. At the same time, \nif credit and profit came unlooked for, I would no \nmore quarrel with them than with the soup." Even \nthis declaration was somewhat more magnanimous \nthan was warranted by his subsequent conduct. \nThe truth is, he soon found out, especially after the \nWaverley- vein had opened, that he had hit on a \ngold-mine. The prodigious returns he got gave the \nwhole thing the aspect of a speculation. Every new \nwork was an adventure, and the proceeds naturally \nsuggested the indulgence of the most extravagant \nschemes of expense, which, in their turn, stimulated \nhim to fresh efforts. In this way the " profits" be- \ncame, whatever they might have been once, a prin- \ncipal incentive to, as they were the recompense of, \nexertion. His productions were cash articles, and \nwere estimated by him more on the Hudibrastic rule \nof " the real worth of a thing" than by any fanciful \nstandard of fame. He bowed with deference to the \njudgment of the booksellers, and trimmed his sails \ndexterously as the " aura popularis" shifted. " If it \n*s na weil bobbit," he w T rites to his printer, on turn \ning out a less lucky novel, " we\'ll bobbit again." \nHis muse was of that school who seek the greatest \nhappiness of the greatest number. We can hardly \nimagine him invoking her like Milton: \n\n" Still govern thou my song, \nUrania, and fit audience find, though few." \n\nStill less can we imagine him, like the blind old \n4 V \n\n\n\n24^ BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbard, feeding his soul with visions of posthumous \nglory, and spinning out epics for five pounds apiece. \nIt is singular that Scott, although he set as high \na money value on his productions as the most en- \nthusiastic of the " trade" could have done, in a liter- \nary view should have held them so cheap. "What- \never others may be," he said, " I have never been a \npartisan of my own poetry ; as John Wilkes de- \nclared, that, \' in the height of his success, he had \nhimself never been a Wilkite.\' \' Considering the \npoet\'s popularity, this was but an indifferent com- \npliment to the taste of his age. With all this dis- \nparagement of his own productions, however, Scott \nwas not insensible to criticism. He says some- \nwhere that, "if he had been conscious of a single \nvulnerable point in himself, he would not have taken \nup the business of writing;" but, on another occa- \nsion, he writes, " I make it a rule never to read the \nattacks made upon me ;" and Captain Hall remarks, \n" He never reads the criticisms on his books ; this \nI know, from the most unquestionable authority \nPraise, he says, gives him no pleasure, and censure \nannoys him." Madame de Graffigny says, also, of \nVoltaire, " that he was altogether indifferent to \npraise, but the least word from his enemies drove \nhim crazy." Yet both these authors banqueted on \nthe sweets of panegyric as much as any who ever \nlived. They were in the condition of an epicure \nwhose palate has lost its relish for the dainty fare \nin which it has been so long revelling, without be- \ncoming less sensible to the annoyances of slu.rper \n\n\n\nSIR WALTER SCOTT. 243 \n\nand coarser flavours. It may afford some consola- \ntion to humble mediocrity, to the less fortunate vo- \ntaries of the muse, that those who have reached the \nsummit of Parnassus are not much more contented \nwith their condition than those who are scrambling \namong; the bushes at the bottom of the mountain. \nThe fact seems to be, as Scott himself intimates \nmore than once, that the joy is in the chase, wheth- \ner in the prose or the poetry of life. \n\nBut it is high time to terminate our lucubrations, \nwhich, however imperfect and unsatisfactory, have \nalready run to a length that must trespass on the \npatience of the reader. We rise from the perusal \nof these delightful volumes with the same sort of \nmelancholy feeling with which we wake from a \npleasant dream. The concluding volume, of which \nsuch ominous presage is given in the last sentence \nof the fifth, has not yet reached us ; but we know \nenough to anticipate the sad catastrophe it is to un- \nfold of the drama. In those which we have seen, \nwe have beheld a succession of interesting charac- \nters come upon the scene and pass away to their \nlong home. " Bright eyes now closed in dust, gay \nvoices forever silenced," seem to haunt us, too, as \nw 7 e write. The imagination reverts to Abbotsford \n\xe2\x80\x94the romantic and once brilliant Abbotsford \xe2\x80\x94 the \nmagical creation of his hands. We see its halls ra- \ndiant with the hospitality of his benevolent heart ; \nthronged with pilgrims from every land, assembled \nto pay homage at the shrine of genius; echoing to \nthe blithe music of those festal holydays when \n\n\n\n244 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL, MISCELLANIES. \n\nyoung and old met to renew the usages of the good \nold times. \n\n" These were its charms, but all these charms are fled." \n\nIts courts are desolate, or trodden only by the \nfoot of the stranger. The stranger sits under the \nshadows of the trees which his hand planted. The \nspell of the enchanter is dissolved ; his wand is bro- \nken ; and the mighty minstrel himself now sleeps in \nthe bosom of the peaceful scenes embellished by his \ntaste, and which his genius has made immortal. \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 245 \n\n\n\nCHATEAUBRIAND\'S ENGLISH LITERATURE.* \n\nOCTOBER, 1839. \n\nThere are few topics of greater attraction, or, \nwhen properly treated, of higher importance, than \nliterary history. For what is it but a faithful regis- \nter of the successive steps by which a nation has \nadvanced in the career of civilization! Uivil his- \ntory records the crimes and the follies, the enterpri- \nses, discoveries, and triumphs, it- may be, of human- \nity. But to what do all these tend, or of what \nmoment are they in the eye of the philosopher, ex- \ncept as they accelerate or retard the march of civil- \nization 1 The history of literature is the history of \nthe human mind. It is, as compared with other \nhistories, the intellectual as distinguished from the \nmaterial \xe2\x80\x94 the informing spirit, as compared with the \noutward and visible. \n\nWhen such a view of the mental progress of a \npeople is combined with individual biography, we \nhave all the materials for the deepest and most va- \nried interest The life of the man of letters is not \nalways circumscribed by the walls of a cloister; and \nwas not, even in those days when the cloister was \nthe familiar abode of science. The history of Dante \nand of Petrarch is the best commentary on that of \ntheir age. In later times, the man of letters has \n\n* " Sketches of English Literature ; with considerations on the Spirit \nof the Times, Men, and Revolutions. By the Viscount de Chateaubri- \nand" 2 vols , 8vo London. 1836. \n\nA V* \n\n\n\n246 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlaken part in all the principal concerns of public \nand social life. But, even when the story is to de- \nrive its interest from personal character, what a store \nof entertainment is supplied by the eccentricities of \ngenius \xe2\x80\x94 the joys and sorrows, not visible to vulgar \neyes, but which agitate his finer sensibilities as pow- \nerfully as the greatest shocks of worldly fortune \nwould a hardier and less visionary temper! What \ndeeper interest can romance afford than is to be \ngathered from the melancholy story of Petrarch, \nTasso, Alfieri, Rousseau, Byron, Burns, and a crowd \nof familiar names, whose genius seems to have been \ngiven them only to sharpen their sensibility to suf- \nfering "? What matter if their sufferings were, for \nthe most part, of the imagination 1 They were not \nthe less real to them. They lived in a world of im- \nagination, and, by the gift of genius, unfortunate to \nits proprietor, have known how, in the language of \none of the most unfortunate, " to make madness \nbeautiful" in the eyes of others. \n\nBut, notwithstanding the interest and importance \nof literary history, it has hitherto received but. little \nattention from English writers. No complete survey \nof the treasures of our native tongue has been yet \nproduced, or even attempted. The earlier periods \nof the poetical development of the nation have been \nwell illustrated by various antiquaries. Warton has \nbrought the history of poetry down to the season of \nits first vigorous expansion \xe2\x80\x94 the age of Elizabeth. \nBut he did not penetrate beyond the magnificent \nvestibule of the temple. Dr. Johnson\'s " Lives of \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s emglish literature. 247 \n\nthe Poets" have done much to supply the deficiency \nin this department. But much more remains to be \ndone to afford the student anything like a complete \nview of the progress of poetry in England. John- \nson\'s work, as every one knows, is conducted on \nthe most capricious and irregular plan. The biog- \nraphies were dictated by the choice of the book- \nseller. Some of the most memorable names in Brit- \nish literature are omitted to make way for a host of \nminor luminaries, whose dim radiance, unassisted by \nthe critic\'s magnifying lens, would never have pene- \ntrated to posterity. The same irregularity is visible \nin the proportion he has assigned to each of his \nsubjects ; the principal figures, or what should have \nbeen such, being often thrown into the background, \nto make room for some subordinate person whose \nstory was thought to have more interest. \n\nBesides these defects of plan, the critic was cer- \ntainly deficient in sensibility to the more delicate, \nthe minor beauties of poetic sentiment. He ana- \nlyzes verse in the cold-blooded spirit of a chemist, \nuntil all the aroma, which constituted its principal \ncharm, escapes in the decomposition. By this kind \nof process, some of the finest fancies of the Muse, \nthe lofty dithyrambics of Gray, the ethereal effusions \nof Collins, and of Milton too, are rendered sufficient- \nly vapid. In this sort of criticism, all the effect that \nrelies on impressions goes for nothing. Ideas are \nalone taken into the account, and all is weighed in \nthe same hard, matter-of-fact scales of common \nsense, like so much solid prose. What a sorry fig- \n\n\n\n248 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nure would Byron\'s Muse make subjected to such an \nordeal! The doctor\'s taste in composition, to judge \nfrom his own style, was not of the highest order. It \nwas a style, indeed, of extraordinary power, suited \nto the expression of his original thinking, bold, vig- \norous, and glowing with all the lustre of pointed \nantithesis. But the brilliancy is cold, and the orna- \nments are much too florid and overcharged for a \ngraceful effect. When to these minor blemishes we \nadd the graver one of an obliquity of judgment, pro- \nduced by inveterate political and religious prejudice, \nwhich has thrown a shadow over some of the bright- \nest characters subjected to his pencil, we have sum- \nmed up a fair amount of critical deficiencies. With \nall this, there is no one of the works of this great \nand good man in which he has displayed more of the \nstrength of his mighty intellect, shown a more pure \nand masculine morality, more sound principles of \ncriticism in the abstract, more acute delineation of \ncharacter, and more gorgeous splendour of diction. \nHis defects, however, such as they are, must prevent \nhis maintaining with posterity that undisputed dicta- \ntorship in criticism which was conceded to him in \nhis own day. We must do justice to his errors as \nwell as to his excellences, in order that we may do \njustice to the characters which have come under his \ncensure. And we must admit that his work, how- \never admirable as a gallery of splendid portraits, is \ninadequate to convey anything like a complete or \nimpartial view of English poetry. \n\nThe English have made but slender contributions \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 249 \n\nto the history of foreign literatures. The most \nimportant, probably, are Roscoe\'s works, in which \nliterary criticism, though but a subordinate feature, \nis the most valuable part of the composition. As \nto anything like a general survey of this department, \nthey are wholly deficient. The deficiency, indeed, \nis likely to be supplied, to a certain extent, by the \nwork of Mr. Hallam, now in progress of publica- \ntion; the first volume of which \xe2\x80\x94 the only one which \nhas yet issued from the press \xe2\x80\x94 gives evidence of the \nsame curious erudition, acuteness, honest impartial- \nity, and energy of diction which distinguish the \nother writings of this eminent scholar. But the \nextent of his work, limited to four volumes, pre- \ncludes anything more than a survey of the most \nprominent features of the vast subject he has under- \ntaken. \n\nThe Continental nations, under serious discour- \nagements, too, have been much more active than the \nBritish in this field. The Spaniards can boast a \ngeneral history of letters, extending to more than \ntwenty volumes in length, and compiled with suffi- \ncient impartiality. The Italians have several such. \nYet these are the lands of the Inquisition, where \nreason is hoodwinked, and the honest utterance of \nopinion has been recompensed by persecution, exile, \nand the stake. How can such a people estimate \nthe character of compositions which, produced un- \nder happier institutions, are instinct with the spirit \nof freedom ? How can they make allowance for the \nmanifold eccentricities of a literature where thought \n\nIi \n\n\n\n250 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nis allowed to expatiate in all the independence of in \ndividual caprice 1 How can they possibly, trained \nto pay such nice deference to outward finish and \nmere verbal elegance, have any sympathy with the \nrough and homely beauties which emanate from the \npeople and are addressed to the people ? \n\nThe French, nurtured under freer forms of gov- \nernment, have contrived to come under a system of \nliterary laws scarcely less severe. Their first great \ndramatic production gave rise to a scheme of critical \nlegislation, which has continued ever since to press \non the genius of the nation in all the higher walks \nof poetic art. Amid all the mutations of state, the \ntone of criticism has remained essentially the same \nto the present century, when, indeed, the boiling pas- \nsions and higher excitements of a revolutionary age \nhave made the classic models on which their litera- \nture was cast appear somewhat too frigid, and a \nwarmer colouring has been sought by an infusion of \nEnglish sentiment. But this mixture, or, rather, con- \nfusion of styles, neither French nor English, seems \nto rest on no settled principles, and is, probably, too \nalien to the genius of the people to continue perma- \nnent. \n\nThe French, forming themselves early on a for- \neign and antique model, were necessarily driven to \nrules, as a substitute for those natural promptings \nwhich have directed the course of other modern na- \ntions in the career of letters. Such rules, of course, \nwhile assimilating them to antiquity, drew them aside \nfrom sympathy with their own contemporaries. How \n\n\n\n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 251 \n\ncan they, thus formed on an artificial system, enter \ninto the spirit of other literatures so uncongenial with \ntheir own 1 \n\nThat the French continued subject to such a sys- \ntem, with little change to the present age, is evinced \nby the example of Voltaire, a writer whose lawless \nridicule \n\n" like the wind, \nBlew where it listed, laying all things prone," \n\nbut whose revolutionary spirit made no serious chan- \nges in the principles of the national criticism. In- \ndeed, his commentaries on Corneille furnish evidence \nof a willingness to contract still closer the range of \nthe poet, and to define more accurately the laws by \nwhich his movements were to be controlled. Vol- \ntaire\'s history affords an evidence of the truth of the \nHoratian maxim, " naturam expettas" &c. In his \nyounger days he passed some time, as is well known, \nin England, and contracted there a certain relish \nfor the strange models which came under his obser- \nvation. On his return he made many attempts to \nintroduce the foreign school with which he had he- \ncome acquainted to his own countrymen. His van- \nity was gratified by detecting the latent beauties of \nhis barbarian neighbours, and by being the first to \npoint them out to his countrymen. It associated \nhim with names venerated on the other side of the \nChannel, and at home transferred a part of their \nglory to himself. Indeed, he was not backward in \ntransferring as much as he could of it, by borrowing \non his own account, where he could venture, mani- \n\n\n\n252 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbus plenis, and with very little acknowledgment \nThe French at length hecaixie so far reconciled to \nthe monstrosities of their neighbours, that a regular \ntranslation of Shakspeare, the lord of the British \nPandemonium, was executed by Letourneur, a schol- \nar of no great merit; but the work was well receiv- \ned. Voltaire, the veteran, in his solitude of Ferney, \nwas roused, by the applause bestowed on the Eng- \nlish poet in his Parisian costume, to a sense of his \nown imprudence. He saw, in imagination, the al- \ntars which had been raised to him, as well as to the \nother master-spirits of the national drama, in a fair \nway to be overturned, in order to make room for an \nidol of his own importation. " Have you seen," he \nwrites, speaking of Letourneur\'s version, " his abom- \ninable trash 1 Will you endure the affront put upon \nFrance by it ? There are no epithets bad enough, \nnor fool\'s-caps, nor pillories enough in all France \nfor such a scoundrel. The blood tingles in my old \nveins in speaking of him. What is the most dread- \nful part of the affair is, the monster has his party in \nFrance ; and, to add to my shame and consterna- \ntion, it was I who first sounded the praises of this \nShakspeare ; I who first showed the pearls, picked \nhere and there, from his overgrown dungheap. Lit- \ntle did I anticipate that I was helping to trample \nunder foot, at some future day, the laurels of Racine \nand Corneille to adorn the brows of a barbarous \nplayer \xe2\x80\x94 this drunkard of a Shakspeare." Not con- \ntent with this expectoration of his bile, the old poet \ntransmitted a formal letter of remonstrance to D\'Alem- \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 253 \n\nbert, which was read publicly, as designed, at a reg- \nular seance of the Academy. The document, after \nexpatiating at length on the blunders, vulgarities \nand indecencies of the English bard, concludes with \nthis appeal to the critical body he was addressing : \n" Paint to yourselves, gentlemen, Louis the Four- \nteenth in his gallery at Versailles, surrounded by his \nbrilliant court: a tatterdemalian advances, covered \nwith rags, and proposes to the assembly to abandon \nthe tragedies of Racine for a mountebank, full of \ngrimaces, with nothing but a lucky hit, now and \nthen, to redeem them." \n\nAt a later period, Ducis, the successor of Voltaire, \nif we remember right, in the Academy, a writer of \nfar superior merit to Letourneur, did the British \nbard into much better French than his predecessor ; \nthough Ducis, as he takes care to acquaint us, " did \nhis best to efface those startling impressions of hor- \nror which would have damned his author in the \npolished theatres of Paris !" Voltaire need not \nhave taken the affair so much to heart. Shaks- \npeare, reduced within the compass, as much as pos- \nsible, of the rules, with all his eccentricities and pe- \nculiarities \xe2\x80\x94 all that made him English, in fact \xe2\x80\x94 \nsmoothed away, may be tolerated; and to a certain \nextent countenanced, in the "polished theatres of \nParis." But this is not \n\n" Shakspeare, Nature\'s child, \nWarbling his native wood-notes wild." \n\nThe Germans are just the antipodes of their \n\nFrench neighbours. Coming late on the arena of \n4 W \n\n\n\n254 BI3GJIAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmodern literature, they would seem to be particular- \nly qualified for excelling in criticism by the variety \nof styles and models for their study supplied by \nother nations. They have, accordingly, done won- \nders in this department, and have extended their \ncritical wand over the remotest regions, dispelling \nthe mists of old prejudice, and throwing the light of \nlearning on what before was dark and inexplicable. \nThey certainly are entitled to the credit of a singu- \nlarly cosmopolitan power of divesting themselves of \nlocal and national prejudice. No nation has done \nso much to lay the foundations of that reconciling \nspirit of criticism, which, instead of condemning a \ndifference of taste in different nations as a departure \nfrom it, seeks to explain such discrepancies by the \npeculiar circumstances of the nation, and thus from \nthe elements of discord, as it were, to build up a \nuniversal and harmonious system. The exclusive \nand unfavourable views entertained by some of their \nlater critics respecting the French literature, indeed, \ninto which they have been urged, no doubt, by a de- \nsire to counteract the servile deference shown to that \nliterature by their countrymen of the preceding age, \nforms an important exception to their usual candour. \nAs general critics, however, the Germans are open \nto grave objections. The very circumstances of \ntheir situation, so favourable, as we have said, to the \nformation of a liberal criticism, have encouraged the \ntaste for theories and for system-building, always un- \npropitious to truth. Whoever broaches a theory has \na hard battle to fight with conscience. If the theo* \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 255 \n\nvy cannot conform to the facts, so much the worse \nfor the facts, as some wag has said ; they must, at \nall events, conform to the theory. The Germans \nhave put together hypotheses with the facility with \nwhich children construct card-houses, and manv of \nthem hid lair to last as long. They show more in- \ndustry in accumulating materials than taste or dis- \ncretion in their arrangement. They carry their fan- \ntastic imagination beyond the legitimate province of \nthe muse into the sober fields of criticism. Their \nphilosophical systems, curiously and elaborately de \nvised, with much ancient lore and solemn imagin- \nings, may remind one of some of those venerable \nEnglish Cathedrals where the magnificent and mys- \nterious Gothic is blended with the clumsy Saxon. \nThe effect, on the whole, is grand, but grotesque \nwithal. \n\nThe Germans are too often sadly wanting in dis- \ncretion, or, in vulgar parlance, taste. They are per- \npetually overleaping the modesty of nature. They \nare possessed by a cold-blooded enthusiasm, if we \nmay say so \xe2\x80\x94 since it seems to come rather from the \nhead than the heart \xe2\x80\x94 which spurs them on over the \nplainest barriers of common sense, until even the \nright becomes the wrong. A striking example of \nthese defects is furnished by the .dramatic critic, \nSchlegel, whose " Lectures\'* are, or may be, familiar \nto every reader, since they have been reprinted in \nthe English version in this country. No critic, not \neven a native, has thrown such a flood of light on the \ncharacteristics of the sweet bard of Avon. He has \n\n\n\n256 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmade himself so intimately acquainted with the pe- \nculiar circumstances of the poet\'s age and country, \nthat he has been enabled to speculate on his produc- \ntions as those of a contemporary. In this way he \nhas furnished a key to the mysteries of his composi- \ntion, has reduced what seemed anomalous to system, \nand has supplied Shakspeare\'s own countrymen with \nnew arguments for vindicating the spontaneous sug- \ngestions of feeling on strictly philosophical princi- \nples. Not content with this important service, he, \nas usual, pushes his argument to extremes, vindicates \nobvious blemishes as necessary parts of a system, and \ncalls on us to admire, in contradiction to the most \nordinary principles of taste and common sense. \nThus, for example, speaking of Shakspeare\'s noto- \nrious blunders in geography and chronology, he \ncoolly tells us, "I undertake to prove that Shaks- \npeare\'s anachronisms are, lor the most part, com- \nmitted purposely, and after great consideration." In \nthe same vein, speaking of the poet\'s villanous puns \nand quibbles, which, to his shame, or, rather, that of \nhis age, so often bespangle with tawdry brilliancy the \nmajestic robe of the Muse, he assures us that "the \npoet here probably, as everywhere else, has follow- \ned principles which will bear a strict examination." \nBut the intrepidity of criticism never went farther \nthan in the conclusion of this same analysis, where \nhe unhesitatingly assigns several apocryphal plays to \nShakspeare, gravely informing us that the last three, \n\'Sir John Oldcastle," "A Yorkshire Tragedy," and \n" Thomas Lord Cromwell," of which the English \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 257 \n\ncritics speak with unreserved contempt, " are not \nonly unquestionably Shakspeare\'s, but, in his judg- \nment, rank among the best, and ripest of his works!" \nThe old bard, could he raise his head from the \ntomb, where none might disturb his bones, would \nexclaim, we imagine, " Non tali auxilio !" \n\nIt shows a tolerable degree of assurance in a critic \nthus to dogmatize on nice questions of verbal resem- \nblance which have so long baffled the natives of the \ncountry, who, on such questions, obviously can be \nthe only competent judges. It furnishes a striking \nexample of the want of discretion noticeable in so \nmany of the German scholars. With all these de- \nfects, however, it cannot be denied that they have \nwidely extended the limits of rational criticism, and, \nby their copious stores of erudition, furnished the \nstudent with facilities for attaining the best points of \nview for a comprehensive survey of both ancient and \nmodern literature. \n\nThe English have had advantages, on the whole, \ngreater than those of any other people, for perfecting \nthe science of general criticism. They have had no \nacademies to bind the wing of genius to the earth by \ntheir thousand wire- drawn subtleties. No Inquisi- \ntion has placed its burning seal upon the lip, and \nthrown its dark shadow 7 over the recesses of the \nsoul. They, have enjoyed the inestimable privilege \nof thinking what they pleased, and of uttering what \nthey thought. Their minds, trained to independ- \nence, have had no occasion to shrink from encoun- \ntering any topic, and have acquired a masculine con- \n4 W* \n\n\n\n258 BIOGRAPHIJAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfidence, indispensable to a calm appreciation of the \nmighty and widely-diversified productions of genius, \nas unfolded under the influences of as widely-diver- \nsified institutions and national character. Their \nown literature, with chameleon-like delicacy, has \nreflected all the various aspects of the nation in the \nsuccessive stages of its history. The rough, roman- \ntic beauties and gorgeous pageantry of the Eliza- \nbethan age, the stern, sublime enthusiasm of the \nCommonwealth, the cold brilliancy of Queen Anne, \nand the tumultuous movements and ardent sensibili- \nties of the present generation, all have been reflect- \ned as in a mirror, in the current of English literature, \nas it has flowed down through the lapse of ages. It \nis easy to understand what advantages this cultiva- \ntion of all these different styles of composition at \nhome must give the critic in divesting himself of \nnarrow and local prejudice, and in appreciating the \ngenius of foreign literatures, in each of which some \none or other of these different styles has found fa- \nvour. To this must be added the advantages de \nrived from the structure of the English language it- \nself, which, compounded of the Teutonic and the \nLatin, offers facilities for a comprehension of other \nliteratures not afforded by those languages, as the \nGerman and the Italian, for instance, almost exclu \nsiVely derived from but one of them. \n\nWith all this, the English, as we have remarked, \nhave made fewer direct contributions to general lit- \nerary criticism than the Continental nations, unless \nindeed, we take into the account the periodical crit- \n\n\n\nCHATEAUBRIAND S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 259 \n\nicism, which has covered the whole field with a \nlight skirmishing, very unlike any systematic plan \nof operations. The good effect of this guerilla war- \nfare may well be doubted. Most of these critics for \nthe nonce (and we certainly are competent judges \non this point) come to their work with little pre- \nvious preparation. Their attention has been habit- \nually called, for the most part, in other directions, \nand they throw off an accidental essay in the brief \nintervals of other occupation. Hence their views \nare necessarily often superficial, and sometimes con- \ntradictory, as may be seen from turning over the \nleaves of any journal where literary topics are wide- \nly discussed ; for, whatever consistency may be de- \nmanded in politics or religion, very free scope is \noffered, even in the same journal, to literary specu- \nlation. Even when the article may have been the \nfruit of a mind ripened by study and meditation on \ncongenial topics, it too often exhibits only the partial \nview suggested by the particular and limited direc- \ntion of the author\'s thoughts in this instance. Truth \nis not much served by this irregular process ; and \nthe general illumination, indispensable to a full and \nfair survey of the whole ground, can never be sup- \nplied from such scattered and capricious gleams, \nthrown over it at random. \n\nAnother obstacle to a right result is founded in \nthe very constitution of review-writing. Miscella- \nneous in its range of topics, and addressed to a mis- \ncellaneous class of readers, its chief reliance for suc- \ncess in competition with the thousand novelties of \n\n\n\n260 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe day, is in the temporary interest it can excite \nInstead of a conscientious discussion and cautious \nexamination of the matter in hand, we too often find \nan attempt to stimulate the popular appetite by pi- \nquant sallies of wit, by caustic sarcasm, or by a pert, \ndashing confidence, that cuts the knot it cannot \nreadily unloose. Then, again, the spirit of period- \nical criticism would seem to be little favourable to \nperfect impartiality. The critic, shrouded in his \nsecret tribunal, too often demeans himself like a \nstern inquisitor, whose business is rather to convict \nthan to examine. Criticism is directed to scent out \nblemishes instead of beauties. "Judex damnatur \ncum nocens absolvitur" is the bloody motto of a well- \nknown British periodical, which, under this piratical \nflag, has sent a broadside into many a gallant bark \nthat deserved better at its hands. \n\nWhen we combine with all this the spirit of pa- \ntriotism, or, what passes for such with nine tenths \nof the world, the spirit of national vanity, we shall \nfind abundant motives for a deviation from a just ; \nimpartial estimate of foreign literatures. And if we \nturn over the pages of the best-conducted English \njournals, we shall probably find ample evidence of \nthe various causes w T e have enumerated. We shall \nfind, amid abundance of shrewd and sarcastic ob- \nservation, smart skirmish of wit, and clever antithe- \nsis, a very small infusion of sober, dispassionate crit- \nicism ; the criticism founded on patient study and on \nstrictly philosophical principles ; the criticism on \nwhich one can safely rely as the criterion of good \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 261 \n\ntaste, and which, however tame it may appear to \nthe jaded appetite of the literary lounger, is the only \none that will attract the eye of posterity. \n\nThe work named at the head of our article will, \nwe suspect, notwithstanding the author\'s brilliant \nreputation, never meet this same eye of posterity. \nThough purporting to be, in its main design, an Es- \nsay on English Literature, it is, in fact, a multifarious \ncompound of as many ingredients as entered into \nthe witches\' caldron, to say nothing of a gallery of \nportraits of dead and living, among the latter of \nwhom M. de Chateaubriand himself is not the least \nconspicuous. " I have treated of everything," he \nsays, truly enough, in his preface, " the Present, the \nPast, the Future." The parts are put together in \nthe most grotesque and disorderly manner, with \nsome striking coincidences, occasionally, of charac- \nters and situations, and some facts not familiar to \nevery reader. The most unpleasant feature in the \nbook is the doleful lamentation of the author over \nthe evil times on which he has fallen. He has, in- \ndeed, lived somewhat beyond his time, which was \nthat of Charles the Tenth, of pious memory \xe2\x80\x94 the \ngood old time of apostolicals and absolutists, which \nwill not be likely to revisit France again very soon. \nIndeed, our unfortunate author reminds one of some \nweather-beaten hulk which the tide has left high \nand dry on the strand, and whose signals of distress \nare little heeded by the rest of the convoy, which \nhave trimmed their sails more dexterously, and sweep \nmerrily on before the breeze. The present work \n\n\n\n262 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\naffords glimpses, occasionally, of the author\'s hap- \npier style, which has so often fascinated us in his \nearlier productions. On the whole, however, it will \nadd little to his reputation, nor, probably, much \nsubtract from it. When a man has sent forth a \nscore or two of octavos into the world, and as good \nas some of M. de Chateaubriand\'s, he can bear up \nunder a poor one now and then. This is not the \nfirst indifferent work laid at his door, and, as he \npromises to keep the field for some time longer, it \nwill probably not be the last. \n\nWe pass over the first half of the first volume to \ncome to the Reformation, the point of departure, as \nit were, for modern civilization. Our author\'s views \nin relation to it, as we might anticipate, are not pre- \ncisely those we should entertain. \n\n" In a religious point of view," he says, " the Ref- \normation is leading insensibly to indifference, or the \ncomplete absence of faith ; the reason is, that the \nindependence of the mind terminates in two gulfs, \ndoubt and incredulity. \n\n" By a very natural reaction, the Reformation^ at \nits birth, rekindled the dying flame of Catholic fa- \nnaticism. It may thus be regarded as the indirect \ncause of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, the dis- \nturbances of the League, the assassination of Henry \nthe Fourth, the murders in Ireland, and of the revo- \ncation of the Edict of Nantes, and the dragonnades /" \n\xe2\x80\x94Vol i., p. 193. \n\nAs to the tendency of the Reformation towards \ndoubt and incredulity, we know that fres inquiry. \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 263 \n\ncontinually presenting new views as the sphere of \nobservation is enlarged, may unsettle old principles \nwithout establishing any fixed ones in their place, \nor, in other words, lead to skepticism ; but we doubt \nif this happens more frequently than under the op- \nposite system, inculcated by the Romish Church, \nwhich, by precluding examination, excludes the only \nground of rational belief. At all events, skepticism, \nin the former case, is much more remediable than \nin the latter; since the subject of it, by pursuing his \ninquiries, will, it is to be hoped, as truth is mighty, \narrive at last at a right result; while the Romanist, \ninhibited from such inquiry, has no remedy. The \ningenious author of " Doblado\'s Letters from Spain" \nhas painted in the most affecting colours the state \nof such a mind, which, declining to take its creed at \nthe bidding of another, is lost in a labyrinth of doubt \nwithout a clew to guide it. As to charging on the \nReformation the various enormities with which the \nabove extract concludes, the idea is certainly new. \nIt is, in fact, making the Protestants guilty of their \nown persecution, and Henry the Fourth of his own \nassassination ; quite an original view of the subject, \nwhich, as far as we know, has hitherto escaped the \nattention of historians. \n\nA few pages farther, and we find the following \ninformation respecting the state of Catholicism in \nour own country : \n\n"Maryland, a Catholic and very populous state, \nmade common cause with the others, and now most \nof the Western States are Catholic. The progress \n\n\n\n264 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof this communion in the United States of America \nexceeds belief. There it has been invigorated in \nits evangelical aliment, popular liberty, while other \ncommunions decline in profound indifference" \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. \ni., p. 201. \n\nWe were not aware of this state of things. We \ndid indeed know that the Roman Church had in- \ncreased much of late years, especially in the Valley \nof the Mississippi : but so have other communions, \nas the Methodist and Baptist, for example, the latter \nof which comprehends five times as many disciples \nas the Roman Catholic. As to the population of \nthe latter in the West, the whole number of Cath- \nolics in the Union does not amount, probably, to \nthree fourths of the number of inhabitants in the \nsingle western State of Ohio. The truth is, that, \nin a country where there is no established or fa- \nvoured sect, and where the clergy depend on volun- \ntary contribution for their support, there must be \nconstant efforts at proselytism, and a mutation of \nreligious opinion, according to the convictions, or \nfancied convictions of the converts. What one de- \nnomination gains another loses, till roused, in its \nturn, by its rival, new efforts are made to retrieve its \nposition, and the equilibrium is restored. In the \nmean time, the population of the whole country \ngoes forward with giant strides, and each sect boasts, \nand boasts with truth, of the hourly augmentation of \nits numbers. Those of the Roman Catholics are \nswelled, moreover, by a considerable addition from \nemigration, many of the poor foreigners, especially \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 265 \n\nthe Irish, being of that persuasion. But this is no \nground of triumph, as it infers no increase to the \nsum of Catholicism, since what is thus gained in \nthe New World is lost in the Old. \n\nOur author pronounces the Reformation hostile \nto the arts, poetry, eloquence, elegant literature, and \neven the spirit of military heroism. But hear his \nown words : \n\n" The Reformation, imbued with the spirit of its \nfounder, declared itself hostile to the arts. It sack- \ned tombs, churches, and monuments, and made in \nFrance and England heaps of ruins.". . . . \n\n" The beautiful in literature will be found to \nexist in a greater or less degree, in proportion as \nwriters have approximated to the genius of the Ro- \nman Church." .... \n\n" If the Reformation restricted genius in poetry, \neloquence, and the arts, it also checked heroism in \nwar, for heroism is imagination in the militarv or- \nder."\xe2\x80\x94 Vol. L p. 194-207. \n\nThis is a sweeping denunciation ; and, as far as \nthe arts of design are intended, may probably be \ndefended. The Romish worship, its stately ritual \nand gorgeous ceremonies, the throng of numbers as- \nsisting, in one form or another, at the service, all \nrequired spacious and magnificent edifices, with the \nrich accessories of sculpture and painting, and mu- \nsic also, to give full effect to the spectacle. Never \nwa" there a religion which addressed itself more \ndirectly to the senses. And, fortunately for it, the \nimmense power and revenues of its ministers enabled \n4 X \n\n\n\n266 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthem to meet its exorbitant demands. On so splen- \ndid a theatre, and under such patronage, the arts \nwere called into life in modern Europe, and most of \nall in that spot which represented the capital of \nChristendom. It was there, amid the pomp and \nluxury of religion, that those beautiful structures \nrose, with those exquisite creations of the chisel and \nthe pencil, which imbodied in themselves all the \nelements of ideal beauty. \n\nBut, independently of these external circumstan- \nces, the spirit of Catholicism was eminently favour- \nable to the artist. Shut out from free inquiry \xe2\x80\x94 \nfrom the Scriptures themselves \xe2\x80\x94 and compelled to \nreceive the dogmas of his teachers upon trust, the \nroad to conviction lay less through the understand- \ning than the heart. The heart was to be moved, \nthe affections and sympathies to be stirred, as well \nas the senses to be dazzled. This was the machi- \nnery by which alone could an effectual devotion to \nthe faith be maintained in an ignorant people. It \nwas not, therefore, Christ as a teacher delivering \nlessons of practical wisdom and morality that was \nbrought before the eye, but Christ filling the offices \nof human sympathy, ministering to the poor and \nsorrowing, giving eyes to the blind, health to the \nsick, and life to the dead. It was Christ suffering \nunder persecution, crowned with thorns, lacerated \nwith stripes, dying on the cross. These sorrows \nand sufferings were understood by the dullest soul, \nand told more than a thousand homilies. So with \nthe Virgin. It was not that sainted mother of the \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 267 \n\nSaviour whom Protestants venerate, but do not wor- \nship ; it was the Mother of God, and entitled, like \nhim, to adoration. It was a woman, and, as such, \nthe object of those romantic feelings which would \nprofane the service of the Deity, but which are not \nthe less touching as being in accordance with hu- \nman sympathies. The respect for the Virgin, indeed, \npartook of that which a Catholic might feel foi his \ntutelar saint and his mistress combined. Orders of \nchivalry were dedicated to her service ; and her \nshrine was piled with more offerings and frequented \nby more pilgrimages than the altars of the Deity \nhimself. Thus, feelings of love, adoration, and ro- \nmantic honour, strangely blended, threw a halo of \npoetic glory around their object, making it the most \nexalted theme for the study of the artist. What \nwonder that this subject should have called forth the \nnoblest inspirations of his genius I What wonder \nthat an artist like Raphael should have found in the \nsimple portraiture of a woman and a child the ma- \nterials for immortality l \n\nIt was something like a kindred state of feeling \nwhich called into being the arts of ancient Greece, \nwhen her mythology was comparatively fresh, and \nfaith was easy; when the legends of the past, famil- \niar as Scripture story at a later day, gave a real ex- \nistence to the beings of fancy, and the artist, im- \nbodying these in forms of visible beauty, but finished \nthe work which the poet had begun. \n. The Reformation brought other trains of ideas, \nand with them other influences on the arts, than those \n\n\n\n268 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof Catholicism. Its first movements were decidedly \nhostile, since the works of art, with which the tem- \nples were adorned, being associated with the religion \nitself, became odious as the symbols of idolatry. But \nthe spirit of the Reformation gave thought a new 7 \ndirection even in the cultivation of art. It was no \nlonger sought to appeal to the senses by brilliant dis- \nplay, or to waken the sensibilities by those superficial \nemotions w 7 hich find relief in tears. A sterner, deep- \ner feeling was roused. The mind was turned within, \nas it were, to ponder on the import of existence and \nits future destinies; for the chains were withdrawn \nfrom the soul, and it was permitted to wander at \nlarge in the regions of speculation. Reason took \nthe place of sentiment \xe2\x80\x94 the useful of the merely or- \nnamental. Facts were substituted for forms, even \nthe ideal forms of beauty. There were to be no \nmore Michael Angelos and Raphaels ; no glorious \nGothic temples which consumed generations in their \nbuilding. The sublime and the beautiful were not \nthe first objects proposed by the artist. He sought \ntruth \xe2\x80\x94 fidelity to nature. He studied the characters \nof his species as well as the forms of imaginary per- \nfection. He portrayed life as developed in its thou- \nsand peculiarities before his own eyes, and the ideal \ngave way to the natural. In this way, new schools \nof painting, like that of Hogarth, for example, arose, \nwhich, however inferior in those great properties for \nwhich w 7 e must admire the masterpieces of Italian \nart, had a significance and philosophic depth which \nfurnished quite as much matter for study and medi- \ntation. \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 2U9 \n\nA similar tendency was observable in poetry, el- \noquence, and works of elegant literature. The in- \nfluence of the Reformation here was undoubtedly \nfavourable, whatever it may have been on the arts. \nHo.v could it be otherwise on literature, the written \nexpression of thought, in which no grace of visible \nforms and proportions, no skill of mechanical execu- \ntion, can cheat the eye with the vain semblance of \ngenius 1 But it was not until the warm breath of \nthe Reformation had dissolved the icy fetters which \nhad so long held the spirit of man in bondage that \nthe genial current of the soul was permitted to flow, \nthat the gates of reason were unbarred, and the mind \nwas permitted to taste of the tree of knowledge, for- \nbidden tree no longer. Where was the scope for \neloquence when thought was stifled in the very sanc- \ntuary of the heart] for out of the fulness of the heart \nthe mouth speaketh. \n\nThere might, indeed, be an elaborate attention to \nthe outward forms of expression, an exquisite finish \nof verbal arrangement, the dress and garniture of \nthought. And, in fact, the Catholic nations have \nsurpassed the Protestant in attention to verbal ele- \ngance and the soft music of numbers, to nice rhe- \ntorical artifice and brilliancy of composition. The \npoetry of Italy and the prose of France bear ample ev- \nidence how much time and talent have been expend- \ned on this beauty of outward form, the rich vehicle \nof thought. But where shall we find the powerful \nreasoning, various knowledge, and fearless energy of \ndiction which stamp the oratory of Protestant Eng- \n4 X* \n\n\n\n270 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nland and America ? In France, indeed, where prose \nhas received a higher polish and classic elegance \nthan in any other country, pulpit eloquence has reach- \ned an uncommon degree of excellence ; for though \nmuch was excluded, the avenues to the heart, as with \nthe painter and the sculptor, were still left open to \nthe orator. If there has been a deficiency in this \nrespect in the English Church, which all will not ad- \nmit, it arises probably from the fact that the mind, \nunrestricted, has been occupied with reasoning rath- \ner than rhetoric, and sought to clear away old prej- \nudices and establish new truths, instead of wakening \na transient sensibility, or dazzling the imagination \nwith poetic flights of eloquence. That it is the fault \nof the preacher, at all events, and not of Protestant- \nism, is shown by a striking example under our own \neyes, that of our distinguished countryman, Dr. Chan- \nning, whose style is irradiated with all the splendours \nof a glowing imagination, showing, as powerfully as \nany other example, probably, in English prose, of \nwhat melody and compass the language is capable \nunder the touch of genius instinct with genuine en- \nthusiasm. Not that we would recommend this style, \ngrand and beautiful as it is, for imitation. We think \nwe have seen the ill effects of this already in more \nthan one instance. In fact, no style should be held \nup as a model for imitation. Dr. Johnson tells us, \nin one of those oracular passages somewhat thread- \nbare now, that "whoever wishes to attain an English \nstyle, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not os- \ntentatious, must give his days and nights to the vol- \n\n\n\nCHATEAUBRIAND S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 27l \n\numes of Addison." With all deference to the great \ncritic, who, by the formal cut of the sentence just \nquoted, shows that he did not care to follow his own \nprescription, we think otherwise. Whoever would \nwrite a good English style, we should say, should ac- \nquaint himself with the mysteries of the language as \nrevealed in the writings of the best masters, but should \nform his own style on nobody but himself. Every \nman, at least every man with a spark of originality \nin his composition, has his own peculiar way of think- \ning, and, to give it effect, it must find its way out in \nits own peculiar language. Indeed, it is impossible \nto separate language from thought in that delicate \nblending of both which is called style ; at least, it is \nimpossible to produce the same effect with the ori- \nginal by any copy, however literal. We may imi- \ntate the structure of a sentence, but the ideas which \ngave it its peculiar propriety we cannot imitate. The \nforms of expression that suit one man\'s train of think- \ning no more suit another\'s than one man\'s clothes \nwill suit another. They will be sure to be either too \nlarge or too small, or, at all events, not to make what \ngentlemen of the needle call a good Jit. If the party \nchances, as is generally the case, to be rather under \nsize, and the model is over size, this will only expose \nhis own littleness the more. There is no case more \nin point than that afforded by Dr. Johnson himself, \nHis brilliant style has been the ambition of every \nschoolboy, and of some children of larger growth \nsince the days of the Rambler. But the nearer they \ncome to it the worse. The beautiful is turned into \n\n\n\n272 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe fantastic, and the sublime into the ridiculous. \nThe most curious example of this within our recol- \nlection is the case of Dr. Symmons, the English \neditor of Milton\'s prose writings, and the biographer \nof the poet. The little doctor has maintained \nthroughout his ponderous volume a most exact imi- \ntation of the great doctor, his sesquipedalian words, \nand florid rotundity of period. With all this cum- \nbrous load of brave finery on his back, swelled to \ntwice his original dimensions, he looks, for all the \nworld, as he is, like a mere bag of wind \xe2\x80\x94 a scare- \ncrow, to admonish others of the folly of similar dep- \nredations. \n\nBut to return. The influence of the Reformation \non elegant literature was never more visible than in \nthe first great English school of poets, which came \nsoon after it, at the close of the sixteenth century. \nThe writers of that period displayed a courage, ori- \nginality, and truth highly characteristic of the new \nrevolution, which had been introduced by breaking \ndown the old landmarks of opinion, and giving un- \nbounded range to speculation and inquiry. The \nfirst great poet, Spenser, adopted the same vehicle \nof imagination with the Italian bards of chivalry, the \nromantic epic ; but instead of making it, like them, \na mere revel of fancy, with no farther object than to \ndelight the reader by brilliant combinations, he mor- \nalized his song, and gave it a deeper and more sol- \nemn import by the mysteries of Allegory, which, \nhowever prejudicial to its effect as a work of art, \nshowed a mind too intent on serious thoughts and \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 273 \n\ninquiries itself to be content wiili the dazzling but \nimpotent coruscations of genius, that serve no othei \nend than that of amusement. \n\nIn the same manner, Shakspeare and the othei \ndramatic writers of the time, instead of adopting the \nformal rules recognised afterward by the French \nwriters, their long rhetorical flourishes, their exag- \ngerated models of character, and ideal forms, went \nfreely and fearlessly into all the varieties of human \nnature, the secret depths of the soul, touching on all \nthe diversified interests of humanity \xe2\x80\x94 for he might \ntouch on all without fear of persecution \xe2\x80\x94 and thus \nmaking his productions a storehouse of philosophy, \nof lessons of practical wisdom, deep, yet so clear \nthat he who runs may read. \n\nBut the spirit of the Reformation did not descend \nin all its fulness on the Muse till the appearance of \nMilton. That great poet was in heart as thoroughly \na Reformer, and in doctrine much more thoroughly \nso than Luther himself. Indignant at every effort \nto crush the spirit, and to cheat it, in his own words, \n" of that liberty which rarefies and enlightens it like \nthe influence of heaven," he proclaimed the rights \nof man as a rational, immortal being, undismayed by \nmenace and obloquy, amid a generation of servile \nand unprincipled sycophants. The blindness which \nexcluded him from the things of earth opened to \nhim more glorious and spiritualized conceptions of \nheaven, and aided him in exhibiting the full influ- \nence of those sublime truths which the privilege of \nfree inquiry in religious matters had poured upon the \n\nM M \n\n\n\n274 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmind. His Muse was as eminently the child ot \nProtestantism as that of Dante, who resembled him \nin so many traits of character, was of Catholicism. \nThe latter poet, coming first among the moderns, \nafter the fountains of the great deep, which had so \nlong overwhelmed the world, were broken up, dis- \nplayed, in his wonderful composition, all the ele- \nments of modern institutions as distinguished from \nthose of antiquity. He first showed the full and \npeculiar influence of Christianity on literature, but \nit was Christianity under the form of Catholicism. \nHis subject, spiritual in its design, like Milton\'s, was \nsustained by all the auxiliaries of a visible and ma- \nterial existence. His passage through the infernal \nabyss is a series of tragic pictures of human wo, sug- \ngesting greater refinements of cruelty than were ever \nimagined by a heathen poet. Amid all the various \nforms of mortal anguish, we look in vain for the \nmind as a means of torture. In like manner, in as- \ncending the scale of celestial being, we pass through \na succession of brilliant fetes, made up of light, mu- \nsic, and motion, increasing in splendour and velocity, \ntill all are lost and confounded in the glories of the \nDeity. Even the pencil of the great master, dipped \nin these gorgeous tints of imagination, does not \nshrink from the attempt to portray the outlines of \nDeity itself. In this he aspired to what many of his \ncountrymen in the sister arts of design have since \nattempted, and, like him, have failed; for who can \nhope to give form to the Infinite 1 In the same \nfalse stvle Dante personifies the spirits of evil, inclu- \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 275 \n\nding Satan himself. Much was doubtless owing to \nthe age, though much, also, must be referred to the \ngenius of Catholicism, which, appealing to the senses, \nhas a tendency to materialize the spiritual, as Pro- \ntestantism, with deeper reflection, aims to spiritual- \nize the material. Thus Milton, in treading similar \nground, borrows his illustrations from intellectual \nsources, conveys the image of the Almighty by his \nattributes, and, in the frequent portraiture which he \nintroduces of Satan, suggests only vague conceptions \nof form, the faint outlines of matter, as it were, \nstretching vast over many a rood, but towering sub- \nlime by the unconquerable energy of will \xe2\x80\x94 the fit \nrepresentative of the principle of evil. Indeed, Mil- \nion has scarcely anything of what may be called \nscenic decorations to produce a certain stage effect. \nHis actors are few, and his action nothing. It is \nonly by their intellectual and moral relations \xe2\x80\x94 by \ngiving full scope to the \n\n" Cherub Contemplation \xe2\x80\x94 \nHe that soars on golden wing, \nGuiding the fiery-wheeled throne" \n\nthat he has prepared for us visions of celestial beauty \nand grandeur which never fade from our souls. \n\nIn the dialogue with which the two poets have \nseasoned their poems, we see the action of the oppo- \nsite influences we have described. Both give vent \nto metaphysical disquisition, of learned sound, and \nmuch greater length than the reader would desire ; \nbut in Milton it is the free discussion of a mind \ntrained to wrestle boldly on abstrusest points of met- \n\n\n\n276 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\naphysical theology, while Dante follows in the same \nold barren footsteps which had been trodden by the \nschoolmen. Both writers were singularly bold and \nindependent. Dante asserted that liberty which \nshould belong to the citizen of every free state ; that \ncivil liberty which had been sacrificed in his own \ncountry by the spirit of faction. But Milton claim- \ned a higher freedom ; a freedom of thinking and of \ngiving utterance to thought, uncontrolled by human \nauthority. He had fallen on evil times ; but he had \na generous confidence that his voice would reach to \nposterity, and would be a guide and a light to the \ncoming generations. And truly has it proved so; \nfor in his writings we find the germs of many of the \nboasted discoveries of our own day in government \nand education, so that be may be fairly considered \nas the morning star of that higher civilization which \ndistinguishes our happier era. \n\nMilton\'s poetical writings do not seem, however, \nto have been held in that neglect by his contempo- \nraries which is commonly supposed. He had at- \ntracted too much attention as a political controver- \nsialist, was too much feared for his talents, as well \nas hated for his principles, to allow anything which \nfell from his pen to pass unnoticed. Although the \nprofits went to others, he lived to see a second edi- \ntion of " Paradise Lost/\' and this was more than \nwas to have been fairly anticipated of a composition \nof this nature, however well executed, falling on \nsuch times. Indeed, its sale was no evidence that \nits merits were comprehended, and mav be referred \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 277 \n\nto the general reputation of its author ; for we find \nso accomplished a critic as Sir William Temple \nsome years later, omitting the name of Milton in his \nroll of writers who have done honour to modern lit- \nerature, a circumstance which may, perhaps, be im- \nputed to that reverence for the ancients which blind- \ned Sir William to the merits of their successors. \nHow could Milton be understood in his own gener- \nation, in the grovelling, sensual court of Charles the \nSecond! How could the dull eyes, so long fastened \non the earth, endure the blaze of his inspired genius 1 \nIt was not till time had removed him to a distance \nthat he could be calmly gazed on and his merits \nfairly contemplated. Addison, as is well known, was \nthe first to bring them into popular view, by a beau- \ntiful specimen of criticism that has permanently con- \nnected his name with that of his illustrious subject. \nMore than half a century later, another great name \nin English criticism, perhaps the greatest in general \nreputation, Johnson, passed sentence of a very differ- \nent kind on the pretensions of the poet. A produc- \ntion more discreditable to the author is not to be \nfound in the whole of his voluminous works ; equally \ndiscreditable, whether regarded in an historical light \nor as a sample of literary criticism. What shall we \nsay of the biographer who, in allusion to that affect- \ning passage where the blind old bard talks of himself \nas " in darkness, and with dangers compass\'d round," \ncan coolly remark that " this darkness, had his eyes \nbeen better employed, might undoubtedly have de- \nserved compassion ?" Or what of the critic who \n\n\n\n278 riO GRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncan say of the most exquisite effusion of Doric min- \nstrelsy that our language boasts, " Surely no man \ncould have fancied that he read \' Lycidas\' with \npleasure, had he not known the author ;" and of \n" Paradise Lost" itself, that " its perusal is a duty \nrather than a pleasure J" Could a more exact meas- \nure be afforded than by this single line of the poetic \nsensibility of the critic, and his unsuitableness for the \noffice he had here assumed ? His " Life of Milton" \nis a humiliating testimony of the power of political \nand religious prejudices to warp a great and good \nmind from the standard of truth, in the estimation, \nnot merely of contemporary excellence, but of the \ngreat of other years, over whose frailties Time might \nbe supposed to have drawn his friendly mantle. \n\nAnother half century has elapsed, and ample jus- \ntice has been rendered to the fame of the poet by \ntwo elaborate criticisms: the one in the Edinburgh \nReview, from the pen of Mr. Macaulay ; the other by \nDr. Channing, in the " Christian Examiner," since \nrepublished in his own works; remarkable perform- \nances, each in the manner highly characteristic of \nits author, and which have contributed, doubtless, to \ndraw attention to the prose compositions of their \nsubject, as the criticism of Addison did to his poetry. \nThere is something gratifying in the circumstance \nthat this great advocate of intellectual liberty should \nhave found his most able and eloquent expositor \namong us, whose position qualifies us, in a peculiar \nmanner, for profiting by the rich legacy of his genius. \nIt was but discharging a debt of gratitude. \n\n\n\nCHATEAUBRIAND\'S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 279 \n\nChateaubriand has much to saj about Milton, foi \nwhose writings, both prose and poetry, notwithstand- \ning the difference of their sentiments on almost all \npoints of politics and religion, he appears to enter- \ntain the most sincere reverence. His criticisms are \nliberal and just; they show a thorough study of his \nauthor; bat neither the historical facts nor the re- \nflections will suggest much that is new on a subject \nnow become trite to the English reader. \n\nWe may pass over a good deal of skimble-skam- \nble stuff about men and things, which our author \nmay have cut out of his commonplace-book, to come \nto his remarks on Sir Walter Scott, whom he does \nnot rate so highly as most critics. \n\n" The illustrious painter of Scotland," he says, \n" seems to me to have created a false class ; he has, \nin my opinion, confounded history and romance. \nThe novelist has set about writing historical roman- \nces, and the historian romantic histories." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. ii., \np. 306. \n\nWe should have said, on the contrary, that he \nhad improved the character of both ; that he had \ngiven new value to romance by building it on his- \ntory, and new charms to history by embellishing it \nwith the graces of romance. \n\nTo be more explicit. The principal historical \nwork of Scott is the " Life of Napoleon." It has, \nunquestionably, many of the faults incident to a \ndashing style of composition, which precluded the \npossibility of compression and arrangement in the \nbest form of which the subject was capable. This, \n\n\n\n280 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin the end, may be fatal to the perpetuity of the \nwork, for posterity will be much less patient than \nour own age. He will have a much heavier load to \ncarry, inasmuch as he is to bear up under all of his \nowd time, and ours too. It is very certain, then, \nsome must go by the board ; and nine sturdy vol- \numes, which is the amount of Sir Walter\'s English \nedition, will be somewhat alarming. Had he con- \nfined himself to half the quantity, there would have \nbeen no ground for distrust. Every day, nay, hour, \nwe see, ay, and feel, the ill effects of this rapid style \nof composition, so usual with the best writers of our \nday. The immediate profits which such writers are \npretty sure to get, notwithstanding the example of \nM. Chateaubriand, operate like the dressing ijaiprov- \nidently laid on a naturally good soil, forcing out \nnoxious weeds in such luxuriance as to check, if not \nabsolutely to kill, the more healthful vegetation. \nQuantities of trivial detail find their way into the \npage, mixed up with graver matters. Instead of \nthat skilful preparation by which all the avenues \nverge at last to one point, so as to leave a distinct \nimpression \xe2\x80\x94 an impression of unity \xe2\x80\x94 on the reader, \nhe is hurried along zigzag, in a thousand directions, \nor round and round, but never, in the cant of the \ntimes, "going ahead" an inch. He leaves off pretty \nmuch where he set out, except that his memory may \nne tolerably well stuffed with facts, which, from want \nof some principle of cohesion, will soon drop out of \nit. He will find himself like a traveller who has \nbeen riding through a fine country, it may be, by \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 281 \n\nmoonlight, getting glimpses of everything, but no com- \nplete, well-illuminated view of the whole (\xe2\x80\xa2\' quale per \nincertam lunam" &c.) ; or, rather, like the same trav- \neller, whizzing along in a locomotive so rapidly as \nto get even a glimpse fairly of nothing, instead of \nmaking his tour in such a manner as would enable \nhim to pause at what was worth his attention, to \npass by night over the barren and uninteresting, and \noccasionally to rise to such elevations as would af- \nford the best points of view for commanding the va- \nrious prospect. \n\nThe romance writer labours under no such em- \nbarrassments. He may, undoubtedly, precipitate his \nwork, so that it may lack proportion, and the nice \narrangement required by the rules which, fifty years \nago, would have condemned it as a work of art. \nBut the criticism of the present day is not so squeam- \nish, or, to say truth, pedantic. It is enough for the \nwriter of fiction if he give pleasure ; and this, eve- \nrybody knows, is not effected by the strict observ- \nance of artificial rules. It is of little consequence \nhow the plot is entangled, or whether it be untied \nor cut, in order to extricate the dramatis persona. \nAt least, it is of little consequence compared with \nthe true delineation of character. The story is ser- \nviceable only as it affords a means for the display of \nthis ; and if the novelist but keep up the interest of \nhis story and the truth of his characters, we easily \nforgive any dislocations which his light vehicle may \nencounter from too heedless motion. Indeed, rapid- \nity of motion may in some sort favour him, keeping \n4 Y* \n\n\n\n\'^82 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nup the glow of his invention, and striking out, as he \ndashes along, sparks of wit and fancy, that give a \nbrilliant illumination to his track. But in history \nthere must be another kind of process \xe2\x80\x94 a process at \nonce slow and laborious. Old parchments are to be \nransacked, charters and musty records to be deci- \nphered, and stupid, worm-eaten chroniclers, who \nhad much more of passion, frequently, to blind, than \ngood sense to guide them, must be sifted and com- \npared. In short, a sort of Medea-like process is to \nbe gone through, and many an old bone is to be \nboiled over in the caldron before it can come out \nagain clothed in the elements of beauty. The \ndreams of the novelist \xe2\x80\x94 the poet of prose \xe2\x80\x94 on the \nother hand, are beyond the reach of art, and the \nmagician calls up the most brilliant forms of fancy \nby a single stroke of his wand. \n\nScott, in his History, w T as relieved, in some de- \ngree, from this necessity of studious research, by bor- \nrowing his theme from contemporary events. It \nwas his duty, indeed, to examine evidence carefully, \nand sift out contradictions and errors. This de- \nmanded shrewdness and caution, but not much pre- \nvious preparation and study. It demanded, above \nall, candour ; for it was his business, not to make out \na case for a client, but to weigh both sides, like an \nimpartial judge, before summing up the evidence, and \ndelivering his conscientious opinion. We believe \nthere is no good ground for charging Scott with hav- \ning swerved from this part of his duty. Those who \nexpected to see him deify his hero, and raise altars to \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 283 \n\niiis memory, were disappointed ; and so were those, \nalso, who demanded that the tail and cloven hoot \nshould be made to peep out beneath the imperial \nrobe. But this proves his impartiality. It would \nbe unfair, however, to require the degree of impar- \ntiality which is to be expected from one removed to \na distance from the theatre of strife, from those na- \ntional interests and feelings which are so often the \ndisturbing causes of historic fairness. An Ameri- \ncan, no doubt, would have been, in this respect, in a \nmore favourable point of view for contemplating the \nEuropean drama. The ocean, stretched between \nus and the Old World, has the effect of time, and \nextinguishes, or, at least, cools the hot and angry \nfeelings, which find their way into every man\'s bo- \nsom within the atmosphere of the contest. Scott \nwas a Briton, with all the peculiarities of one \xe2\x80\x94 at \nleast of a North Briton ; and the future historian, \nwho gathers materials from his labours, will throw \nthese national predilections into the scale in deter- \nmining the probable accuracy of his statements. \nThese are not greater than might occur to any \nman, and allowance will always be made for them, \non the ground of a general presumption ; so that a \ngreater degree of impartiality, by leading to false \nconclusions in this respect, would scarcely have serv- \ned the cause of truth better with posterity. An in- \ndividual who felt his reputation compromised may \nhave joined issue on this or that charge of inaccu- \nracy, but no such charge has come from any of \nthe leading journals in the country, which would not \n\n\n\n284 IOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhave been slow to expose it, and which would not, \nconsidering the great popularity, and, consequently, \ninfluence of the work, have omitted, as thev did, to \nnotice it at all, had it afforded any obvious ground \nof exception on this score. Where, then, is the \nromance which our author accuses Sir Walter of \nblending with history ? \n\nScott was, in truth, master of the picturesque. \nHe understood, better than any historian since the \ntime of Livy, how to dispose his lights and shades \nso as to produce the most striking result. This prop- \nerty of romance he had a right to borrow. This \ntalent is particularly observable in the animated parts \nof his story \xe2\x80\x94 in his battles, for example. No man \never painted those terrible scenes with greater effect. \nHe had a natural relish for gunpowder ; and his \nmettle roused, like that of the war-horse, at the sound \nof the trumpet. His acquaintance with military sci- \nence enabled him to employ a technical phraseolo- \ngy, just technical enough to give a knowing air to \nhis descriptions, without embarrassing the reader by \na pedantic display of unintelligible jargon. This is \na talent rare in a civilian. Nothing can be finer \nthan many of his battle-pieces in his " Life of Bona- \nparte," unless, indeed, we except one or two in his \n" History of Scotland :" as the fight of Bannockburn. \nfor example, in which Burns\'s " Scots, wha hae" \nseems to breathe in every line. \n\nIt is when treading on Scottish ground that ne \nseems to feel all his strength. " I seem always to \nstep more firmly," he said to some one. " when on \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 285 \n\nmy own native heather." His mind was steeped in \nScottish lore, and his bosom warmed with a sympa- \nthetic glow for the age of chivalry. Accordingly, \nhis delineations of this period, whether in history or \nromance, are unrivalled ; as superior in effect to those \nof most compilers, as the richly-stained glass of the \nfeudal ages is superior in beauty and brilliancy of \ntints to a modern imitation. If this be borrowing \nsomething from romance, it is, we repeat, no more \nthan what is lawful for the historian, and explains \nthe meaning of our assertion that he has improved \nhistory by the embellishments of fiction. \n\nYet, after all, how wide the difference between the \nprovince of history and of romance, under Scott\'s \nown hands, may be show T n by comparing his account \nof Mary\'s reign in his " History of Scotland," with \nthe same period in the novel of "The Abbot." The \nhistorian must keep the beaten track of events. The \nnovelist launches into the illimitable regions of fic- \ntion, provided only that his historic portraits be true \nto their originals. By due attention to this, fiction is \nmade to minister to history, and may, in point of \nfact, contain as much real truth \xe2\x80\x94 truth of character, \nthough not of situation. " The difference between \nthe historian and me," says Fielding, " is, that with \nhim everything is false but the names and dates, \nwhile with me nothing is false but these." There \nis, at least, as much truth in this as in most witti- \ncisms. \n\nIt is the great glory of Scott, that, by nice atten- \ntion to costume and character in his novels, he has \n\n\n\n286 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLAMMS. \n\nraised them to historic importance, without impair- \ning their interest as works of art. Who now would \nimagine that he could form a satisfactory notion of \nthe golden days of Queen Bess, that had not read \n" Kenilworth I" or of Richard Coeur-de-Lion and \nhis brave paladins, that had not read " Ivanhoe I" \nWhy, then, it has been said, not at once incorporate \ninto regular history all these traits which give such \nhistorical value to the novel 1 Because, in this way, \nthe strict truth which history requires would be vi- \nolated. This cannot be. The fact is, History and \nRomance are too near akin ever to be lawfully uni- \nted. By mingling them together, a confusion is pro- \nduced, like the mingling of day and night, mystifying \nand distorting every feature of the landscape. It is \nenough for the novelist if he be true to the spirit ; \nthe historian must be true, also, to the letter. He \ncannot coin pertinent remarks and anecdotes to il- \nlustrate the characters of his drama. He cannot \neven provide them with suitable costumes. He \nmust take just what Father Time has given him, \njust what he finds in the records of the age, setting \ndown neither more nor less. Now the dull chroni- \nclers of the old time rarely thought of putting down \nthe smart sayings of the great people they biogra- \nphize, still less of entering into minute circumstan- \nces of personal interest. These were too familiar to \ncontemporaries to require it, and, therefore, they \nwaste their breath on more solemn matters of state, \nall important in their generation, but not worth a \nrush in the present What would the historian not \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 287 \n\ngive, could he borrow those fine touches of nature \nwith which the novelist illustrates the characters of \nhis actors \xe2\x80\x94 natural touches, indeed, but, in truth, just \nas artificial as any other part \xe2\x80\x94 all coined in the im- \nagination of the w T riter. There is the same differ- \nence between his occupation and that of the novel- \nist that there is between the historical and the por- \ntrait painter. The former necessarily takes some \ngreat subject, with great personages, all strutting \nabout in gorgeous state attire, and air of solemn \ntragedy, while his brother artist insinuates himself \ninto the family groups, and picks out natural, famil- \niar scenes and faces, laughing or weeping, but in the \ncharming undress of nature. What wonder that \nnovel-reading should be so much more amusing than \nhistory ? \n\nBut we have already trespassed too freely on the \npatience of our readers, who will think the rambling \nspirit of our author contagious. Before dismissing \nhim, however, w T e will give a taste of his quality by \none or two extracts, not very germane to English \nliterature, but about as much so as a great part of \nthe work. The first is a poetical sally on Bona- \nparte\'s burial-place, quite in Monsieur Chateaubri- \nand\'s peculiar vein. \n\n" The solitude of Napoleon, in his exile and his \ntomb, has thrown another kind of spell over a brill- \niant memory. Alexander did not die in sight of \nGreece ; he disappeared amid the pomp of distant \nBabylon. Bonaparte did not close his eyes in the \npresence of France; he passed away in the gorgeous \n\n\n\n288 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhorizon of the torrid zone. The man who had \nshown himself in such powerful reality, vanished like \na dream ; his life, which belonged to history, co-op- \nerated in the poetry of his death. He now sleeps \nforever, like a hermit or a paria, beneath a willow, \nin a narrow valley, surrounded by steep rocks, at the \nextremity of a lonely path. The depth of the si- \nlence which presses upon him can only be compa- \nred to the vastness of that tumult which had sur- \nrounded him. Nations are absent ; their throng has \nretired. The bird of the tropics, harnessed to the \ncar of the sun, as Buffon magnificently expresses it, \nspeeding his flight downward from the planet of \nlight, rests alone, for a moment, over the ashes, the \nweight of which has shaken the equilibrium of the \nglobe. \n\n" Bonaparte crossed the ocean to repair to his final \nexile, regardless of that beautiful sky which delighted \nColumbus, Vasco de Gama, and Camoens. Stretch- \ned upon the ship\'s stern, he perceived not that un- \nknown constellations were sparkling over his head. \nHis powerful glance, for the first time, encountered \ntheir rays. What to him were stars which he had \nnever seen from his bivouacs, and which had never \nshone over his empire 1 Nevertheless, not one of \nthem has failed to fulfil its destiny: one half of the \nfirmament spread its light over his cradle, the other \nhalf was reserved to illuminate his tomb." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. ii., \np. 185, 186. \n\nThe next extract relates to the British statesman, \nWilliam Pitt: \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 289 \n\n"Pitt, tall and slender, had an air at once melan- \ncholy and sarcastic. His delivery was cold, his in- \ntonation monotonous, his action scarcely perceptible. \nAt the same time, the lucidness and the fluency of \nhis thoughts, the logic of his arguments, suddenly \nirradiated with flashes of eloquence, rendered his tal- \nent something above the ordinary line. \n\n" I frequently saw Pitt walking across St. James\'s \nPark from his own house to the palace. On his \npart, George the Third arrived from Windsor, after \ndrinking beer out of a pewter pot with the farmers \nof the neighbourhood; he drove through the mean \ncourts of his mean habitation in a gray chariot, fol- \nlowed by a few of the horse-guards. This was the \nmaster of the kings of Europe, as five or six mer- \nchants of the city are the masters of India. Pitt, \ndressed in black, with a steel-hilted sword by his \nside, and his hat under his arm, ascended, taking two \nor three steps at a time. In his passage he only met \nwith three or four emigrants, who had nothing to do. \nCasting on us a disdainful look, he turned up his \nnose and his pale face, and passed on. \n\n"At home, this great financier kept no sort of or- \nder; he had no regular hours for his meals or for \nsleep. Over head and ears in debt, he paid nobody, \nand never could take the trouble to cast up a bill. \nA valet de ckambre managed his house. Ill dressed, \nwithout pleasure, without passion, greedy of power, \nhe despised honours, and would not be anything \nmore than William Pitt. \n\n"In the month of June, 1822, Lord Liverpool \n4 Z \n\n\n\n290 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELI ANIES. \n\ntook me to dine at his country-house. As we cross- \ned Putney Heath, lit; showed me the small house \nwhere the son of Lord Chatham, the statesman who \nhad had Europe in his pay, and distributed with his \nown hand all \'the treasures of the world, died in \npoverty."\xe2\x80\x94 Vol. ii., p. 277, 278. \n\nThe following extracts show the changes that \nhave taken place in English manners and society, \nand may afford the " whiskered pandour" of our own \nday an opportunity of contrasting his style of dan- \ndyism with that of the preceding generation : \n\n" Separated from the Continent by a long war, \nthe English retained their manners and their nation- \nal character till the end of the last century. All was \nnot yet machine in the working classes \xe2\x80\x94 folly in the \nupper classes. On the same pavements where you \nnow meet squalid figures and men in frock coats, \nyou were passed by young girls with white tippets, \nstraw hats tied under the chin with a riband, with \na basket on the arm, in which was fruit or a book : \nall kept their eyes cast down ; all blushed when one \nlooked at them. Frock coats, without any other, \nwere so unusual in London in 1793, that a woman, \ndeploring with tears the death of Louis the Six- \nteenth, said tc me, \' But, my dear sir, is it true that \nthe poor king was dressed in a frock coat when they \ncut off his head V \n\n" The gentlemen-farmers had not yet sold their \npatrimony to take up their residence in London ; \nthey still formed, in the House of Commons, that \nindependent fraction which, transferring their sup- \n\n\n\nChateaubriand\'s English literature. 291 \n\nport from the opposition to the ministerial side, up- \nheld the ideas of order and propriety. They hunted \nthe fox and shot pheasants in autumn, ate fat goose \nat Michaelmas, greeted the sirloin with shouts of \n\'Roast beef forever !\' complained of the present, ex- \ntolled the past, cursed Pitt and the war, which doub- \nled the price of port wine, and went to bed drunk, \nto begin the same life again on the following day. \nThey felt quite sure that the glory of Great Britain \nwould not perish so long as \' God save the King\' was \nsung, the rotten boroughs maintained, the game-laws \nenforced, and hares and partridges could be sold by \nstealth at market, under the names of lions and os- \ntriches."\xe2\x80\x94 Vol. ii., p. 279, 280. \n\nu In 1822, at the time of my embassy to London, \nthe fashionable was expected to exhibit, at the first \nglance, an unhappy and unhealthy man ; to have an \nair of negligence about his person, long nails, a beard \nneither entire nor shaven, but as if grown for a mo- \nment unawares, and forgotten during the preoccupa- \ntions of wretchedness ; hair in disorder; a sublime, \nmild, wicked eye; lips compressed in disdain of hu- \nman nature ; a Byronian heart, overwhelmed with \nweariness and disgust of life. \n\n" The dandy of the present day must have a con- \nquering, frivolous, insolent look. He must pay par- \nticular attention to his toilet, wear mustaches, or a \nbeard trimmed into a circle like Queen Elizabeth\'s \nruff, or like the radiant disc of the sun. He shows \nthe proud independence of his character by keeping \nhis hat upon his head, by lolling upon sofas, by \n\n\n\n292 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthrusting his boots into the faces of the ladies seated \nin admiration upon chairs before him. He rides \nwith a cane, which he carries like a taper, regard- \nless of the horse, which he bestrides, as it were, by \naccident. His health must be perfect, and he must \nalways have five or six felicities upon his hands. \nSome radical dandies, who have advanced the far- \nthest towards the future, have a pipe. But, no doubt, \nx all this has changed, even during the time that 1 \nhave taken to describe it." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. ii., p. 303, 304. \n\nThe avowed purpose of the present work, singu- \nlar as it may seem from the above extracts, is to \nserve as an introduction to a meditated translation \nof Milton into French, since wholly, or in part, \ncompleted by M. Chateaubriand, who thinks, truly \nenough, that Milton\'s " political ideas make him a \nman of our own epoch." When an exile in Eng- \nland, in his early life, during the troubles of the Rev- \nolution, our author earned an honourable subsistence \nby translating some of Milton\'s verses ; and he now \nproposes to render the bard and himself the same \nkind office by his labours on a more extended scale. \nThus he concludes : " I again seat myself at the \ntable of my poet. He will have nourished me in \nmy youth and my old age. It is nobler and safer to \nhave recourse to glory than to power." Our author\'s \nsituation is an indifferent commentary on the value \nof literary fame, at least on its pecuniary value. No \nman has had more of it in his day. No man has \nbeen more alert to make the most of it by frequent, \nreiterated appearance before the public \xe2\x80\x94 whether in \n\n\n\nCHATEAUBRIAND S ENGLISH LITERATURE. 293 \n\nfull dress or dishabille, yet always before them ; and \nnow, in the decline of life, we find him obtaining a \nscanty support by " French translation and Italian \nsong." We heartily hope that the bard of " Para- \ndise Lost" will do better for his translator than he \ndid for himself, and that M. de Chateaubriand will \nput more than five pounds in his pocket by his lit- \nerary labour. \n\n4 Z* \n\n\n\n294 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nBANCROFT\'S UNITED STATES.* \n\nJANUARY, 184 1. \n\nThe celebrated line of Bishop Berkeley, \n\n" Westward the course of empire takes its way," \n\nis too gratifying to national vanity not to be often \nquoted (though not always quoted right) ; and if we \nlook on it in the nature of a prediction, the comple- \ntion of it not being limited to any particular time, it \nwill not be easy to disprove it. Had the bishop \nsubstituted " freedom" for " empire," it would be al- \nready fully justified by experience. It is curious to \nobserve how steadily the progress of freedom, civil \nand religious \xe2\x80\x94 of the enjoyment of those rights, which \nmay be called the natural rights of humanity \xe2\x80\x94 has \ngone on from east to west, and how precisely the \nmore or less liberal character of the social institu- \ntions of a country may be determined by its geo- \ngraphical position, as falling within the limits of one \nof the three quarters of the globe occupied wholly or \nin part by members of the great Caucasian family. \n\nThus, in Asia we find only far-extended despot- \nisms, in which but two relations are recognised, \nthose of master and slave : a solitary master, and a \nnation of slaves. No Constitution exists there to \nlimit his authority; no intermediate body to coun- \n\n* " History of the United States from the Discovery of tin, American \nContinent. By George Bancroft." Vol.iii. Boston: Charles C Little \nand James Bnvvn. 8vo, pp. 468. \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 295 \n\nterbalance, or, at least, shield the people from its \nexercise. The people have no political existence. \nThe monarch is literally the state. The religion \nof such countries is of the same complexion with \ntheir government. The free spirit of Christianity, \nquickening and elevating the soul by the conscious- \nness of its glorious destiny, made few proselytes \nthere ; but Mohammedanism, with its doctrines of \nblind fatality, found ready favour with those who \nhad already surrendered their wills \xe2\x80\x94 their responsi- \nbility \xe2\x80\x94 to an earthly master. In such countries, of \ncourse, there has been little progress in science. \nOrnamental arts, and even the literature of imagina- \ntion, have been cultivated with various success ; but \nlittle has been done in those pursuits which depend \non freedom of inquiry, and are connected with the \nbest interests of humanity. The few monuments \nof an architectural kind that strike the traveller\'s \neye are the cold memorials of pomp and selfish van- \nity, not those of public spirit, directed to enlarge the \nresources and civilization of an empire. \n\nAs we cross the boundaries into Europe, among \nthe people of the same primitive stock and under \nthe same parallels, we may imagine ourselves trans- \nplanted to another planet. Man no longer grovels \nin the dust beneath a master\'s frown. He walks \nerect, as lord of the creation, his eyes raised to that \nheaven to which his destinies call him. He is a \nfree agent \xe2\x80\x94 thinks, speaks, acts for himself; enjoys \nthe fruits of his own industry ; follows the career \nsuited to his own genius and taste ; explores fear- \n\n\n\n2$6 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlessly the secrets of time and nature; lives under \nlaws which he has assisted in framing; demands \njustice as his right when those laws are invaded. \nIn his freedom of speculation and action he has de- \nvised various forms of government. In most of them \nthe monarchical principle is recognised ; but the \npower of the monarch is limited by written or cus- \ntomary rules. The people at large enter more or \nless into the exercise of government ; and a numer- \nous aristocracy, interposed between them and the \ncrown, secures them from the oppression of Eastern \ntyranny, while this body itself is so far an improve- \nment in the social organization, that the power, \ninstead of being concentrated in a single person \n\xe2\x80\x94 plaintiff, judge, and executioner \xe2\x80\x94 is distributed \namong a large number of different individuals and \ninterests. This is a great advance, in itself, towards \npopular freedom. \n\nThe tendency, almost universal, is to advance still \nfarther. It is this war of opinion \xe2\x80\x94 this contest be- \ntween light and darkness, now going forward in \nmost of the countries of Europe \xe2\x80\x94 which furnishes \nthe point of view from which their history is to be \nstudied in the present, and, it may be, the following \ncenturies ; for revolutions in society, when founded \non opinion \xe2\x80\x94 the only stable foundation, the only \nfoundation at which the friend of humanity does not \nshudder \xe2\x80\x94 must be the slow work of time; and who \nwould wish the good cause to be so precipitated \nthat, in eradicating the old abuses which have inter- \nwoven themselves with every stone and pillar of \'he \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 297 \n\nbuilding, the noble building itself, which has so long \nafforded security to its inmates, should be laid in \nruins \\ What is the best, what the worst lorm of \ngovernment, in the abstract, may be matter of de- \nbate ; but there can be no doubt that the best will \nbecome the worst to a people who blindly rush into \nit without the preliminary training for comprehend- \ning and conducting it. Such transitions must, at \nleast, cost the sacrifice of generations ; and the pa- \ntriotism must be singularly pure and abstract which, \nat such cost, would purchase the possible, or even \nprobable, good of a remote posterity. Various have \nbeen the efforts in the Old World at popular forms \nof government, but, from some cause or other, they \nhave failed ; and however time, a wider intercourse, \na greater familiarity with the practical duties of \nrepresentation, and, not least of all, our own auspi- \ncious example, may prepare the European mind for \nthe possession of Republican freedom, it is very cer- \ntain that, at the present moment, Europe is not the \nplace for Republics. \n\nThe true soil for these is our own continent, the \nNew World, the last, of the three great geographical \ndivisions of which we have spoken. This is the \nspot on which the beautiful theories of the European \nphilosopher \xe2\x80\x94 who had risen to the full freedom of \nspeculation, while action was controlled \xe2\x80\x94 have been \nreduced to practice. The atmosphere here seems \nas fatal to the arbitrary institutions of the Old \nWorld as that has been to the Democratic forms of \nour own. It seems scarcely possible that any other \n\nPp \n\n\n\n2^8 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES, \n\norganization than these latter should exist here. In \nthree centuries from the discovery of the country, \nthe various races hy which it is tenanted, some of \nthem from the least liberal of the European mon- \narchies, have, with few exceptions, come into the \nadoption of institutions of a Republican character. \nToleration, civil and religious, has been proclaimed, \nand enjoyed to an extent unknown since the world \nbegan, throughout the wide borders of this vast con- \ntinent. Alas ! for those portions which have assu- \nmed the exercise of these rights without fully com- \nprehending their import ; who have been intoxicated \nwith the fumes of freedom instead of drawing nour- \nishment from its living principle. \n\nIt was a fortunate, or, to speak more properly, a \nprovidential thing, that the discovery of the New \nWorld was postponed to the precise period when it \noccurred. Had it taken place at an earlier time \xe2\x80\x94 \nduring the flourishing period of the feudal ages, for \nexample \xe2\x80\x94 the old institutions of Europe, with their \nhallowed abuses, might have been ingrafted on this \nnew stock, and, instead of the fruit of the tree of \nlife, we should have furnished only varieties of a kind \nalready far exhausted and hastening to decay. But, \nhappily, some important discoveries in science, and, \nabove all, the glorious Reformation, gave an electric \nshock to the intellect, long benumbed under the in- \nfluence of a tyrannical priesthood. It taught men to \ndistrust authority, to trace effects back to their caus- \nes, to search for themselves, and to take no guide but \nthe reason which God had given tnem. It taught \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 299 \n\nthem to claim the right of free inquiry as their in- \nalienable birthright, and, with free inquiry, freedom \nof action. The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries \nwere the period of the mighty struggle between the \nconflicting elements of religion, as the eighteenth \nand nineteenth have been that of the great contest \nfor civil liberty. \n\nTt was in the midst of this universal ferment, and \nin consequence of it, that these shores were first \npeopled by our Puritan ancestors. Here they found \na world where they might verify the value of those \ntheories which had been derided as visionary or \ndenounced as dangerous in their own land. All \naround was free \xe2\x80\x94 free as nature herself: the mighty \nstreams rolling on in their majesty, as they had con- \ntinued to roll from the creation ; the forests, which \nno hand had violated, flourishing in primeval gran- \ndeur and beauty; their only tenants the wild ani- \nmals, or the Indians nearly as wild, scarcely held \ntogether by any tie of social polity. Nowhere was \nthe trace of civilized man or of his curious contri- \nvances. Here was no Star Chamber nor Court of \nHigh Commission; no racks, nor jails, nor gibbets; \nno feudal tyrant to grind the poor man to the dust \non which he toiled ; no Inquisition, to pierce into \nthe thought, and to make thought a crime. The \nculy eye that was upon them was the eye of Heaven. \n\nTrue, indeed, in the first heats of suffering enthu- \nsiasm l hey did not extend that charity to others \nwhich they claimed for themselves. It was a blot \non their characters, but one which they share in \n\n\n\n300 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncommon with most reformers. The zeal requisite \nfor great revolutions, whether in church or state, is \nrarely attended by charity for difference of opinion. \nThose who are willing to do and to suffer bravely \nlor their own doctrines, attach a value to them which \nmakes them impatient of opposition from others. \nThe martyr for conscience\' sake cannot comprehend \nthe necessity of leniency to those who denounce \nthose truths for which he is prepared to lay down \nhis own life. If he set so little value on his own life, \nis it natural he should set more on that of others 1 \nThe Dominican, who dragged his victims to the \nfires of the Inquisition in Spain, freely gave up his \nease and his life to the duties of a missionary among \nthe heathen. The Jesuits, who suffered martyrdom \namong the American savages in the propagation of \ntheir faith, stimulated those very savages to their hor- \nrid massacres of the Protestant settlements of New- \nEngland. God has not often combined charity with \nenthusiasm. When he has done so, he has pro- \nduced his noblest work \xe2\x80\x94 a More, or a Fenelon. \n\nBut if the first settlers were intolerant in practice, \nthey brought with them the living principle of free- \ndom, which would survive when their generation had \npassed away. They could not avoid it; for their \ncoming here was in itself an assertion of that prin- \nciple. They came for conscience\' sake \xe2\x80\x94 to worship \nGod in their own way. Freedom of political insti- \ntutions they at once avowed. Every citizen took \nnis part in the political scheme, and enjoyed all the \nconsideration of an equal participation in civil privi- \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 303 \n\nleges: and liberty in political matters gradually \nbrought with it a corresponding liberty in religious \nconcerns. In their subsequent contest with the \nmother country they learned a reason for their faith, \nand the best manner of defending it. Their liber- \nties struck a deep root in the soil amid storms which \nshook, but could not prostrate them. It is this strug- \ngle with the mother country, this constant assertion \nof the right of self-government, this tendency \xe2\x80\x94 fee- \nble in its beginning, increasing with increasing age \n\xe2\x80\x94 towards Republican institutions, which connects \nthe Colonial history with that of the Union, and \nforms the true point of view from which it is to be \nregarded. \n\nThe history of this country naturally divides it- \nself into three great periods : the Colonial, when the \nidea of independence was slowly and gradually ri- \npening in the American mind ; the Revolutionary, \nwhen this idea was maintained by arms ; and that \nof the Union, when it was reduced to practice. \nThe first two heads are now ready for the historian ; \nthe last is not yet ripe for him. Important contribu- \ntions may be made to it in the form of local narra- \ntives, personal biographies, political discussions, sub- \nsidiary documents, and mbnoires pow sermr ; but we \nare too near the strife, too much in the dust and \nmist of the parties, to have reached a point sufficient- \nly distant and elevated to embrace the whole field \nof operations in one view, and paint it in its true \ncolours and proportions for the eye of posterity. \n\nWe are, besides, too new as an independent nation, \n\n4 2 A \n\n\n\n302 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nour existence has been too short, to satisfy the skep- \nticism of those who distrust the perpetuity of our po- \nlitical institutions. They do not consider the prob- \nlem, so important to humanity, as yet solved. Such \nskeptics are found, not only abroad, but at home. \nNot that the latter suppose the possibility of again \nreturning to those forms of arbitrary government \nwhich belong to the Old World. It would not be \nmore chimerical to suspect the Emperor Nicholas, \nor Prince Metternich, or the citizen-king Louis \nPhilippe, of being Republicans at heart, and sighing \nfor a democracy, than to suspect the people of this \ncountry (above all, of New-England, the most thor- \nough democracy in existence) \xe2\x80\x94 who have inherited \nRepublican principles and feelings from their ances- \ntors, drawn them in with their mother\'s milk, breath- \ned the atmosphere of them from their cradle, partici- \npated in their equal rights and glorious privileges \xe2\x80\x94 \nof foregoing their birthright and falsifying their na- \nture so far as to acquiesce in any other than a pop- \nular form of government. But there are some skep- \ntics who, when they reflect on the fate of similar \ninstitutions in other countries ; when they see our \nsister states of South America, after nobly winning \ntheir independence, split into insignificant fractions ; \nwhen they see the abuses which from time to time \nlave crept into our own administration, and the vi- \nolence offered, in manifold ways, to the Constitution; \nwhen they see ambitious and able statesmen in one \nsection of the country proclaiming principles which \nnust palsy the arm of the Federal Government, and \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 303 \n\nurging the people of their own quarter to efforts for \nsecuring their independence of every other quanei \n\xe2\x80\x94 there are, we say, some wise and benevolent \nminds among us, who, seeing all this, feel a natural \ndistrust as to the stability of the federal compact, and \nconsider the experiment as still in progress. \n\nWe, indeed, are not of that number, while we re- \nspect and feel the weight of their scruples. We \nsympathize fully in those feelings, those hopes, it \nmay be, which animate the great mass of our coun- \ntrymen. Hope is the attribute of republics : it \nshould be peculiarly so of ours. Our fortune is all \nin the advance. We have no past, as compared \nwith the nations of the Old World. Our existence \nis but two centuries, dating from our embryo state : \nour real existence as an independent people little \nmore than half a century. We are to look forward, \nthen, and go forward, not with vainglorious boast- \ning, but with resolution and honest confidence. \nBoasting, indecorous in all, is peculiarly so in those \nwho take credit for the great things they are going \nto do, not those they have done. The glorification \nof an Englishman or a Frenchman, with a long line \nof annals in his rear, may be offensive ; that of an \nAmerican is ridiculous. But we may feel a just \nconfidence from the past that we shall be true to \nourselves for the future ; that, to borrow a cant \nphrase of the day, we shall be true to our mission \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe most momentous ever intrusted to a nation ; that \nthere is sufficient intelligence and moral principle in \nthe people, if not always to choose the best rulers, \n\n\n\n304 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nat least to right themselves by the ejection of bad \nones when they find they have been abused; that \nthey have intelligence enough to understand that \ntheir only consideration, their security as a nation, \nis in union ; that separation into smaller communi- \nties is the creation of so many hostile states ; that \na large extent of empire, instead of being an evil, \nfrom embracing regions of irreconcilable local inter- \nests, is a benefit, since it affords the means of that \ncommercial reciprocity which makes the country, \nby its own resources, independent of every other; \nand that the representatives drawn from these "mag- \nnificent distances" will, on the whole, be apt to le- \ngislate more independently, and on broader princi- \nples, than if occupied with the concerns of a petty \nstate, where each legislator is swayed by the paltry \nfactions of his own village. In all this we may hon- \nestly confide; but our confidence will not pass for \nargument, will not be accepted as a solution of the \nproblem. Time only can solve it; and until the pe- \nriod has elapsed which shall have fairly tried the \nstrength of our institutions, through peace and through \nwar, through adversity and more trying prosperity, \nthe time will not have come to write the history of \nthe Union.* \n\n* The preceding cheering remarks on the auspicious destinies of our \ncountry were written more than four years ago ; and it is not now as \nmany days since we have received the melancholy tidings that the pro- \nject for the Annexation of Texas has been sanctioned by Congress. The \nremarks in the text on " the extent of empire" had reference only to that \nlegitimate extent which might grow out of the peaceful settlement and \ncivilization of a territory, sufficiently ample certainly, that already be- \nlongs to us. The craving for foreign acquisitions has ever been a most \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 305 \n\nBat still, results have been obtained sufficiently \nglorious to give great consideration to the two pre- \nliminary narratives, namely, of the Colonies and the \nRevolution, which prepared the way for the Union. \nIndeed, without these results, they would both, how \never important in themselves, have lost much of their \ndignity and interest. Of these two narratives, the \nformer, although less momentous than the latter, is \nmost difficult to treat. \n\nIt is not that the historian is called on to pry into \nthe dark recesses of antiquity, the twilight of civili- \nzation, mystifying and magnifying every object to \nthe senses, nor to unravel some poetical mythology, \nhanging its metaphorical illusions around everything \nin nature, mingling fact with fiction, the material \nwith the spiritual, until the honest inquirer after truth \nmay fold his arms in despair before he can cry \nevprjrca ; nor is he compelled to unroll musty, worm- \neaten parchments, and dusty tomes in venerable \nblack letter, of the good times of honest Caxton and \nWinken de Worde, nor to go about gleaning tra- \nditionary tales and ballads in some obsolete provin- \n\nfatal symptom in the history of republics ; but when these acquisitions \nare made, as in the present instance, in contempt of constitutional law, \nand in disregard of the great principles of international justice, the evil \nassumes a tenfold magnitude ; for it flows not so much from the single \nact as from the principle on which it rests, and which may open the way \nto the indefinite perpetration of such acts. In glancing my eye over the \ntext at this gloomy moment, and considering its general import, I was \nunwilling to let it go into the world with my name to it, without enter- \ning my protest, in common with so many better and wiser in our coun- \ntry, against a measure which every friend of freedom, both at home and \nabroad, may justly lament as the most serious shock yet given to the \nstability of our glorious institutions. \n\n4 2 A* \n\n\n\n3GG BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nrial patois. The record is plain and legible, and he \nneed never go behind it. The antiquity of his \nstory goes but little more than two centuries back ; \na very modern antiquity. The commencement of it \nwas not in the dark ages, but in a period of illumi- \nnation ; an age yet glowing with the imagination of \nShakspeare and Spenser, the philosophy of Bacon, \nthe learning of Coke and of Hooker. The early \npassages of his story \xe2\x80\x94 coeval with Hampden, and \nMilton, and Sidney \xe2\x80\x94 belong to the times in which \nthe same struggle for the rights of conscience was \ngoing on in the land of our fathers as in our own. \nThere was no danger that the light of the Pilgrim \nshould be hid under a bushel, or that there should \nbe any dearth of chronicler or bard \xe2\x80\x94 such as they \nwere \xe2\x80\x94 to record his sacrifice. And fortunate for us \nthat it was so, since in this way every part of this \ngreat enterprise, from its conception to its consum- \nmation, is brought into the light of day. We are \nput in possession, not merely of the action, but of \nthe motives which led to it ; and as to the character \nof the actors, are enabled to do justice to those who, \nif we pronounce from their actions only, would seem \nnot always careful to do justice to themselves. \n\nThe embarrassment of the Colonial history arises \nfrom the difficulty of obtaining a central point of in- \nterest among so many petty states, each independent \nof the others, and all, at the same time, so depend- \nant on a foreign one as to impair the historic digni- \nty which attaches to great, powerful, and self-regu- \nlated communities. This embarrassment must be \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 307 \n\novercome by the author\'s detecting, and skilfully \nkeeping before the reader, some great principle of \naction, if such exist, that may give unity, and, at the \nsame time, importance to the theme. Such a prin- \nciple did exist in that tendency to independence, \nwhich, however feeble, till fanned by the breath of \npersecution into a blaze, was nevertheless the vivi- \nfying principle, as before remarked, of our ante-rev- \nolutionary annals. \n\nWhoever has dipped much into historical reading \nis aware how few have succeeded in weaving an \nharmonious tissue from the motley and tangled skein \nof general history. The most fortunate illustration \nof this within our recollection is Sismondi\'s Repub- \nliques Italiennes, a work in sixteen volumes, in which \nthe author has brought on the stage all the various \ngovernments of Italy for a thousand years, and in \nalmost every variety of combination. Yet there is \na pervading principle in this great mass of apparent- \nly discordant interests. That principle was the rise \nand decline of liberty. It is the key-note to every \nrevolution that occurs. It give an harmonious tone \nto the many-coloured canvass, which would else \nhave offended by its glaring contrasts, and the start- \nling violence of its transitions. The reader is inter- \nested in spite of the transitions, but knows not the \ncause. This is the skill of the great artist. So true \nis this, that the same author has been able to con- \ncentrate what may. be called the essence of his \nbulky history into a single volume, in which he con- \nfines himself to the development of the animating \n\n\n\n308 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nprinciple of his narrative, stripped of all the super- \nfluous accessories, under the significant title of \n" Rise, Progress, and Decline of Italian Freedom." \n\nThis embarrassment has not been easy to over- \ncome by the writers of our Colonial annals. The \nfirst volume of Marshall\'s " Life of Washington" has \ngreat merit as a wise and comprehensive survey of \nthis early period, but the plan is too limited to af- \nford room for anything like a satisfactory fulness of \ndetail. The most thorough work, and incompara- \nbly the best on the subject, previous to the appear- \nance of Mr. Bancroft\'s, is the well-known history by \nMr. Grahame, a truly valuable book, in which the \nauthor, though a foreigner, has shown himself capa- \nble of appreciating the motives and comprehending \nthe institutions of our Puritan ancestors. He has \nspared no pains in the investigation of such original \nsources as were at his command, and has conduct- \ned his inquiries with much candour, manifesting \nthroughout the spirit of a scholar and a gentleman. \nIt is not very creditable to his countrymen that \nthey should have received his labours with the apa- \nthy which he tells us they have, amid the ocean of \ncontemptible trash with which their press is daily \ndeluged. But, in truth, the Colonial and Revolu- \ntionary story of this country is a theme too ungrate- \nful to British ears for us to be astonished at any in- \nsensibility on this score. \n\nMr. Grahame\'s work, however, with all its merit, \nis the work of a foreigner, and that word compre- \nhends much that cannot be overcome bv the bes* \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 309 \n\nwriter. He may produce a beautiful composition, \nfaultless in style, accurate in the delineation of prom- \ninent events, full of sound logic and most wise con- \nclusions, but he cannot enter into the sympathies, \ncomprehend all the minute feelings, prejudices, and \npeculiar ways of thinking which form the idiosyn- \ncrasy of the nation. What can he know of these \nwho has never been warmed by the same sun, lin- \ngered among the same scenes, listened to the same \ntales in childhood, been pledged to the same inter- \nests in manhood by which these fancies are nour- \nished \xe2\x80\x94 the loves, the hates, the hopes, the fears, that \ngo to form national character? Write as he will, \nhe is still an alien, speaking a tongue in which the \nnation will detect the foreign accent. He may pro- \nduce a book without a blemish in the eyes of for- \neigners ; it may even contain much for the instruc- \ntion of the native that he would not be likely to find \nin his own literature ; but it will afford evidence on \nevery page of its exotic origin. Botta\'s "History of \nthe War of the Revolution" is the best treatise yet \ncompiled of that event. It is, as every one knows, \na most classical and able work, doing justice to most \nof the great heroes and actions of the period ; but, \nwe will venture to say, no well-informed American \never turned over its leaves without feeling that the \nwriter was not nourished among the men and the \nscenes he is painting. With all its great merits, it \ncannot be, at least for Americans, the history of the \nRevolution. \n\nIt is the same as in portrait painting. The artist \n\n\n\n310 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmay catch the prominent lineaments, the complex- \nion, the general air, the peculiar costume of his sub- \nject \xe2\x80\x94 all that a stranger\'s eye will demand ; but he \nmust not hope, unless he has had much previous in- \ntimacy with the sitter, to transfer those fleeting shades \nof expression, the almost imperceptible play of fea- \ntures, which are revealed to the eye of his own family. \nWho would think of looking; to a Frenchman for \na history of England 1 to an Englishman for the \nbest history of France I 111 fares it with the nation \nthat cannot find writers of genius to tell its own \nstory. What foreign hand could have painted, like \nHerodotus and Thucydides, the achievements of the \nGreeks ] Who, like Livy and Tacitus, have por- \ntrayed the shifting character of the Roman, in his \nrise, meridian, and decline I Had the Greeks trust- \ned their story to these same Romans, what would \nhave been their fate with posterity I Let the Car- \nthaginians tell. All that remains of this nation, the \nproud rival of Rome, who once divided with her \nthe empire of the Mediterranean, and surpassed her \nin commerce and civilization \xe2\x80\x94 nearly all that now \nremains to indicate her character, is a poor proverb, \nPunica fides, a brand of infamy given by the Roman \nhistorian, and one which the Romans merited prob- \nably as richly as the Carthaginians. Yet America, \nit is too true, must go to Italy for the best history of \nthe Revolution, and to Scotland for the best history \nof the Colonies. Happily, the work before us bids \nfair, when completed, to supply this deficiency; and \nit is quite time we should turn to it. \n\n\n\nBANCROFTS UNITED STATES. 311 \n\nMr. Bancroft\'s first two volumes have been too \nlong before the public to require anything to be now" \nsaid of them. Indeed, the first has already been \nthe subject of a particular notice in this Journal. \nThese volumes are mainly occupied with the settle- \nment of the country by the different colonies, and \nthe institutions gradually established among them, \nwith a more particular illustration of the remarkable \nfeatures in their character or policy. \n\nIn the present volume the immediate point of \nview is somewhat changed. It was no longer ne- \ncessary to treat each of the colonies separately, and \na manifest advantage in respect to unity is gained by \ntheir being brought more tinder one aspect. A more \nprominent feature is gradually developed by the re- \nlations with the mother country. This is the mer- \ncantile system, as it is called by economical writers, \nwhich distinguishes the colonial policy of modern \nEurope from that of ancient. The great object of \nthis system was to get as much profit from the col- \nonies, with as little cost to the mother country as \npossible. The former, instead of being regarded as \nan integral part of the empire, were held as property, \nto be dealt with for the benefit of the proprietors. \nThis was the great object of legislation, almost the \nsole one. The system, so different from anything \nknown in antiquity, was introduced by the Span- \niards and Portuguese, and by them carried to an ex- \ntent which no other nation has cared to follow. By \nthe most cruel and absurd system of prohibitory le- \ngislation, their colonies were cut off from intercourse \n\n\n\n3] 2 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwith all but the parent country ; and, as the latter \nwas unable to supply their demands for even the \nnecessaries of life, an extensive contraband trade \nwas introduced, which, without satisfying the wants \nof the colonies, corrupted their morals. It is an old \nstory, and the present generation has witnessed the \nresults, in the ruin of those fine countries and the \nfinal assertion of their independence, which the de- \ngraded condition in which they have so long been \nheld has wholly unfitted them to enjoy. \n\nThe English government w r as too wise and liberal \nto press thus heavily on its transatlantic subjects ; \nbut the policy was similar, consisting, as is well \nknown, and is ably delineated in these volumes, of \na long series of restrictive measures, tending to \ncramp their free trade, manufactures, and agriculture, \nand to secure the commercial monopoly of Great \nBritain. This is the point from which events in \nthe present volume are to be more immediately con- \ntemplated, all subordinate, like those in the prece- \nding, to that leading principle of a Republican ten- \ndency \xe2\x80\x94 the centre of attraction, controlling the \nmovements of the numerous satellites in our colonial \nsystem. \n\nThe introductory chapter in the volume opens \nwith a view of the English Revolution in 1688, \nwhich, though not popular, is rightly characterized \nas leading the way to popular liberty. Its great ob- \nject was the security of property; and our author \nhas traced its operation, in connexion with the grad- \nual progress of commercial wealth, to give greater \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 313 \n\nauthority to the mercantile system. We select the \nfollowing original sketch of the character of William \nthe Third : \n\n" The character of the new monarch of Great \nBritain could mould its policy, but not its Constitu- \ntion. True to his purposes, he yet wins no sympa- \nthy. In political sagacity, in force of will, far supe- \nrior to the English statesmen who environed him ; \nmore tolerant than his ministers or his Parliaments, \nthe childless man seems like the unknown character \nin algebra, which is introduced to form the equation, \nand dismissed when the problem is solved. In his \nperson thin and feeble, with eyes of a hectic lustre, \nof a temperament inclining to the melancholic, in \nconduct cautious, of a self-relying humour, with abi- \nding impressions respecting men, he sought no fa- \nvour, and relied for success on his own inflexibility, \nand the greatness and maturity of his designs. Too \nwise to be cajoled, too firm to be complaisant, no \naddress could sway his resolve. In Holland he had \nnot scrupled to derive an increased power from the \ncrimes of rioters and assassins ; in England, no filial \nrespect diminished the energy of his ambition. His \nexterior was chilling ; yet he had a passionate de- \nlight in horses and the chase. In conversation he \nwas abrupt, speaking little and slowly, and with re- \npulsive dryness; in the day of battle he was all ac- \ntivity, and the highest energy of life, without kin- \ndling his passions, animated his frame. His trust in \nProvidence was so connected with faith in general \ntaws, that in every action he sought the principle \n4 2 B \n\n\n\n314 1U0GRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwhich should range it on an absolute decree. Thus \nunconscious to himself, he had sympathy with the \npeople, who always have faith in Providence. \' Do \nyou dread death in my company V he cried to the \nanxious sailors, when the ice on the coast of Hol- \nland had almost crushed the boat that was bearing \nhim to the shore. Courage and pride pervaded the \nreserve of the prince, who spurning an alliance with \na bastard daughter of Louis XIV., had made himself \nthe centre of a gigantic opposition to France. For \nEngland, for the English people, for English liber- \nties, he had no affection, indifferently employing the \nWhigs, who found their pride in the Revolution, \nand the Tories, who had opposed his elevation, and \nwho yet were the fittest instruments \' to carry the \nprerogative high/ One great passion had absorbed \nhis breast \xe2\x80\x94 the independence of his native country. \nThe harsh encroachments of Louis XIV., which in \n1672 had made William of Orange a Revolutionary \nstadtholder, now assisted to constitute him a Revo- \nlutionary king, transforming the impassive champion \nof Dutch independence into the defender of the lib- \nerties of Europe." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. iii., p. 2-4. \n\nThe chapter proceeds to examine the relations, \nnot always of the most friendly aspect, between \nEngland and the colonies, in which Mr. Bancroft \npays a well-merited tribute to the enlightened policy \nof Penn, and the tranquillity he secured to his settle- \nment. At the close of the chapter is an account of \nthat lamentable \xe2\x80\x94 farce, we should have called it, had \nit not so tragic a conclusion \xe2\x80\x94 the Salem witchcraft, \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 315 \n\nOur author has presented some very striking \nsketches of these deplorable scenes, in which poor \nhuman nature appears in as humiliating a plight as \nwould be possible in a civilized country. The In- \nquisition, fierce as it was, and most unrelenting in \nits persecutions, had something in it respectable in \ncomparison with this wretched and imbecile self- \ndelusion. The historian does not shrink from dis- \ntributing his censure, in full measure, to those to \nwhom he thinks it belongs. The erudite divine, \nCotton Mather, in particular, would feel little pleas- \nure in the contemplation of the portrait sketched for \nhim on this occasion. Vanity, according to Mr. \nBancroft, was quite as active an incentive to his \nmovements as religious zeal ; and, if he began \nwith the latter, there seems no reason to doubt that \npride of opinion, an unwillingness to expose his \nerror, so humiliating to the world, perhaps even to \nhis own heart, were powerful stimulants to his con- \ntinuing the course he had begun, though others fal- \ntered in it. \n\nMr. Bancroft has taken some pains to show that \nthe prosecutions w r ere conducted before magistrates \nnot appointed by the people, but the crown; and \nthat a stop was not put to them till after the meet- \ning of the representatives of the people. This, in \nour view, is a distinction somewhat fanciful. The \njudges held their commissions from the governor; \nand if he was appointed by the crown, it was, as \nour author admits, at the suggestion of Increase \nMather, a minister of the people. The accusers. \n\n\n\n316 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe witnesses, the jurors, were all taken from the \npeople. And when a stop was put to farther pro- \nceedings by the seasonable delay interposed by the \nGeneral Court, before the assembling of the " legal \ncolonial" tribunal (thus giving time for the illusion \nto subside), it was, in part, from the apprehension \nthat, in the rising tide of accusation, no man, how- \never elevated might be his character or condition, \nwould be safe. \n\nIn the following chapter, after a full exposition \nof the prominent features in the system of commercial \nmonopoly which controlled the affairs of the colo- \nnies, we are introduced to the great discoveries in \nthe northern and western regions of the continent, \nmade by the Jesuit missionaries of France. No- \nthing is more extraordinary in the history of this re- \nmarkable order than their bold enterprise in spread- \ning their faith over this boundless wilderness, in \ndefiance of the most appalling obstacles which man \nand nature could present. Faith and zeal triumph- \ned over all, and, combined with science and the \nspirit of adventure, laid open unknown regions in \nthe heart of this vast continent, then roamed over \nby the buffalo and the savage, and now alive with \nthe busy hum of an industrious and civilized popu- \nlation. \n\nThe historian has diligently traced the progress \nof the missionaries in their journeys into the west- \nern territory of Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, down \nthe deep basin of the Mississippi to its mouth. He \nhas identified the scenes of some striking events in \n\n\n\nBANCROFT\'S UNITED STATES. 317 \n\nthe history of discovery, as, among others, the place \nwhere Marquette first met the Illinois tribe, at Iowa. \nNo preceding writer has brought into view the re- \nsults of these labours in a compass which may be \nembraced, as it were, in a single glance. The \ncharacter of this order, and their fortune, form one \nof the most remarkable objects for contemplation in \nthe history of man. Springing up, as it were, to \nprop the crumbling edifice of Catholicism when it- \nwas reeling under the first shock of the Reforma- \ntion, it took up its residence, indifferently, within \nthe precincts of palaces, or in the boundless plains \nand forests of the wilderness ; held the consciences \nof civilized monarchs in its keeping, and directed \ntheir counsels, while, at the same time, it was gath- \nering barbarian nations under its banners, and pour- \ning the light of civilization into the farthest and \ndarkest quarters of the globe. \n\n" The establishment of \' the Society of Jesus,\' " \nsays Mr. Bancroft, "by Loyola had been contem- \nporary with the Reformation, of which it was de- \nsigned to arrest the progress, and its complete or- \nganization belongs to the period when the first full \nedition of Calvin\'s \'Institutes\' saw the light. Its \nmembers were, by its rules, never to become prelates, \nand could gain power and distinction only by influ- \nence over mind. Their vows were poverty, chas- \ntity, absolute obedience, and a constant readiness to \ngo on missions against heresy or heathenism. Their \ncloisters became the best schools in the world. \nEmancipated, in a great degree, from the forms of \n4 2 B* \n\n\n\n318 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npiety, separated from domestic ties, constituting a \ncommunity essentially intellectual as well as essen- \ntially plebeian, bound together by the most perfect \norganization, and having for their end a control \nover opinion among the scholars and courts of Eu- \nrope, and throughout the habitable globe, the order \nof the Jesuits held as its ruling maxims the widest dif- \nfusion of its influence, and the closest internal unity. \nImmediately on its institution, their missionaries, \nkindling with a heroism that defied every danger \nand endured every toil, made their way to the ends \nof the earth ; they raised the emblem of man\'s sal- \nvation on the Moluccas, in Japan, in India, in Thi- \nbet, in Cochin China, and in China ; they penetra- \nted Ethiopia, and reached the Abyssinians ; they \nplanted missions among the CarTres : in California, \non the banks of the Maranhon, in the plains of Par- \naguay, they invited the wildest of barbarians to the \ncivilization of Christianity." \n\n"Religious enthusiasm," he adds, "colonized New- \nEngland ; and religious enthusiasm founded Mont- \nreal, made a conquest of the wilderness on the upper \nLakes, and explored the Mississippi. Puritanism \ngave New-England its worship and its schools; the \nRoman Church created for Canada its altars, its \nhospitals, and its seminaries. The influence of \nCalvin can be traced to every New-England village; \nin Canada, the monuments of feudalism and the \nCatholic Church stand side by side; and the names \nof Montmorenci and Bourbon, oi Levi and Conde, \nare mingled with memorials of St. Athanasius and \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 319 \n\nAugustin, of St. Francis of Assisi, and Ignatius Lo- \nyola."\xe2\x80\x94 Ibid., p. 120, 121. \n\nWe hardly know which to select from the many \nbrilliant and spirited sketches in which this part of \nthe story abounds. None has more interest, on the \nwhole, than the discovery of the Mississippi by Mar- \nquette and his companions, and the first voyage of \nthe white men down its majestic waters. \n\n" Behold, then, in 1673, on the tenth day of June, \nthe meek, single-hearted, unpretending, illustrious \nMarquette, with Joliet for his associate, five French- \nmen as his companions, and two Algonquins as \nguides, lifting their two canoes on their backs, and \nwalking across the narrow portage that divides the \nFox River from the Wisconsin. They reach the \nwater-shed ; uttering a special prayer to the immac- \nulate Virgin, they leave the streams that, flowing \nonward, could have borne their greetings to the \nCastle of Quebec ; already they stand by the Wis- \nconsin. \' The guides returned,\' says the gentle \nMarquette, \' leaving us alone in this unknown land, \nin the hands of Providence/ France and Christian- \nity stood in the Valley of the Mississippi. Embark- \ning on the broad Wisconsin, the discoverers, as they \nsailed w T est, went solitarily down the stream, between \nalternate prairies and hill-sides, beholding neither \nman nor the wonted beasts of the forest : no sound \nbroke the appalling silence but the ripple of their \ncanoe and the lowing of the buffalo. In seven \n\'lays \'they entered happily the Great River, with \na joy that could not be expressed ;\' and the two birch- \n\n\n\n320 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbark canoes, raising their happy sails under new \nskies and to unknown breezes, floated gently down \nthe calm magnificence of the ocean stream, over the \nbroad, clear sandbars, the resort of innumerable \nwater- fowl \xe2\x80\x94 gliding past islands that swelled from \nthe bosom of the stream, with their tufts of massive \nthickets, and between the wide plains of Illinois and \nIow T a, all garlanded as they were with majestic for- \nests, or checkered by island grove and the open vast- \nness of the prairie. \n\n"About sixty leagues below the mouth of the \nWisconsin, the western bank of the Mississippi bore \non its sands the trail of men ; a little footpath was \ndiscerned leading into a beautiful prairie ; and, leav- \ning the canoes, Joliet and Marquette resolved alone \nto brave a meeting with the savages. After walking \nsix miles, they beheld a village on the banks of a \nriver, and two others on a slope, at a distance of a \nmile and a half from the first. The river was the \nMou-in-gou-e-na, or Moingona, of which we have \ncorrupted the name into Des Moines. Marquette \nand Joliet were the first white men who trod the \nsoil of Iowa. Commending themselves to God, they \nuttered a loud cry. The Indians hear; four old \nmen advance slowly to meet them, bearing the \npeace-pipe brilliant with many-coloured plumes. \n\'We are Illinois,\' said they; that is, when transla- \nted, \' We are men ;\' and they offered the calumet. \nAn aged chief received them at his cabin with up- \nraised hands, exclaiming, \' How beautiful is the sun, \nFrenchmen, when thou comest to visit us ! Our \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 32j \n\nwhole village awaits thee ; thou shalt enter in peace \ninto all our dwellings/ And the pilgrims were fol- \nlowed by the devouring gaze ot an astonished crowd. \n\n"At the great council, Marquette published to \nthem the one true God, their creator. He spoke, \nalso, of the great captain of the French, the Gov- \nernor of Canada, who had chastised the Five Na- \ntions and commanded peace ; and he questioned \nthem respecting the Mississippi and the tribes that \npossessed its banks. For the messengers who an- \nnounced the subjection of the Iroquois, a magnificent \nfestival was prepared of hominy, and fish, and the \nchoicest viands from the prairies. \n\n" After six days\' delay, and invitations to new \nvisits, the chieftain of the tribe, with hundreds of \nwarriors, attended the strangers to their canoes; and, \nselecting a peace-pipe embellished With the head \nand neck of brilliant birds, and all feathered over \nw T ith plumage of various hues, they hung around \nMarquette the mysterious arbiter of peace and w 7 ar, \nthe sacred calumet, a safeguard among the nations. \n\nThe little group proceeded onward. \' I did not \nfear death,\' says Marquette; \'I sbould have esteem- \ned it the greatest happiness to have died for the \nglory of God.\' They passed the perpendicular \nrocks, which wore the appearance of monsters; they \nheard at a distance the noise of the waters of the \nMissouri, known to them by the Algonquin name \nof Pekitanoni ; and when they came to the most \nbeautiful confluence of waters in the w r orld \xe2\x80\x94 where \nthe swifter Missouri rushes like a conqueror into the \n\nSs \n\n\n\n322 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncalmer Mississippi, dragging it, as it were, hastily to \nthe sea \xe2\x80\x94 the good Marquette resolved in his heart, \nanticipating Lewis and Clarke, one day to ascend \nthe mighty river to its source ; to cross the ridge \nthat divides the oceans, and, descending a westerly \nflowing stream, to publish the Gospel to all the \npeople of this New World. \n\n" In a little less than forty leagues, the canoes \nfloated past the Ohio, which was then, and long af- \nterward, called the Wabash. Its banks were tenant- \ned by numerous villages of the peaceful Shawnees, \nwho quailed under the incursions of the Iroquois. \n\n" The thick canes begin to appear so close and \nstrong that the buffalo could not break through \nthem ; the insects become intolerable ; as a shelter \nagainst the suns of July, the sails are folded into an \nawning. The prairies vanish ; thick forests of \nwhite wood, admirable for their vastness and height, \ncrowd even to the skirts of the pebbly shore. It is \nalso observed that, in the land of the Chickasas, the \nIndians have guns. \n\n" Near the latitude of thirty-three degrees, on the \nwestern bank of the Mississippi, stood the village of \nMitchigamea, in a region that had not been visited \nby Europeans since the days of De Soto. \'Now/ \nthought Marquette, \' we must indeed ask the aid of \nthe Virgin.\' Armed with bows and arrows, with \nclubs, axes, and bucklers, amid continual whoops, \nthe natives, bent on war, embark in vast canoes \nmade out of the trunks of hollow trees ; but, at the \nsight of the mysterious peace-pipe held aloft God \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 323 \n\ntouched the hearts of the old men, who checked the \nimpetuosity of the young, and, throwing their bows \nand quivers into the canoes as a token of peace, \nthey prepared a hospitable welcome. \n\n" The next day, a long wooden canoe, containing \nten men, escorted the discoverers, for eight or ten \nleagues, to the village of Akansea, the limit of their \nvoyage. They had left the region of the Algon- \nquins, and, in the midst of the Sioux and Chicasas, \ncould speak only by an interpreter. A half league \nabove Akansea they were met by two boats, in one \nof which stood the commander, holding in his hand \nthe peace-pipe, and singing as he drew near. After \noffering the pipe, he gave bread of maize. The \nwealth of his tribe consisted in buffalo-skins ; their \nweapons were axes of steel \xe2\x80\x94 a proof of commerce \nwith Europeans. \n\n" Thus had our travellers descended below the \nentrance of the Arkansas, to the genial climes that \nhave almost no winter but rains, beyond the bound \nof the Huron and Algonquin languages, to the vicin- \nity of the Gulf of Mexico, and to tribes of Indians \nthat had obtained European arms by traffic with \nSpaniards or with Virginia. \n\n" So, having spoken of God and the mysteries of \nthe Catholic faith ; having become certain that the \nFather of Rivers went not to the ocean east of Flor- \nda, nor yet to the Gulf of California, Marquette and \nToliet left Akansea and ascended the Mississippi. \n\n" At the thirty-eighth degree of latitude they en- \ntered the River Illinois, and discovered a country \n\n\n\n324: BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwithout its paragon for the fertility of its beautiful \nprairies, covered with buffaloes and stags ; for the \nloveliness of its rivulets, and the prodigal abundance \nof wild duck and swans, and of a species of parrots \nand wild turkeys. The tribe of Illinois, that tenant- \ned its banks, entreated Marquette to come and reside \namong them. One of their chiefs, with their young \nmen, conducted the party, by way of Chicago, to \nLake Michigan ; and, before the end of September, \nall were safe in Green Bay. \n\n" Joliet returned to Quebec to announce the dis- \ncovery, of which the fame, through Talon, quicken- \ned the ambition of Colbert ; the unaspiring Mar- \nquette remained to preach the Gospel to the Miamis, \nwho dwelt in the north of Illinois, round Chicago. \nTwo years afterward, sailing from Chicago to Mack- \ninaw, he entered a little river in Michigan. Erect- \ning an altar, he said mass after the rites of the Cath- \nolic Church; then, begging the men who conducted \nhis canoe to leave him alone for half an hour \n\n* in the darkling wood, \nAmid the cool and silence, he knelt down, \nAnd offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks \nAnd supplication.\' \n\nAt the end of the half hour they went to seek him, \nand he was no more. The good missionary, discov- \nerer of a world, had fallen asleep on the margin of \nthe stream that bears his name. Near its mouth the \ncanoe-men dag his grave in the sand. Ever after, \nthe forest rangers, if in danger on Lake Michigan, \nwould invoke his name. The people of the West \nwill build his monument." \xe2\x80\x94 Ibid., p. 157, 1G2. \n\n\n\nBANCROFT^ UNITED STATES. 326 \n\nThe list of heroic adventurers in the path of dis- \ncovery is closed by La Salle, the chivalrous French- \nman of whom we have made particular record in a \nprevious number of this Journal,* and whose tremen- \ndous journey from the Illinois to the French settle- \nments in Canada, a distance of fifteen hundred miles, \nis also noticed by Mr. Bancroft. His was the first \nEuropean bark that emerged from the mouth of the \nMississippi ; and Mr. Bancroft, as he notices the \nevent, and the feelings it gave rise to in the mind of \nthe discoverer, gives utterance to his own in language \ntruly sublime : \n\n" As he raised the cross by the Arkansas \xe2\x80\x94 as he \nplanted the arms of France near the Gulf of Mexi- \nco, he anticipated the future affluence of emigrants, \nand heard in the distance the footsteps of the ad- \nvancing multitude that were coming to take posses- \nsion of the valley." \xe2\x80\x94 Ibid., p. 168. \n\nThis descent of the Great River our author pla- \nces, without hesitation, in 1682, being a year earlier \nthan the one assigned by us in the article referred \nto.f Mr. Bancroft is so familiar with the whole \nground, and has studied the subject so carefully, that \ngreat weight is due to his opinions ; but he has not \nexplained the precise authority for his conclusions \nin this particular. \n\nThis leads us to enlarge on what we consider a \ndefect in our author\'s present plan. His notes are \ndiscarded altogether, and his references transferred \n\n* See "North American Review," vol. xlviii., p. 69, et seq. \nt Ibid., p. 84, 85 \n\n4 2C \n\n\n\n326 Biographical and critical miscellanies. \n\nfrom the bottom of the page to the side margin, \nThis is very objectionable, not merely on account \nof the disagreeable effect produced on the eye, but \nfrom the more serious inconvenience of want of room \nfor very frequent and accurate reference. Titles are \nnecessarily much abridged, sometimes at the expense \nof perspicuity. The first reference in this volume \nis "Hallam, iv., 374;" the second is "Arcbdale." \nNow Hallam has written several works, published \nin various forms and editions. As to the second \nauthority, we have no means of identifying the pas- \nsage at all. This, however, is not the habit of Mr. \nBancroft where the fact is of any great moment, and \nhis references throughout are abundant. But the \npractice of references in the side margin, though \nwarranted by high authority, is unfavourable, from \nwant of room, for very frequent or very minute spe- \ncification. \n\nThe omission of notes we consider a still greater \nevil. It is true, they lead to great abuses, are often \nthe vehicle of matter which should have been incor- \nporated in the text, more frequently of irrelevant \nmatter which should not have been admitted any- \nwhere, and thus exhaust the reader\'s patience, while \nthey spoil the effect of the work by drawing the at- \ntention from the continuous flow of the narrative, \nchecking the heat that is raised by it in the reader\'s \nmind, and not unfrequently jarring on his feelings \nby some misplaced witticism, or smart attempt at \none. For these and the like reasons, many compe- \ntent critics have pronounced against the use of notes, \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 327 \n\nconsidering that a writer who could not bring all he \nhad to say into the compass of his text was a bun- \ngler. Gibbon, who practised the contrary, intimates \na regret in one of his letters that he had been over- \nruled so far as to allow his notes to be printed at \nthe bottom of the page instead of being removed to \nthe end of the volume. But from all this we dissent, \nespecially in reference to a work of research like the \npresent History. We are often desirous here to \nhave the assertion of the author, or the sentiment \nquoted by him, if important, verified by the original \nextract, especially when this is in a foreign language. \nWe want to see the grounds of his conclusions, the \nscaffolding by which he has raised his structure ; to \nestimate the true value of his authorities ; to know \nscmething of their characters, positions in society, \nand the probable influences to which they were ex- \nposed. Where there is contradiction, we want to \nsee it stated; \\\\\\e pros and the cons, and the grounds \nfor rejecting this and admitting that. We want to \nhave a reason for our faith, otherwise we are merely \nled blindfold. Our guide may be an excellent guide ; \nhe may have travelled over the path till it has be- \ncome a beaten track to him ; but we like to use our \nown eyesight too, to observe somewhat for ourselves, \nand to know, if possible, why he has taken this par- \nticular road in preference to that which his prede- \ncessors have travelled. \n\nThe objections made to notes are founded rathei \non the abuse than the proper use of them. Gibbon \nonly wished to remove his own to the end of his \n\n\n\n328 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nvolume ; though in this we think he erred, from \nthe difficulty and frequent disappointment which the \nreader must have experienced in consulting them \xe2\x80\x94 \na disappointment of little moment when unattended \nby difficulty. But Gibbon knew too well the worth \nof this part of his labours to him to wish to discard \nthem altogether. He knew his reputation stood on \nthem as intimately as on his narrative. Indeed, \nthey supply a body of criticism, and well-selected, \nwell-digested learning, which of itself would make \nthe reputation of any scholar. Many accomplished \nwriters, however, and Mr. Bancroft among the num- \nber, have come to a different conclusion ; and he \nhas formed his, probably, with deliberation, having \nmade the experiment in both forms. \n\nIt is true, the fulness of the extracts from original \nsources with which his text is inlaid, giving such \nlife and presence to it, and the frequency of his ref- \nerences, supersede much of the necessity of notes. \nWe should have been very glad of one, however, of \nthe kind we are speaking of, at the close of his ex- \npedition of La Salle. \n\nWe have no room for the discussion of the topics \nin the next chapter, relating to the hostilities for the \nacquisition of colonial territory between France and \nEngland, each of them pledged to the same system \nof commercial monopoly, but must pass to the au- \nthor\'s account of the Aborigines east of the Missis- \nsippi. In this division of his subject he brings into \nview the geographical positions of the numerous \ntribes, their languages, social institutions, religious \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 329 \n\nfaith, and probable origin. All these copious topics \nare brought within the compass of a hundred pages ; \narranged with great harmony, and exhibited with \nperspicuity and singular richness of expression. It \nis, on the whole, the most elaborate and finished \nportion of the volume. \n\nHis remarks on the localities of the tribes, instead \nof a barren muster-roll of names, are constantly en- \nlivened by picturesque details connected with their \nsituation. His strictures on their various languages \nare conceived in a philosophical spirit. The subject \nis one that has already employed the pens of the \nablest philologists in this country, among whom it is \nonly necessary to mention the names of Du Pon- \nceau, Pickering, and Gallatin. Our author has evi- \ndently bestowed much labour and thought on the \ntopic. He examines the peculiar structure of the \nlanguages, which, though radically different, bear a \ncommon resemblance in their compounded and syn- \nthetic organization. He has omitted to notice the \nsingular exception to the polysynthetic formation of \nthe Indian languages presented by the Otomie, \nwhich has afforded a Mexican philologist so ingeni- \nous a parallel, in its structure, with the Chinese. Mr. \nBancroft concludes his review of them by admitting \nthe copiousness of their combinations, and by infer- \nring that this copiousness is no evidence of care and \ncultivation, but the elementary form of expression of \na rude and uncivilized people; in proof of which, he \ncites the example of the partially civilized Indian in \naccommodating his idiom gradually to the analytic. \n4 2 C* \n\n\n\n330 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nstructure of the European languages. May not this \nhe explained by the circumstance that the influence \nunder which he makes this, like his other changes, \nis itself European ? But we pass to a more popular \ntheme, the religious faith of the red man, whose fan- \nciful superstitions are depicted by our author with \nhighly poetical colouring. \n\n" The red man, unaccustomed to generalization, \nobtained no conception of an absolute substance, of \na self-existent being, but saw a divinity in every \npower. Wherever there was being, motion, or ac- \ntion, there to him was a spirit ; and, in a special \nmanner, wherever there appeared singular excellence \namong beasts, or birds, or in the creation, there to \nhim was the presence of a divinity. When he feels \nhis pulse throb or his heart beat, he knows that it \nis a spirit. A god resides in the flint, to give forth \nthe kindling, cheering fire ; a spirit resides in the \nmountain cliff; a spirit makes its abode in the cool \nrecesses of the grottoes which nature has adorned ; \na god dwells in each \' little grass\' that springs mi- \nraculously from the earth. \' The w r oods, the wilds, \nand the waters respond to savage intelligence ; the \nstars and the mountains live ; the river, and the lake, \nand the waves have a spirit.\' Every hidden agen- \ncy, every mysterious influence, is personified. A \ngod dwells in the sun, and in the moon, and in the \nfirmament; the spirit of the morning reddens in the \neastern sky ; a deity is present in the ocean and in \nthe fire ; the crag that overhangs the river has its \ngenius ; there is a spirit to the waterfall ; a house- \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 331 \n\nhold god dwells in the Indian\'s wigwam, and conse- \ncrates his home ; spirits climb upon the forehead to \nweigh down the eyelids in sleep. Not the heaven- \nly bodies only, the sky is filled with spirits that min- \nister to man. To the savage, divinity, broken, as ic \nwere, into an infinite number of fragments, fills all \nplace and all being. The idea of unity in the crea- \ntion may exist contemporaneously, but it existed \nonly in the germ, or as a vague belief derived from \nthe harmony of the universe. Yet faith in the Great \nSpirit, when once presented, was promptly seized \nand appropriated, and so infused itself into the heart \nof remotest tribes, that it came to be often consider- \ned as a portion of their original faith. Their shad- \nowy aspirations and creeds assumed, through the re- \nports of missionaries, a more complete development, \nand a religious system was elicited from the preg- \nnant, but rude materials." \xe2\x80\x94 Ibid., p. 285, 286. \n\nThe following pictures of the fate of the Indian \ninfant, and the shadowy pleasures of the land of \nspirits, have also much tenderness and beauty : \n\n" The same motive prompted them to bury with \nthe warrior his pipe and his manitou, his tomahawk, \nquiver, and bow ready bent for action, and his most \nsplendid apparel ; to place by his side his bowl, his \nmaize, and his venison, for the long journey to the \ncountry of his ancestors. Festivals in honour of \nthe dead were also frequent, when a part of the food \nwas given to the flames, that so it might serve to \nnourish trie departed. The traveller would find in \nthe foresis a dead body placed on a scaffo\'d erected \n\n\n\n332 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nupon piles, carefully wrapped in bark for its shroud, \nand attired in wannest furs. If a mother lost her \nbabe, she would cover it with bark, and envelop it \nanxiously in the softest beaver-skins ; at the burial- \nplace she would put by its side its cradle, its beads, \nand its rattles ; and, as a last service of maternal \nlove, would draw milk from her bosom in a cup of \nbark, and burn it in the fire, that her infant might still \nfind nourishment on its solitary journey to the land \nof shades. Yet the newborn babe would be buried, \nnot, as usual, on a scaffold, but by the wayside, that \nso its spirit might secretlv steal into the bosom of \nsome passing matron, and be born again under hap- \npier auspices. On burying her daughter, the Chip- \npewa mother adds, not snow-shoes, and beads, and \nmoccasins only, but (sad emblem of woman\'s lot in \nthe wilderness !) the carrying-belt and the paddle. \n\'I know my daughter will be restored to me/ she \nonce said, as she clipped a lock of hair as a memo- \nrial ; \'by this lock of hair I shall discover her, for 1 \nshall take it with me ;\' alluding to the day when \nshe too, with her carrying-belt and paddle, and the \nlittle relic of her child, should pass through the grave \nto the dwelling-place of her ancestors." \n\n" The faith, as well as the sympathies of the sav- \nage, descended also to inferior things. Of each kind \nof animal they say there exists one, the source and \norigin of all, of a vast size, the type and original of \nthe whole class. From the immense invisible bea- \nver come all the beavers, by whatever run of watei \nthey are found ; the same is true of the elk and buf- \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 333 \n\ntalo, of the eagle and robin, of the meanest quadru- \nped of the forest, of the smallest insect that buzzes \nin the air. There lives for each class of animals \nthis invisible, vast type, or elder brother. Thus the \nsavage established his right to be classed by philoso- \nphers in the rank of Realists, and his chief effort at \ngeneralization was a reverent exercise of the religious \nsentiment. Where these older brothers dwell thev \ndo not exactly know ; yet it may be that the giant \nmanitous, which are brothers to beasts, are hid be- \nneath the waters, and that those of the birds make \ntheir homes in the blue sky. But the Indian be- \nlieves also, of each individual animal, that it possess- \nes the mysterious, the indestructible principle of \nlife ; there is not a breathing thing but has its shade, \nwhich never can perish. Regarding himself, in com- \nparison with other animals, but as the first among \nco-ordinate existences, he respects the brute creation, \nand assigns to it, as to himself, a perpetuity of being. \n\' The ancients of these lands believed that the war- \nrior, when released from life, renews the passions and \nactivity of this world ; is seated once more among \nhis Mends ; shares again the joyous feast ; w T alks \nthrough shadoww forests, that are alive with the spir- \nits of birds ; and there, in his paradise, \n\n" * By midnight moons, o\'er moistening dews, \nIn vestments for the chase arrayed, \nThe hunter still the deer pursues \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe hunter and the deer a shade.\' " \n\nIbid., p. 295, 298. \n\nAt the close of this chapter the historian grapples \nwith the much-vexed question respecting the origin \n\n\n\n334 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof the Aborigines \xe2\x80\x94 that pons asinorum which has \ncalled forth so much sense and nonsense on both \nsides of the water, and will continue to do so as \nlong as a new relic or unknown hieroglyphic shall \nturn up to irritate the nerves of the antiquary. \n\nMr. Bancroft passes briefly in review the several \narguments adduced in favour of the connexion with \nEastern Asia. He lays no stress on the affinity of \nlanguages, or of customs and religious notions, con- \nsidering these as spontaneous expressions of similar \nideas and wants in similar conditions of society. \nHe attaches as little value to the resemblance estab- \nlished by Humboldt between the signs of the Mex- \nican calendar and those of the signs of the zodiac in \nThibet and Tartary ; and as for the far-famed Digh- \nton Rock, and the learned lucubrations thereon, he \nsets them down as so much moonshine, pronouncing \nthe characters Algonquin. The tumuli \xe2\x80\x94 the great \ntumuli of the West \xe2\x80\x94 he regards as the work of no \nmortal hand, except so far as they have been exca- \nvated for a sepulchral purpose. He admits, howev- \ner, vestiges of a migratory movement on our conti- \nnent, from the northeast to the southwest ; shows \nvery satisfactorily, by estimating the distances of the \nintervening islands, the practicability of a passage in \nthe most ordinary sea-boat from the Asiatic to the \nAmerican shores in the high latitudes; and, by a \ncomparison of the Indian and Mongolian sculls, \ncomes to the conclusion that the two races are prob \nably identical in origin. But the epoch of their di\' \nvergence he places at so remote a period, that the \n\n\n\nBANCROFTS UNITED STATES. 335 \n\npeculiar habits, institutions, and culture of the Abo- \nrigines must be regarded as all their own \xe2\x80\x94 as indi- \ngenous. This is the outline of his theory. \n\nBy this hypothesis he extricates the question from \nthe embarrassment caused by the ignorance which \nthe Aborigines have manifested in the use of iron and \nmilk, known to the Mongol hordes, but which he, of \ncourse, supposes were not known at the time of the \nmigration. This is carrying the exodus back to a \nfar period. But the real objection seems to be that, \nby thus rejecting all evidence of communication but \nthat founded on anatomical resemblance, he has un- \nnecessarily narrowed the basis on which it rests. \nThe resemblance between a few specimens of Mon- \ngolian and American sculls is a narrow basis in- \ndeed, taken as the only one, for so momentous a \ntheory. \n\nIn fact, this particular point of analogy does not \nstrike us as by any means the most powerful of the \narguments in favour of a communication with the \nEast, when we consider the small number of the \nspecimens on which it is founded, the great variety \nof formation in individuals of the same family \xe2\x80\x94 some \nof the specimens approaching even nearer to the \nCaucasian than the Mongolian \xe2\x80\x94 and the very uni- \nform deviation from the latter in the prominence and \nthe greater angularity of the features. \n\nThis connexion with the East derives, in our judg- \nment, some support, feeble though it be, from affini- \nties of language ; but this is a field which remains to \nbe much more fully explored. The analogy is much \n\n\n\n336 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmore striking of certain usages and institutions, par- \nticularly of a religions character, and, above all, the \nmythological traditions which those who have had \noccasion to look into the Aztec antiquities cannot \nfail to be struck with. This resemblance is often- \ntimes in matters so purely arbitrary, that it can hard- \nly be regarded as founded in the constitution of man ; \nso very exact that it can scarcely be considered as \naccidental. We give up the Dighton Rock, that \nrock of offence to so many antiquaries, who may \nread in it the hand-writing of the Phoenicians, \nEgyptians, or Scandinavians, quite as well as any- \nthing else. Indeed, the various fac similes of it, \nmade for the benefit of the learned, are so different \nfrom one another, that, like Sir Hudibras, one may \n%id in it \n\n"A leash of languages at once." \n\nWe are agreed with our author that it is very good \nAlgonquin. But the zodiac, the Tartar zodiac, \nwhich M. de Humboldt has so well shown to re- \nsemble, in its terms, those of the Aztec calendar, \nw T e cannot so easily surrender. The striking coin- \ncidence established by his investigations between \nthe astronomical signs of the two nations \xe2\x80\x94 in a \nsimilar corresponding series, moreover, although ap- \nplied to different uses \xe2\x80\x94 is, in our opinion, one of \nthe most powerful arguments yet adduced for the \naffinity of the two races. Nor is Mr. Bancroft \nwholly right in supposing that the Asiatic hiero- \nglyphics referred only to the zodiac. Like the \nMexican, they also presided over the years, days, \n\n\n\nBANCROFTS UNITED STATES. 661 \n\nand even hours. The strength of evidence, foanded \non numerous analogies, cannot be shown withoiu \ngoing into details, for which there is scarce room in \nthe compass of a separate article, much less in the \nheel of one. Whichever way we turn, the subject \nis full of perplexity. It is the sphinx\'s riddle, and \nthe QEdipus must be called from the grave who is \nto solve it. \n\nIn closing our remarks, we must express our sat- \nisfaction that the favourable notice w r e took of Mr. \nBancroft\'s labours on his first appearance has been \nfully ratified by his countrymen, and that his Colo- \nnial History establishes his title to a place among \nthe great historical writers of the age. The reader \nwill find the pages of the present volume filled with \nmatter not less interesting and important than the \npreceding. He will meet with the same brilliant \nand daring style, the same picturesque sketches of \ncharacter and incident, the same acute reasoning \nand compass of erudition. \n\nIn the delineation of events Mr. Bancroft has \nbeen guided by the spirit of historic faith. Not that \nit w r ould be difficult to discern the colour of his pol- \nitics ; nor, indeed, would it be possible for any one \nstrongly pledged to any set of principles, whether in \npolitics or religion, to disguise them in the discussion \nof abstract topics, without being false to himself, and \ngiving a^false tone to the picture; but, while he is \ntrue to himself, he has an equally imperative duty \nto perform \xe2\x80\x94 to be true to others, to those on whose \ncharacters and conduct he sits in judgment as a his- \n4 2D \n\n\n\n338 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL .MISCELLANIES. \n\ntorian. No pet theory nor party predilections can \njustify him in swerving one hair\'s-breadth from truth \nin his delineation of the mighty dead, whose por- \ntraits he is exhibiting to us on the canvass of history. \n\nWhenever religion is introduced, Mr. Bancroft \nhas shown a commendable spirit of liberality. Cath- \nolics and Calvinists, Jesuits, Quakers, and Church- \nof-England men, are all judged according to their \ndeeds, and not their speculative tenets ; and even in \nthe latter particular he generally contrives to find \nsomething deserving of admiration, some commend- \nable doctrine or aspiration in most of them. And \nwhat Christian sect \xe2\x80\x94 we might add, what sect of any \ndenomination \xe2\x80\x94 is there which has not some beauty \nof doctrine to admire ? Religion is the homage of \nman to his Creator. The forms in which it is ex- \npressed are infinitely various ; but they flow from \nthe same source, are directed to the same end, and \nall claim from the historian the benefit of toleration. \n\nWhat Mr. Bancroft has done for the Colonial his- \ntory is, after all, but preparation for a richer theme, \nthe history of the War of Independence ; a subject \nwhich finds* its origin in the remote past, its results \nin the infinite future ; which finds a central point of \nunity iu the ennobling principle of independence, \nthat gives dignity and grandeur to the most petty \ndetails of the conflict, and which has its foreground \noccupied by a single character, to which all others \nconverge as to a centre \xe2\x80\x94 the character of Washing- \nton, in war, in peace, and in private life the most \nsublime on historical record. Happy the writer who \n\n\n\nBancroft\'s united states. 339 \n\nshall exhibit this theme worthily to the eyes of his \ncountrymen ! \n\nThe subject, it is understood, is to engage the \nattention, also, of Mr. Sparks, whose honourable \nlabours have already associated his name imperish- \nably with our Revolutionary period. Let it not be \nfeared that there is not compass enough in the sub- \nject for two minds so gifted. The field is too rich \nto be exhausted by a single crop, and will yield \nfresh laurels to the skilful hand that shall toil for \nthem. The labours of Hume did not supersede \nthose of Lingard, or Turner, or Mackintosh, or \nHallam. The history of the English Revolution \nhas called forth, in our own time, the admirable es- \nsays of Mackintosh and Guizot; and the palm of \nexcellence, after the libraries that have been written \non the French Revolution, has just been assigned to \nthe dissimilar histories of Mignet and Thiers. The \npoints of view under which a thing may be contem- \nplated are as diversified as mind itself. The most \nhonest inquirers after truth rarely come to precisely \nthe same results, such is the influence of education, \nprejudice, principle. Truth, indeed, is single, but \nopinions are infinitely various, and it is only by com- \nparing these opinions together that we can hope to \nascertain what is truth. \n\n\n\n340 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'S LIFE IN MEXICO." \n\nJANUARY, 1843. \n\nIn the present age of high literary activity, trav- \nellers make not the least importunate demands on \npublic attention, and their lucubrations, under what- \never name \xe2\x80\x94 Rambles, Notices, Incidents, Pencillings \n\xe2\x80\x94 are nearly as important a staple for the " trade" as \nnovels and romances. A book of travels, formerly, \nwas a very serious affair. The traveller set out on \nhis distant journey with many a solemn preparation, \nmade his will, and bade adieu to his friends like one \nwho might not again return. If he did return, the \nresults were imbodied in a respectable folio, or at \nleast quarto, well garnished with cuts, and done up \nin a solid form, which argued that it was no fugitive \npublication, but destined for posterity. \n\nAll this is changed. The voyager nowadays \nleaves home with as little ceremony and leave-ta- \nking as if it were for a morning\'s drive. He steps \ninto the bark that is to carry him across thousands \nof miles of ocean with the moral certainty of re- \nturning in a fixed week, almost at a particular day. \nParties of gentlemen and ladies go whizzing along \nin their steamships over the track which cost so \nmany weary days to the Argonauts of old, and run \nover the choicest scenes of classic antiquity, seal ter- \n\n* " Life in Mexico, during a Residence of Two Years in that Country. \n\nBy Madame C de la B ." Boston : Little and Brown Two \n\nvolumes, 12mo. \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'S LIFE IN MEXICO. 341 \n\ned through Europe, Asia, and Africa, in less thm* \nthan it formerly took to go from one end of the Brit- \nish isles to the other. The Cape of Good Hope, so \nlong the great stumbling-block to the navigators of \nEurope, is doubled, or the Red Sea coasted, in the \nsame way, by the fashionable tourist \xe2\x80\x94 who glides \nalong the shores of Arabia, Persia, Afghanistan, Bom- \nbay, and Hindostan, farther than the farthest limits \nof Alexander\'s conquests \xe2\x80\x94 before the last leaves of \nthe last new novel which he has taken by the way \nare fairly cut. The facilities of communication \nhave, in fact, so abridged distances, that geography, \nas we have hitherto studied it, may be said to be \nentirely reformed. Instead of leagues, we now com- \npute by hours, and we find ourselves next-door \nneighbours to those whom we had looked upon as \nat the antipodes. . \n\nThe consequence of these improvements in the \nmeans of intercourse is, that all the world goes \nabroad, or, at least, one half is turned upon the oth- \ner. Nations are so mixed up by this process that \nthey are in some danger of losing their idiosyncrasy ; \nand the Egyptian and the Turk, though they still \ncling to their religion, are becoming European in \ntheir notions and habits more and more every day. \n\nThe taste for pilgrimage, however, it must be \nowned, does not stop with the countries where it \ncan be carried on with such increased facility. Jt \nhas begotten a nobler spirit of adventure, something \nakin to what existed in the fifteenth century, when \nthe world was new or newly discovering, and a \n4 2D* \n\n\n\n342 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nnavigator who did not take in sail, like the cautious \nseamen of Knickerbocker, might run down some \nstrange continent in the dark ; for, in these times \nof dandy tourists and travel-mongers, the boldest \nachievements, that have hitherto defied the most ad- \nventurous spirits, have been performed : the Him- \nmalaya Mountains have been scaled, the Niger as- \ncended, the burning heart of Africa penetrated, the \nicy Arctic and Antarctic explored, and the myste- \nrious monuments of the semi-civilized races of Cen- \ntral America have been thrown open to the public \ngaze. It is certain that this is a high-pressure age, \nand every department of science and letters, phys- \nical and mental, feels its stimulating influence. \n\nNo nation, on the whole, has contributed so large- \nly to these itinerant expeditions as the English. \nUneasy, it would seem, at being cooped up in their \nlittle isle, they sally forth in all directions, swarming \nover the cultivated and luxurious countries of the \nneighbouring continent, or sending out stragglers on \nother more distant and formidable missions. Wheth- \ner it be that their soaring spirits are impatient of \nthe narrow quarters which nature has assigned them, \nor that there exists a supernumerary class of idlers, \nwho, wearied with the monotony of home, and the \nsame dull round of dissipation, seek excitement in \nstrange scenes and adventures; or whether they go \nabroad for the sunshine, of which they have heard \nso much but seen so little \xe2\x80\x94 whatever be the cause, \nthey furnish a far greater number of tourists than all \nthe world besides. We /Vmericans, indeed, may \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'S LIFE IN MEXICO. 343 \n\ncompete with them in mere locomotion, for our fa- \nmiliarity with magnificent distances at home makes \nas still more indifferent to them abroad ; bat this \nlocomotion is generally in the way of business, and \nthe result is rarely shown in a book, unless, indeed, \nit be the leger. \n\nYet John Bull is, on many accounts, less fitted \nthan most of his neighbours for the duties of a trav- \neller. However warm and hospitable in his own \nhome, he has a cold reserve in his exterior, a cer- \ntain chilling atmosphere, which he carries along \nwith him, that freezes up the sympathies of stran- \ngers, and which is only to be completely thawed by \nlong and intimate acquaintance. But the traveller \nhas no time for intimate acquaintances. He must \ngo forward, and trust to his first impressions, for \nthey will also be his last. Unluckily, it rarely falls \nout that the first impressions of honest John are very \nfavourable. There is too much pride, not to say \nhauteur, in his composition, which, with the best in- \ntentions in the world, will show itself in a way not \nparticularly flattering to those who come in contact \nwith him. He goes through a strange nation, tread- \ning on all their little irritable prejudices, shocking \ntheir self-love and harmless vanities \xe2\x80\x94 in short, going \nagainst the grain, and roughing up everything by \ntaking it the wrong way. Thus he draws out the \nbad humours of the people among whom he moves, \nsees them in their most unamiable and by no means \nnatural aspect \xe2\x80\x94 in short, looks on the wrong side \nof the tapestry. What wonder if his notions are \n\n\n\n344 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsomewhat awry as to what he sees ! There are, it \nis true, distinguished exceptions to all this: English \ntravellers, who cover the warm heart \xe2\x80\x94 as warm as \nit is generally true and manly\xe2\x80\x94 under a kind and \nsometimes cordial manner ; but they are the ex- \nceptions. The Englishman undoubtedly appears \nbest on his own soil, where his national predilections \nand prejudices, or, at least, the intimation of them, \nare somewhat mitigated in deference to his guest. \n\nAnother source of the disqualification of John Bull \nas a calm and philosophic traveller is the manner \nin which he has been educated at home ; the soft \nluxuries by which he has been surrounded from his \ncradle have made luxuries necessaries, and, accus- \ntomed to perceive all the machinery of life glide \nalong as noiselessly and as swiftly as the foot of \nTime itself, he becomes morbidly sensitive to every \ntemporary jar or derangement in the working of it. \nIn no country, since the world was made, have all \nthe appliances for mere physical, and, we may add, \nintellectual indulgence, been carried to such perfec- \ntion as in this little island nucleus of civilization. \nNowhere can a man get such returns for his outlay. \nThe whole organization of society is arranged so as \nto minister to the comforts of the wealthy ; and an \nEnglishman, with the golden talisman in his pocket, \ncan bring about him genii to do his bidding, and \ntransport himself over distances with a thought, al- \nmost as easy as if he were the possessor of Aladdin\'s \nmagic lamp, and the fairy carpet of the Aiabian \nTales. \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'s LIFE IN MEXICO. 345 \n\nWhen he journeys over his little island, his com- \nforts and luxuries cling as close to him as round his \nown fireside. He rolls over roads as smooth and \nwell-beaten as those in his own park ; is swept on- \nward by sleek and well-groomed horses, in a carriage \nas soft and elastic, and quite as showy as his own \nequipage ; puts up at inns that may vie with his own \ncastle in their comforts and accommodations, and is \nreceived by crowds of obsequious servants, more so- \nlicitous, probably, even than his own to win his gold- \nen smiles. In short, wherever he goes, he may be \nsaid to carry with him his castle, park, equipage, es- \ntablishment. The whole are in movement together, \nHe changes place, indeed, but changes nothing else \nFor travelling, as it occurs in other lands \xe2\x80\x94 hard roads, \nharder beds, and hardest fare \xe2\x80\x94 he knows no more \nof it than if he had been passing from one wing of \nhis castle to the other. \n\nAll this, it must be admitted, is rather an indiffer- \nent preparation for a tour on the Continent. Of \nwhat avail is it that Paris is the most elegant capital, \nFrance the most enlightened country on the Euro- \npean terra firma, if one cannot walk in the streets \nwithout the risk of being run over for want of a \ntrottoir, nor move on the roads without being half \nsmothered in a lumbering vehicle, dragged by ropes, \nat the rate of five miles an hour ? Of what account \nare the fine music and paintings, the architecture \nand art of Italy, when one must shiver by day for \nwant of carpets and sea coal fires, and be thrown \ninto a fever at night by the active vexations of a still \n\nXx \n\n\n\n346 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmore tormenting kind? The\'galled equestrian migh \nas well be expected to feel nothing but raptures and \nravishment at the fine scenery through which he is \nriding. It is probable he will think much more of \nhis own petty hurts than of the beauties of nature. \nA travelling John Bull, if his skin is not off, is at \nleast so thin-skinned that it is next door to being: so. \nIf the European neighbourhood affords so many \nmeans of annoyance to the British traveller, they are \nincalculably multiplied on this side of the water, and \nthat, too, under circumstances which dispose him still \nless to charity in his criticisms and constructions. \nOn the Continent he feels he is among strange races, \nborn and bred under different religious and political \ninstitutions, and, above all, speaking different lan- \nguages. He does not necessarily, therefore, measure \nthem by his peculiar standard, but allows them one \nof their own. The dissimilarity is so great in all the \nmain features of national polity and society, that it \nis hard to institute a comparison. Whatever be his \ncontempt for the want of progress and perfection in \nthe science of living, he comes to regard them as a \ndistinct race, amenable to different laws, and there- \nfore licensed to indulge in different usages, to a cer- \ntain extent, from his own. If a man travels in China, \nhe makes up his mind to chop-sticks. If he should \ngo to the moon, he would not be scandalized by see- \ning people walk with their heads under their arms. \nHe has embarked on a different planet. It is only \nin things which run parallel to those in his own \ncountry that a comparison can be instituted, and \ncharity too often fails where criticism begins. \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON ? S LIFE IN MEXICO. 347 \n\nUnhappily, in America, the Englishman finds these \npoints of comparison forced on him at every step \nHe lands among a people speaking the same lan- \nguage, professing the same religion, drinking at the \nsame fountains of literature, trained in the same oc- \ncupations of active life. The towns are built on \nmuch the same model with those in his own land. \nThe brick houses, the streets, the " sidewalks," the \nin-door arrangements, all, in short, are near enough \non the same pattern to provoke a comparison. Alas! \nfor the comparison. The cities sink at once into \nmere provincial towns, the language degenerates into \na provincial patois, the manners, the fashions, down \nto the cut of the clothes, and the equipages, all are \nprovincial. The people, the whole nation \xe2\x80\x94 as in- \ndependent as any, certainly, if not, as our orators \nfondly descant, the best and most enlightened upon \nearth \xe2\x80\x94 dwindle into a mere British colony. The \ntraveller does not seem to understand that he is \ntreading the soil of the New 7 World, where every- \nthing is new, where antiquity dates but from yester- \nday, where the present and the future are all, and \nthe past nothing, where hope is the watchword, and \n" Go ahead !" the principle of action. He does not \ncomprehend that when he sets foot on such a land, \nhe is no longer to look for old hereditary landmarks, \nold time-honoured monuments and institutions, old \nfamilies that have vegetated on the same soil since \nth Q Conquest. He must be content to part with the \norder and something of the decorum incident to an \nold community, where the ranks are all precisely \n\n\n\n348 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand punctiliously defined, where the power is de- \nposited by prescriptive right in certain privileged \nhands, and where the great mass have the careful \nobsequiousness of dependants, looking for the crumbs \nthat fall. \n\nHe is now among a new people, where everything \nis in movement, all struggling to get forward, and \nwhere, though many go adrift in their wild spirit of \nadventure, and a temporary check may be sometimes \nfelt by all, the great mass still advances. He is land- \ned on a hemisphere where fortunes are to be made, \nand men are employed in getting, not in spending \xe2\x80\x94 \na difference which explains so many of the discrep- \nancies between the structure of our own society and \nhabits and those of the Old World. To know how \nto spend is itself a science ; and the science of spend- \ning and that of getting are rarely held by the same \nhand. \n\nIn such a state of things, the whole arrangement \nof society, notwithstanding the apparent resemblance \nto that in his own country, and its real resemblance \nin minor points, is reversed. The rich proprietor, \nwho does nothing but fatten on his rents, is no long- \ner at the head of the scale, as in the Old World. \nThe man of enterprise takes the lead in a bustling \ncommunity, where action and progress, or at least \nchange, are the very conditions of existence. The \nupper classes \xe2\x80\x94 if the term can be used in a complete \ndemocracy \xe2\x80\x94 have not the luxurious finish and ac- \ncommodations to be found in the other hemisphere. \nThe humbler classes have not the poverty-stricken, \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'S LIFE IN MEXICO. 349 \n\ncringing spirit of hopeless inferiority. The pillar of \nsociety, if it want the Corinthian capital, wants alsc \nthe heavy and superfluous base. Every man not \nonly professes to be, but is practically, on a footing \nof equality with his neighbour. The traveller must \nnot expect to meet here the deference, or even the \ncourtesies which grow out of distinction of castes. \nThis is an awkward dilemma for one whose nerves \nhave never been jarred by contact with the profane; \nwho has never been tossed about in the rough and \ntumble of humanity. It is little to him that the poor- \nest child in the community learns how to read and \nwrite ; that the poorest man can have \xe2\x80\x94 what Henry \nthe Fourth so good-naturedly wished for the hum- \nblest of his subjects \xe2\x80\x94 a fowl in his pot every day for \nhis dinner ; that no one is so low but that he may \naspire to all the rights of his fellow-men, and find an \nopen theatre on which to display his own peculiar \ntalents. \n\nAs the tourist strikes into the interior, difficulties \nof all sorts multiply, incident to a raw and unformed \ncountry. The comparison with the high civilization \nat home becomes more and more unfavourable, as he \nis made to feel that in this land of promise it must \nbe long before promise can become the performance \nof the Old World. And yet, if he would look be- \nyond the surface, he would see that much here too \nhas been performed, however much may be wanting, \nHe would see lands over which the wild Indian \nroamed as a hunting-ground, teeming with harvests \n\nfor the consumption of millions at home and abroad; \n4 2 E \n\n\n\n350 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nforests, which have shot up, ripened, and decayed on \nthe same spot ever since the creation, now swept \naway to make room for towns and villages, thronged \nwith an industrious population ; rivers, which rolled \non in their solitudes, undisturbed except by the wan- \ndering bark of the savage, now broken and dimpled \nby hundreds of steamboats, freighted with the rich \ntribute of a country rescued from the wilderness. \nHe would not expect to meet the careful courtesies \nof polished society in the pioneers of civilization, \nwhose mission has been to recover the great conti- \nnent from the bear and the buffalo. He would have \nsome charity for their ignorance of the latest fash- \nions of Bond-street, and their departure, sometimes, \neven from what, in the Old Country, is considered as \nthe decorum, and, it may be, decencies of life. But \nn/)t so ; his heart turns back to his own land, and \ncloses against the rude scenes around him ; for he \nfinds here none of the soft graces of cultivation, or \nthe hallowed memorials of an early civilization ; no \ngray, weather-beaten cathedrals, telling of the Nor- \nmans ; no Gothic churches in their groves of vener- \nable oaks ; no moss-covered cemeteries, in which the \ndust of his fathers has been gathered since the time \nof the Piantagenets ; no rural cottages, half smoth- \nered with roses and honeysuckles, intimating that \neven in the most humble abodes the taste for the \nbeautiful has found its way ; no trim gardens, and \nfields blossoming with hawthorn hedges and minia- \nture culture ; no ring fences, enclosing well-shaven \nlawns, woods so disposed as to form a picture of \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'s LIFE IN MEXICO. 351 \n\nthemselves, bright threads of silvery water, and \nsparkling fountains. All these are wanting, and his \neyes tarn with disgust from the wild and rugged fea- \ntures of nature, and all her rough accompaniments-^ \nfrom man almost as wild ; and his heart sickens as \nhe thinks of his own land, and all its scenes of beau- \nty. He thinks not of the poor, who leave that land \nfor want of bread, and find in this a kindly welcome, \nand the means of independence and advancement \nwhich their own denies them. \n\nHe goes on, if he be a splenetic Sinbad, dischar- \nging his sour bile on everybody that he comes in con- \ntact with, thus producing an amiable ripple in the \ncurrent as he proceeds, that adds marvellously, no \ndoubt, to his own quiet and personal comfort. If he \nhave a true merry vein and hearty good nature, he \ngets on, laughing sometimes in his sleeve at others, \nand cracking his jokes on the unlucky pate of Broth- \ner Jonathan, who, if he is not very silly \xe2\x80\x94 which he \nvery often is \xe2\x80\x94 laughs too, and joins in the jest, \nthough it may be somewhat at his own expense. It \nmatters little whether the tourist be Whig or Tory \nin his own land ; if the latter, he returns, probably, \nten times the Conservative that he was when he left \nit. If Whig, or even Radical, it matters not; his \nloyalty waxes warmer and warmer with every step \nof his progress among the Republicans ; and he finds \nthat practical democracy, shouldering and elbowing \nlife neighbours as it " goes ahead," is no more like \nthe democracy which he has been accustomed to ad- \nmire in theory, than the real machinery, with its \n\n\n\n352 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsmell, smoke, and clatter, under full operation, is like \nthe pretty toy which he sees as a model in the Pat- \nent Office at Washington. \n\nThere seems to be no people better constituted \nfor travellers, at least for recording their travelling \nexperiences, than the French. There is a mixture of \nfrivolity and philosophy in their composition which \nis admirably suited to the exigencies of their situa- \ntion. They mingle readily with all classes and \nraces, discarding for the time their own nationality \n\xe2\x80\x94 at least their national antipathies. Their pleas- \nant vanity fills them with the desire of pleasing oth- \ners, which most kindly reacts by their being them- \nselves pleased : \n\n" Pleased with himself, whom all the world can please." \n\nThe Frenchman can even so far accommodate \nhimself to habits alien to his own, that he can toler- \nate those of the savages themselves, and enter into a \nsort of fellowship with them, without either party \naltogether discarding his national tastes and propen- \nsities. It is Chateaubriand, if we are not mistaken, \nwho relates that, wandering in the solitudes of the \nAmerican wilderness, his ears were most unexpect- \nedly saluted by the sounds of a violin. He had lit- \ntle doubt that one of his own countrymen must be \nat hand ; and in a wretched enclosure he found one \nof them, sure enough, teaching Messieurs les sauvages \nto dance. It is certain that this spirit of accommo- \ndation to the wild habits of their copper-coloured \nfriends gave the French traders and mission arios \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'S LIFE IN MEXICO. 353 \n\nformerly an ascendency over the Aborigines which \nwas never obtained by any other of the white men. \n\nThe most comprehensive and truly philosophic \nwork on the genius and institutions of this country, \nthe best exposition of its social phenomena, its pres- \nent condition, and probable future, are to be found \nm the pages of a Frenchman. It is in the French \nlanguage, too, that by far the greatest work has been \nproduced on the great Southern portion of our con- \ntinent, once comprehended under New Spain. \n\nTo write a book of travels seems to most people \nto require as little preliminary preparation as to write \na letter. One has only to jump into a coach, em- \nbark on board a steamboat, minute down his flying \nexperiences and hair-breadth escapes, the aspect of \nthe country as seen from the interior of a crowded \ndiligence or a vanishing rail-car, note the charges of \nthe landlords aucl the quality of the fare, a dinner or \ntwo at the minister\'s, the last new play or opera at \nthe theatre, and the affair is done. It is very easy \nto do this, certainly ; very easy to make a bad book \nof travels, but by no means easy to make a good \none. This requires as many and various qualifica- \ntions as to make any other good book ; qualifications \nwhich must vary with the character of the country \none is to visit. Thus, for instance, it requires a very \ndifferent preparation and stock of accomplishments \nto make the tour of Italy, its studios and its galleries \nof art, or of Egypt, with its immortal pyramids and \nmight j relics of a primeval age, the great cemetery of \nantiquity, from what it does to travel understands \n4 2 E* \n\n\n\n354 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ningly in oar own land, a new creation, as it were, \nwithout monuments, without arts, where the only \nstudy of the traveller \xe2\x80\x94 the noblest of all studies, it is \ntrue \xe2\x80\x94 is man. The inattention to this difference of \npreparation, demanded by different places, has led \nmany a clever writer to make a very worthless book, \nwhich would have been remedied had he consulted \nhis own qualifications instead of taking the casual \ndirection of the first steamboat or mail-coach that \nlay in his way. \n\nThere is no country more difficult to discuss in \nall its multiform aspects than Mexico, or, rather, the \nwide region once comprehended under the name of \nNew Spain. Its various climates, bringing to per- \nfection the vegetable products of the most distant \nlatitudes ; its astonishing fruitfulness in its lower re- \ngions, and its curse of barrenness over many a broad \nacre of its plateau; its inexhaustible mines, that \nhave flooded the Old World with an ocean of silver, \nsuch as Columbus in his wildest visions never \ndreamed of \xe2\x80\x94 and, unhappily, by a hard mischance, \nnever lived to realize himself; its picturesque land- \nscape, where the volcanic fire gleams amid wastes \nof eternal snow, and a few r hours carry the traveller \nfrom the hot regions of the lemon and the cocoa to \nthe wintry solitudes of the mountain fir; its motley \npopulation, made up of Indians, old Spaniards, mod- \nern Mexicans, meztizoes, mulattoes, and zambos; \nits cities built in the clouds ; its lakes of salt water, \nhundreds of miles from the ocean ; its people, with \ntheir wild and variegated costume, in keeping, as wo \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDEROn\'s LIFE IN MEXICO. 355 \n\nmay say, with its extraordinary scenery ; its stately \npalaces, half furnished, where services of gold and \nsilver plate load the tables in rooms without a car- \npet, while the red dust of the bricks soils the dia- \nmond-sprinkled robes of the dancer; the costly attire \nof its higher classes, blazing with pearls and jewels ; \nthe tawdry magnificence of its equipages, saddles \ninlaid with gold, bits and stirrups of massy silver, all \nexecuted in the clumsiest style of workmanship ; its \nlower classes \xe2\x80\x94 the men with their jackets glittering \nwith silver buttons, and rolls of silver tinsel round \ntheir caps ; the women with petticoats fringed with \nlace, and white satin shoes on feet unprotected by a \nstocking ; its high-born fair ones crowding to the \ncock-pit, and solacing themselves with the fumes of \na cigar; its churches and convents, in which all \nthose sombre rules of monastic life are maintained \nin their primitive. rigour, which have died away be- \nfore the liberal spirit of the age on the other side of \nthe water ; its swarms of leperos, the lazzaroni of \nthe land ; its hordes of almost legalized banditti \nwho stalk openly in the streets, and render the pres- \nence of an armed escort necessary to secure a safe \ndrive into the environs of the capital; its whole \nstructure of society, in which a Republican form is \nthrown over institutions as aristocratic, and castes \nas nicely defined, as in any monarchy of Europe; \nin short, its marvellous inconsistencies and contrasts \nin climate, character of the people, and face of the \nl and \xe2\x80\x94 so marvellous as, we trust, to excuse the un- \nprecedented length of this sentence \xe2\x80\x94 undoubtedly \n\n\n\n356 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmake modern Mexico one of the most prolific, origi- \nnal, and difficult themes for the study of the traveller. \nYet this great theme has found in Humboldt a \nwriter of strength sufficient to grapple with it in \nnearly all its relations. While yet a young man, or, \nat least, while his physical as well as mental ener- \ngies were in their meridian, he came over to this \ncountry with an enthusiasm for science which was \nonly heightened by obstacles, and with stores of it \nalready accumulated that enabled him to detect the \nnature of every new object that came under his eye, \nand arrange it in its proper class. With his scien- \ntific instruments in his hand, he might be seen sca- \nling the snow-covered peaks of the Cordilleras, or \ndiving into their unfathomable caverns of silver; now \nwandering through their dark forests in search of \nnew specimens for his herbarium, now coasting the \nstormy shores of the Gulf, and penetrating its un- \nhealthy streams, jotting down every landmark that \nmight serve to guide the future navigator, or survey- \ning the crested Isthmus in search of a practicable \ncommunication between the great seas on its bor- \nders, and then, again, patiently studying the monu- \nments and manuscripts of the Aztecs in the capital, \nor mingling with the wealth and fashion in its sa- \nloons ; frequenting every place, in short, and every- \nwhere at home : \n\n41 Grammaticus, rhetor, geometres, .... omnia novit." \n\nThe whole range of these various topics is brought \nunder review in his pages, and on all he sheds a ray, \nsometimes a flood of light. His rational philosophy \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDERON\'s LIFE IN MEXICO. 357 \n\ncontent rather to doubt than to decide, points out \nthe track which other adventurous spirits may follow \nup with advantage. No antiquary has done so much \ntowards determining the original hives of the semi- \ncivilized races of the Mexican plateau. No one, not \neven of the Spaniards, has brought together such an \nimportant mass of information in respect to the re- \nsources, natural products, and statistics generally, of \nNew Spain. His explorations have identified more \nthan one locality, and illustrated more than one cu- \nrious monument of the people of Anahuac, which \nhad baffled the inquiries of native antiquaries ; and \nhis work, while imbodying the results of profound \nscholarship and art, is, at the same time, in many \nrespects, the very best manuel du voyageur, and, as \nsuch, has been most freely used by subsequent tour- \nists. It is true, his pages are sometimes disfigured \nby pedantry, ambitious display, learned obscurity, \nand other affectations of the man of letters. But \nwhat human work is without its blemishes? His \nvarious writings on the subject of New Spain, taken \ncollectively, are one of those monuments which may \nbe selected to show the progress of the species. \nTheir author reminds us of one of the ancient ath- \nlete, who descended into the arena to hurl the dis- \ncus with a giant arm, that distanced every cast of \nhis contemporaries ! \n\nThere is one branch of his fruitful subject which \nM. de Humboldt has not exhausted, and, indeed, has \nbut briefly touched on. This is the social condition \nof the country, especially as found in its picturesque \n\n\n\n35S BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncapital. This has been discussed by subsequent \ntravellers more fully, and Ward, Bullock, Lyons, \nPoinsett, Tudor, Latrobe, have all produced works \nwhich have for their object, more or less, the social \nhabits and manners of the people. With most of \nthem this is not the prominent object ; and others \nof them, probably, have found obstacles in effecting \nit, to any great extent, from an imperfect knowledge \nof the language \xe2\x80\x94 the golden key to the sympathies \nof a people \xe2\x80\x94 without which a traveller is as much \nat fault as a man without an eye for colour in a pic- \nture-gallery, or an ear for music at a concert. He \nmay see and hear, indeed, in both, but cut bono ? \nThe traveller, ignorant of the language of the nation \nwhom he visits, may descant on the scenery, the \nroads, the architecture, the outside of things, the \nrates and distances of posting, the dress of the peo- \nple in the streets, and may possibly meet a native \nor two, half denaturalized, kept to dine with stran- \ngers at his banker\'s. But as to the interior mech- \nanism of society, its secret sympathies, and familiar \ntone of thinking and feeling, he can know no more \nthan he could of the contents of a library by run- \nning over the titles of strange and unknown authors \npacked together on the shelves. \n\nIt was to supply this deficiency that the work be- \nfore us, no doubt, was given to the public, and it was \ncomposed under circumstances that afforded every \npossible advantage and facility to its author. Al- \nthough the initials only of the name are given in the \ntitle-page, yet, from these and certain less equivocal \n\n\n\nMADAME CALDEROn\'s LIFE IN MEXICO. 35$ \n\npassages in the body of the work, it requires no \nCEdipus to divine that the author is the wife of the \nChevalier Calderon de la Barca, well known in this \ncountry during his long residence as Spanish minis- \nter at Washington, where his amiable manners and. \nhigh personal qualities secured him general respect, \nand the regard of all who knew him. On the recog- \nnition of the independence of Mexico by the mother \ncountry, Senor Calderon was selected to fill the \noffice of the first Spanish envoy to the Republic. It \nwas a delicate mission after so long an estrangement, \nand it was hailed by the Mexicans with every dem- \nonstration of pride and satisfaction. Though twen- \nty years had elapsed since they had established their \nindependence, yet they felt as a wayward son may \nfeel who, having absconded from the paternal roof \nand set up for himself, still looks back to it with a \nsort of reverence, and, in the plenitude of his pros- \nperity, still feels the want of the parental benediction. \nWe, who cast off our allegiance in a similar way, \ncan comprehend the feeling. The new minisier, \nfrom the moment of his setting foot on the Mexican \nshore, was greeted with an enthusiasm which attest- \ned the popular feeling, and his presence in the cap- \nital w 7 as celebrated by theatrical exhibitions, bull- \nfights, illuminations, fetes public and private, and \nevery possible demonstration of respect for the new \nenvoy and the country who sent him. His position \nsecured him access to every place of interest to an \nintelligent stranger, and introduced him into the most \nintimate recesses of society, from which the stranger \n\n\n\n360 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nis commonly excluded, and to which, indeed, none \nbut a Spaniard could, under any circumstances, have \nbeen admitted. Fortunately, the minister possessed, \nin the person of his accomplished wife, one who had \nboth the leisure and the talent to profit by these un- \ncommon opportunities, and the result is given in \n(he work before us, consisting of letters to her family, \nwhich, it seems, since her return to the United States, \nhave been gathered together and prepared for pub- \nlication.* \n\n******* \n\nThe present volumes make no pretensions to en- \nlarge the boundaries of our knowledge in respect to \nthe mineral products of the country, its geography, \nits statistics, or, in short, to physical or political sci- \nence. These topics have been treated with more \nor less depth by the various travellers who have writ- \nten since the great publications of Humboldt. We \nhave had occasion to become tolerably well acquaint- \ned with their productions ; and we may safely assert, \nthat for spirited portraiture of society \xe2\x80\x94 a society un- \nlike anything existing in the Old World or the New \n\xe2\x80\x94 for picturesque delineation of scenery, for richness \nof illustration and anecdote, and for the fascinating \ngraces of style, no one of them is to be compared \nwith " Life in Mexico." \n\n* The analysis of the work, with several pages of extracts froTi it, is \naere omitted, as containing nothing that is not already familiar to i\\e \nEnglish reader. \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 361 \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. \n\nOCTOBER, 1828. \n\nThe French surpass every other nation, indeed \nall the other nations of Europe put together, in the \namount and excellence of their memoirs. Whence \ncomes this manifest superiority 1 The important \nCollection relating to the History of France, com- \nmencing as early as the thirteenth century, forms a \nbasis of civil history, more authentic, circumstantial, \nand satisfactory to an intelligent inquirer than is to \nbe found among any other people ; and the multi- \ntude of biographies, personal anecdotes, and similar \nscattered notices, which have appeared in France \nduring the two last centuries, throw a flood of light \non the social habits and general civilization of ihe \nperiod in which they were written. The Italian \nhistories (and every considerable city in Italy, says \nTiraboschi, had its historian as early as the thirteenth \ncentury) are fruitful only in wars, massacres, trea- \nsonable conspiracies, or diplomatic intrigues, matters \nthat affect the tranquillity of the state. The rich \nbody of Spanish chronicles, which maintain an un- \nbroken succession from the reign of Alphonso the \nWise to that of Philip the Second, are scarcely \nmore personal or interesting in their details, unless it \nbe in reference to the sovereign and his immediate \n\n* " Histcire de la Vie et des Ouvrages de Moliere. Par J. Taschereau." \nParis 1825. \n\n4 2F \n\n\n\n362 BtOGRAPHTCAL AND CRITICAL MISCEL1 ANIES. \n\ncourt. Even the English, in their memoirs and an* \ntobiographies of the last century, are too exclusively \nconfined to topics of public notoriety, as the only \nsubject worthy of record, or which can excite a gen- \neral interest in their readers. Not so with the French. \nThe most frivolous details assume in their eyes an \nimportance, when they can be made illustrative of \nan eminent character; and even when they con- \ncern one of less note, they become sufficiently inter- \nesting, as just pictures of life and manners. Hence, \ninstead of exhibiting their hero only as he appears \non the great theatre, they carry us along with him \ninto retirement, or into those social circles where, \nstripped of his masquerade dress, he can indulge in \nall the natural gayety of his heart \xe2\x80\x94 in those frivoli- \nties and follies which display the real character \nmuch better than all his premeditated wisdom ; those \nlittle nothings, which make up so much of the sum \nof French memoirs, but which, however amusing, \nare apt to be discarded by their more serious Eng- \nlish neighbours as something derogatory to their \nhero. Where shall we find a more lively portrait- \nure of that interesting period, when feudal barbarism \nbegan to fade away before the civilized institutions \nof modern times, than in Philip de Comines\' sketch- \nes of the courts of France and Burgundy in the lat^ \nter half of the fifteenth century ? Where a more \nnice development of the fashionable intrigues, the \ncorrupt Machiavelian politics which animated the \nlittle coteries, male and female, of Paris, under the \nregency of Anne of Austria, than in the Memoirs of \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 363 \n\nDe Retz ? To say nothing of the vast amount ot \nsimilar contributions in France during the last cen- \ntury, which, in the shape of letters and anecdotes, \nas well as memoirs, have made us as intimately ac- \nquainted with the internal movements of society in \nParis, under all its aspects, literary, fashionable, and \npolitical, as if they had passed in review before our \nown eyes. \n\nThe French have been remarked for their excel- \nlence in narrative ever since the times of the fabli- \naux and the old Norman romances. Somewhat of \ntheir success in this way may be imputed to the \nstructure of their language, whose general currency, \nand whose peculiar fitness for pro^e composition, \nhave been noticed from a very early period. Bru- \nnetto Latini, the master of Dante, wrote his Tesoro \nin French, in preference to his own tongue, as far \nback as the middle of the thirteenth century, on the \nground " that its speech was the most universal and \nmost delectable of all the dialects of Europe." And \nDante asserts in his treatise " on Vulgar Eloquence," \nthat " the superiority of the French consists in its \nadaptation, by means of its facility and agreeable- \nness, to narratives in prose.\'\' Much of the wild, art- \nless grace, the naivete, which characterized it in its \ninfancy, has been gradually polished away by fas- \ntidious critics, and can scarcely be said to have sur- \nvived Marot and Montaigne. But the language has \ngained considerably in perspicuity, precision, and \nsimplicity of construction, to which the jealous la- \nbours of the French Academy must be admitted to \n\n\n\n364 BIOURAPHICAI AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhave contributed essentially. This simplicity of \nconstruction, refusing those complicated inversions \nso usual in the other languages of the Continent, and \nits total want of prosody, though fatal to poetical \npurposes, have greatly facilitated its acquisition to \nforeigners, and have made it a most suitable vehicle \nfor conversation. Since the time of Louis the Four- \nteenth, accordingly, it has become the language of \nthe courts, and the popular medium of communica- \ntion in most of the countries of Europe. Since \nthat period, too, it has acquired a number of elegant \nphrases and familiar turns of expression, which have \nadmirably fitted it for light, popular narrative, like \nthat which enj\xc2\xa3rs into memoirs, letter- writing, and \nsimilar kinds of composition. \n\nThe character and situation of the writers them- \nselves may account still better for the success of the \nFrench in this department. Many of them, as Join- \nville, Sully, Comines, De Thou, Rochefoucault, Tor- \ncy, have been men of rank and education, the coun- \nsellors or the friends of princes, acquiring from ex- \nperience a shrewd perception of the character and \nof the forms of society. Most of them have been \nfamiliarized in those polite circles which, in Paris \nmore than any other capital, seem to combine the \nlove of dissipation and fashion with a high relish for \nintellectual pursuits. The state of society in France, \nor, what is the same thing, in Paris, is admirably \nsuited to the purposes of the memoir- writer. The \ncheerful, gregarious temper of the inhabitants, which \nmingles all ranks in the common pursuit of pleasure; \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 365 \n\nthe external polish, which scarcely deserts them in \nthe commission of the grossest violence ; the influ- \nence of the women, during the last two centuries, \nfar superior to that of the sex among any other peo- \nple, and exercised alike on matters of taste, politics, \nand letters ; the gallantry and licentious intrigues so \nusual in the higher classes of this gay metropolis, \nand which fill even the life of a man of letters, so \nstagnant in every other country, with stirring and \nromantic adventure ; all these, we say, make up a \nrich and varied panorama, that can hardly fail of \ninterest under the hand of the most common artist. \n\nLastly, the vanity of the French may be consid- \nered as another cause of their success -in this kind \nof writing; a vanity which leads them to disclose a \nthousand amusing particulars, which the reserve of \nan Englishman, and perhaps his pride, would discard \nas altogether unsuitable to the public ear. This van- \nity, it must be confessed, however, has occasionally \nseduced their writers, under the garb of confessions \nand secret memoirs, to make such a disgusting ex- \nposure of human infirmity as few men would be \nwilling to admit, even to themselves. \n\nThe best memoirs of late produced in France \nseem to have assumed somewhat of a novel shape. \nWhile they are written with the usual freedom and \nvivacity, they are fortified by a body of references \nand illustrations that attest an unwonted degree of \nelaboration and research. Such are those of Rous- \nseau, La Fontaine, and Moliere, lately published. \nThe last of these, which forms the subject of our ar- \n4 2 F* \n\n\n\n366 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntide, is a compilation of all that has ever been re- \ncorded of the life of Moliere. It is executed in an \nagreeable manner, and has the merit, of examining, \nwith more accuracy than has been hitherto done, \ncertain doubtful points in his biography, and of assem- \nbling together in a convenient form what has before \nbeen diffused over a great variety of surface. But, \nhowever familiar most of these particulars may be \nto the countrymen of Moliere (by far the greatest \ncomic genius in his own nation, and, in very many \nrespects, inferior to none in any other), they are not \nso current elsewhere as to lead us to imagine that \nsome account of his life and literary labours would \nbe altogether unacceptable to our readers. \n\nJean-Baptiste Poquelin (Moliere) was born in Par- \nis, January 15, 1622. His father was an upholster- \ner, as his grandfather had been before him ; and the \nyoung Poquelin was destined to exercise the same \nhereditary craft, to which, indeed, he served an ap- \nprenticeship until the age of fourteen. In this deter- \nmination his father was confirmed by the office which \nhe had obtained for himself, in connexion with his \noriginal vocation, of valet de chambre to the king, with \nthe promise of a reversion of it to his son on his own \ndecease. The youth accordingly received only such \na meager elementary education as was usual with \nthe artisans of that day. But a secret consciousness \nof his own powers convinced him (hat he was des- \ntined by nature for higher purposes than that of quilt- \ning sofas and hanging tapestry. His occasional pres- \nence at the theatrical representations of the Hotel de \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 367 \n\nBourgogne is said also to have awakened in his mind, \nat this period, a passion for the drama. He therefore \nsolicited his father to assist him in obtaining more \nliberal instruction ; and when the latter at length \nyielded to the repeated entreaties of his son, it was \nwith the reluctance of one who imagines that he is \nspoiling a good mechanic in order to make a poor \nscholar. He was accordingly introduced into the \nJesuits\' College of Clermont, where he followed the \nusual course of study for five years with diligence \nand credit. He was fortunate enough to pursue the \nstudy of philosophy under the direction of the cele- \nbrated Gassendi, with his fellow-pupils, Chapellethe \npoet, afterward his intimate friend, and Bernier, so \nfamous subsequently for his travels in the East, but \nwho, on his return, had the misfortune to lose the \nfavour of Louis the Fourteenth by replying to him, \nthat \'of all the countries he had ever seen, he pre- \nferred Switzerland/ \n\nOn the completion of his studies in 1641, he was \nrequired to accompany the king, then Louis the \nThirteenth, in his capacity of valet de chambre (his \nfather being detained in Paris by his infirmities), on \nan excursion to the south of France. This journey \nafforded him the opportunity of becoming intimately \nacquainted with the habits of the court, as well as \nthose of the provinces, of which he afterward so re- \npeatedly availed himself in his comedies. On his \nreturn he commenced the study of the law, and had \ncompleted it, it would appear, when his old passion \ntor the theatre revived with increased ardour, and, \n\n\n\n368 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nafter some hesitation, he determined no longer to \nwithstand the decided impulse of his genius. He \nassociated himself with one of those city companies \nof players with which Paris had swarmed since the \ndays of Richelieu \xe2\x80\x94 a minister who aspired after the \nsame empire in the republic of letters which he had \nso long maintained over the state, and whose osten- \ntatious patronage eminently contributed to develop \nthat taste for dramatic exhibition which has distin- \nguished his countrymen ever since. \n\nThe consternation of the elder Poqnelin, on re- \nceiving the intelligence of his son\'s unexpected de- \ntermination, may be readily conceived. It blasted at \nonce all the fair promise which the rapid progress \nthe latter had made in his studies justified him in \nforming, and it degraded him to an unfortunate pro- \nfession, esteemed at that time even more lightly in \nFrance than it has been in other countries. The \nhumiliating dependance of the comedian on the pop- \nular favour, the daily exposure of his person to the \ncaprice and insults of an unfeeling audience, the nu- \nmerous temptations incident to his precarious and \nunsettled life, may furnish abundant objections to this \nprofession in the mind of every parent. But in \nFrance, to all these objections were superadded others \nof a graver cast, founded on religion. The clergy \nthere, alarmed at the rapidly-increasing taste for dra- \nmatic exhibitions, openly denounced these elegant \nrecreations as an insult to the Deity ; and the pious \nfather anticipated, in this preference of his son, his \nspiritual no less than his temporal perdition. He \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 369 \n\nactually made an earnest remonstrance to him to this \neffect, through the intervention of one of his friends, \nwho, however, instead of converting the youth, was \nhimself persuaded to join the company then organ- \nizing under his direction. But his family were nev- \ner reconciled to his proceeding; and even at a later \nperiod of his life, when his splendid successes in his \nnew career had shown how rightly he had under- \nstood the character of his own genius, they never \ncondescended to avail themselves of the freedom of \nadmission to his theatre, which he repeatedly prof- \nfered. M. Bret, his editor, also informs us, that he \nhad himself seen a genealogical tree in the posses- \nsion of the descendants of this same family, in which \nthe name of Moliere was not even admitted ! Un- \nless it were to trace their connexion with so illus- \ntrious a name, what could such a family want of a \ngenealogical tree ! It was from a deference to these \nscruples that our hero annexed to his patronymic \nthe name of Moliere, hy which alone he has been \nrecognised by posterity. \n\nDuring the three following years he continued \nplaying in Paris, until the turbulent regency of Anne \nof Austria withdrew the attention of the people from \nthe quiet pleasures of the drama to those of civil \nbroil and tumult. Moliere then quitted the capital \nfor the south of France. From this period, 1646 to \n1658, his history presents few particulars worthy of \nrecord. He wandered with his company through \nthe different provinces, writing a few farces which \nhave long since perished, performing at the princi \n\nA A A \n\n\n\n370 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npal cities, and, wherever he went, by his superior \ntalent withdrawing the crowd from every other spec- \ntacle to the exhibition of his own. During this pe- \nriod, too, he was busily storing his mind with those \nnice observations of men and manners so essential \nto the success of the dramatist, and which were to \nripen there until a proper time for their development \nshould arrive. At the town of Pezenas they still \nshow an elbow-chair of Moliere\'s (as at Montpelier \nthey show the gown of Rabelais), in which the poet, \nit is said, ensconced in a corner of a barber\'s shop, \nwould sit for the hour together, silently watching the \nair, gestures, and grimaces of the village politicians, \nwho, in those days, before coffee-houses were intro- \nduced into France, used to congregate in this place \nof resort. The fruits of this study may be easily \ndiscerned in those original draughts of character \nfrom the middling and lower classes with which his \npieces everywhere abound. \n\nIn the south of France he met with the Prince of \nConti, with whom he had contracted a friendship at \nthe college of Clermont, and who received him with \ngreat hospitality. The prince pressed upon him the \noffice of his private secretary ; but, fortunately for let- \nters, Moliere was constant in his devotion to the \ndrama, assigning as his reason that "the occupation \nwas of too serious a complexion to suit his taste ; \nand that, though he might make a passable author, \nhe should make a very poor secretary." Perhaps \nhe was influenced in this refusal, also, by the fate of \nthe preceding incumbent, who had lately died of a \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 37.1 \n\nfever, in consequence of a blow from the fire-tongs, \nwhich his highness, in a fit of ill humour, had given \nhim on the temple. However this may be, it was \nowing to the good offices of the prince that he ob- \ntained access to Monsieur, the only brother of Louis \nthe Fourteenth, and father of the celebrated regent, \nPhilip of Orleans, who, on his return to Paris in \n1658, introduced him to the king, before whom, in \nthe month of October following, he was allowed, \nwith his company, to perform a tragedy of Corneille\'s \nand one of his own farces. \n\nHis little corps was now permitted to establish \nitself under the title of the " Company of Monsieur," \nand the theatre of the Petit-Bourbon was assigned \nas the place for its performances. Here, in the \ncourse of a few weeks, he brought out his Etourdi \nand Le Depit Amoureux, comedies in verse and in \nfive acts, which he had composed during his provin- \ncial pilgrimage, and which, although deficient in an \nartful liaison of scenes and in probability of inci- \ndent, exhibit, particularly the last, those fine touches \nof the ridiculous, which revealed the future author \nof the Tartuffe and the Misanthrope. They indeed \nfound greater favour with the audience than some \nof his later pieces ; for in the former they could only \ncompare him with the wretched models that had \npreceded him, while in the latter they were to com- \npare him with himself. \n\nIn the ensuing year Moliere exhibited his celebra- \nted farce of Les Precieuses Ridicules ; a piece in only \nDoe act, but which, by its inimitable satire, effected \n\n\n\n372 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCEI LANIES. \n\nsuch a revolution in the literary taste of his country- \nmen as has been accomplished by few works of a \nmore imposing form, and which may be considered \nas the basis of the dramatic glory of Moliere, and the \ndawn of good comedy in France. This epoch was \nthe commencement of that brilliant period in French \nliterature which is so well known as the age of \nLouis the Fourteenth ; and yet it was distinguish- \ned by such a puerile, meretricious taste, as is rarely \nto be met with except in the incipient stages of civ- \nilization, or in its last decline. The cause of this \nmelancholy perversion of intellect is mainly imputa- \nble to the influence of a certain coterie- oi wits, whose \nrank, talents, and successful authorship had author- \nized them, in some measure, to set up as the arbi- \nters of taste and fashion. This choice assembly, \nconsisting of the splenetic Rochefoucault ; the bel- \nesprit Voiture ; Balzac, whose letters afford the ear- \nliest example of numbers in French prose ; the lively \nand licentious Bussy; Rabutin; Chapelain, who, as \na wit has observed, might still have had a reputation \nhad it not been for his " Pucelle ;" the poet Bense- \nrade ; Menage, and others of less note ; together \nwith such eminent women as Madame Lafayette, \nMademoiselle Scuderi (whose eternal romances, the \ndelight of her own age, have been the despair of \nevery other), and even the elegant Sevigne, was ac- \ncustomed to hold its reunions principally at the Ho- \ntel de Ilambouillet, the residence of the marchioness \nof that name, and which, from this circumstance, has \nacquired such ill-omened notoriety in the history of \nletters. \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 373 \n\nHere they were wont to hold the most solemn \ndiscussions on the most frivolous topics, but especi- \nally on matters relating to gallantry and love, which \nthey debated with all the subtilty and metaphysical \nrefinement that centuries before had characterized \nthe romantic Courts of Love in the south of France. \nAll this was conducted in an affected jargon, in which \nthe most common things, instead of being called by \ntheir usual names, were signified by ridiculous peri- \nphrases ; which, while it required neither wit nor \ningenuity to invent them, could have had no other \nmerit, even in their own eyes, than that of being un- \nintelligible to the vulgar. To this was superadded \na tone of exaggerated sentiment, and a ridiculous \ncode of etiquette, by which the intercourse of these \nexclusives was to be regulated with each other, all \nborrowed from the absurd romances of Calprenede \nand Scuderi. Even the names of the parties under- \nwent a metamorphosis, and Madame de Rambouil- \nlet\'s christian name of Catherine being found too \ntrite and unpoetical, was converted into Arthenice, \nby which she was so generally recognised as to be \ndesignated by it in Flechier\'s eloquent funeral ora- \ntion on her daughter.* These insipid affectations, \nwhich French critics are fond of imputing to an \nItalian influence, savour quite as much of the Span- \nish cultismo as of the concetti of the former nation, \nand may be yet more fairly referred to the same \n\n* How comes La Harpe to fall into the error of supposing that Flechier \nveferred to Madame Montausier by this epithet of Arthmice 1 The bish- \nop\'s style in this passage is as unequivocal as usual. See Com s de Lit \n\\eraiure, &c, tome vi., p. 167. \n\n4 2G \n\n\n\n374 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfalse principles of taste which distinguished the \nFrench Pleiades of the sixteenth century, and the \nmore ancient compositions of their Provencal an- \ncestors. Dictionaries were compiled, and treatises \nwritten illustrative of this precious vocabulary ; all \nwere desirous of being initiated into the mysteries of \nso elegant a science : even such men as Corneille and \nBossuet did not disdain to frequent the saloons where \nit was studied ; the spirit of imitation, more active \nin France than in other countries, took possession \nof the provinces ; every village had its coterie of \nprecieuse.s after the fashion of the capital, and a false \ntaste and criticism threatened to infect the very sour- \nces of pure and healthful literature. \n\nIt was against this fashionable corruption that \nMoliere aimed his wit in the little satire of the \n" Precieuses Ridicules," in which the valets of two \nnoblemen are represented as aping their masters\' \ntone of conversation for the purpose of imposing on \ntwo young ladies fresh from the provinces, and great \nadmirers of the new style. The absurdity of these \naffectations is still more strongly relieved by the con- \ntemptuous incredulity of the father and servant, who \ndo not comprehend a word of them. By this pro- \ncess Moliere succeeded both in exposing and de- \ngrading these absurd pretensions, as he showed how \nopposite they were to common sense, and how ea- \nsily they were to be acquired by the most vulgar \nminds. The success was such as might have been \nanticipated on an appeal to popular feeling, wnere \nnature must always triumph over the arts of affecta- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. j 375 \n\ntlon. The piece was welcomed with enthusiastic \napplause, and the disciples of the Hotel Rambouillet, \nmost of whom were present at the first exhibition, \nbeheld the fine fabric which they had been so pain- \nfully constructing brought to the ground by fa single \nblow. "And these follies," said Menage to Chape- \nlain, " which you and I see so finely criticised here, \nare what we have been so long admiring. We \nmust go home and burn our idols." " Courage, Mo- \nliere," cried an old man from the pit ; " this is gen- \nuine comedy." The price of the seats was doubled \nfrom the time of the second representation. Nor \nwere the effects of the satire merely transitory. It \nconverted an epithet of praise into one of reproach ; \nand a femme precieuse, a style precieux, a ton pre- \ncieiix, once so much admired, have ever since been \nused only to signify the most ridiculous affectation. \n\nThere was, in truth, however, quite as much luck \nas merit in this success of Moliere, whose produc- \ntion exhibits no finer raillery or better sustained di- \nalogue than are to be found in many of his subse- \nquent pieces. It assured him, however, of his own \nstrength, and disclosed to him the mode in which \nhe should best hit the popular taste. " I have no \noccasion to study Plautus or Terence any longer," \nsaid he ; " I must henceforth study the world." The \nworld, accordingly, was his study ; and the exquisite \nmodels of character which it furnished him will last \nas long as it shall endure. \n\nIn 1660 he brought out the excellent comedy of \nthe Ecole des Maris, and in the course of the same \n\n\n\n376 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmonth, that of the Facheux, in three acts \xe2\x80\x94 compo \nsed, learned, and performed within the brief space \nof a fortnight ; an expedition evincing the dexterity \nof the manager no less than that of the author, \nThis piece was written at the request of Fouquet, \nsuperintendent of finances to Louis the Fourteenth, \nfor the magnificent fete at Vaux, given by him to \nthat monarch, and lavishly celebrated in the me- \nmoirs of the period, and with yet more elegance in \na poetical epistle of La Fontaine to his friend De \nMaucroix. This minister had been intrusted with \nthe principal care of the finances under Cardinal \nMazarine, and had been continued in the same \noffice by Louis the Fourteenth, on his own assump- \ntion of the government. The monarch, however, \nalarmed at the growing dilapidations of the revenue, \nrequested from the superintendent an expose of its \nactual condition, which, on receiving, he privately \ncommunicated to Colbert, the rival and successor of \nFouquet. The latter, whose ordinary expenditure \nfar exceeded that of any other subject in the king- \ndom, and who, in addition to immense sums occa- \nsionally lost at play and daily squandered on his \ndebaucheries, is said to have distributed in pensions \nmore than four millions of livres annually, thought \nit would be an easy matter to impose on a young \nand inexperienced prince, who had hitherto shown \nhimself more devoted to pleasure than business, and \naccordingly gave in false returns, exaggerating the \nexpenses, and diminishing the actual receipts of the \ntreasury. The detection of this peculation deter \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 377 \n\nmined Louis to take the first occasion of dismissing \nhis powerful minister ; but his ruin was precipitated \nand completed by the discovery of an indiscreet \npassion for Madame de la Valliere, whose fascinating \ngraces were then beginning to acquire for her that \nascendency over the youthful monarch which has \nsince condemned her name to such unfortunate ce- \nlebrity. The portrait of this lady, seen in the apart- \nments of the favourite on the occasion to which we \nhave adverted, so incensed Louis, that he would \nhave had him arrested on the spot but for the sea- \nsonable intervention of the queen-mother, who re- \nminded him that Fo Liquet was his host. It was for \nthisy^e at Vaux, whose palace and ample domains, \ncovering the extent of three villages, had cost their \nproprietor the sum, almost incredible for that period, \nof eighteen million livres, that Fouquet put in re- \nquisition all the various talents of the capital, the \ndexterity of its artists, and the invention of its finest \npoets. He was particularly lavish in his prepara- \ntions for the dramatic portion of the entertainment. \nLe Brun passed for a while from his victories of \nAlexander to paint the theatrical decorations ; To- \nrelli was employed to contrive the machinery ; Pe- \nlisson furnished the prologue, much admired in its \nday, and Moliere his comedy of the Facheux. \n\nThis piece, the hint for which may have been \nsuggested by Horace\'s ninth satire, lbam forte via \nSacra, is an amusing caricature of the various bores \nthat infest society, rendered the more vexatious by \niheir intervention at the very moment when a young \n4 2 G* \n\n\n\n378 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlover is hastening to the place of assignation with \nhis mistress. Louis the Fourteenth, alter the per- \nformance, seeing his master of the hunts near him, \nM. Soyecour, a personage remarkably absent, and \ninordinately devoted to the pleasures of the chase, \npointed him out to Moliere as an original whom he \nhad omitted to bring upon his canvass. The poet \ntook the hint, and the following day produced an \nexcellent, scene, where this Nimrod is made to go \nthrough the technics of his art, in which he had him- \nself, with great complaisance, instructed the mis- \nchievous satirist, who had drawn him into a conver- \nsation for that very purpose on the preceding evening. \nThis play was the origin of the comedie-ballet, af- \nterward so popular in France. The residence at \nVaux brought Moliere more intimately in contact \nwith the king and the court than he had before been ; \nand from this time may be dated the particular en- \ncouragement which he ever after received from this \nprince, and which eventually enabled him to triumph \nover the malice of his enemies. A few days after this \nmagnificent entertainment, Fouquet was thrown into \nprison, where he was suffered to languish the remain- \nder of his days, " which," says the historian from \nwhom we have gathered these details, "he termina- \nted in sentiments of the most sincere piety :"* a ter- \nmination by no means uncommon in France with \nthat class of persons, of either sex, respectively, who \nhave had the misfortune to survive their fortune or \ntheir beauty. \n\n* Histoire de la Vie, &c, de La Fontaine, par M. Valcken?.er. Pat is, \n1S24. \n\n\n\nMOLIERE 379 \n\nIn February, 1662, Moliere formed a matrimonial \nconnexion with Mademoiselle Bejart, a young co- \nmedian of his company, who had been educated un- \nder his own eye, and whose wit and captivating gra- \nces had effectually ensnared the poet\'s heart, but for \nwhich he was destined to perform doleful penance \nthe remainder of his life. The disparity of their \nages, for the lady was hardly seventeen, might have \nafforded in itself a sufficient objection ; and he had \nno reason to flatter himself that she would remain \nuninfected by the pernicious example of the society \nin which she had been educated, and of which he \nhimself was not altogether an immaculate member. \nIn his excellent comedy of the Ecole des Femmes, \nbrought forward the same year, the story turns upon \nthe absurdity of an old man\'s educating a young \nwoman for the purpose, at some future time, of mar- \nrying her, which wise plan is defeated by the un- \nseasonable apparition of a young lover, who in five \nminutes undoes what it had cost the veteran so \nmany years to contrive. The pertinency of this \nmoral to the poet\'s own situation shows how much \neasier it is to talk wisely than to act so. \n\nThis comedy, popular as it was on its represent- \nation, brought upon the head of its author a tempest \nof parody, satire, and even slander, from those of his \nown craft who were jealous of his unprecedented \nsuccess, and from those literary petit s-maltres w ho \nstill smarted with the stripes inflicted on them in \nsome of his previous performances. One of this lat- \ner class, incensed at the applauses bestowed upon \n\n\n\n380 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe piece on the night of its first representation, in- \ndignantly exclaimed, Ris done, parterre I ris done I \n" Laugh then, pit, if you will !" and immediately \nquitted the theatre. \n\nMoliere was not slow in avenging himself of these \ninterested criticisms, by means of a little piece enti- \ntled La Critique de V Ecole des Femmes, in which he \nbrings forward the various objections made to his \ncomedy, and ridicules them with unsparing severity. \nThese objections appear to have been chiefly of a \nverbal nature. A few such familiar phrases as Tarte \na la crime, Enfans par V oreille, &c, gave particular \noffence to the purists of that day, and, in the prudish \nspirit of French criticism, have since been condemn- \ned by Voltaire and La Harpe as unworthy of comedy. \nOne of the personages introduced into the Critique \nis a marquis, who, when repeatedly interrogated as \nto the nature of his objections to the comedy, has no \nother answer to make than by his eternal Tarte a la \ncreme. The Due de Feuillade, a coxcomb of little \nbrains but great pretension, was the person gener- \nally supposed to be here intended. The peer, une- \nqual to an encounter of wits with his antagonist, re- \nsorted to a coarser remedy. Meeting Moliere one \nday in the gallery at Versailles, he advanced as if to \nembrace him ; a civility which the great lords of \nthat day occasionally condescended to bestow upon \ntheir inferiors. As the unsuspecting poet inclined \nhimself to receive the salute, the duke,* seizing his \nhead between his hands, rubbed it briskly against \nthe buttons of his coat, repeating, at the same time, \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 381 \n\nTarte d la creme, Monsieur, tarte a la creme. The \nking, on receiving intelligence of this affront, was \nhighly indignant, and reprimanded the duke with \ngreat asperity. He, at the same time, encouraged \nMoliere to defend himself with his own weapons; \na privilege of which he speedily availed himself, in \na caustic little satire in one act, entitled Impromptu \nde Versailles. " The marquis," he says in this piece, \n" is nowadays the droll (le plaisant) of the comedy ; \nand as our ancestors always introduced a jester to \nfurnish mirth for the audience, so we must have re- \ncourse to some ridiculous marquis to divert them." \n\nIt is obvious that Moliere could never have main- \ntained this independent attitude if he had not been \nprotected by the royal favour. Indeed, Louis was \nconstant in giving him this protection ; and when, \nsoon after this period, the character of Moliere was \nblackened by the vilest imputations, the monarch \ntestified his conviction of his innocence by publicly \nstanding godfather to his child \xe2\x80\x94 a tribute of respect \nequally honourable to the prince and the poet. The \nking, moreover, granted him a pension of a thousand \nlivres annually; and to his company, which hence- \nforth took the title of " comedians of the king," a \npension of seven thousand. Our author received his \npension, as one of a long list of men of letters, who \nexperienced a similar bounty from the royal hand. \nThe curious estimate exhibited in this document of \nthe relative jnerits of these literary stipendiaries af- \nfords a striking evidence that the decrees of contem- \nporaries are not unfrequently to be reversed by pos- \n\n\n\n382 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nteritj. The obsolete Chapelain is there recorded \n" as the greatest French poet who has ever existed ;" \nin consideration of which, his stipend amounted to \nthree thousand livres, while Boileau\'s name, for which \nhis satires had already secured an imperishable exist- \nence, is not even noticed ! It should be added, how- \never, on the authority of Boileau, that Chapelain \nhimself had the principal hand in furnishing this \napocryphal scale of merit to the minister. \n\nIn the month of September, 1665, Moliere pro- \nduced his U Amour Medecin, a comedie-ballet, in three \nacts, which, from the time of its conception to that \nof its performance, consumed only five days. This \npiece, although displaying no more than his usual \ntalent for caustic raillery, is remarkable as affording \nthe earliest demonstration of those direct hostilities \nupon the medical faculty, which he maintained at \nintervals during the rest of his life, and which he \nmay be truly said to have died in maintaining. In \nthis he followed the example of Montaigne, who, in \nparticular, devotes one of the longest chapters in his \nwork to a tirade against the profession, which he en- \nforces by all the ingenuity of his wit, and his usual \nwealth of illustration. In this, also, Moliere was \nsubsequently imitated by Le Sage, as every reader \nof Gil Bias will readily call to mind. Both Mon- \ntaigne and Le Sage, however, like most other libel- \nlers of the healing art, were glad to have recourse \nto it in the hour of need. Not so wjth Moliere. \nHis satire seems to have been without affectation. \nThough an habitual valetudinarian, he relied almost \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 383 \n\nwholly on the temperance of his diet for the re-es- \ntablishment of his health. " What use do you make \nof your physician 1" said the king to him one day. \n" We chat together, sire," said the poet ; "he gives \nme his prescriptions ; I never follow them, and so I \nget well." \n\nAn ample apology for this infidelity may be found \nin the state of the profession at that day, whose \nmembers affected to disguise a profound ignorance \nof the true principles of science under a pompous \nexterior, which, however it might impose upon the \nvulgar, could only bring them into deserved discredit \nwith the better portion of the community. The \nphysicians of that time are described as parading the \nstreets of Paris on mules, dressed in a long robe and \nbands, holding their conversation in bad Latin, or, it \nthey condescended to employ the vernacular, mixing \nit up with such a jargon of scholastic phrase and sci- \nentific technics as to render it perfectly unintelligible \nto vulgar ears. The following lines, cited by M. \nTaschereau, and written in good earnest at the time, \nseem to hit off most of these peculiarities. \n\n" Affecter un air pedantesque, \nCracher du Grec et du Latin, \nLongue perruque, habit grotesque, \nDe la fourrure et du satin, \nTout, cela reuni fait presque \nCe qu\'on appelle un medecin."* \n\n* A gait and air somewhat pedantic, \nAnd scarce to spit but Greek or Latin, \n\nA long peruke and habit antic, \nSometimes of fur, sometimes of satin, \n\nForm the receipt by which \'tis showed \n\nHow to make doctors d la mode. \n\n\n\n384 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIn addition to these absurdities, the physicians of \nthat period exposed themselves to still farther deris- \nion by the contrariety of their opinions, and the \nanimosity with which they maintained them. The \nfamous consultation in the case of Cardinal Maza- \nrine was well known in its day ; one of his four medi- \ncal attendants affirming the seat of his disorder to be \nthe liver, another the lungs, a third the spleen, and \na fourth the mesentery. Moliere\'s raillery, therefore, \nagainst empirics, in a profession where mistakes are \nso easily made, so difficult to be detected, and the \nonly one in which they are irremediable, stands \nabundantly excused from the censures which have \nbeen heaped upon it. Its effects were visible in the \nreform which, in his own time, it effected in their \nmanners, if in nothing farther. They assumed the \ndress of men of the world, and gradually adopted the \npopular forms of communication ; an essential step \nto improvement, since nothing cloaks ignorance and \nempiricism more effectually with the vulgar than an \naffected use of learned phrase and a technical vo- \ncabulary. \n\nWe are now arrived at that period of Moliere\'s \ncareer when he composed his Misanthrope, a play \nwhich some critics have esteemed his masterpiece, \nand which all concur in admiring as one of the no- \nblest productions of the modern drama. Its literary \nexecution, too, of paramount importance in the eye \nof a French critic, is more nicely elaborated than in \nany other of the pieces of Moliere, if we except the \nTartuffe, and its didactic dialogue displays a matu- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 38/> \n\nrity of thought equal to what is found in the best sa \ntires of Boileau. It is the very didactic tone of this \ncomedy, indeed, which, combined with its want of \neager, animating interest, made it less popular on its \nrepresentation than some of his inferior pieces. A \ncircumstance which occurred on the first night of its \nperformance may be worth noticing. In the second \nscene of the first act, a man of fashion, it is well \nknown, is represented as soliciting the candid opin- \nion ofAlceste on a sonnet of his own enditing, though \nhe flies into a passion with him, five minutes after, \nfor pronouncing an unfavourable judgment. This \nsonnet was so artfully constructed by Moliere, with \nthose dazzling epigrammatic points most captivating \nto common ears, that the gratified audience were \nloud in their approbation of what they supposed in- \ntended in good faith by the author. How great was \ntheir mortification, then, when they heard Alceste \ncondemn the whole as puerile, and fairly expose the \nfalse principles on which it had been constructed. \nSuch a rebuke must have carried more weight with \nit than a volume of set dissertation on the principles \nof taste. \n\nRousseau has bitterly inveighed against Moliere \nfor exposing to ridicule the hero of his Misanthrope \na high-minded and estimable character. It was toW \nto the Due de Montausier, well known for his aus- \ntere virtue, that he was intended as the original of \nthe character. Much offended, he attended a rep- \nlesentation of the piece, but, on returning, declared \nthat " he dared hardly flatter himself the poet had \n-4 2H \n\n\n\n386 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nintended him so great an honour." This fact, as has \nbeen well intimated by La Harpe, famishes the best \nreply to Rousseau\'s invective. \n\nThe relations in which Moliere stood with his \nwife at the time of the appearance of this.comedy \ngave to the exhibition a painful interest. The lev- \nity and extravagance of this lady had for some time \ntranscended even those liberal limits which were \nconceded at that day by the complaisance of a \nFrench husband, and they deeply affected the hap- \npiness of the poet. As he one day communicated \nthe subject to his friend Chapelle. the latter strongly \nurged him to confine her person ; a remedy much \nin vogue then for refractory wives, and one, certain- \nly, if not more efficacious, at least more gallant than \nthe "moderate flagellation" authorized by the Eng- \nlish law. He remonstrated on the folly of being \nlonger the dupe of her artifices. " Alas !" said the \nunfortunate poet to him, " you have never loved !" \nA separation, however, was at length agreed upon, \nand it was arranged that, while both parties occu- \npied the same house, they should never meet except \nat the theatre. The respective parts which they \nperformed in this piece corresponded precisely with \ntheir respective situations : that of Celimrne, a fas- \ncinating, capricious coquette, insensible to every re \nmonstrance of her lover, and selfishly bent on the \ngratification of her own appetites ; and that of Al- \nceste, perfectly sensible of the duplicity of his mis- \ntress, whom he vainly hopes to reform, and no less \nso of the unworthiness of his own passion, from \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 387 \n\nwhich he as vainly hopes to extricate himself. The \ncoincidences are too exact to be considered wholly \naccidental. \n\nIf Moliere in his preceding pieces had hit the fol- \nlies and fashionable absurdities of the age, in the \nTartuffe he flew at still higher game, the most odi- \nous of all vices, religious hypocrisy. The result \nshowed that his shafts were not shot in the dark. \nThe first three acts of the T-artuffe, the only ones \nthen written, made their appearance at the memo- \nxv\\Ae fetes known under the name of "The Pleasures \nof the Enchanted Isle," given by Louis the Four \nteenth at Versailles, in 1664, and of which the in- \nquisitive reader may find a circumstantial narrative \nin the twenty-fifth chapter of Voltaire\'s history of \nthat monarch. The only circumstance which can \ngive them a permanent value with posterity is their \nhaving been the occasion of the earliest exhibition \nof this inimitable comedy. Louis the Fourteenth, \nwho, notwithstanding the defects of his education, \nseems to have had a discriminating perception of \nliterary beauty, was fully sensible of the merits of \nthis production. The Tartuffes, however, who were \npresent at the exhibition, deeply stung by the sar- \ncasms of the poet, like the foul birds of night whose \nrecesses have been suddenly invaded by a glare of \nlight, raised a fearful cry against him, until Louis \neven, whose solicitude for the interests of the Church \nwas nowise impaired by his own personal derelic- \ntions, complied with their importunities for imposing \na prohibition on the public performance of tlie play. \n\n\n\n3S8 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIt was, however, privately acted in the presence \nof Monsieur, and afterward of the great Conde. \nCopies of it were greedily circulated in the societies \nof Paris ; and although their unanimous suffrage was \nan inadequate coinpensntion to the author for the \nprivations he incurred, It was sufficient to quicken \nthe activity of the false zealots, who, under the mask \nof piety, assailed him with the grossest libels. One \nof them even ventured so far as to call upon the \nking to make a public example of him with fire and \nfagot ; another declared that it would be an offence \nto the Deity to allow Moliere, after such an enor- \nmity, " to participate in the sacraments, to be ad- \nmitted to confession, or even to enter the precincts \nof a church, considering the anathemas which it \nhad fulminated against the authors of indecent and \nsacrilegious spectacles !" Soon after his sentence \nof prohibition, the king attended the performance \nof a piece entitled Scaramouche Hermite, a piece \nabounding in passages the most indelicate and pro- \nfane. " What is the reason," said he, on retiring, to \nthe Prince of Conde, " that the persons so sensibly \nscandalized at Moliere\'s comedy take no umbrage \nat this I" " Because," said the prince, " the latter \nonly attacks religion, while the former attacks them- \nselves :" an answer which may remind one of a \nremark of Bayle in reference to the Decameron, \nwhich, having been placed on the Index on account \nof its immorality, was, however, allowed to be pub- \nlished in an edition which converted the names of \nthe ecclesiastics into those of laymen : " a conces- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 389 \n\nsion," says the philosopher, " which shows the priests \nto have heen much more solicitous for the interests \nof their own order than for those of heaven " \n\nLouis, at length convinced of the interested mo- \ntives of the enemies of the Tartuffe, yielded to the \nimportunities of the public and removed his prohibi- \ntion of its performance. It accordingly was repre- \nsented, for the first time in public, in August, 1667, \nbefore an overflowing house, extended to its full \ncomplement of five acts, but with alterations of the \nnames of the piece, the principal personages in it, \nand some of its most obnoxious passages. It was \neu titled The Impostor, and its hero was styled Pa- \nnulfe. On the second evening of- the performance, \nhowever, an interdict arrived from the president of \nthe Parliament against the repetition of the perform- \nance, and, as the king had left Paris in order to join \nhis army in Flanders, no immediate redress was to \nbe obtained. It was not until two years later, 1669, \nthat the Tartuffe, in its present shape, was finally \nallowed to proceed unmolested in its representations. \nIt is scarcely necessary to add, that these were at- \ntended with the most brilliant success which its au- \nthor could have anticipated, and to which the in- \ntrinsic merits of the piece, and the unmerited perse- \ncutions he had undergone, so well entitled him. \nForty-four successive representations were scarcely \nsufficient to satisfy the eager curiosity of the public : \nand his grateful company forced upon Moli\xc2\xbbere a \ndouble share of the profits during every repetition \nof its performance for the remainder of his life. Pes- \n4 2 H* \n\n\n\n390 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nterit) has confirmed the decision of his contempora- \nries, and it still remains the most admired comedy \nof the French theatre, and will always remain so, \nsays a native critic, " as long as taste and hypocrites \nshall endure in France." \n\nWe have heen thus particular in our history of \nthese transactions, as it affords one of the most in- \nteresting examples on record of undeserved persecu- \ntion with which envy and party spirit have assailed \na man of letters. No one of Moliere\'s compositions \nis determined hy a more direct moral aim ; nowhere \nhas he stripped the mask from vice with a more in- \ntrepid hand ; nowhere has he animated his discour- \nses with a more sound and practical piety. It should \nbe added, injustice to the French clergy of that pe- \nriod, that the most eminent prelates at the court ac- \nknowledged the merits of this comedy, and were \nstrongly in favour of its representation. \n\nTt is generally known that the amusing scene in \nthe first act, where Dorine enlarges so eloquently on \nthe good cheer which Tartuffe had made in the ab- \nsence of his host, was suggested to Moliere some \nyears previous in Lorraine, by a circumstance which \ntook place at the table of Louis the Fourteenth, \nwhom Moliere had accompanied in his capacity of \nvalet de chambre. Perefixe, bishop of Rhodez, en- \ntering while the king was at his evening meal, during \nLent, was invited by him to follow hir> example ; but \nthe bishop declined on the ground that he was ac- \ncustomed to eat only once during the days of vigil \nand fast. The king, observing one of his attendants \n\n\n\n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 39J \n\n\n\nto smile, inquired of him the reason as soon as the \nprelate had withdrawn. The latter informed his \nmaster that he need he under no apprehensions for \nthe health of the good hishop, as he himself had as- \nsisted at his dinner on that day, and then recounted \nto him the various dishes which had heen served up. \nThe king, who listened with becoming gravity to \nthe narration, uttered an exclamation of" Poor man !" \nat the specification of each new item, varying the \ntone of his exclamation in such a manner as to give \nit a highly comic effect. The humour was not lost \nupon our poet, who has transported the same ejacu- \nlations, with mu\xc2\xa3h greater effect, into the above-men- \ntioned scene of his play. The king, who did not \nat first recognise the source whence he had derived \nit, on being informed of it, was much pleased, if we \nmay believe M. Taschereau, in finding himself even \nthus accidentally associated with the work of a man \nof genius. \n\nIn 1668 Moliere brought forward his Avare, and \nin the following year his amusing comedy of the \nBourgeois Genlilhomme, in which the folly of une- \nqual alliances is successfully ridiculed and exposed. \nThis play was first represented in the presence of \nthe court at Chambord. The king maintained du- \nring its performance an inscrutable physiognomy, \nwhich made it doubtful what might be his real sen- \ntiments respecting it. The same deportment was \nmaintained by him during the evening towards the \nauthoi, who was in attendance in his capacity of \nvalet de chambre. The quick-eyed courtiers, the \n\n\n\n392 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncounts and marquises, who bad so often smarted un- \nder the lash of the poet, construing this into an ex- \npression of royal disapprobation, were loud in their \ncondemnation of him, and a certain duke boldly af- \nfirmed " that he was fast sinking into his second \nchildhood, and that, unless some better writer soon \nappeared, French comedy would degenerate into \nmere Italian farce." The unfortunate poet, unable \nto catch a single ray of consolation, was greatly de- \npressed during the interval of five days which pre- \nceded the second representation of his piece ; on \nreturning from which, the monarch assured him that \n" none of his productions had afforded him greater \nentertainment, and that, if he had delayed expressing \nhis opinion on the preceding night, it was from the \napprehension that his judgment might have been in- \nfluenced by the excellence of the acting." What- \never we may think of this exhibition of royal caprice, \nwe must admire the suppleness of the courtiers, one \nand all of whom straightway expressed their full con- \nviction of the merits of the comedy, and the duke \nabove mentioned added, in particular, that " there \nwas a vis comica in all that Moliere ever wrote, to \nwhich the ancients could furnish no parallel !" What \nexquisite studies for his pencil must Moliere not have \nfound in this precious assembly ! \n\nWe have already remarked that the profession of \na comedian was but lightly esteemed in France at \nthis period. Moliere experienced the inconveniences \nresulting from this circumstance even after his splen- \ndid literary career had given him undoubted chinas \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 393 \n\nto consideration. Most of our readers, no doubt, are \nacquainted with the anecdote of Belloc, an agreea- \nble poet of the court, who, on hearing one of the \nservants in the royal household refuse to aid the au- \nthor of the Tartuffe in making the king\'s bed, cour- \nteously requested "the poet to accept his services for \nthat purpose." Madame Campan\'s anecdote of a \nsimilar courtesy on the part of Louis the Fourteenth \nis also well known, who, when several of these func- \ntionaries refused to sit at table with the comedian, \nkindly invited him to sit down with him, and, call- \ning in some of his principal courtiers, remarked that \n" he had requested the pleasure of Moliere\'s compa- \nny at his own table, as it was not thought quite good \nenough for his officers." This rebuke had the de- \nsired effect However humiliating the reflection \nmay be, that genius should have, at any time, stood \nin need of such patronage, it is highly honourable to \nthe monarch who could raise himself so far above \nthe prejudices of his age as to confer it. \n\nIt was the same unworthy prejudice that had so \nlong excluded Moliere from that great object and \nrecompense of a French scholar\'s ambition, a seat in \nthe Academy ; a body affecting to maintain a jeal- \nous watch over the national language and literature, \nwhich the author of the Misanthrope and the Tar- \ntuffe, perhaps more than any other individual of his \nage, had contributed to purify and advance. Sen- \nsible of this merit, they at length offered him a place \nin their assembly, provided he would renounce- his \nprofession of a player, and confine himself in future \n\nD d n \n\n\n\n394 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto his literary labours. But the poet replied to his \nfnend Boileau, the bearer of this communication, \nthat " too many individuals of his company depend- \ned on his theatrical labours for support to allow him \nfor a moment to think of it ;" a reply of infinitely \nmore service to his memory than all the academic \nhonours that could have been heaped upon him. \nThis illustrious body, however, a century after his \ndecease, paid him the barren compliment (the only \none then in their power) of decreeing to him an \neloge, and of admitting his bust within their walls, \nwith this inscription upon it : \n\n" Nothing is wanting to his glory : he was wanting to ours." \n\nThe catalogue of Academicians contemporary \nwith Moliere, most of whom now rest in sweet ob- \nlivion, or, with Cotin and Chapelain, live only in the \nsatires of Boileau, shows that it is as little in the pow- \ner of academies to confer immortality on a writer as \nto deprive him of it. \n\nWe have not time to notice the excellent comedy \nof the Femmes Savantes, and some inferior pieces, \nwritten by our author at a later period of his life, \nand must hasten to the closing scene. He had been \nlong affected by a pulmonary complaint, and it was \nonly by severe temperance, as we have before stated, \nthat he was enabled to preserve even a moderate de- \ngree of health. At the commencement of the year \n1673, his malady sensibly increased. At this very \nseason he composed his Malade Imaginaire\xe2\x80\x94 -the \nmost whimsical, and, perhaps, the most amusing of \nthe compositions in which he has indulged his rail- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 395 \n\n>ery against the faculty. On the seventeenth of Feb- \nruary, being the day appointed for its fourth repre- \nsentation, his friends would have dissuaded him from \nappearing, in consequence of his increasing indis- \nposition ; but he persisted in his design, alleging \n"that more than fifty poor individuals depended for \ntheir daily bread on its performance." His life fell a \nsacrifice to his benevolence. The exertions which \nhe was compelled to make in playing the principal \npart of Argan aggravated his distemper, and as he \nwas repeating the wordy^r<? in the concluding cer- \nemony, he fell into a convulsion, which he vainly \nendeavoured to disguise from the spectators under a \nforced smile. He was immediately carried to his \nhouse in the Rue de Richelieu, now No. 34. A vio- \nlent fit of coughing, on his arrival, occasioned the \nrupture of a blood-vessel ; and seeing his end ap- \nproaching, he sent for two ecclesiastics of the parish \nof St. Eustace, to which he belonged, to administer \nr.o him the last offices of religion. But these worthy \npersons refused their assistance ; and before a third, \n,vho had been sent for, could arrive, Moliere, suffo- \ncated with the effusion of blood, had expired in the \narms of his familv. \n\nHarlay de Champvalon, at that time archbishop \nof Paris, refused the rites of sepulture to the deceas- \ned poet because he was a comedian, and had had the \nmisfortune to die without receiving the sacraments. \nThis prelate is conspicuous, even in the chronicles \nof that period, for his bold and infamous debaucher- \nies. It is of him that Madame de Sevigne observes, \n\n\n\n396 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin one of her letters : " There are two little incon- \nveniences which make it difficult for any one to un- \ndertake his funeral oration \xe2\x80\x94 his life and his death." \nFather Gaillard, who at length consented to under- \ntake it, did so on the condition that he should not be \nrequired to say anything of the character of the de- \nceased. The remonstrance of Louis the Fourteenth \nhaving induced this person to remove his interdict, \nhe privately instructed the curate of St. Eustace not \nto allow the usual service for the dead to be recited \nat the interment. On the day appointed for this cer- \nemony, a number of the rabble assembled before the \ndeceased poet\'s door, determined to oppose it. " They \nknew only," says Voltaire, " that Moliere was a co- \nmedian, but did not know that he was a philosopher \nand a great man." They had, more probably, been \ncollected together by the TartufTes, his unforgiving \nenemies. The widow of the poet appeased these \nwretches by throwing money to them from the win- \ndows. In the evening, the body, escorted by a pro- \ncession of about a hundred individuals, the friends \nand intimate acquaintances of the deceased poet, \neach of them bearing a flambeau in his hand, was \nquietly deposited in the cemetery of St. Joseph, with- \nout the ordinary chant, or service of any kind. It \nwas not thus that Paris followed to the tomb the \nremains of her late distinguished comedian, Talma. \nYet Talma was only a comedian, while Moliere, in \naddition to this, had the merit of being the most em- \ninent comic writer whom France had ever produced. \nThe different degree of popular civilization which \n\n\n\nM0L1ERE. 397 \n\nthis difference of conduct indicates may afford a sub \nject of contemplation by no means unpleasing to the \nphilanthropist. \n\nIn the year 1792, during that memorable period in \nFrance when an affectation of reverence for their \nillustrious dead was strangely mingled with the per- \nsecution of the living, the Parisians resolved to ex- \nhume the remains of La Fontaine and Moliere, in \norder to transport them to a more honourable place \nof interment. Of the relics thus obtained, it is cer- \ntain that no portion belonged to La Fontaine, and \nit is extremely probable that none did to Moliere. \nWhosesoever they may have been, they did not re- \nceive the honours for which their repose had been \ndisturbed. With the usual fickleness of the period, \nthey were shamefully transferred from one place to \nanother, or abandoned to neglect for seven years, \nwhen the patriotic conservator of the Monumens \nFranqais succeeded in obtaining them for his collec- \ntion at the Petits Augustins. On the suppression of \nthis institution in 1817, the supposed ashes of the \ntwo poets were, for the last time, transported to the \nspacious cemetery of Pere de la Chaise, where the \ntomb of the author of the Tartnffe is designated by \nan inscription in Latin, which, as if to complete the \nscandal of the proceedings, is grossly mistaken in the \nonly fact which it pretends to record, namely, the \nage of the poet at the time of his decease. \n\nMoliere died soon after entering upon his fifty - \nsecond year. He is represented to have been some- \nwhat above the middle stature, and well proportion- \n4 21 \n\n\n\n398 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\neJ ; his features large, his complexion dark, and his \nblack, bushy eyebrows so flexible as to admit of his \ngiving an infinetely comic expression to his physiog- \nnomy. He was the best actor of his own genera- \ntion, and, by his counsels, formed the celebrated \nBaron, the best of the succeeding. He played all \nthe range of his own characters, from Alceste to Sga- \nnarelle, though he seems to have been peculiarly \nfitted for broad comedy. He composed with rapid- \nity, for which Boiieau has happily complimented \nhim : \n\n"Rare et sublime esprit, dont la fertile vein \nIgnore en ecrivant le travail et la peine." \n\nUnlike in this to Boiieau himself, and to Racine, \nthe former of whom taught the latter, if we may \ncredit his son, " the art of rhyming with difficulty." \nOf course, the verses of Moliere have neither the cor- \nrectness nor the high finish of those of his two illus- \ntrious rivals. \n\nHe produced all his pieces, amounting to thirty, \nin the short space of fifteen years. He was in the \nhabit of reading these to an old female domestic by \nthe name of La Foret, on whose unsophisticated \njudgment he greatly relied. On one occasion, when \nhe attempted to impose upon her the production of \na brother author, she plainly told him that he had \nnever written it. Sir Walter Scott may have had \nthis habit of Moliere\'s in his mind when he introdu- \nced a similar expedient into his " Chronicles of the \nCanongate" For the same reason, our poet used to \nrequest the comedians to bring their children with \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 399 \n\nthem when he recited a new play. The peculiar \nadvantage of this humble criticism in dramatic com- \npositions is obvious. Alfieri himself, as he informs \nus, did not disdain to resort to it. \n\nMoliere\'s income was very ample, probably not less \nthan twenty-five or thirty thousand francs \xe2\x80\x94 an im- \nmense sum for that day \xe2\x80\x94 yet he left but little prop- \nerty. The expensive habits of his wife and his own \nliberality may account for it. One example of this \nis worth recording, as having been singularly oppor- \ntune and well directed. When Racine came up to \nParis as a young adventurer, he presented to Moliere \na copy of his first crude tragedy, long since buried in \noblivion. The latter discerned in it, amid all its im- \nperfections, the latent spark of dramatic genius, and \nhe encouraged its author by the present of a hundred \nLouis. This was doing better for him than Corneille \ndid, who advised the future author of Phedre to aban- \ndon the tragic walk, and to devote himself altogether \nto comedy. Racine recompensed this benefaction \nof his friend, at a later period of his life, by quarrelling \nwith him. \n\nMoliere was naturally of a reserved and taciturn \ntemper, insomuch that his friend Boileau used to \ncall him the Contemplateur. Strangers who had ex- \npected to recognise in his conversation the sallies of \nwit which distinguished his dramas, went away dis- \nappointed. The same thing is related of La Fon- \ntaine The truth is, that Moliere went into society \nas a spectauor, not as an actor ; he found there the \nstudies for the characters which he was to transport \n\n\n\n400 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nupon the stage, and he occupied himself with observ- \ning them. The dreamer, La Fontaine, lived, too, in \na world of his own creation. His friend, Madame \nde la Sabliere, paid to him this untranslatable com- \npliment : " En verite, mon cher La Fontaine, vous \nseriez bien bete, si vous n\'aviez pas tant d\'esprit." \nThese unseasonable reveries brought him, it may be \nimagined, into many whimsical adventures. The \ngreat Corneille, too, was distinguished by the same \napathy. A gentleman dined at the same table with \nhim for six months without suspecting the author of \nthe " Cid." \n\nThe literary reputation of Moliere, and his ami- \nable personal endowments, naturally led him into an \nintimacy with the most eminent wits of the golden \nage in which he lived, but especially with Boileau, \nLa Fontaine, and Racine ; and the confidential in- \ntercourse of these great minds, and their frequent re- \nunions for the purposes of social pleasure, bring to \nmind the similar associations at the Mermaid \\s, Will\'s \nCoffee-house, and Buttons, which form so pleasing a \npicture in the annals of English literature. It was \ncommon on these occasions to have a volume of the \nunfortunate Chapelain\'s epic, then in popular repute, \nlie open upon the table, and if one of the party fell \ninto a grammatical blunder, to impose upon him the \nreading of some fifteen or twenty verses of it : "a \nwhole page," says Louis Racine, " was sentence of \ndeath." La Fontaine, in his Psyche, has painted \nhis reminiscences of these happy meetings in the col- \nouring of fond regret; where, "freely discussing such \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 401 \n\ntopics of general literature or personal gossip as might \narise, they touched lightly upon all, like bees passing \non from flower to flower, criticising the works of \nothers without envy, and of one another, when any \none chanced to fall into the malady of the age, with \nfrankness." Alas ! that so rare a union of minds, \ndestined to live together through all ages, should have \nbeen dissolved by the petty jealousies incident to \ncommon men. \n\nIn these assemblies frequent mention is made of \nChapelle, the most intimate friend of Moliere, whose \nagreeable verses are read w r ith pleasure in our day, \nand whose cordial manners and sprightly conversa- \ntion made him the delight of his own. His mercu- \nrial spirits, however, led him into too free an indul- \ngence of convivial pleasures, and brought upon him \nthe repeated, though unavailing remonstrances of his \nfriends. On one of these occasions, as Boileau was \nurging upon him the impropriety of this indulgence, \nand its inevitable consequences, Chapelle, who re- \nceived the admonition with great contrition, invited \nhis Mentor to withdraw from the public street in \nwhich they were then walking into a neighbouring \nhouse, where they could talk over the matter with \nless interruption. Here wine was called for, and, in \nthe warmth of discussion, a second bottle being soon \nfollowed by a third, both parties at length found them- \nselves in a condition which made it advisable to ad- \njourn the lecture to a more fitting occasion. \n\nMoliere enjoyed also the closest intimacy with the \ngreat Conde, the most distinguished ornament of the \n4 21* \n\n\n\n402 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\ncourt of Louis the Fourteenth ; to such an extent, \nindeed, that the latter directed that the poet should \nnever be refused admission to him, at whatever hour \nhe might choose to pay his visit. His regard for his \nfriend was testified by his remark, rather more can- \ndid than courteous, to an abbe of his acquaintance, \nwho had brought him an epitaph of his own writing \nupon the deceased poet. " Would to Heaven," said \nthe prince, "that he were in a condition to bring me \nyours !" \n\nWe have already wandered beyond the limits \nwhich we had assigned to ourselves for an abstract \nof Moliere\'s literary labours, and of the most interest- \ning anecdotes in his biography. Without entering, \ntherefore, into a criticism on his writings, of which \nthe public stand in no need, we shall dismiss the sub- \nject with a few brief reflections on their probable in- \nfluence, and on the design of the author in producing \nthem. \n\nThe most distinguished French critics, with the \noverweening partiality in favour of their own nation, \nso natural and so universal, placing Moliere by com- \nmon consent at the head of their own comic writers, \nhave also claimed for him a pre-eminence over those \nof every other age and country. A. W. Schlegel, a \nvery competent judge in these matters, has degraded \nhim, on the other hand, from the walks of high com- \nedy to the writer of "buffoon farces, for which his \ngenius and inclination seem to have essentially fitted \nhim ;" adding, moreover, that "his characters are not \ndrawn from nature, but from the ileeting and super- \n\n\n\n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 403 \n\nficial forms of fashionable life." This is a hard sen- \ntence, accommodated to the more forcible illustration \nof the peculiar theory which the German writer has \navowed throughout his work, and which, however \nreasonable in its first principles, has led him into as \nexaggerated an admiration of the romantic models \nwhich he prefers, as disparagement of the classical \nschool which he detests. It is a sentence, moreover, \nupon which some eminent critics in his own coun- \ntry, who support his theory in the main, have taken \nthe liberty to demur. \n\nThat a large proportion of Moliere\'s pieces are \nconceived in a vein of broad, homely merriment, \nrather than in that of elevated comedy, abounding in \nforced situations, high caricature, and practical jokes; \nin the knavish, intriguing valets of Plautus and Ter- \nence ; in a compound of that good-nature and irri- \ntability, shrewdness and credulity, which make up \nthe dupes of Aristophanes, is very true ; but that a \nwriter, distinguished by his deep reflection, his pure \ntaste, and nice observation of character, should have \npreferred this to the higher walks of his art, is abso- \nlutely incredible. He has furnished the best justifi- \ncation of himself in an apology, which a contempo- \nrary biographer reports him to have made to some \none who censured him on this very ground : " If I \nwrote simply for fame," said he, " I should manage \nvery differently ; but I write for the support of my \ncompany I must not address myself, therefore, to a \nfew people of education, but to the mob. And this \nlatter class of gentry take very little interest in a \n\n\n\n404 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncontinued elevation of style and sentiment." With \nall these imperfections and lively absurdities, howev- \ner, there is scarcely one of Moliere\'s minor pieces \nwhich does not present us with traits of character \nthat come home to every heart, and felicities of ex- \npression that, from their truth, have come to be pro- \nverbial. \n\nWith regard to the objection that his ch iracters \nare not so much draw 7 n from nature as from the lo- \ncal manners of the age, if it be meant that they are \nnot acted upon by those deep passions which engross \nthe whole soul, and which, from this intensity, have \nmore of a tragic than a comic import in them, but \nare rather drawn from the foibles and follies of ordi- \nnary life, it is true ; but then these last are likely to \nbe quite as permanent, and, among civilized nations, \nquite as universal as the former. And who has ex- \nposed them with greater freedom, or with a more \npotent ridicule than Moliere ? Love, under all its \nthousand circumstances, its quarrels, and reconcilia- \ntions ; vanity, humbly suing for admiration under the \nguise of modesty ; whimsical contradictions of pro- \nfession and habitual practice; the industry with which \nthe lower classes ape, not the virtues, but the follies \nof their superiors ; the affectation of fashion, taste, \nscience, or anything but what the party actually pos- \nsesses; the esprit de corps, which leads us to feel an \nexalted respect for our own profession, and a sover- \neign contempt for every other; the friendly adviser \nwho has an eye to his own interest ; the author, wno \nseeks your candid opinion, and quarrels with you \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 405 \n\nwhen you have given it ; the fair friend, who kindly \nsacrifices jour reputation for a jest ; the hypocrite; \nunder every aspect, who deceives the world or him- \nself \xe2\x80\x94 these form the various and motley panorama of \ncharacter which Moliere has transferred to his can- \nvass, and which, though mostly drawn from cultiva- \nted life, must endure as long as society shall hold \ntogether. \n\nIndeed, Moliere seems to have possessed all the \nessential requisites for excelling in genteel comedy : \na pure taste, an acute perception of the ridiculous, \nthe tone of elegant dialogue, and a wit brilliant and \nuntiring as Congreve\'s, but which, instead of wast- \ning itself like his, in idle flashes of merriment, is uni- \nformly directed with a moral or philosophical aim. \nThis obvious didactic purpose, in truth, has been \ncensured as inconsistent with the spirit of the drama, \nand as belonging rather to satire ; but it secured to \nhim an influence over the literature and the opinions \nof his own generation which has been possessed by \nno other comic writer of the moderns. \n\nHe was the first to recall his countrymen from \nthe vapid hyperbole and puerile conceits of the an- \ncient farces, and to instruct them in the maxim \nwhich Boileau has since condensed into a memora- \nble verse, that "nothing is beautiful but what is nat- \nural." We have already spoken of the reformation \nwhich one of his early pieces effected in the admi- \nrers of the Hotel de Rambouillet and its absurdities ; \nand when this confederacy afterward rallied undei \nan affectation of science, as it had before done of \n\n\n\n406 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nletters, he again broke it with his admirable satire \nof the Femmes Savantes. We do not recollect any \nsimilar revolution effected by a single effort of genius, \nunless it be that brought about by the Baviad and \nMceviad. But Mr. Gifford, in the Delia- Cruscan \nschool, but " broke a butterfly upon the wheel/\' in \ncomparison with those enemies, formidable by rank \nand talent, whom Moliere assailed. We have no- \nticed, in its proper place, the influence which his \nwritings had in compelling the medical faculty of \nhis day to lay aside the affected deportment, tech- \nnical jargon, and other mummeries then in vogue, \nby means of the public derision to which he had \ndeservedly exposed them. In the same manner, he \nso successfully ridiculed the miserable dialectics, \npedantry, and intolerance of the schoolmen, in his \ndiverting dialogues between Dr. Marphurius and Dr. \nPancrace, that he is said to have completely defeat- \ned the serious efforts of the University for obtaining \na confirmation of the decree of 1624, which had \nactually prohibited, tinder pain of death, the promul- \ngation of any opinion contrary to the doctrines of \nAristotle. The arret burlesque of his friend Boileau \nat a later period, if we may trust the Menagiana, \nhad a principal share in preventing a decree of the \nParliament against the philosophy of Descartes. It \nis difficult to estimate the influence of our poet\'s sa- \ntire on the state of society in general, and on those \nhigher ranks in particular whose affectations and \npretensions he assailed with such pertinacious hos- \ntility. If he did not reform them, he at least depri- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 407 \n\nred them of their fascination and much of their mis- \nchievous influence, by holding them up to the con- \ntempt and laughter of the public. Sometimes, i* \nmust be admitted, though very rarely, in effecting \nthis object, he so far transgressed the bounds of de- \ncorum as to descend even to personalities. \n\nFrom this view of the didactic purpose proposed \nby Moliere in his comedies, it is obviously difficult \nto institute a comparison between them and those \nof our English dramatists, or, rather, of Shakspeare, \nwho may be taken as their representative. The \nlatter seems to have had no higher end in view than \nmere amusement ; he took a leaf out of the great \nvolume of human nature as he might find it ; nor \ndid he accommodate it to the illustration of any \nmoral or literary theorem. The former, on the oth- \ner hand, manifests such a direct perceptive purpose \nas to give to some of his pieces the appearance of \nsatires rather than of comedies ; argument takes \nplace of action, and the pro and con of the matter \nare discussed with all the formality of a school ex- \nercise. This essentially diminishes the interest of \nsome of his best plays, the Misanthrope and the \nFemmes Savantes, for example, which for this reason \nseem better fitted for the closet than the stage, and \nhave long since ceased to be favourites with the \npublic. This want of interest is, moreover, aggra- \nvated by the barrenness of action visible in many of \nMoliere\'s comedies, where he seems only to have \nsought an apology for bringing together his coteries \nof gentlemen and ladies for the purpose of exhibit- \n\n\n\n408 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ning their gladiatorial dexterity in conversation. Not \nso with the English dramatist, whose boundless in- \nvention crowds his scene with incidents that hurry \nus along with breathless interest, but which sadly \nscandalize the lover of the unities. \n\nIn conformity with his general plan, too, Shaks- \npeare brings before us every variety of situation \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe court, the camp, and the cloister; the busy hum \nof populous cities, or the wild solitude of the forest \n\xe2\x80\x94 presenting us with pictures of rich and romantic \nbeauty, which could not fall within the scope of his \nrival, and allowing himself to indulge in the unbound- \ned revelry of an imagination which Moliere did not \npossess. The latter, on the other hand, an attentive \nobserver of man as he is found in an over-refined \nstate of society, in courts and crowded capitals, cop- \nied his minutest lineaments with a precision that \ngives to his most general sketches the air almost of \npersonal portraits; seasoning, moreover, his discours- \nes with shrewd hints and maxims of worldly policy. \nShakspeare\'s genius led him rather to deal in bold \ntouches than in this nice delineation. He describes \nclasses rather than individuals; he touches the springs \nof the most intense passions. The daring of ambi- \ntion, the craving of revenge, the deep tenderness of \nlove, are all materials in his hands for comedy ; and \nthis gives to some of his admired pieces \xe2\x80\x94 his "Mer- \nchant of Venice" and his " Measure for Measure," \nfor example \xe2\x80\x94 a solemnity of colouring that leaves \nthem only to be distinguished from tragedy by their \nmore fortunate termination. Moliere, on the con- \n\n\n\nMOLIERE. 409 \n\ntrarj, sedulously excludes from his plays whatever \ncan impair their comic interest. And when, as he \nhas done very rarely, he aims directly at vice instead \nof folly (in the Tartuffe, for instance), he studies to \nexhibit it under such ludicrous points of view as \nshall excite the derision rather than the indignation \nof his audience. \n\nBut whatever be the comparative merits of these \ngreat masters, each must be allowed to have attained \ncomplete success in his way. Comedy, in the hands \nof Shakspeare, exhibits to us man, not only as he is \nmoved by the petty vanities of life, but by deep and \ntumultuous passion ; in situations which it requires all \nthe invention of the poet to devise and the richest \ncolouring of eloquence to depict. But if the object \nof comedy, as has been said, be " to correct the fol- \nlies of the age, by exposing them to ridicule," who \nthen has equalled Moliere ? \n\n4 2K \n\n\n\n410 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY.* \n\nOCTOBER, 182 4. \n\nThe characteristics of an Italian school are no- \nwhere so discernible in English literary history as \nunder the reign of Elizabeth. At the period when \nEngland was most strenuous in breaking off her spir- \nitual relations with Italy, she cultivated most closely \nher intellectual. It is hardly necessary to name ei- \nther the contemporary dramatists, or Surrey, Sidney, \nand Spenser, the former of whom derived the plots \nof many of their most popular plays, as the latter did \nthe forms, and frequently the spirit of their poetical \ncompositions, from Italian models. The translations \nof the same period were, in several instances, superior \nto any which have been since produced. Harring- \nton\'s version of the "Orlando Furioso," with all its \ninaccuracy, is far superior to the cumbrous monoto- \nny of Hoole. Of Fairfax, the elegant translator of \nTasso, it is enough to say that he is styled by Dry- \nden "the poetical father of Waller,\' , and quoted by \nhim, in conjunction with Spenser, as "one of the \ngreat masters in our language." The popularity of \nthe Italian was so great even in Ascham\'s day, who \ndid not survive the first half of Elizabeth\'s reign, as \nto draw from the learned schoolmaster much peevish \n\n* 1. "The Orlando Innamorato ; translated into prose and verse, from \nthe Italian of Francesco Berni. By W. S. Rose." 8vo, p. 279, Lon- \ndon, 1823. \n\n2. " The Orlando Furioso ; translated into verse from the Italian of \nLudovico Ariosto. By W. S. Rose." Vol. L, 8vo. London* 1823. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 411 \n\nanimadversion upon what he terms " the enchant \nments of Circe, fond books of late translated out of \nItalian into English, and sold in every shop in Lon- \ndon." It gradually lost this wide authority during \nthe succeeding century. This was but natural. Be- \nfore the time of Elizabeth, all the light of learning \nwhich fell upon the world had come from Italy, and \nour own literature, like a young and tender plant, in- \nsensibly put forth its branches most luxuriantly in the \ndirection whence it felt this invigorating influence. \nAs it grew in years and hardihood, it sent its fibres \ndeeper into its own soil, and drew thence the nourish- \nment which enabled it to assume its fair and full \nproportions. Milton, it is true, the brightest name on \nthe poetical records of that period, cultivated it with \neminent success. Any one acquainted with the wri- \ntings of Dante, Pulci, and Tasso, will understand the \nvalue and the extent of Milton\'s obligations to the Ital- \nian. He was far from desiring to conceal them, and \nhe has paid many a tribute "of melodious verse" to the \nsources from which he drew so much of the nourish- \nment of his exalted genius. " To imitate, as he has \ndone," in the language of Boileau, " is not to act the \npart of a plagiary, but of a rival." Milton is, more- \nover, one of the few writers who have succeeded so \nfar in comprehending the niceties of foreign tongue \nas to be able to add something to its poetical wealth, \nand his Italian sonnets are written with such purity \nas to have obtained commendations from the Tuscan \ncritics.* \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Milton, in his treatise on The. Beason of Church Government, alludes \n\n\n\n412 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nBoileau, who set the current of French taste at \nthis period, had a considerable contempt for that of \nhis neighbours. He pointed one of his antithetical \ncouplets at the " tinsel of Tasso" (" clinquant du \nTasse"*), and in another he ridiculed the idea of \nepics, in which "the devil was always blustering \nagainst the heavens."f The English admitted the \nsarcasm of Boileau with the cold commentary of \nAddison ;{ and the "clinquant du Tasse" became a \ncant term of reproach upon the whole body of Ital- \nian letters. The French went still farther, and af- \nterward, applying the sarcasm of their critic to Milton \nas well as to Tasso, rejected both the poets upon the \nsame principles. The French did the English as \nmuch justice as they did the Italians. No great \nchange of opinion in this matter took place in Eng- \nland during the last century. The Wartons and \nGray had a just estimation of this beautiful tongue, \nbut Dr. Johnson, the dominant critic of that day, \nseems to have understood the language but imper- \nfectly, and not to have much relished in it what he \nunderstood. \n\nIn the present age of intellectual activity, attention \nis so generally bestowed on all modern languages \nwhich are ennobled by a literature, that it is not sin- \ngular an acquaintance with the Italian in particular \n\nmodestly enough to his Italian pieces, and the commendations bestowed \nupon them. " Other things, which I had shifted in scarcity of books and \nconveniencies to hatch up among them, were received with written en- \ncomiums, which the Italian is not forward to bestow on men of this side \nthe Alps." * Satire IX. \n\n1 L\'Art Poetique, c. III. X Spectator, No. VI \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 413 \n\nshould be widely diffused. Great praise, however, is \ndue to the labours of Mr. Roscoe. There can be \nlittle doubt that his elaborate biographies of the Me- \ndici, which contain as much literary criticism as his- \ntorical narrative, have mainly contributed to the \npromotion of these studies among his countrymen. \nThese works have of late met with much flippant \ncriticism in some of their leading journals. In Italy \nthey have been translated, are now cited as authori- \nties, and have received the most encomiastic notices \nfrom several eminent scholars. These facts afford \nconclusive testimony of their merits. The name of \nMathias is well known to every lover of the Italian \ntongue ; his poetical productions rank with those of \nMilton in merit, and far exceed them in quantity. \nTo conclude, it is not many years since Cary gave \nto his countrymen his very extraordinary version of \nthe father of Tuscan poetry, and Rose is now swell- \ning the catalogue with translations of the two most \ndistinguished chivalrous epics of Italy. \n\nEpic romance has continued to be a great favour- \nite in that country ever since its first introduction \ninto the polished circles of Florence and Ferrara, to- \nwards the close of the fifteenth century. It has held \nmuch the same rank in its ornamental literature \nwhich the drama once enjoyed in the English, and \nwhich historical novel-writing maintains now. It \nhardly seems credible that an enlightened people \nshould long continue to take great satisfaction in po- \nems founded on the same extravagant fictions, and \nspun out to the appalling length of twenty, thirty, \n4 2 K* \n\n\n\n414 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL xMISCELLANlES. \n\nnay, forty cantos of a thousand verses each. But \nthe Italians, like most Southern nations, delight ex- \nceedingly in the uncontrolled play of the imagina- \ntion, and they abandon themselves to all its brilliant \nillusions, with no other object in view than mere rec- \nreation. An Englishman looks for a moral, or, at \nleast, for some sort of instruction, from the wildest \nwork of fiction. But an Italian goes to it as he \nwould go to the opera \xe2\x80\x94 to get impressions rather \nthan ideas. He is extremely sensible to the fine \ntones of his native language, and, under the combi- \nned influence produced by the colouring of a lavish \nfancy and the music of a voluptuous versification, he \nseldom stoops to a cold analysis of its purpose or its \nprobability. \n\nRomantic fiction, however, which flourished so \nexuberantly under a warm Southern sky, was trans- \nplanted from the colder regions of Normandy and \nEngland. It is remarkable that both these countries, \nin which it had its origin, should have ceased to cul- \ntivate it at the very period when the perfection of \ntheir respective languages would have enabled them \nto do so with entire success. We believe this re- \nmark requires no qualification in regard to France. \nSpenser affords one illustrious exception among the \nEnglish.* \n\n* The influence, however, of the old Norman romances may be dis- \ncovered in the productions of a much later period. Their incredible \nlength required them to be broken up into fyttcs, or cantos, by the min- \nstrel, who recited them with the accompaniment of a harp, in tl o same \nmanner as the epics of Homer, broken into rhapsodies, were chanted by \nthe bards of Ionia. The minstrel who could thus beguile the tedium of \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 4] 5 \n\nIt was not until long after the extinction of this \nspecies of writing in the North that it reappeared in \nItaly. The commercial habits, and the Republican \ninstitutions of the Italians in the twelfth and thir- \nteenth centuries, were most unfavourable to the \nspirit of chivalry, and, consequently, to the fables \nwhich grew out of it. The three patriarchs of their \nliterature, moreover, by the light which, in this dark \nperiod, they threw over other walks of imagination, \nturned the attention of their countrymen from those \nof romance. Dante, indeed, who resembled Milton \nin so many other particulars, showed a similar pred- \nilection for the ancient tales of chivalry. His Com- \nmedia contains several encomiastic allusions to them, \nbut, like the English bard, he contented himself with \nthese, and chose a subject better suited to his ambi- \ntious genius and inflexible temper.* His poem, it is \ntrue, was of too eccentric a character to be widely \n\n\n\na winter\'s evening was a welcome guest at the baronial castle and in \nthe hall of the monastery. As Greek and Roman letters were revived, \nthe legends of chivalry fell into disrepute, and the minstrel gradually re- \ntreated to the cottage of the peasant, who was still rude enough to relish \nhis simple melody. But the long romance was beyond the comprehen- \nsion or the taste of the rustic. It therefore gave way to less complica- \nted narratives, and from its wreck may be fairly said to have arisen those \nBorder songs and ballads which form the most beautiful collection of \nrural minstrelsy that belongs to any age or country. \n\n* Milton\'s poetry abounds in references to the subjects of romantic \nfable ; and in his " Epita.phium Damonis," he plainly intimates his inten- \ntion of writing an epic on the story of Arthur. It may be doubtea \nwhether he would have succeeded on such a topic. His austere char- \nacter would seem to have been better fitted to feel the impulses of reli- \ngious enthusiasm than those of chivalry ; and England has no reason to \n*egret that her most sublime poet was reserved for the age of Cromwell \ninstead of the romantic reign of Elizabeth. \n\n\n\n43 6 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nimitated,* and both Boccaccio and Petrarch, with \nless talent, had a more extensive influence over the \ntaste of their nation. The garrulous graces of the \nformer and the lyrical finish of the latter are still \nsolicited in the lighter compositions of Italy. Last- \nly, the discoveries of ancient manuscripts at home, \nand the introduction of others from Constantinople, \nwhen that rich depository of Grecian science fell \ninto the hands of the barbarian, gave a new direc- \ntion to the intellectual enterprise of Italian scholars, \nand withdrew them almost wholly from the farther \ncultivation of their infant literature. \n\nOwing to these circumstances, the introduction of \nthe chivalrous epoque was protracted to the close \nof the fifteenth century, when its first successful \nspecimens were produced at the accomplished court \nof the Medici. The encouragement extended by \nthis illustrious family to every branch of intellectual \nculture has been too often the subject of encomium \nto require from us any particular animadversion. \nLorenzo, especially, by uniting in his own person \nthe scholarship and talent which he so liberally re- \nwarded in others, contributed more than all to the \neffectual promotion of an enlightened taste among \nhis countrymen. Even his amusements were sub- \n\n* The best imitation of the " Divina Commcdia" is probably the "Can- \ntiba in mortc di Ugo Basville" by the most eminent of the Jiving Italian \npoets, Monti. His talent for vigorous delineation by a single coup de \nvinceait is eminently Dantesque, and the plan of his poem is the exact \ncounterpart of that of the "Inferno." Instead of a mortal descending \ninto the regions of the damned, one of their number (the spirit of Bas- \nville, a Frenchman) is summoned back to the earth, to behold the crimes \nand miseries of his native country during the period of the Revolution. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 417 \n\nservient to it, and the national literature may be \nfairly said, at this day, to retain somewhat of the \ncharacter communicated to it by his elegant recrea- \ntions. His delicious villas at Fiesole and Cajano \nare celebrated by the scholars, who, in the silence \nof their shades, pursued with him the studies of his \nfavourite philosophy and of poetry. Even the sen- \nsual pleasures of the banquet were relieved by the \ninventions of wit and fancy. Lyrical composition, \nwhich, notwithstanding its peculiar adaptation to the \nflexible movements of the Italian tongue, had fallen \ninto neglect, was revived, and, together with the first \neloquent productions of the romantic muse, was re- \ncited at the table of Lorenzo. \n\nOf the guests who frequented it, Pulci and Poli- \ntian are the names most distinguished, and the only \nones connected with our present subject. The lat- \nter of these was received into the family of Lorenzo \nas the preceptor of his children, an office for which \nhe seems to have been better qualified by his extra- \nordinary attainments than by his disposition. What- \never may have been the asperity of his temper, how- \never, his poetical compositions breathe the perfect \nspirit of harmony. The most remarkable of these, \ndistinguished as the " Verses of Politian" (Stanze di \nPoliziano), is a brief fragment of an epic, whose \npurpose was to celebrate the achievements of Julian \nde Medici, a younger brother of Lorenzo, at a tour- \nnament exhibited at Florence in 1468. This would \nappear but a meager basis for the structure of a \ngreat poem. Politian, however, probably in conse- \n\nG G G \n\n\n\n418 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nquence of the untimely death of Julian, his hero, \nabandoned it in the middle of the second canto, \neven before he had reached the event which was to \nconstitute the subject of his story. \n\nThe incidents of the poem thus abruptly termi- \nnated are of no great account. We have a por- \ntrait of Julian, a hunting expedition, a love adven- \nture, a digression into the island of Venus, which \ntakes up about half the canto, and a vision of the \nhero, which ends just as the tournament, the sub- \nject of the piece, is about to begin, and with it, like \nthe " fabric of a vision," ends the poem also. In \nthis short space, however, the poet has concentrated \nall the beauties of his art, the melody of a musical \near, and the inventions of a plastic fancy. His isl- \nand of love, in particular, is emblazoned with those \ngorgeous splendours, which have since been borrow- \ned for the enchanted gardens of Alcina, Armida, and \nAcrasia. \n\nBut this little fragment is not recommended, at \nleast to an English reader, so much by its Oriental \npomp of imagery as by its more quiet and delicate \npictures of external nature. Brilliancy of imagina- \ntion is the birthright of the Italian poet, as much as \na sober, contemplative vein is of the English. This \nis the characteristic of almost all their best and \nmost popular poetry during the sixteenth and seven- \nteenth centuries. The two great poets of the four- \nteenth approach much nearer to the English char- \nacter. Dante shows not only deeper reflection than \nis common with his countrymen, but in pans of his \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 419 \n\nwork, in the Purgatorio more especially, manifests \na sincere relish for natural beauty, by his most accu- \nrate pictures of rural objects and scenery. Petrarch \ncherished the recollections of an unfortunate pas- \nsion, until, we may say, without any mystical per- \nversion of language, it became a part of his intellect- \nual existence.* This gave a tender and melancholy \nexpression to his poems, more particularly to those \nwritten after the death of Laura, quite as much \n\n* Whatever may be thought of the speculations of the Abbe de Sade, \nno doubt can be entertained of the substantial existence of Laura, or of \nPetrarch\'s passion for her. Indeed, independently of the internal evi- \ndence afforded by his poetry, such direct notices of his mistress are scat- \ntered through his " Letters" and serious prose compositions, that it is \nsingular there should ever have existed a skepticism on these points. \nUgo Foscolo, the well-known author of "Jacobo Ortis," has lately pub- \nlished an octavo volume, entitled "Essays on Petrarch." Among other \nparticulars, showing the unbounded influence that Laura de Sade obtained \nover the mind of her poetical lover, he quotes the following memoran- \ndum, made by Petrarch two months after her decease, in his private \nmanuscript copy of Virgil, now preserved in the Ambrosian library at \nMilan : \n\n" It was in the early days of my youth, on the sixth of April, in the \nmorning, and in the year 1327, that Laura, distinguished by her own vir- \ntues, and celebrated in my verses, first blessed my eyes in the Church \nof Santa Clara, at Avignon ; and it was in the same city, on the sixth \nof the very same month of April, at the very same hour in the morning, \nin the year 1348, that this bright luminary was withdrawn from our sight, \nwhen I was at Verona, alas ! ignorant of my calamity. The remains of \nher chaste and beautiful body were deposited in the Church of the Cor- \ndeliers on the evening of the same day. To preserve the afflicting re- \nmembrance, I have taken a bitter pleasure in recording it, particularly in \nthis book, which is most frequently before my eyes, in order that nothing \nin this world may have any farther attraction for me ; that this great \nattachment to life being dissolved, I may, by frequent reflection, and a \nproper estimation of our transitory existence, be admonished that it is \nhigh time for me to think of quitting this earthly Babylon, which I trust it \n\xe2\x80\xa2will not be difficult for me, with a strong and manly courage, to accom- \nplish."\xe2\x80\x94 P. 35, \n\n\n\n420 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnglish as Italian. Love furnishes the great theme \nand impulse to the Italian poet. It is not too much \nto say that all their principal versifiers have written \nunder the inspiration of a real or pretended passion. \nIt is to them what a less showy and less exclusive \nsensibility is to an Englishman. The latter ac- \nknowledges the influence of many other affections \nand relations in life. The death of a friend is far \nmore likely to excite his muse than the smiles or \nfrowns of his mistress. The Italian seldom dwells \non melancholy reminiscences, but writes under the \nimpulse of a living and ardent passion. Petrarch \ndid both ; but in the poetry which he composed after \nthe death of his mistress, exalted as it is by devo- \ntional sentiment, he deviated from the customs of \nhis nation, and adopted an English tone of feeling. \nA graver spirit of reflection and a deeper sympathy \nfor the unobtrusive beauties of nature are observable \nin some of their later writers ; but these are not \nprimitive elements in the Italian character. Gay, \nbrilliant, imaginative, are the epithets which best \nindicate the character of their literature during its \nmost flourishing periods ; and the poetry of Italy \nseems to reflect as clearly her unclouded skies and \nglowing landscape, as that of England does the tran- \nquil and somewhat melancholy complexion of her \nclimate. \n\nThe verses of Politian, to return from our digres- \nsion, contain many descriptions distinguished by the \ncalm, moral beauty of which we have been speak- \ning. Resemblances may be traced between these \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 421 \n\npassages and the writings of some of our best Eng- \nlish poets. The descriptive poetry of Gray and of \nGoldsmith, particularly, exhibits a remarkable coin- \ncidence with that of Politian in the enumeration of \nrural images. The stanza cxxi., setting forth the \ndescent of Cupid into the island of Venus, may be \ncited as having suggested a much admired simile in \nGay\'s popular ballad, Black-eyed Susan, since the \nEnglish verse is almost a metaphrase of the Italian : \n\n" Or poi che ad ail tese ivi pervenne, \n\nForte le scosse, e giu calossi a piorrrbo, \nTutto serrato nelle sacre penne, \nCome a suo nido fa lieto Colombo." \n\n" So the sweet lark, high poised in air, \nShuts close his pinions to his breast, \nIf chance his mate\'s shrill call he hear, \nAnd drops at once into her nest." \n\nThese " Stanze" were the first example of a happy \ncultivation of Italian verse in the fifteenth century. \nThe scholars of that day composed altogether in \nLatin. Politian, as he grew older, disdained this \nabortive production of his youthful muse, and relied \nfor his character with posterity on his Latin poems \nand his elaborate commentaries upon the ancient \nclassics. Petrarch looked for immortality to his "Af- \nrica," as did Boccaccio to his learned Latin disqui- \nsition upon ancient mythology.* Could they now, \nafter the lapse of more than four centuries, revisit the \n\n* " Dc Genealogia Dearum." \xe2\x80\x94 The Latin writings of Boccaccio and Pe- \ntrarch may be considered the foundation of their fame with their contem- \nporaries. The coronation of the latter in the Roman capitol was a \nhomage paid rather to his achievements in an ancient tongue than to any \nm his own. He does not even notice his Italian lyrics \\n his "Letters to \nPosterity." \n\n4 2L \n\n\n\n422 LIOGKA.PHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nworld, how would they be astonished, perhaps mor- \ntified, the former to find that he was remembered \nonly as the sonnetteer, and the latter as the novelist] \nThe Latin prose of Politian may be consulted by an \nantiquary ; his Latin poetry must be admired by \nscholars of taste ; but his few Italian verses constitute \nthe basis of his high reputation at this day with the \ngreat body of his countrymen. He wrote several \nlyrical pieces and a short pastoral drama (Orfeo),the \nfirst of a species which afterward grew into such re- \npute under the hands of Tasso and Guarini. All of \nthese bear the same print of his genius. One can- \nnot but regret that so rare a mind should, in con- \nformity with the perverse taste of his age, have aban- \ndoned the freshness of a living tongue for the un- \ngrateful culture of a dead one. His " Stanze," the \nmere prologue of an epic, still survive amid the com- \nplete and elaborate productions of succeeding poets \xe2\x96\xa0 \nthey may be compared to the graceful portico of some \nunfinished temple, which time and taste have respect- \ned, and which remains as in the days of its architect, \na beautiful ruin. \n\nLuigi Pulci, the other eminent poet whom we \nmentioned as a frequent guest at the table of Loren- \nzo de\' Medici, was of a noble family, and the young- \nest of three brothers, all of them even more distin- \nguished by their accomplishments than by birth. \nThere seems to be nothing worthy of particular rec- \nord in his private history. He is said to have pos- \nsessed a frank and merry disposition, and, to judge \nfrom his great poem, as well as from some lighter \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 423 \n\npieces of burlesque satire, which he bandied with \none of his friends, whom he was in the habit of meet- \ning at the house of Lorenzo, he was not particularly \nfastidious in his humour. His Morgante Maggiore \nis reported to have been written at the request of Lo- \nrenzo\'s mother, and recited at his table. It is a gen- \nuine epic of chivalry, containing twenty-eight cantos, \nfounded on the traditionary defeat, the " dolorosa \nrotta" of Charlemagne and his peers in the Valley \nof Roncesvalles. It adheres much more closely than \nany of the other Italian romances to the lying chron- \nicle of Turpin. \n\nIt may appear singular that the intention of the \nauthor should not become apparent in the course of \neight-and-twenty cantos; but it is a fact, that schol- \nars both at home and abroad have long disputed \nwhether the poem is serious or satirical. Crescim- \nbeni styles the author " modesto e moderato," while \nTiraboschi expressly charges him with the deliber- \nate design of ridiculing Scripture, and Voltaire, in \nhis preface, cites the Morgante as an apology for his \nprofligate " Pucelle." It cannot be denied that the \nstory abounds in such ridiculous eccentricities as \ngive it the air of a parody upon the marvels of ro- \nmance. The hero, Morgante, is a converted infidel, \n" un gigante smisurato," whose formidable weapon \nis a bell-clapper, and who, after running through \nsome twenty cantos of gigantic valour and mounte- \nbank extravagance, is brought to an untimely end by \na wound in the heel, not from a Trojan arrow, but \nfrom the bite of a crab ! We doubt, however, \n\n\n\n424 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwhether Pulci intended his satirical shafts for the \nChristian faith. Liberal allowance is to be conce- \nded for the fashion of his age. Nothing is more \nfrequent in the productions of that period than such \nirreverent freedoms with the most sacred topics as \nwould be quite shocking in ours. \' Such freedoms, \nhowever, cannot reasonably be imputed to profanity, \nor even levity, since numerous instances of them \noccur in works of professed moral tendency, as in \nthe mysteries and moralities, for example, those sol- \nemn deformities of the ancient French and English \ndrama. The chronicle of Turpin, the basis of Pul- \nci\'s epic, which, though a fraud, was a pious one, \ninvented by some priest to celebrate the triumphs of \nthe Christian arms, is tainted with the same inde- \ncent familiarities.* \n\nTempora mutantur. In a scandalous pasquinade \npublished by Lord Byron in the first number of his \nLiberal, there is a verse describing St. Peter offici- \nating as the doorkeeper of heaven. Pulci has a \nsimilar one in the Morgante (canto xxvi., st. 91), \nwhich, no doubt, furnished the hint to his lordship \nwho has often improved upon the Italian poets. \nBoth authors describe St. Peter\'s dress and vocation \n\n* This spurious document of the twelfth century contains, in a copy \nwhich we have now before us, less than sixty pages. It has neither the \ntruth of history nor the beauty of fiction. It abounds in commonplace \nprodigies, and sets forth Charlemagne\'s wars and his defeat in the valley \nof Roncesvalles, an event which probably never happened, insignifi \ncant as it is in every other respect, however, it is the seed from which \nhas sprung up those romantic fictions which adorned the rude age of \nthe Normans, and which flour ishechin such wide luxuriance under Italian \nculture. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 425 \n\nwith the most whimsical minuteness. In the Ital- \n\xe2\x80\xa2an, tne passage, introduced into the midst of a sol- \nemn, elaborate description, has all the appearance \nof being told in very good faith. No one will ven- \nture to put so charitable a construction upon his \nlordship\'s motives. \n\nWhatever may have been the intention of Pulci \nin the preceding portion of the work, its concluding \ncantos are animated by the genuine spirit of Chris- \ntian heroism. The rear of Charlemagne\'s army is \ndrawn into an ambuscade by the treachery of his \nconfidant Ganelon. Roncesvalles, a valley in the \nheart of the Pyrenees, is the theatre of action, and \nOrlando, with the flower of French chivalry, perish- \nes there, overpo\'wered by the Saracens. The battle \nis told in a sublime epic tone worthy of the occasion. \nThe cantos xxvi., xxvn., containing it, are filled \nwith a continued strain of high religious enthusiasm, \nwith the varying, animating bustle of a mortal con- \nflict, with the most solemn and natural sentiment \nsuggested by the horror of the situation. Orlando\'s \ncharacter rises into that of the divine warrior. His \nspeech at the opening of the action, his lament over \nhis unfortunate army, his melancholy reflections on \nthe battle-field the night after the engagement, are \nconceived with such sublimity and pathos as attest \nboth the poetical talent of Pulci and the grandeur \nand capacity of his subject. Yet the Morgante, the \ngreater part of which is so ludicrous, is the only em- \ninent Italian epic which has seriously described the \ncelebrated rout at Roncesvalles. \n\n4 2L* \n\n\n\n426 BIOCRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nPulci\'s poem is not much read by the Italians, \nIts style, in general, is too unpolished for the fastid- \nious delicacy of a modern ear, but as it abounds in \nthe old fashioned proverbialisms (riboboli) of Flor- \nence, it is greatly prized by the Tuscan purists. \nThese familiar sayings, the elegant slang of the \nFlorentine mob, have a value among the Italian \nscholars, at least among a large faction of them, \nmuch like that of old coins with a virtuoso : the \nmore rare and rusty, the better. They give a high \nrelish to many of their ancient writers, who, with- \nout other merit than their antiquity, are cited as au- \nthorities in their vocabulary.* These riboboli are \nto be met with most abundantly in their old novelle \nthose, especially, which are made up of familiar dia- \nlogue between the lower classes of citizens. Boc- \ncaccio has very many such ; Sacchetti has more \nthan all his prolific tribe, and it is impossible for a \nforeigner to discern or to appreciate the merits of \nsuch a writer. The lower classes in Florence retain \nto this day much of their antique picturesque phrase- \nology,! an d Alfieri tells us that " it was his great \ndelight to stand in some unnoticed corner, and listen \nto the conversation of the mob in the market-place." \n\n* This has been loudly censured by many of their scholars opposed to \nthe literary supremacy of the Della-Cruscan Academy. See, in particu- \nlar, the acute treatise of Cesarotti, " Saggio sulla Filosofia delle Lingue," \nParte IV. \n\nt \'*The pure language of Boccaccio, and of other ancient writers, is \npreserved at this day much more among the lower classes of Florentine \nmechanics and of the neighbouring peasants than among the more pol- \nished Tuscan society, whose original dialect has suffered great mutatioii3 \nin their intercourse with foreigners." \xe2\x80\x94 Pigmtti, " Storia della Twana " \ntorn, ii., p. 167. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 427 \n\nWith the exception of Orlando, Pulci has shown \nno great skill in delineation of character. Charle- \nmagne and Ganelon are the prominent personages. \nThe latter is a parody on traitors; he is a traitor to \ncommon sense. Charlemagne is a superannuated \ndupe, with just credulity sufficient to dovetail into \nall the cunning contrivances of Gan. The women \nhave neither refinement nor virtue. The knights \nhave none of the softer graces of chivalry; they bul- \nly and swagger like the rude heroes of Homer, and \nare exclusively occupied with the merciless extermi- \nnation of infidels. We meet with none of the im- \nagery, the rich sylvan scenery, so lavishly diffused \nthrough the epics of Ariosto and Boiardo. The \nmachinery bears none of the airy touches of an Ara- \nbian pencil, but is made out of the cold excrescences \nof Northern superstition, dwarfs, giants, and necro- \nmancers. Before quitting Pulci, we must point out \na passage (canto xxv., st. 229, 230), in which a \ndevil announces to Rinaldo the existence of another \ncontinent beyond the ocean, inhabited by mortals \nlike himself. The theory of gravitation is also \nplainly intimated. As the poem was written before \nthe voyages of Columbus, and before the physical \ndiscoveries of Galileo and Copernicus, the predic- \ntions are extremely curious.* The fiend, alluding \n\n* Dante, two centuries before, had also expressed the same belief in \nan undiscovered quarter of the globe : \n\n*\' Te\' vostri sensi, ch\'e del rimanente, \nJNon vogliate negar Tesperienza, \nDiretro al sol, del mondo senza gente." \n\nInferno, can xxvi., v 115 \n\n\n\n428 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto the vulgar superstitions entertained of the Pillars \nof Hercules, thus addresses his companion : \n\n" Know that this theory is false ; his bark \nThe daring mariner shall urge far o\'er \nThe Western wave, a smooth and level plain, \nAlbeit the earth is fashion\'d like a wheel. \nMan was in ancient days of grosser mould, \nAnd Hercules might blush to learn how far \nBeyond the limits he had vainly set, \nThe dullest seaboat soon shall wing her way. \nMen shall descry another hemisphere, \nSince to one common centre all things tend ; \nSo earth, hy curious mystery divine \nWell balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres. \nAt our antipodes are cities, states, \nAnd thronged empires, ne\'er divined of yore. \nBut see, the sun speeds on his western path \nTo glad the nations with expected light." \n\nThe dialogues of Pulci\'s devils respecting free-will \nand necessity, their former glorious, and their pres- \nent fallen condition, have suggested many hints for \nour greater Milton to improve upon. The juggling \nfrolics of these fiends at the royal banquet in Sara- \ngossa may have been the original of the comical mar- \nvels played off through the intervention of similar \nagents by Dr. Faust. \n\nNotwithstanding the good faith and poetical ele- \nvation of its concluding cantos, the Morgante, ac- \ncording to our apprehension, is anything but a se \nrious romance. Not that it shows a disposition to \nsatire, above all, to the religious satire often imputed \nto it; but there is a light banter, a vein of fun run- \nning through the greater portion of it, which is quite \nthe opposite of the lofty spirit of chivalry. Roman- \ntic fiction, among our Norman ancestors, grew no \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 429 \n\ndirectly out of the feudal relations and adventurous \nspirit of the age, that it was treated with all the \ngravity of historical record. When reproduced in \nthe polite and artificial societies of Italy, the same \nfictions wore an air of ludicrous extravagance which \nwould no longer admit of their being repeated seri- \nously. Recommended, however, by a proper sea- \nsoning of irony, they might still amuse as ingenious \ntales of wonder. This may be kept in view in fol- \nlowing out the ramifications of Italian narrative po- \netry ; for they will all be found, in a greater or less \ndegree, tinctured with the same spirit of ridicule.* \nThe circle for whom Pulci composed his epic was \npeculiarly distinguished by that fondness for good- \nhumoured raillery, which may be considered a na- \ntional trait with his countrymen. \n\nIt seems to have been the delight of Lorenzo de* \nMedici, as it was afterward, in a more remarkable \n\n* A distinction may be pointed out between the Norman and the Ital- \nian epics of chivalry. The former, composed in the rude ages of feudal \nheroism, are entitled to much credit a& pictures of the manners of that \npdiod; while the latter, written in an age ot refinement, have been car- \nried by their poets into such beautiful extravagances of fiction as are \nperfectly incompatible with a state of society at any period. Let any \none compare the feats of romantic valour recorded by Froissart, the tur- \nbulent, predatory habits of the barons and ecclesiastics under the early \nNorman dynasty, as reported by Turner in his late " History of England," \nwith these old romances, and he will find enough to justify our remark. \nSt. Pelaye, after a diligent study of the ancient epics, speaks of them as \nexhibiting a picture of society closely resembling that set forth in the \nchronicles of the period. Turner, after as diligent an examination of \nearly historical documents, pronounces that the facts contained in them \nperfectly accord with the general portraiture of manners depicted in the \nromances. \xe2\x80\x94 Mem. de V Acad, des Inscriptions, torn, xx , Art. sur V Ancient \nChevalerie. Turner\'s " History of England from the Norman Conquest," \n&c vol. i., ch. vi. \n\n\n\n430 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndegree, of his son Leo Tenth, to abandon himself \nto the most unreserved social freedoms with the \nfriends whom he collected around his table. The \nsatirical epigrams which passed there in perfect \ngood humour between his guests, show, at least, full \nas much merriment as manners. Machiavelli con- \ncludes his history of Florence with an elaborate por- \ntrait of Lorenzo, in which he says that " he took \ngreater delight in frivolous pleasures, and in the so- \nciety of jesters and satirists, than became so great a \nman." The historian might have been less austere \nin his commentary upon Lorenzo\'s taste, since he \nwas not particularly fastidious in the selection of his \nown amusements.* \n\nAt the close of the fifteenth century Italy was di- \nvided into a number of small but independent states, \nwhose petty sovereigns vied with each other, not \nmerely in the poor parade of royal pageantry, but in \nthe liberal endowment of scientific institutions, and \n\n* A letter written by Machiavelli, long unknown, and printed for the \nfirst time at Milan, 1810, gives a curious picture of his daily occupations \nwhen living in retirement, on his little patrimony, at a distance from \nFlorence. Among other particulars, he mentions that it was his custom \nafter dinner to repair to the tavern, where he passed his afternoon at \ncards with the company whom he ordinarily found there, consisting of \nthe host, a miller, a butcher, and a lime-maker. Another part of the \nepistle exhibits a more pleasing view of the pursuits of the ex-secretary. \n" In the evening I return to my house and retire to my study. I then \ntake off the rustic garments which I had worn during the day, and, hav- \ning dressed myself in the apparel which I used to wear at court and in \ntown, I mingle in the society of the great men of antiquity. I draw from \nthem the nourishment which alone is suited to me, and during the four \nhours passed in this intercourse I forget all my misfortunes, and fear \nneither poverty nor death. In this manner I have composed a little \nwork upon government." This little work was The Prince. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 431 \n\nthe patronage of learned men. Almost every Italian \nscholar was attached to some one or other of these \ncourtly circles, and a generous, enlightened emula- \ntion sprung up among the states of Italy, such as \nhad never before existed in any other age or coun- \ntry. Among the Republics of ancient Greece the \nrivalship was political. Their literature, from the \ntime of Solon, was almost exclusively Athenian. \nAn interesting picture of the cultivated manners and \nintellectual pleasures of these little courts may be \ngathered from the Cortigiano of Castiglione, which \ncontains in the introduction a particular account of \nthe pursuits and pastimes at the court of his sover- \neign, the Duke of Urbino. \n\nNone of these Italian states make so shining a \nfigure in literary history as the insignificant duchy \nof Ferrara. The foul crimes which defile the do- \nmestic annals of the family of Este have been for- \ngotten in the munificent patronage extended by \nthem to letters. The librarians of the Biblioteca \nEstense, Muratori and Tiraboschi, have celebrated \nthe virtues of their native princes w 7 ith the encomi- \nastic pen of loyalty ; while Ariosto and Tasso, whose \nmisfortunes furnish but an indifferent commentary \nupon these euloginms, offering to them the grateful \nincense of poetic adulation, have extended their \nnames still wider by inscribing them upon their im- \nmortal epics. Their patronage had the good for- \ntune, not always attending patronage, of developing \ngenius. Those models of the pastoral drama, the \nAminta of Tasso, and the Pastor Fialo of Guarini, \n\n\n\n432 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwhose luxury of expression, notwithstanding the dic- \ntum of Dr. Johnson,* it has been found as difficult to \nimitate in their own tongue as it is impossible to \ntranslate into any other; the comedies and Hora- \ntian satires of Ariosto ; the Secchia Rapita of Tas- \nsoni, the acknowledged model of the mock-heroic \npoems of Pope and Boileau ; and, finally, the three \ngreat epics of Italy, the Orlando Innamorato, the \nFurioso, and the Gerusalemme Liberata, were all \nproduced in the brief compass of a century, within \nthe limited dominions of the House of Este. Dante \nhad reproached Ferrara, in the thirteenth century, \nwith never having been illustrated by the name of \na poet. \n\nBoiardo, Count of Scandiano, the author of the \nOrlando Innamorato, the first-born of these epics, \nwas a subject of Hercules First, Duke of Ferrara, \nand by him appointed governor of Reggio. His \nmilitary conduct in that office, and his learned trans- \nlations from the ancient classics, show him to have \nbeen equally accomplished as a soldier and as a \nscholar. In the intervals of war, to which his active \nlife was devoted, he amused himself with the com- \nposition of his long poem. He had spun this out \ninto the sixty-seventh canto without showing any \ndisposition to bring it to a conclusion, when his lit- \nerary labours were suddenly interrupted, as he in- \nforms us in his parting stanza, by the invasion of \n\n* " Dione is a counterpart to Aminta and Pastor Fido, and other trifles \nor the same kind, easily imitated and unworthy of imitation " \xe2\x80\x94 Life of \nGay. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 433 \n\nthe French into Italy in 1794, and in the same year \nthe author died. The Orlando Innamorato, as it \nadvanced, had been read by its author to his friends ; \nbut no portion of it was printed till after his death, \nand its extraordinary merits were not then widely \nestimated, in consequence of its antiquated phrase- \nology and Lombard provincialisms. A Rifacimento \nsome time after appeared, by one Domenichi, who \nspoiled many of the beauties, without improving the \nstyle of his original. Finally, Berni, in little more \nthan thirty years after the death of Boiardo, new- \nmoulded the whole poem,* with so much dexterity \nas to retain the substance of every verse in the ori- \nginal, and yet to clothe them in the seductive graces \nof his own classical idiom. Berni\'s version is the \nonly one now read in Italy, and the original poem \nof Boiardo is so rare in that country, that it was \nfound impossible to procure, for the library of Har- \nvard University, any copy of the Innamorato more \nancient than the reformed one by Domenichi. \n\nThe history of letters affords no stronger exam- \nple of the power of style than the different fate of \nthese two productions of Berni and Boiardo. We \ndoubt whether the experiment would have been at- \ntended with the same result among a people by \nwhom tne nicer beauties of expression are less cul- \n\n* Sismondi is mistaken in saying that Berni remodelled the Innamorato \nsixty years after the original. He survived Boiardo only forty-two years, \nand he had half completed his Rifacimento at least ten years before his \nown death, as is evident from his beautiful invocation to Verona and the \nPo (canto xxx.), on whose banks he was then writing it, and where he \nwas living, 1526, in the capacity of secretary to the Bishop of Verona. \n4 2M \n\n\n\n134 BIOGRAPHICAL 4ND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntivated, as with the English, for example. If we \nmay judge from the few specimens which we have \nseen extracted from the Italian original, Chaucer \nexhibits a more obsolete and exotic phraseology \nthan Boiardo. Yet the partial attempt of Dryden \nto invest the father of English poetry with a mod- \nernized costume has had little success, and the little \nepic oi P alamort and Arcite {The Knight\'s Tale) \nis much more highly relished in the rude but mus- \ncular diction of Chaucer than in the polished ver- \nsion of his imitator. \n\nWhatever may be the estimation of the style, the \nglory of the original delineation of character and in- \ncident is to be given exclusively to Boiardo. He \nwas the first of the epic poets who founded a ro- \nmance upon the love of Orlando ; and a large por- \ntion of the poem is taken up with the adventures of \nthis hero and his doughty Paladius, assembled in a \nremote province of China for the defence of his mis- \ntress, the beautiful Angelica : \n\n" When Agrican, with all his northern powers, \nBesieged Albracca, as romances tell, \nThe city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win \nThe fairest of her sex, Angelica \nHis daughter, sought by many prowess knights \nBoth Paynim, and the peers of Charlemagne." \n\nParadise Regained. \n\nWith the exception of the midnight combat between \nAgrican and Orlando, in which the conversion of \nthe dying Tartar reminds one of the similar, but \nmore affecting death of Clorinda, in the Jerusalem \nDelivered, there is very little moral interest attach- \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 435 \n\ned to these combats of Boiardo, which are mere \ngladiatorial exhibitions of hard fighting, and sharp, \njealous wrangling. The fairy gardens of Falerina \nand Morgana, upon which the poet enters in the \nsecond book, are much better adapted to the display \nof his wild and exuberant imagination. No Italian \nwriter, not even Ariosto, is comparable to Boiardo \nfor exhibitions of fancy. Enchantment follows en- \nchantment, and the reader, bewildered with the \nnumber and rapidity of the transitions, looks in vain \nfor some clew, even the slender thread of allegory \nwhich is held out by the poet, to guide him through \nthe unmeaning marvellous of Arabian fiction. Ari- \nosto has tempered his imagination with more discre- \ntion. Both of these great romantic poets have \nwrought upon the same characters, and afford 5 in \nthis respect, a means of accurate comparison. With- \nout going into details, we may observe, in general, \nthat Boiardo has more strength than grace ; Ariosto, \nthe reverse. Boiardo\'s portraits are painted, or may \nbe rather said to be sculptured, with a clear, coarse \nhand, out of some rude material. Ariosto\'s are \nsketched with the volatile graces, nice shades, and \nvariable drapery of the most delicate Italian pencil. \nIn female portraiture, of course, Ariosto is far supe- \nrior to his predecessor. The glaring coquetry of \nBoiardo\'s Angelica is refined by the hand of his rival \ninto something like the coquetry of high life, and \n*.ne ferocious tigress beauties of the original Marfisa \nare softened into those of a more polished and court- \nly amazon. The Innamorato contains no examples \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa336 BIUORAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof the pure, deep feeling, which gives a soul to the \nfemales of the Furioso, and we look in vain for the \nfrolic and airy scenes which enchant us so frequent- \nly in the latter poem.* We may remark, in con^ \nelusion, that the rapid and unintermitting succession \nof incidents in the Tnnamorato prevents the poet \nfrom indulging in those collateral beauties of senti- \nment and imagery which are prodigally diffused over \nthe romance of Ariosto, and which give to it an ex- \nquisite finish. \n\nBerni\'s Fdfacimento of the Orlando Innamorato, \nas we have already observed, first made it popular \nw T ith the Italians, by a magical varnish of versifica- \ntion, which gave greater lustre to the beauties of his \noriginal, and glossed over its defects. It has, how- \never, the higher merit of exhibiting a great variety \nof original reflections, sometimes in the form of di- \ngressions, but more frequently as introductions to \nthe cantos. These are enlivened by the shrewd \nwit and elaborate arilessness of expression, that form \nthe peculiar attraction of Berni\'s poetry. In one of \nthe prefatory stanzas to the fifty-first canto, the read- \ner may recognise a curious coincidence with a well- \nknown passage in Shakspeare ; the more so, as Ber- \nni, we believe, was never turned into English before \nthe present partial attempt of Mr. Rose : \n\n; " Who steals a bugle-horn, a ring, a steed, \n\nOr such like worthless thing, has some discretion ; \n\'Tis petty larceny ; not such his deed \n\nWho robs us of our fame, our best possession. \n\n* The chase of the Fairy Morgana, and the malicious dance of the \nLoves round Rinaldo (1. ii., cviii., xv.), may, however, be considered \ngood exceptions to this remark. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 437 \n\nAnd he who takes our labour\'s worthiest meed \n\nMay well be deem\'d a felon by profession ; \nWho so much more our hate and scourge deserves, \nAs from the rule of right he wider swerves." \n\nIn another of these episodes the poet has introdu- \nced a portrait of himself. The whole passage is too \nlong for insertion here ; but, as Mr. Rose has also \ntranslated it, we will borrow a few stanzas from his \nskilful version : \n\n" His mood was choleric, and his tongue was vicious, \nBut he was praised for singleness of heart ; \n\nNot taxed as avaricious or ambitious, \nAffectionate and frank, and void of art; \n\nA lover of his friends, and unsuspicious ; \nBut where he hated knew no middle part ; \n\nAnd men his malice by his love might rate : \n\nBut then he was more prone to love than hate. \n\n"To paint his person, this was thin and dry: \n\nWell sorting it, his legs were spare and lean ; \n\nBroad was his visage, and his nose was high, \nWhile narrow was the space that was between \n\nHis eyebrows sharp ; and blue his hollow eye, \nWhich for his bushy beard had not been seen \n\nBut that the master kept this thicket clear\'d, \n\nAt mortal war with mustache and with beard. \n\n" No one did ever servitude detest \n\nLike him, though servitude was still his dole ; \n\nSince fortune or the devil did their best \nTo keep him evermore beneath control. \n\nWhile, whatsoever was his patron\'s hest, \nTo execute it went against his soul ; \n\nHis service would he freely yield, unask\'d, \n\nBut lost all heart and hope if he were task\'d. \n\nM Nor music, hunting match, nor mirthful measure, \nNor play, nor other pastime, moved him aught ; \nAnd if \'twas true that horses gave him pleasure, \n\nThe simple sight of them was all he sought, \nToo poor to purchase ; and his only treasure \nHis naked bed ; his pastime to do naught \n4 2 M * \n\n\n\n438 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nBut tumble there, and stretch his weary length, \nAnd so recruit his spirits and his strength." \n\nRose\'s Tnnamorato, p. 48. \n\nThe passage goes on to represent the dreamy and \nluxurious pleasures of this indolent pastime, with \nsuch an Epicurean minuteness of detail as puts the \nsincerity of the poet beyond a doubt. His smaller \npieces, Cajiitoli, as they are termed, contain many \nincidental allusions, which betray the same lazy pro- \npensity. \n\nThe early part of Berni\'s life was passed in Rome, \nwhere he obtained a situation under the ecclesias- \ntical government. He was afterward established in \na canonry at Florence, where he led an easy, effem- \ninate life, much caressed for his social talents by the \nDuke Alessandro de\' Medici. His end was more \ntragical than was to have been anticipated from so \nquiet and unambitious a temper. He is said to have \nbeen secretly assassinated, 1536, by the order of Al- \nexander, for refusing to administer poison to the \nduke\'s enemy, the Cardinal Hyppolito de\' Medici. \nThe story is told in many contradictory ways by \ndifferent Italian writers, some of whom disbelieve it \naltogether. The imputation, however, is an evi- \ndence of the profligate character of that court, and, \nif true, is only one out of many examples of perfid- \nious assassination, which, in that age, dishonoured \nsome of the most polished societies in Italy. \n\nBerni has had the distinction of conferring his \nname on a peculiar species of Italian composi- \ntion* The epithet " Bernesco" is not derived, how- \n\n* He cannot be properly considered its inventor, however. He lived \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE P0ETRV. 439 \n\never, as has been incorrectly stated by some foreign \nscholars,* from his reformed version of the " Orlan- \ndo," but from his smaller pieces, his Capitoli more \nespecially. It is difficult to convey a correct and \nadequate notion of this kind of satirical trifling, since \nits chief excellence results from idiomatic felicities \nof expression, that refuse to be transplanted into a \nforeign tongue, and there is no imitation of it, that \nwe recollect, in our own language. It is a misap- \nplication of the term Bernesque to apply it, as has \nbeen sometimes done, to the ironical style supposed \nto have been introduced by Lord Byron in his Bep- \npo and Don Juan. The clear, unequivocal vein of \nirony which plays through the sportive sallies of the \nItalian has no resemblance to the subdued but caus- \ntic sneer of the Englishman; nor does it, in our \nopinion, resemble in the least Peter Pindar\'s bur- \nlesque satire, to which an excellent critic in Italian \npoetry has compared it.f Pindar is much too unre- \nfined in versification and in diction to justify the \nparallel. Italian poetry always preserves the purity \nof its expression, however coarse or indecent ma} \nbe the topic on which it is employed. The subjects \nof many of these poems are of the most whimsical \nand trivial nature. We find some in Lode delta \nPeste, del Debito, &c. Several in commendation of \n\nin time to give the last polish to a species of familiar poetry, which had \n*ieen long undergoing the process of refinement from the hands of his \ncountrymen. \n\n. * Vide Annotazioni alia Vita di Berni, dal conte Mazzuchelli. Clas. \nHal., p. xxxiv. \n\nt Roscoe\'s " Life of Loren. de 1 Medici" vol. i., p. 392, Note. \n\n\n\n440 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe delicacies of the table, of "jellies," " eels," or any \nother dainty which pleased his epicurean palate. \nThese Capitoli, like most of the compositions of this \npolished versifier, furnish a perfect example of the \ntriumph of style. The sentiments, sometimes indel- \nicate, and often puerile, may be considered, like the \nworthless iusects occasionally found in amber, in- \ndebted for their preservation to the beautiful sub- \nstance in which they are imbedded. \n\nIt is a curious fact, that, notwithstanding the ap- \nparent facility and fluent graces of Berni\'s style, it \nwas wrought with infinite care. Some of his verses \nhave been corrected twenty and thirty times. Many \nof his countrymen have imitated it, mistaking its fa- \nmiliarity of manner for facility of execution. \n\nThis fastidious revision has been common with \nthe most eminent Italian poets. Petrarca devoted \nmonths to the perfecting of one of his exquisite son- \nnets.* Ariosto, as his son Virginius records of him, \n" was never satisfied with his verses, but was con- \ntinually correcting and recorrecting them;" almost \n\n* The following is a literal translation of a succession of memoran- \ndums in Latin at the head of one of his sonnets : " I began this by the \nimpulse of the Lord {Domino jubente), tenth September, at the dawn of \nday, after my morning prayers." \n\n" I must make these two verses over again, singing them, and I must \ntranspose them. Three o\'clock A.M., 19th October." \n\n" I like this. (Hoc placet) 30th October." \n\n" No, this does not please me. 20th December, in the evening." \n\n"February 18th, towards noon. This is now well ; however, look at \nit again." \n\nIt was generally on Friday that he occupied himself with the painful \nlabour of correction, and this was also set apart by him as a day of fast \nand penitence. \xe2\x80\x94 " Essays," cit. sup. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 441 \n\nevery stanza in the last edition of his poem publish- \ned in his lifetime is altered from the original, and \none verse is pointed out (canto xviil, st. 142) whose \nvariations filled many pages. Tasso\'s manuscripts, \npreserved in the library at Modena, have been so \noten retouched by him that they are hardly intelli- \ngible ; and Alfieri was in the habit, not only of cor- \nrecting verses, but of remoulding whole tragedies, \nseveral of which, he tells us in his Memoirs, were \nthus transcribed by him no less than three times. \nIt is remarkable, that in a country where the ima- \ngination has been most active, the labour of the file \nshould have been most diligently exerted on poetical \ncompositions. Such examples of the pains taken by \nmen of real genius might furnish a wholesome hint \nto some of the rapid, dashing writers of our own day. \n"Avec quelque talent qu\'on puisse etre ne," says \nRousseau, in his Confessions, "Tart d\'ecrire ne se \nprend pas tout d\'un coup." \n\nWe have violated the chronological series of the \nItalian epopee, in our notice of Berni, in order to \nconnect his poem with the model on which it was \ncast. We will quit him with the remark, that for \nhis fame he seems to have been as much indebted to \ngood fortune as to desert. His countrymen have \naffixed his name to an illustrious poem of which he \nwas not the author, and to a popular species of com- \noosition of which he was not the inventor. \n\nIn little more than twenty years after the death \nof Boiardo, Ariosto gave to the world his first edi- \ntion of the Orlando Furioso. The celebrity of the \n\nKkk \n\n\n\n442 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nInnamorato made Ariosto prefer building upon this \nsure foundation to casting a new one of his own, and \nas his predecessor had fortunately left all the dra- \nmatis personam of his unfinished epic alive upon the \nstage, he had only to continue their histories to the \nend of the drama. "As the former of these two \npoems has no termination, and the latter no regular \nbeginning, they may both be considered as forming \none complete epic."* The latter half was, however, \ndestined not only to supply the deficiencies, but to \neclipse the glories of the former. \n\nLouis Ariosto was born of a respectable family at \nReggio, 1474. After serving a reluctant apprentice- \nship of five years in the profession of the law, his \nfather allowed him to pursue other studies better \nadapted to his taste and poetical genius. The ele- \ngance of his lyrical compositions in Latin and Ital- \nian recommended him to the patronage of the Car- \ndinal Hyppolito d\'Este, and of his brother Alphonso, \nwho in 1505 succeeded to the ducal throne of Fer- \nrara. Ariosto\'s abilities were found, however, not to \nbe confined to poetry, and, among other offices of \ntrust, he was employed by the duke in two impor- \ntant diplomatic negotiations with the court of Rome. \nBut the Muses still obtained his principal homage, \nand all his secret leisure was applied to the perfect- \ning of the great poem, which was to commemorate \nat once his own gratitude and the glories of the \nhouse of Este. After fourteen years assiduous la- \nbour, he presented to the Cardinal Hyppolito the \n\n* Tasso., Discorsi Poctici, p. 29. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 443 \n\nfirst copy of his Orlando Furioso. The well-Kiiown \nreply of the prelate, " Messer Lodovico, dove mai avete \ntrovate tante fanfaluche f " Master Louis, where \nhave you picked up so many trifles \\\'{ will be remem- \nbered in Italy as long as the poem itself.* \n\nAriosto, speaking of his early study of jurispru- \ndence in one of his Satires,f says that he passed five \nyears in quelle ciancie ; a word which signifies much \nthe same with the epithet fanfaluche or coglionerie, \nwhichever it might have been, imputed to the cardi- \nnal. Ariosto was a poet ; the cardinal was a math- \nematician; and each had the very common failing \nof undervaluing a profession different from his own. \nThe courtly librarian of the Biblioteca Estense en- \ndeavours to explain away this and the subsequent \nconduct of Ariosto\'s patron ;{ but the poet\'s Satires, \nin which he alludes to the behaviour of the cardinal \nwith the fine raillery, and to his own situation with \nthe philosophic independence of Horace, furnish \nabundant evidence of the cold, ungenerous deport- \nment of Hyppolito.\xc2\xa7 \n\n* An interrogation, which might remind an Englishman of that put by \nthe great Duke of Cumberland to Gibbon : " What, Mr. Gibbon, scribble, \nscribble, scribble still?" \n\nt A. M. Pietro Bembo Cardinale. \n\n+ Stoiia della Lett. Ital, torn, vii., P. i., p. 42, 43. \n\n\xc2\xa7 In a satire addressed to Alessandro Ariosto, he speaks openly of the \nunprofitableness of his poetic labours : \n\n" Thanks to the Muses who reward \nSo well the service of their bard, \nHe almost may be said to lack \nA decent coat to clothe his back." \n\nAnd soon after, in the same epistle, he adverts with undisguised in \n\xe2\x80\xa2iignation to the oppressive patronage of Hyppolito : \n\n\n\n444 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nNotwithstanding the alienation of the cardinal, \nthe poet still continued in favour with Alphonso. \nThe patronage bestowed upon him, however, seems \nto have been of a very selfish and sordid complex- \nion. He was employed by the duke in offices most \nvexatious to one of his studious disposition, and he \npassed three years in reducing to tranquillity a bar- \nbarous, rebellious province of the duchy. His ad- \nventure there with a troop of banditti, who aban- \ndoned a meditated attack upon him when they learn- \ned that he was the author of the Orlando Furioso, \nis a curious instance of homage to literary talent, \nwhich may serve as a pendant to the similar anec- \ndote recorded of Tasso.* \n\nThe latter portion of his life was passed on his \n\n" If the poor stipend I receive \nHas led his highness to believe \nHe has a right to task my toil \nLike any serf\'s upon his soil, \nT" enthral me with a servile chain \nThat grinds my soul, his hopes are vain. \nSooner than be such household slave, \nThe sternest poverty I\'ll brave, \nAnd from his pride and presents free, \nResume my long-lost liberty." \n\n* Ginguene, whose facts are never to be suspected, whatever credit \nmaybe attached to his opinions, has related both these adventures with- \nout any qualification (Histoire Litteraire <V Italic, torn, iv., p. 359, ci Y. \n291). This learned Frenchman professes to have compiled his history \nunder the desire of vindicating Italian literature from the disparaging \nopinions entertained of it among his countrymen. This has led him to \nswell the trumpet of panegyric somewhat too stoutly \xe2\x80\x94 indeed, much above \nthe modest tone of the Italian savant, who, upon his premature death, \nwas appointed to continue the work. Ginguene died before he had coin \xe2\x80\xa2 \npleted the materials for his ninth volume, and the hiatus supplied by Pro- \nfessor Salfi carries down the literary narrative only to the conclusion of \nthe sixteenth century. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 445 \n\nown estate in comparative retirement. He refused \nall public employment, and, with the exception of \nhis satires, and a few comedies which he prepared \nfor the theatre committed to his superintendence by \nAlphonso, he produced no new work. His hours \nwere diligently occupied with the emendation and \nextension of his great poem; and in 1532, soon af- \nter the republication of it in forty-six cantos, as it \nnow stands, he died of a disease induced by severe \nand sedentary application. \n\nAriosto is represented to have possessed a cheer- \nful disposition, temperate habits, and their usual con- \ncomitant, a good constitution. Barotti has quoted, \nin his memoirs of the poet, some particulars respect- \ning him, found among the papers of Virginius, his \nnatural son. He is there said not to have been a \ngreat reader; Horace and Catullus were the authors \nin whom he took most delight. His intense medi- \ntation upon the subject of his compositions frequent- \nly betrayed him into fits of abstraction, one of which \nis recorded. Intending, on a fine morning, to take \nhis usual walk, he set out from Carpi, where he re- \nsided, and reached Ferrara late in the afternoon, in \nhis slippers and robe de chambre, uninterrupted by \nany one. His patrimony, though small, was equal to \nhis necessities. An inscription which he placed over \nhis door is indicative of that moderation and love of \nindependence which distinguished his character : \n\n" Parva, sed apta mihi, sed nulli pbnoxia, sed non \nSordida, parta meo sed tamen sere domus." \n\n[t does not appear probable that he was ever mar- \n\n4 2N \n\n\n\n446 BIOGRAPHICAL, AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nriecl. He frequently alludes in his poems to some \nobject of his affections, bat without naming her. \nHis bronze inkstand, still preserved in the library at \nFerrara, is surmounted by a relievo of a Cupid with \nhis finger upon his lip, emblematic of a discreet si- \nlence not very common in these matters with his \ncountrymen. He is said to have intended his mis- \ntress by the beautiful portrait of Ginevra (c. iv., v.), \nas Tasso afterward shadowed out Leonora in the \naffecting episode of Sophronia. This was giving \nthem, according to Ariosto\'s own allusion, a glorious \nniche in the temple of immortality.* \n\nThere still existed a general affectation among \nthe Italian scholars of writing in the Latin language \nwhen Ariosto determined to compose an epic poem. \nThe most accomplished proficients in that ancient \ntongue flourished about this period, and Politian, \nPontano, Vida, Sannazarius, Sadolet, Bembo, had \nrevived, both in prose and poetry, the purity, precis- \nion, and classic elegance of the Augustan age. Po- \nlitian and Lorenzo de Medici were the only writers \nof the preceding century who had displayed the \nfecundity and poetical graces of their vernacular \ntongue, and their productions had been too few and \nof too trifling a nature to establish a permanent pre- \ncedent. Bembo, who wrote his elaborate history \nfirst in Latin, and who carried the complicated in- \nversions, in fact, the idiom of that language, into his \nItalian compositions, would have persuaded Ariosto \nto write his poem in the same tongue ; but he wise- \n\n* O. F., can. xxxv., st. 15, 16. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 447 \n\nly replied that " he would rather be first among \nTuscan writers than second among the Latin," and, \nfollowing the impulse of his own more discrimina- \nting taste, he gave, in the Orlando Furioso, such an \nexhibition of the fine tones and flexible movements \nof his native language as settled the question of its \nprecedence forever with his countrymen. \n\nAriosto at first intended to adopt the terza rima \nof Dante ; indeed, the introductory verses of his \npoem in this measure are still preserved. He soon \nabandoned it, however, for the ottava rima, which is \nmuch better adapted to the light, rambling, pictu- \nresque narrative of the romantic epic* Every stan- \nza furnishes a little picture in itself, and the perpet- \nual recurrence of the same rhyme produces not only \na most agreeable melody to the ear, but is very fa- \nvourable to a full and more powerful development \nof the poet\'s sentiments. Instances of the truth of \nthis remark must be familiar to every reader of Ari- \nosto. It has been applied by Warton, with equal \njustice, to Spenser, whom the similar repetition of \nidentical cadences often leads to a copious and beau- \ntiful expansion of imagery.f Spenser\'s stanza dif- \n\n* The Italians, since the failure of Trissino, have very generally adopt- \ned this measure for their epic poetry, while the terza rima is used for \ndidactic and satirical composition. The graver subjects which have en- \ngaged the attention of some of their poets during the last century have \nmade blank verse (verso sciolto) more fashionable among them. Cesar- \notti\'s Ossian, one of the earliest, may be cited as one of the most suc- \ncessful examples of it. No nation is so skilful in a nice adaptation of \nstyle to the subject, and imitative harmony has been carried by them to a \npeifection which it can never hope to attain in any other living language ; \nfoi what other language is made so directly out of the elements of music ] \n\nt The following stanza from the " Faerie Queene," describing the \n\n\n\n448 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfers materially from the Italian ottava rima, in hav- \ning one more rhyme, and in the elongated Alexan- \ndrine with which it is concluded. This gave to his \nverses " the long, majestic march," well suited to the \nsober sublimity of his genius; but the additional \nrhyme much increased its metrical difficulties, al- \nready, from the comparative infrequency of asso \nnances in our language, far superior to those of the \nItalian. This has few compound sounds, but, roll- \ning wholly upon the five open vowels, a, e, i, o, u, \naffords a prodigious number of corresponding termi- \nnations. Hence their facility of improvisation. Vol- \ntaire observes that, in the Jerusalem Delivered, not \nmore than seven words terminate in u, and express- \nes his astonishment that we do not find a greater \nmonotony in the constant recurrence of only four \nrhymes.* The reason may be, that, in Italian po- \netry, the rhyme falls both upon the penultima and \nthe final syllable of each verse ; and as these two \nsyllables in the same word turn upon different vow- \nels, a greater variety is given to the melody. This \n\nhabitation of Morpheus " drowned deep in drowsie fit," may serve as an \nexemplification of our meaning: \n\n"And more to lull him in his slumber soft, \n\nA trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, \n\nAnd ever drizling raine upon the loft, \n\nMixt with a murmuring winde much like the sowne \n\nOf swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne ; \nNo other noyes nor people\'s troublous cryes \n\nAs still are wont to annoy the walled towne \nMight there be hear i ; but careless quiet lyes, \nWrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyee." \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Lettre a Deodati di Tovazzi. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 449 \n\ndouble rhyming termination, moreover, gives an in- \nexpressible lightness and delicacy to Italian poetry \nvery different from the broad comic which similar \ncompound rhymes, no doubt from the infrequency \nof their application to serious subjects, communicate \nto the English. \n\nAriosto is commonly most admired for the inex- \nhaustible fertility of his fancy ; yet a large propor- \ntion of his fictions are borrowed, copied, or contin- \nued from those of preceding poets. The elegant \nallegories of ancient superstition, as they were col- \nlected or invented by Homer and Ovid, the wild \nadventures of the Norman romances, the licentious \nmerriment of the gossiping fabliaux, and the en- \nchantments of Eastern fable, have all been employed \nin the fabric of Ariosto\'s epic. But, although this \ndiminishes his claims to an inventive fancy, yet, on \nthe whole, it exalts his character as a poet ; for \nthese same fictions under the hands of preceding ro- \nmancers, even of Boiardo, were cold and uninterest- \ning, or. at best, raised in the mind of the reader only \na stupid admiration, like that occasioned by the gro- \ntesque and unmeaning wonders of a fairy tale. But \nAriosto inspired them with a deep and living inter- \nest; he adorned them with the graces of sentiment \nand poetic imagery, and enlivened them by a vein \nof wit and shrewd reflection. \n\nAriosto\'s style is most highly esteemed by his \ncountrymen. The clearness with which it express- \nes the most subtle and delicate beauties of sentiment \nmay be compared to Alcina\'s \n\n4 2 N* \n\n\n\n450 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n" Vel sottile e rado, \nChe non copria dinanzi ne di dietro, \nPiu ehe le rose o i gigli un chiaro vetro." \xe2\x80\x94 C. til, s. 28.* \n\nWe recollect no English poet whose manner in any \ndegree resembles him. La Fontaine, the most ex- \nquisite versifier of his nation, when in his least fa- \nmiliar mood, comes the nearest to him among the \nFrench. Spence remarks, that Spenser must have \nimagined Ariosto intended to write a serious roman- \ntic poem. The same opinion has been maintained \nby some of the Italian critics. Such, however, is \nnot the impression we receive from it. Not to men- \ntion the broad farce with which the narrative is oc- \ncasionally checkered, as the adventures of Giocon- \ndo, the Enchanted Cup, &c, a sly, suppressed smile \nseems to lurk at the bottom even of his most serious \neflections ; sometimes, indeed, it plays openly upon \nthe surface of his narrative, but more frequently, af- \nter a beautiful and sober description, it breaks out, \nas it were, from behind a cloud, and lights up the \nwhole with a gay and comic colouring. It would \nseem as if the natural acuteness of his poetic taste \nled him to discern in the magnanime mensogne of \nromantic fable abundant sources of the grand and \nbeautiful, while the anti-chivalric character of his \nage, and, still more, the lively humour of his nation, \nled him to laugh at its extravagances. Hence the \ndelicate intermixture of serious and comic, which \ngives a most agreeable variety, though somewlrU of \na curious perplexity to his style. \n\n* "A thin transparent veil, \n\nThat all the beauties of her form discloses, \nAs the c\'.ear crystal doth th\' imprison\'d rose* n \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 451 \n\n1 he Orlando Furioso went through six editions \nin the author\'s lifetime, two of which he supervised, \nand it passed through sixty in the course of the \nsame century. Its poetic pretensions were of too \nexalted a character to allow it to be regarded as a \nmere fairy tale; but it sorely puzzled the pedantic \ncritics, both of that and of the succeeding age, to \nfind out a justification for admitting it, with all its \nfantastic eccentricities, into the ranks of epic poetry. \nMultitudes have attacked and defended it upon this \nground, and justice was not rendered to it until the \nmore enlightened criticism of a later day set all \nthings right by pointing out the distinction between \nthe romantic and the classical.* \n\nThe cold and precise Boileau, who, like most of \nhis countrymen, seems to have thought that beauty \ncould wear only one form, and to have mistaken the \nbeginnings of ancient art for its principles, quoted \nHorace to prove that no poet had the right to pro- \nduce such grotesque combinations of the tragical \nand comic as are found in Ariosto.f In the last \ncentury, Voltaire, a critic of a much wider range of \nobservation, objects to a narrow, exclusive definition \nof an epic poem, on the just ground " that works \n\n* Hurd and T. Warton seem to have been among the earliest English \nwriters who insisted upon the distinction between the Gothic and the \nclassical. In their application of it to Spenser they display a philosophical \ncriticism, guided not so much by ancient rules as by the peculiar genius \nor modern institutions. How superior this to the pedantic dogmas of the \nFrench school, or of such a caviller as Rymer, whom Dryden used to \nquote, and Pope extolled as " the best of English critics." \n\n+ Pi^ertation Critique sur l\'Aventure de Joconde. (Euvres de Boileau \ntorn, ii., p. 151. \n\n\n\n452 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof imagination depend so much on the different lan- \nguages and tastes of the different nations among \nwhom they are produced, that precise definitions \nmust have a tendency to exclude all beauties that \nare unknown or unfamiliar to us." \xe2\x80\x94 {Essay sur la \nPoesie Epique.) In less than forty pages farther we \nfind, however, that " the Orlando Furioso, although \npopular with the mass of readers, is very inferior to \nthe genuine epic poem!\' Voltaire\'s general reflec- \ntions were those of a philosopher; their particular \napplication was that of a Frenchman. \n\nAt a later period of his life he made a recantation \nof this precipitate opinion ; and he even went so far, \nin a parallel between the Furioso and the Odyssey, \nwhich he considered the model of the Italian poem, \nas to give a decided preference to the former. Ari- \nosto\'s imitations of the Odyssey, however, are not \nsufficient to authorize its being considered the model \nof his epic. Where these imitations do exist, they \nare not always the happiest efforts of his muse. The \ntedious and disgusting adventure of the Ogre, bor- \nrowed from that of the Cyclops Polypheme, is one \nof the greatest blemishes in the Furioso. Such \n"Jack the giant killing" horrors do not blend hap- \npily with the airy and elegant fictions of the East. \n\'The familiarity of Ariosto\'s manner has an appa- \nrent resemblance to the simplicity of Homer\'s, which \nvanishes upon nearer inspection. The unaffected \nease common to both resembles, in the Italian, the \nfashionable breeding that grows out of a perfect in- \ntimacy with the forms of good society In the \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 453 \n\nGreek it is rather an artlessness which results from \nnever having been embarrassed by the conventional \nforms of society at all. Ariosto is perpetually ad- \ndressing his reader in the most familiar tone of con- \nversation ; Homer pursues his course with the un- \ndeviating dignity of an epic poet. He tells all his \nstories, even the incredible, with an air of confiding \ntruth. The Italian poet frequently qualifies his \nwith some sly reference or apology, as " I will not \nvouch for it ; I repeat only what Turpin has told be- \nfore me :" \n\n" Mettendo lo Turpin, lo metto anch\' io."* \n\nAriosto\'s narratives are complicated and interrupt- \ned in a most provoking manner. This has given of- \nfence to some of his warmest admirers, and to the \nsevere taste of Alfieri in particular. Yet this fault, \nif indeed it be one, seems imputable to the art, not \nto the artist. He but followed preceding romancers \nand conformed to the laws of his peculiar species \nof poetry. This involution of the narrative may be \neven thought to afford a relief and an agreeable con- \ntrast, by its intermixture of grave and comic inci- \ndents ; at least, this is the apology set up for the \nsame peculiarities of our own romantic drama. But, \nwhatever exceptions may be taken by the acuteness \nor ignorance of critics at the conduct of the Orlando \n\n* Voltaire, with all his aversion to local prejudices, was too national \nto relish the naked simplicity of Homer. One of his witty reflections \nmay show how he esteemed him. Speaking of Virgil\'s obligations to the \nGreek poet, " Some say," he observes, " that Homer made Virgil ; if so, \nthis is, without doubt, the best work he ever made !" si cela est, a\' est san~ \nioute son plus bel ouvrage. \n\n\n\n454 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nFurioso, the sagacity of its general plan is best vin- \ndicated by its wide and permanent popularity in its \nown country. None of their poets is so universally \nread by the Italians ; and the epithet divine, which \nthe homage of an enlightened few had before appro- \npriated to Dante, has been conferred by the voice \nof the whole nation upon the "Homer of Ferrara."* \nWhile those who copied the classical models of an- \ntiquity are forgotten, Ariosto, according to the beau- \ntiful eulogium of Tasso, " Partendo dalle vestigie \ndegli Antichi Scrittori e dalle regole d\'Aristotile, e \nletto e riletto da tutte l\'eta, da tutti i sessi, noto a \ntutte le lingue, ringiovanisce sempre nella sua fama, \ne vola glorioso per le lingue de\' mortali."f \n\nThe name of Ariosto most naturally suggests this \nof Tasso, his illustrious but unfortunate rival in the \nsame brilliant career of epic poetry ; for these two \nseem to hold the same relative rank, and to shed a \nlustre over the Italian poetry of the sixteenth cen- \ntury, like that reflected by Dante and Petrarch upon \nthe fourteenth. The interest always attached to \nthe misfortunes of genius has been heightened, in \nthe case of Tasso, by the veil of mystery thrown \nover them ; and while his sorrows have been con- \nsecrated by the " melodious tear" of the poet, the \ncauses of them have furnished a most fruitful subject \nof speculation to the historian. \n\nHe had been early devoted by his father to the \nstudy of jurisprudence, but, as with Ariosto, a love \n\n* The name originally given to him by his rival Tasso. \nt \'Discorsi Poetici, p. 33. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 455 \n\nfor the Muses seduced him from his severer duties \nHis father remonstrated ; but Tasso, at the age o v \nseventeen, produced his Rinaldo, an epic in twelve \ncantos, and the admiration which it excited through- \nout Italy silenced all future opposition on the part \nof his parent. In 1565, Tasso, theu twenty-one \nyears of age, was received into the family of the \nCardinal Luigi d\'Este, to whom he had dedicated \nhis precocious epic. The brilliant assemblage of \nrank and beauty at the little court of Ferrara exci \nted the visions of the youthful poet, while its richly \nendowed libraries and learned societies furnished a \nmore solid nourishment to his understanding. Un- \nder these influences, he was perpetually giving some \nnew display of his poetic talent. His vein flowed \nfreely in lyrical composition, and he is still regarded \nas one of the most perfect, models in that saturated \nspecies of national poetry. In 1573 he produced \nhis Aminta, which, in spite of its conceits and pas- \ntoral extravagances, exhibited such a union of liter- \nary finish and voluptuous sentiment as w r as to be \nfound in no other Italian poem. It was translated \ninto all the cultivated tongues in Europe, and was \nfollowed, during the lifetime of its author, by more \nthan twenty imitations in Italy. No valuable work \never gave birth to a more worthless progeny. The \nPastor Fldo of Guarini is by far the best of these \nimitations ; but its elaborate luxury of wit is certain- \nly not comparable to the simple, unsolicited beauties \nof the original. Tasso was, however, chiefly occu- \npied with the composition of his great epic. He \n\n\n\n456 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhad written six cantos in a few months, but he was \nnearly ten years in completing it. He wrote with \nthe rapidity of genius, but corrected with scrupulous \ndeliberation. His Letters show the unwearied pains \nwhich he took to obtain the counsel of his friends, \nand his critical Discourses prove that no one could \nstand less in need of such counsel than himself. In \n1575 he completed his Jerusalem Delivered. Thus, \nbefore he had reached his thirty-second year, Tasso, \nas a lyric, epic, and dramatic writer, may be fairly \nsaid to have earned a threefold immortality in the \nhighest walks of his art. His subsequent fate shows \nthat literary glory rests upon no surer basis than the \naccidental successes of worldly ambition. \n\nThe long and rigorous imprisonment of Tasso, \nby the sovereign over whose reign his writings had \nthrown such a lustre, has been as fruitful a source \nof speculation as the inexplicable exile of Ovid, and \nin like manner was, for a long time, imputed to an \nindiscreet and too aspiring passion in the poet. At \nlength Tiraboschi announced, in an early edition of \nhis history, that certain letters and original manu- \nscripts of Tasso, lately discovered in the library of \nModena, had been put into the hands of the Abbe \nSerassi for the farther investigation of the mysterious \ntransaction. The abbe\'s work appeared in 1785, \nand the facts disclosed by it clearly prove that the \npoet\'s passion for Leonora was not, as formerly ima- \ngined, the origin of his misfortunes.* These may \n\n* We are only acquainted with Serassi\'s "Life of Tasso" through tl.o \nepitomes of Fabroni a id Ginguene. The latter writer seems to us to lay \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 457 \n\nbe imputed to a variety of circumstances, none of \nwhich, however, would have deeply affected a per \nsou of a less irritable or better disciplined fancy \nThe calumnies and petty insults which he experi- \nenced from his rivals at the court of Ferrara, a clan- \ndestine attempt to publish his poem, but, more than \n11, certain conscientious scruples which he enter- \ntained as to the orthodoxy of his own creed, grad- \nually wrought upon his feverish imagination to such \na degree as in a manner to unsettle his reason. He \nfancied that his enemies were laying snares for his \nlife, and that they had concerted a plan for accusing \nhim of heresy before the Inquisition.* He privately \nabsconded from Ferrara, returned to it again, but, \nsoon after, disquieted by the same unhappy suspi- \ncions, left it precipitately a second time, without his \nmanuscripts, without money, or any means of sub- \nsistence, and, after wandering from court to court, \nand experiencing, in the sorrowful language of Dante, \n\n" Come sa di sale \nLo pane altrui, e com\' e duro calle, \nLo scendere e \'1 salir per P altrui scale,"t \n\ngreater stress upon the poet\'s passion for Leonora than is warranted by \nhis facts. Tasso dedicated, it is true, many an elegant sonnet to her \ncharms, and distorted her name into as many ingenious puns as did Pe- \ntrarch that of his mistress ; but when we consider that this sort of poet \nical tribute is very common with the Italians, that the lady was at least \nien years older than the poet, and that, in the progress of this passion, he \nhad four or five other well-attested subordinate flames, we shall have \nlittle reason to belteve it produced a deep impression on his character. \n\n* His "Letters" betray the same timid jealousy. He is perpetually \ncomplaining that his correspondence is watched and intercepted. \n\\ " How salt the savour is of other\'s bread, \n\nHow hard the passage to descend and climb \nBy other\'s stairs." \xe2\x80\x94 Carey. \n4 20 \n\n\n\n458 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhe threw himself once more upon the clemency of \nAlphonso ; but the duke, already alienated from him \nby his past extravagances, was incensed to such a \ndegree by certain intemperate expressions of anger \nin which the poet indulged, on his arrival at the \ncourt, that he caused him to be confined in a mad- \nhouse {Hospital of 8l. Anne). \n\nHere, in the darkness and solitude of its meanest \ncell, disturbed only by the cries of the wretched in- \nmates of the mansion, he languished two years un- \nder the severest discipline of a refractory lunatic \nMontaigne, in his visit to Italy, saw him in this hu- \nmiliating situation, and his reflections upon it are \neven colder than those which usually fall from the \nphlegmatic philosopher.* The genius of Tasso, \nhowever, broke through the gloom of his dungeon, \nand several of the lyrical compositions of his impris- \noned muse were as brilliant and beautiful as in the \nday of her prosperity. The distempered state of his \nimagination seems never to have clouded the vivid- \nness of his perceptions on the subjects of his com- \nposition, and during the remaining five years of his \nconfinement at St. Anne, he wrote, in the form of \ndialogues, several highly-esteemed disquisitions on \nphilosophical and moral theorems. During this lat- \n\n* " I felt even more spite than compassion to see him in so miserable \na state, surviving, as it were, himself, unmindful either of himself or his \nworks, which, without his concurrence, and before his eyes, wert pub- \nlished to the world incorrect and deformed." \xe2\x80\x94 Essais de Montaigne, torn. \nv., p. 114. Montaigne doubtless exaggerated the mental degradation of \nTasso, since it favoured a position which, in the vain love of paradox \nthat has often distinguished his countrymen, he was then endeavouring \nto establish, viz., the superiority of stupidity and ignorance over genius \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 459 \n\nter period Tasso had enjoyed a more commodious \napartment, but the duke, probably dreading some \nliterary reprisal from his injured prison ei, resisted \nall entreaties for his release. This was at length \neffected, through the intercession of the Prince of \nMantua, in 1586. \n\nTasso quitted Ferrara without an interview with \nhis oppressor, and spent the residue of his days in \nthe south of Italy. His countrymen, affected by his \nunmerited persecutions, received him wherever he \npassed with enthusiastic triumph. The nobility and \nthe citizens of Florence waited upon him in a body, \nas if to make amends for the unjust strictures of \ntheir academy upon his poem, and a day was ap- \npointed by the court of Rome for his solemn coro- \nnation in the capitol with the poetic wreath which \nhad formerly encircled the brow of Petrarch. He \ndied a few days before the intended ceremony. His \nbody, attired in a Roman toga, was accompanied to \nthe grave by nobles and ecclesiastics of the highest \ndignity, and his temples were decorated with the \nlaurel, of which his perverse fortune had defrauded \nhim when living. \n\nThe unhappy fate of Tasso has affixed a deep \nstain on the character of Alphonso the Second \nThe eccentricities of his deluded fancy could not \nhave justified seven years of solitary confinement, \neither as a medicine or as a punishment, least of all \nfrom the man whose name he had so loudly cele- \nbrated in one of the most glorious productions of \nmodern genius. What a caustic commentary upoa \n\n\n\n460 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhis unrelenting rigour mast Alphonso have found in \none of the opening stanzas of the Jerusalem : \n\n" Tu, magnanimo Alfonso, il qual ritogli \n\nAl furor di fortuna, e guidi in porto \nMe peregrino errante, e fra gli scogli \n\nE fra l\'onde agitato, e quasi assorto ; \nQueste mie carte in lieta fronte accogli," &c. \n\nThe illiberal conduct of the princes ofEste, both \ntowards Ariosto and Tasso, essentially diminishes \ntheir pretensions to the munificent patronage so ex- \nclusively imputed to them by their own historians, \nand by the eloquent pen of Gibbon.* A more ac- \ncurate picture, perhaps, of the second Alphonso may \nbe found in the concluding canto of Childe Harold, \nwhere the poet, in the language of indignant sensi- \nbility, not always so judiciously directed, has ren- \ndered more than poetical justice to the " antique \nbrood of Este." \n\nThe Jerusalem was surreptitiously published, for \nthe first time, during Tasso\'s imprisonment, and, \nnotwithstanding the extreme inaccuracy of its early \neditions, it went through no less than six in as many \nmonths. Others grew T rich on the productions of an \nauthor who was himself languishing in the most ab- \n\n* Muratori\'s Antichita Estensi are expressly intended to record the \nvirtues of the family of Este. Tiraboschi\'s Storia della Lettcratura Ilal- \niana is a splendid -panegyric upon the intellectual achievements of the \nwhole nation. More than a due share of this praise, however, is claim- \ned for his native princes of Ferrara. It is amusing to see by what eva- \nsions the historian attempts to justify their conduct both towards Tasso \nand Ariosto. Gibbon, who had less apology for partiality, in his laborious \nresearches into the "Antiquities of the House of Brunswick" has not \ntempered his encomiums of the Alphonsos with a single animadversioir \nupon their illiberal conduct towards their two illustrious subjects. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 462 \n\nject poverty ; one example oat of many of the in \nsecurity of Uterary property in a country where the \nnumber of distinct independent governments almost \ndefeats the protection of a copyright.* \n\nNotwithstanding the general admiration which \nthe Jerusalem excited throughout Italy, it was as- \nsailed, on its first appearance, with the coarsest crit- \nicism it ever experienced. A comparison W\'as nat- \nurally suggested between it and the Orlando Furioso, \nand the Italians became divided into the factions ot \nTassisti and Ariostisti. The Delia Cruscan Acad- \nemy, just then instituted, in retaliation of some ex- \ntravagant encomiums bestowed on the Jerusalem, \nentered into an accurate, but exceedingly intemper- \nate analysis of it, in which they degraded it, not \nonly below the rival epic, but, denying it the name \nof a poem, spoke of it as "a cold and barren compi- \nlation." It is a curious fact, that both the Delia \nCruscan and French Academies commenced their \ncareer of criticism with an unlucky attack upon two \nof the most extraordinary poems in their respective \nlanguages.f \n\nAlthough Tasso was only one-and-twenty years \nof age when he set about writing his Jerusalem, yet \nit is sufficiently apparent, from the sagacious criticism \nexhibited in his letters, that he brought to it a mind \n\n* "Foreigners," says Denina, "who ask if there are great writers in \nItaly row, as in times past, would be surprised at the number, were they \nto learn how much even the best of them are brought in debt by the pub- \nlication of their own works." \xe2\x80\x94 Vicende della Litteralura, torn, ii., p. 326. \n\nt It is hardly necessary to refer to Corneille\'s " Ci&" so clumsily anat- \nomized by the Academie Franchise at the jealous instigation of Cardinal \nRichelieu. \n\n4 2 0* \n\n\n\n4G2 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nripened by extensive studies and careful meditation. \nHe had, moreover, the advantage of an experience \nderived both from his own previous labours and \nthose of several distinguished predecessors in the \nsame kind of composition. The learned Trissino \nhad fashioned, some years before, a regular heroic \npoem, with pedantic precision, upon the models of \nantiquity. From this circumstance, it was so formal \nand tedious that nobody could read it. Bernardo \nTasso, the father of Torquato, who might apply to \nhimself, with equal justice, the reverse of the younger \nRacine\'s lament, \n\n" Et moi fire inconou d\'un si glorieux fils," \n\nhad commenced his celebrated Amadis with the \nsame deference to the rules of Aristotle. Finding \nthat the audiences of his friends, to whom he was \naccustomed to read the epic as it advanced, grad- \nually thinned off, he had the discretion to take the \nhint, and new cast it in a more popular and roman- \ntic form. Notwithstanding these inauspicious ex- \namples, Tasso was determined to give to his national \nliterature what it so much wanted, a great heroic \npoem; his fine eye perceived at once, however, all \nthe advantages to be derived from the peculiar insti- \ntutions of the moderns, and, while he conformed, in \nthe general plan of his epic, to the precepts of an- \ntiquity, he animated it with the popular and more \nexalted notions of love, of chivalry, and of religion. \nHis Jerusalem exhibits a perfect combination of the \nromantic and the classical. \n\nThe subject which he selected was most happily \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 463 \n\nadapted to his complicated design. However gloom)\' \na picture the Crusades may exhibit to the rational \nhistorian, they are one of the most brilliant and im- \nposing ever offered to the eye of the poet. It is \nsurprising that a subject so fruitful in marvellous and \nwarlike adventure, and which displays the full tri- \nmph of Christian chivalry, should have been so \nlong neglected by the writers of epical romance. \nThe plan of the Jerusalem is not without defects, \nwhich have been pointed out by the Italians, and \nbitterly ridiculed by Voltaire, whose volatile sarcasms \nhave led him into one or two blunders, that have \nexcited much wrath among some of Tasso\'s coun- \ntrymen.* The conceits which occasionally glitter \non the surface of Tasso\'s clear and polished style \nhave afforded another and a fair ground for censure. \nBoileau\'s metaphorical distich, however, has given \nto them an undeserved importance. The epithet \ntinsel (clinquant), used by him without any limita- \ntion, was quoted by his countrymen as fixing the \nvalue at once of all Tasso\'s compositions, and after- \nward, by an easy transition, of that of the whole \nbody of Italian literature. Boileau subsequently di- \nluted this censure of the Italian poet with some par- \ntial commendations ;f but its ill effects were visible \n\n* Among other heinous slanders, he had termed the musical bird " di \ncolor vari" " e purpureo rostro" in Armida\'s gardens, a " parrot,"\' and the \n"fatal Donzella" (canto xv.), "whose countenance was beautiful like \nthat of the angels," an " old woman,\'\'\'\' which his Italian censor assures \nhis countrymen " is much worse than a vecchia donna.\'"\' For the burst \nof indignation which these and similar sins brought upon Voltaire\'s head, \nvide " Annolazioni ai Canti," xv., xvi. Clas. Ital. \n\nt Both Ginguene and some Italian critics affect to consider these com- \n\n\n\n464 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin the unfavourable prejudices which it left on the \nminds of his own countrymen, and on those of the \nEnglish for nearly a century. \n\nThe affectations imputed to Tasso are to be tra- \nced to a much more remote origin. Petrarch\'s best \nproductions are stained with them, as are those of \npreceding poets, Cino da Pistoja, Guido Cavalcanti, \nand others,* and they seem to have flowed directly \nfrom the Proven<?ale, the copious fountain of Italian \nlyrical poetry. Tiraboschi referred their introduc- \ntion to the influence of Spanish literature under the \nviceroys of Naples during the latter part of the six- \nteenth century, which provoked a patriotic replica- \ntion, in seven volumes, from the Spanish Abbe Lam- \npillas. The Italian had the better of his adversary \nin temper, if not in argument. This false refinement \nwas brought to its height during the first half of the \nseventeenth centurv, under Marini and his imitators, \nand it is somewhat, maliciously intimated by Denina \nthat the foundation of the Academy Delia Crusca \ncorresponds with the commencement of the decay of \n\nmentations as an amende honorable on the part of Boileau. They, how \never, amount to very little, and, like the Frenchman\'s compliment to \nYorick, have full as much of bitter as of sweet in them. The remarks \nquoted by D\'Olivet (Histoire de l\'Academie Frangaise), as having been \nmade by the critic a short time previous to his death, are a convincing \nproof, on the other hand, that he was tenacious to the last of his original \nheresy. " So little," said he, " have I changed, that, on reviewing Tasso \nof late, I regretted exceedingly that I had not been more explicit in my \nstrictures upon him." He then goes on to supply the hiatus by taking \ntip all the blemishes in detail which he had before only alluded to en gros. \n* These veteran versifiers have been condensed into two volumes \nBvo, in an edition published at Florence, 1816, under the title of Po*.ti del \nFrimo Secolo. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 465 \n\ngood taste.* Some of their early publications prove \nthat they have at least as good a claim to be consid- \nered its promoters as Tasso.f \n\nTasso is the most lyrical of all epic poets. This \noften weakens the significance and picturesque de- \nlineation of his narrative, by giving to it an ideal \nand too general character. His eight line stanza is \nfrequently wrought up, as it were, into a miniature \nsonnet. He himself censures Ariosto for occasion- \nally indulging this lyrical vein in his romance, and \ncites as an example the celebrated comparison of \nthe virgin and the rose (can. i., s. 42). How many \nsimilar examples may be found in his own epic ! \nThe gardens of Armida are full of then! To this \ncause we may perhaps ascribe the glittering affecta- \ntions, the clinquant so often noticed in his poetry. \nDazzling and epigrammatic points are often solicit- \ned in sonnets. To the same cause may be referred, \nin part, the nicely-adjusted harmony of his verses. \n\n* Vicende della Lctteratura, torn, ii., p. 52. \n\nt A distinction seems to be authorized between the ancients and the \nmoderns in regard to what is considered purity of taste. The earliest \nwritings of the former are distinguished by it, and it fell into decay only \nwith the decline of the nation; while a vicious taste is visible in the \nearliest stages of modern literature, and it has been corrected only by \nthe corresponding refinement of the nation. The Greek language was \nwritten in classic purity from Homer until long after Greece herself had \nbecome tributary to the Romans, and the Latin tongue from the time \nof Terence till the nation had sacrificed its liberties to its emperois; \nwhile the early Italian authors, as we have already seen, the Spaniards \nmthe age of Ferdinand, the English in that of Elizabeth, and the French \nunder Francis the First (the epochs which may fix the dawn of their re- \nspective literatures), seem to have been deeply infected with a passion \nfox conceits and quibbles, which has been purified only by the diligent \ncultivation of ages. \n\nN N N \n\n\n\n466 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIt would almost seem as if each stanza was meant \nto be set to music, as Petrarch is known to have \ncomposed many of his odes with this view.* The \nmelodious rhythm of Tasso\'s verse has none of the \nmonotonous sweetness so cloying in Metastasio. It \nis diversified by all the modulations of an exquisite- \nly sensible ear. For this reason, no Italian poet is \nso frequently in the mouths of the common people. \nAriosto\'s familiar style and lively narrative are bet- \nter suited to the popular apprehension ; but the lyr- \nical melody of Tasso triumphs over these advantages \nin his rival, and enables him literally virum volitare \nyer ora. It was once common for the Venetian \ngondoliers to challenge each other, and to respond \nin the verses of the Jerusalem, and this sort of mu- \nsical contest might be heard for hours in the silence \nof a soft summer evening. The same beautiful bal- \nlads, if we may so call these fragments of an epic, \nare still occasionally chanted by the Italian peasant, \nwho is less affected by the sublimity of their senti- \nments than the musical flow of the expression.! \n\nTasso\'s sentiments are distinguished, in our opin- \nion, by a moral grandeur surpassing that of any other \nItalian poet. His devout mind seems to have been \nfully inspired with the spirit of his subject. We say \nin our opinion, for an eminent German critic, F. \n\n* Foscolo, " Essay " &c, p. 93. \n\nt "The influence of metrical harmony is visible in the lower classes, \nwho commit to memory the stanzas of Tasso, and sing them without \ncomprehending them. They even disfigure the language so as to make \nnonsense of it, their senses deceived all the while by the unmeaning \nmelody." \xe2\x80\x94 Pignotti, Storia, &c, torn, iv., p. 192. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 467 \n\nSchlegel, is disposed to deny hi in this merit. We \nthink in this instance he must have proposed to him- \nself what is too frequent with the Germans, an ideai \nand exaggerated standard of elevation. A few stan- \nzas (st. 1 to 19) in the fourth canto of the Jerusalem \nmay be said to contain almost the whole argument \nof the Paradise Lost. The convocation of the dev- \nils in the dark abyss,* the picture of Satan, whom he \ninjudiciously names Pluto, his sublime address to bis \nconfederates, in which he alludes to their rebellion \nand the subsequent creation of man, were the germs \nof Milton\'s most glorious conceptions. Dante had \nbefore shadowed forth Satan, but it was only in the \nphysical terrors of a hideous aspect and gigantic \nstature. The ancients had clothed the Furies in \nthe same external deformities. Tasso, in obedience \nto the superstitions of his age, gave to the devil \nsimilar attributes, but he invested his character with \na moral sublimity which raised it to the rank of di- \nvine intelligences : \n\n"Ebbero i piu felici allor vittoria \nRimase a noi d\'invitto ardir la gloria." \n" Sia destin cio ch\'io voglio." \n\nIn the literal version of Milton, \n\n" What I will is fate." \n\nSentiments like these also gi\\ 3 to Satan, in Parrdise \n\n* The semi-stanza, which describes the hoarse reverberations of the \ninfernal trumpet in this Pandemonium, is cited by the Italians as a happy \nsxample of imitative harmony : \n\n" Chiama gli abitator delFombre eterne \nII rauco suon della tartarea tromba. \nTreman le spaziose atre caverne, \n\n13 l\'aer cieco a quel romor rimbomba." \n\n\n\n468 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nLost, his superb and terrific majesty. Milton, how- \never, gave a finer finish to the portrait, by dispen- \nsing altogether with the bugbear deformities of his \nperson, and by depicting it as a form that \n\n" Had yet not lost \nAll its original brightness, nor appear\'d \nLess than archangel ruin\'d." \n\nIt seems to us a capital mistake in Tasso to have \nmade so little use of the diablerie which he has so \npowerfully portrayed. Almost all the machinations \nof the infidels in the subsequent cantos turn upon \nthe agency of petty necromancers. \n\nTasso frequently deepens the expression of his \npictures by some skilful moral allusion. How finely \nhas he augmented the misery of the soldier, perish- \ning under a consuming drought before the walls of \nJerusalem, by recalling to his imagination the cool \nand crystal waters with which he had once been \nfamiliar: \n\n\' :; Se alcun giammai tra frondeggianti rive \nPuro vide stagnar liquido argento, \nO giu precipitose ir acque vive \n\nPer Alpe, o\'n piaggia erbosa a passo lento ; \nQuelle al vago desio forma e descrive, \nE ministra materia al suo tormento ; \nChe l\'imagine lor gelida e molle \nL\'asciuga e scalda, e nel pensier ribolle."* \n\nCan. xiii., st. 60. \n\n* " He that the gliding rivers erst had seen \n\nAdown their verdant channels gently roll\'d, \nOr falling streams, which to the valleys green \n\nDistill\'d from tops of Alpine mountains cold, \nThose he desired in vain, new torments been \n\nAugmented thus with wish of comforts old ; \nThose waters cool he drank in vain conceit, \n\nWhich more increased his thirst, increased his heat." \xe2\x80\x94 Fo\'rfai \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 469 \n\nIn all the manifold punishments of Dante\'s " Hell" \nwe remember one only in which the mind is made \nuse of as a means of torture. A counterfeiter (bar- \nratiere) contrasts his situation in these dismal region? \nwith his former pleasant residence in the green vale \nof the Arno ; an allusion which adds a new sting to \nhis anguish, and gives a fine moral colouring to the \npicture. Dante was the first great Christian poet \nthat had written ; and when, in conformity with the \ncharitable spirit of his age, he assigned all the an- \ncient heathens a place either in his hell or purga- \ntory, he inflicted upon them corporeal punishments \nwhich alone had been threatened by their poets. \n\nBoth Ariosto and Tasso elaborated the style of \ntheir compositions with infinite pains. This labour, \nhowever, led them to the most opposite results. It \ngave to the Furioso the airy graces of elegant con- \nversation ; to the Gerusalemme a stately and impo- \nsing eloquence. In this last you may often find a \nconsummate art carried into affectation, as in the \nformer natural beauty is sometimes degraded into \nvulgarity, and even obscenity. Ariosto has none of \nthe national vices of style imputed to his rival, but \nhe is tainted with the less excusable impurities of \nsentiment. It is stated bv a late writer that the ex- \nceptionable passages in the Furioso were found \ncrossed out with a pen in a manuscript copy of the \nauthor, showing his intention to have suppressed \ndiem at some future period. The fact does not ap- \npear probable, since the edition, as it now stands, \nwith an its original blemishes, was revised and pub \nlished by himself the year of his death \n\n\n\n470 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nTasso possessed a deeper, a more abstracted, and \nlyrical turn of thought. Ariosto infuses an active \nworldly spirit into his poetry ; his beauties are social, \nwhile those of his rival are rather of a solitary com- \nplexion. Ariosto\'s muse seems to have caught the \ngossiping spirit of the fabliaux, and Tasso\'s the lyr- \nical refinements of the Provencale. Ariosto is seldom \nsublime like the other. This may be imputed to \nhis subject, as well as to the character of his genius. \nOwing to his subject, he is more generally entertain- \ning. The easy freedom of his narrative often leads \nhim into natural details much more affecting than \nthe ideal generalization of Tasso. How pathetic \nis the dying scene of Brandimarte, with the half-fin- \nished name of his mistress, Fiordiligi, upon his lip : \n\n" Orlando, fa che ti raccordi \nDi me nell\' orazion tue grate a Dio ; \n\nNe men ti raccnmando la mia Fiordi .... \nMa dir non pote ligi ; e qui flnio."* \n\nTasso could never have descended to this beautiful \nnegligence of expression.f \n\n* " Orlando, I implore thee \n\nThat in thy prayers my name may be commended, \nAnd to thy care I leave my loved Fiordi \xe2\x80\x94 \nLigi he could not add ; but here he ended." \n\nt The ideal, which we have imputed to Tasso, may be cited, however, \nas a characteristic of the national literature, and as the point in which \ntheir literature is most decidedly opposed to our own. With the excep- \ntion of Dante and Parini, whose copies from life have all the precision \nof proof impressions, it would be difficult to find a picture in the compass \nof Italian poetry executed with the fidelity to nature so observable in our \ngood authors, so apparent in every page of Cowper or Thomson, for \nexample. It might be well, perhaps, for the English artist, if he could \nembellish the minute and literal details of his own school with some of \nthe ideal graces of the Italian. Byron may be considered as having done \nthis more effectuahy than any contemporary poet. Byron\'s love of the \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 471 \n\nTasso challenged a comparison with his prede- \ncessor in his gardens of Armida. The indolent and \nlanguishing repose of the one, the brisk, amorous \nexcitement of the other, are in some measure char- \nacteristic of their different pencils. The parallel \nhas been too often pursued for us to weary our read- \ners with it. \n\nThe Italians have a copious variety of narrative \npoetry, and are very nice in their subdivisions of it. \nWithout attending to these, we have been guided \nby its chronological succession. We have hardly \nroom to touch upon the " Secchia Rapita" {Rape of \nthe Bucket) of Tassoni, the model of the mock-he- \nroic poems afterward frequent in Italy,* of Boileau\'s \nLutrin, and of the Rape of the Lock. Tassoni, its \nauthor, was a learned and noble Modenese, who, af- \nter a life passed in the heats of literary controversies, \nto which he had himself given rise, died 1635, aged \nseventy-one. The subject of the poem is a war be- \n\nideal, it must be allowed, however, has too often bewildered him in mys- \nticism and hyperbole. \n\n* The Italians long disputed with great acrimony whether this or the \ncomic heroic poem of Bracciolini (Lo Scherno dcgli Dei) was precedent \nin point of age. It appears probable that Tassoni\'s was written first, \nalthough printed last. No country has been half so fruitful as Italy in \nliterary quarrels, and in none have they been pursued with such bitter- * \nness and pertinacity. In some instances, as in that of Marini, they have \neven been maintained by assassination. The sarcastic commentaries \nof Galileo upon the " Jerusalem," quoted in the vulgar edition of the \n" Classics," were found sadly mutilated by one of the offended Tassisti, \ninto wbose hands they had fallen more than two centuries after they \nwere written ; so long does a literary faction last in Italy ! The Ital- \nians, inhibited from a free discussion on political or religious topics, en- \nter with incredible zeal into those of a purely abstract and often unirn \nportant character. \n\n\n\n472 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntween Modena and Bologna, at the commencement \nof the thirteenth century, in consequence of a wood- \nen bucket having been carried off from the market- \nplace in the hitter city by an invading party of the \nformer. This memorable trophy has been preserved \ndown to the present day in the Cathedral of Modena. \nTassoni\'s epic will confer upon it a more lasting ex- \nistence \n\n" The Bucket, which so sorely had offended, \n\nIn the Great Tower, where yet it may be found, \n\nWas from on high by ponderous chain suspended, \nAnd with a marble cope environ\'d round. \n\nBy portals five the entrance is defended ; \nNor cavalier of note is that way bound, \n\nNor pious pilgrim, but doth pause to see \n\nThe spoil so glorious of the victory." \xe2\x80\x94 Canto i., st. 63 \n\nGironi, in his life of the poet, triumphantly addu- \nces, in evidence of the superiority of the Italian epic \nover the French mock-heroic poem of Boileau, that \nthe subject of the former is far more insignificant \nthan that of the latter, and yet the poem has twelve \ncantos, being twice the number of the Lutrin. He \nmight have added that each canto contains about \nsix hundred lines instead of two hundred, the aver- \nage complement of the French, so that Tassoni\'s \nepic has the glory of being twelve times as long as \nBoileau\'s, and all about a bucket ! This is some- \nwhat characteristic of the Italians. What other peo- \nple would good-humouredly endure such an inter- \nminable epic upon so trivial an affair, which had \ntaken place more than four centuries before I To \nmake amends, however, for the want of pungency \nin a satire on transactions of such an antiquated date. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 473 \n\nTassoni has besprinkled his poem very liberally with \nallusions to living characters. \n\nWe may make one general objection to the poem, \nthat it is often too much in earnest for the perfect \nkeeping of the mock heroic. The cutting of throats \nand fighting regular pitched battles are too bloody a \nbusiness for a joke. How much more in the genu- \nine spirit of this species of poetry is the bloodless \nbattle with the books in the Lutrin ! \n\nThe machinery employed by Tassoni is compo- \nsed of the ancient heathen deities. These are fre- \nquently brought upon the stage, and are travestied \nwith the coarsest comic humour. But the burlesque \nwhich reduces great things to little is of a grosser \nand much less agreeable sort than that which mag- \nnifies little things into great. The "Rape of the \nLock" owes its charms to the latter process. The \nimportance which it gives to the elegant nothings \nof high life, its perpetual sparkling of wit, the fairy \nfretwork which constitutes its machinery, have made \nit superior, as a fine piece of irony, to either of its \nforeign rivals. A Frenchman would doubtless pre- \nfer the epic regularity, progressive action, and smooth \nseesaw versification of the Lutrin ;* while an Italian \nwould find sufficient in the grand heroic sentiment \nand the voluptuous portraiture with which Tassoni\'s \nunequal poem is occasionally inlaid, to justify his \n\n* The versification of the Lutrin is esteemed as faultless as any in the \n\nlanguage. The tame and monotonous flow of the best of French rhyme, \n\nhowever, produces an effect, at least upon a foreign ear, which has been \n\nwelllikened by one of their own nation to "the drinking of cold water " \n\n4 2P* \n\n\n\n474 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL \'MISCELLANIES. \n\npreference of it. There is no accounting for na- \ntional taste. La Harpe, the Aristarchus of French \ncritics, censures the gossamer machinery of the \n"Rape of the Lock" as the greatest defect in the \npoem. "La fable des Sylphes, que Pope a tres inu- \ntilement empruntee du Conte de Gabaiis, pour en \nfaire le merveilleux de son poeme, n\'j produit rien \nd\'agreable, rien d\'interessant !" \n\nItaly, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, \nwas inundated with crude and insipid romances, \ndistributed into all the varieties of epic poetry. The \nlast one, however, of sufficient importance to require \nour notice, namely, the Ricciardetto of Nicholas For- \ntiguerra, appeared as late as 1738. After two cen- \nturies of marvellous romance, Charlemagne and his \npaladins became rather insipid dramatis personam. \nWhat could not be handled seriously, however, \nmight be ridiculed ; and the smile, half suppressed \nby Ariosto and Berni, broke out into broad buffoon- \nery in the poem of Fortiguerra. \n\nThe Ricciardetto may be considered the Don \nQuixote of Italy ; for although it did not bring about \nthat revolution in the national taste ascribed to the \nSpanish romance, yet it is, like that, an unequivocal \nparody upon the achievements of knight errantry. \nIt may be doubted whether Don Quixote itself was \nnot the consequence rather than the cause oi the \nrevolution in the national taste. Fortiguerra pursued \nan opposite method to Cervantes, and, instead of in- \ntroducing his crack-brained heroes into the realities \nof vulgar life, he made them equally ridiculous by \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 475 \n\ninvolving them in the most absurd caricatures of ro- \nmantic fiction. Many of these adventures are of a \nlicentious, and sometimes of a disgusting nature ; but \nthe graceful though negligent beauties of his style \nthrow an illusive veil over the grossness of the nar- \nrative. Imitations of Pulci may be more frequently \ntraced than of any other romantic poet. But, al- \nthough more celebrated writers are occasionally, and \nthe extravagances of chivalry are perpetually paro- \ndied by Fortiguerra, yet his object does not seem to \nhave been deliberate satire so much as good-humour- \ned jesting. What he wrote was for the simple pur- \npose of raising a laugh, not for the derision or the cor- \nrection of the taste of his countrymen. The tenden- \ncy of his poem is certainly satirical, yet there is not \na line indicating such an intention on his part. The \nmost pointed humour is aimed at the clergy.* For- \ntiguerra was himself a canon. He commenced his \nepic at the suggestion of some friends with whom \nhe was passing a few weeks of the autumn at a hunt- \ning seat. The conversation turned upon the labour \nbestowed by Pulci, Berni, and Ariosto on their great \n\n* One of the leading characters is Ferragus, who had figured in all \nthe old epics as one of the most formidable Saracen chieftains. He \nturns hermit with Fortiguerra, and beguiles his lonely winter evenings \nwith the innocent pastime of making candles. \n\n" E ne l\'orrida bruma \nQuando l\'aria e piu fredda, e piu crudele, \nIo mi diverto in far de le candele." \xe2\x80\x94 in., 53. \n\nA contrast highly diverting to the Italians, who had been taught to as- \nsociate very lofty ideas with the name of Ferragus. The conflict kept \nap between the devout scruples of the new saint and his old heathen \nappetites affords perpetual subjects for the profane comi. \n\n\n\n476 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npoems ; and Fortigaerra undertook to furnish, the \nnext day, a canto of good poetry, exhibiting some of \nthe peculiarities of their respective styles. He ful- \nfilled his promise, and his friends, delighted with its \nsprightly graces, persuaded him to pursue the epic \nto its present complement of thirty rantos. Any \none acquainted with the facilities for improvisation \nafforded by the flexible organization of the Italian \ntongue will be the less surprised at the rapidity of \nthis composition. The "Rieciardetto" may be look- \ned upon as a sort of improvisation. \n\nIn the following literal version of the two opening \nstanzas of the poem we have attempted to convey \nsome notion of the sportive temper of the original : \n\n" It will not let my busy brain alone ; \n\nThe whim has taken me to write a tale \nIn poetry, of things till now unknown, \n\nOr if not wholly new, yet nothing stale. \nMy muse is not a daughter of the Sun, \nWith harp of gold and ebony ; a hale \nAnd buxom country lass, she sports at ease, \nAnd, free as air, sings to the passing breeze \n" Yet, though accustom\'d to the wood \xe2\x80\x94 its spring \nHer only beverage, and her food its mast, \nShe will of heroes and of battles sing, \n\nThe loves and high emprizes of the past. \nThen if she falter on so bold a wing, \n\nLight be the blame upon her errors cast ; \nShe never studied ; and she well may err, \nWhose home hath been beneath the oak and fir." \n\nFortiguerra\'s introductions to his cantos are sea- \nsoned with an extremely pleasant wit, which Lord \nByron has attentively studied, and, in some passages \nof his more familiar poetry, closely imitated. 1 hp \nstanza, for example, in Beppo, beginning \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 477 \n\n" She was not old, nor young, nor at the years \nWhich certain people call a certain age, \nWhich yet the most uncertain age appears," &c, \n\nwas evidently suggested by the following in Ricci- \nardetto : \n\n" Quando si giugne ad una certa eta, \nCh\'io non voglio descrivervi qual e, \n\nBisogna stare allora a quel ch\'un ha, \nNe d\'altro amante provar piu la fe, \n\nPerche, donne me care, la belta \n\nHa 1\' ali al capo, alle spalle, ed a\' pie ; \n\nE vola si, che non si scorge piu \n\nVestigio alcun ne\' visi, dove fu." \n\nByron\'s wit, however, is pointed with a keener sar- \ncasm, and his serious reflections show a finer per- \nception, both of natural and moral beauty, than be- \nlong to the Italian. No two things are more remote \nfrom each other than sentiment and satire. In \n"Don Juan" they are found side by side in almost \nevery stanza. The effect is disagreeable. The \nheart, warmed by some picture of extreme beauty \nor pathos, is suddenly chilled by a selfish sneer, a \ncold-blooded maxim, that makes you ashamed of \nhaving been duped into a good feeling by the writer \neven for a moment. It is a melancholy reflection, \nthat the last work of this extraordinary poet should \nbe the monument alike of his genius and his infamy. \nVoltaire\'s licentious epic, the " Pucelle," is written \nm a manner, perhaps, more nearly corresponding to \nthat of the Italian ; but the philosophical irony, if \nwe may so call it, which forms the substratum of the \nmore familiar compositions of this witty and profli- \ngate author, is of somewhat too deep a cast for the \nlight, superficial banter of Fortiguerra. \n\n\n\n478 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nWe have now traced the course of Italian narra- \ntive poetry down to the middle of the last century. \nIt has by no means become extinct since that pe- \nriod, and, among others, an author well known here \nby his history of our Revolutionary war has con- \ntributed his share to the epopee of his country, in \nhis "Camillo, o Vejo Conquistata." Almost every \nItalian writer has a poetic vein within him, which, \nif it does not find a vent in sonnets or canzones, will \nflow out into more formidable compositions.* \n\nIn glancing over the long range of Italian narra- \ntive poems, one may be naturally led to the reflec- \ntion that the most prolific branch of the national \nliterature is devoted exclusively to purposes of mere \namusement. Brilliant inventions, delicate humour, \nand a beautiful colouring of language are lavished \nupon all; but with the exception of the "Jerusalem," \nwe rarely meet with sublime or ennobling sentiment, \nand very rarely with anything like a moral or philo- \nsophical purpose. Madame de Stael has attempted \nto fasten a reproach on the whole body of Italian \nletters, " that, with the exception of their works on \nphysical science, they have never been directed to \nutility \'."f The imputation applied in this almost \nunqualified manner is unjust. The language has \nbeen enriched by the valuable reflections of too many \nhistorians, the solid labours of too many antiquaries \n\n* Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Bembo, Varchi, Castiglione, Pignotti, Botta, \nand a host of other classic prose writers of Italy, have all confessed the \n" impetus sacer," and given birth to epics, lyrics, or bucolics. \n\nf " Tous les ouvrages des Italiens, except! ceux qui traitent des sc\xc2\xab \nDnces physiques, n\'ont jamais pour but Tutilite." \xe2\x80\x94 De la Litterature, Sft \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 479 \n\nand critics, to be thus lightly designated. The learn- \ned lady may have found a model for her own com- \nprehensive manner of philosophizing, and an ample \nrefutation of her assertion in Machiavelli alone.* \nIn their works of imagination, however, such an im- \nputation appears to be well merited. The Italians \nseemed to demand from these nothing farther than \nfrom a fine piece of music, where the heart is stir- \nred, the ear soothed, but the understanding not a \nwhit refreshed. The splendid apparitions of their \npoet\'s fancy fade away from the mind of the reader, \nand, like the enchanted fabrics described in their ro- \nmances, leave not a trace behind them. \n\nIn the works of fancy in our language, fiction is \nalmost universally made subservient to more impor- \ntant and nobler purposes. The ancient drama, and \nnovels, the modern prose drama, exhibit historical \npictures of manners and accurate delineations of \ncharacter. Most of the English poets in other \nw 7 alks, from the " moral Gower" to Cowper, Crabbe, \nand Wordsworth, have made their verses the ele- \ngant vehicles of religious or practical truth. Even \n\n* We say manner, not spirit. The " Discors isopra T. Livio," how- \never, require less qualification on the score of their principles. They \nobviously furnished the model to the "Grandeur et Decadence des Ro- \nmans/\' and the same extended philosophy which Montesquieu imitated \nin civil history, Madame de Stael has carried into literary. \n\nAmong the historians, antiquaries, &c, whose names are known where \nthe language is not read, we might cite Guicciardini, Bembo, Sarpi, Gi- \nannone, Nardi, Davila, Denina, Muratori, Tiraboschi, Gravina, Bettinelli, \nAlgarotti, Beccaria, Filanghieri, Cesarotti, Pignotti, and many others ; \na hollow muster-roll of names that it would be somewhat ridiculous tc \nrun over, did not their wide celebrity expose, in a stronger light, Mad \name de StaeTs sweeping assertion. \n\n\n\n480 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndescriptive poetry in England interprets the silence \nof external nature into a language of sentiment and \ndevotion. It is characteristic of this spirit in the \nnation that Spenser, the only one of their classic \nwriters who has repeated the fantastic legends of \nchivalry, deemed it necessary to veil his Italian fancy \nin a cloud of allegory, which, however it may be \nthought to affect the poem, shows, unequivocally the \ndidactic intention of the poet. \n\nThese grave and extended views are seldom visi \nble in the ornamental writing of the Italians. It \nrarely conveys useful information, or inculcates moral \nor practical truth ; but it is too commonly an ele- \ngant, unprofitable pastime. Novelle, lyrical, and epic \npoetry may be considered as constituting three prin- \ncipal streams of their lighter literature. These have \ncontinued to flow, with little interruption, the two \nfirst from the " golden urns" of Petrarch and Boc- \ncaccio, the last from the early sources we have al- \nready traced down to the present day. Their mul- \ntitudinous novelle, with all their varieties of tragic \nand comic incident, the last by far the most frequent, \npresent few just portraitures of character, still fewer \nexamples of sound ethics or wise philosophy.* In \nthe exuberance of their sonnets and canzone, we find \nsome, it is true, animated by an efficient spirit of re- \n\n* The heavier charge of indecency lies upon many. The Novelle of \nCasti, published as late as 1804, make the foulest tales of Boccaccio ap- \npear fair beside them. They have run through several editions since \ntheir first appearance, and it tells not well for the land that a numerous \nclass of readers can be found in it who take delight in banqueting upon \nsuch abominable offal. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 481 \n\nligion or patriotism ; but too frequently they are of \na purely amatory nature, the unsubstantial though \nbrilliant exhalations of a heated fancy. The pas- \ntoral drama, the opera, and other beautiful varieties \nof invention, which, under the titles of Bernesco, \nBurlesco, Maccheronico, and the like, have been \nnicely classed according to their different modifica- \ntions of style and humour, while they manifest the \nmercurial temper and the originality of the nation, \nconfirm the justice of our position. \n\nThe native melody of the Italian tongue, by se- \nducing their writers into an overweening attention \nto sound, has doubtless been in one sense prejudicial \nto their literature. We do not mean to impty, in \nconformity with a vulgar opinion, that the language \nis deficient in energy or compactness. Its harmony \nis no proof of its weakness. It allows more licenses \nof contraction than any other European tongue, and \nretains more than any other the vigorous inversions \nof its Latin original. Dante is the most concise of \nearly moderns, and we know none superior to Alfi- \neri in this respect among those of our own age. \nDavanzati\'s literal translation of Tacitus is conden- \nsed into a smaller compass than its original, the most \nsententious of ancient histories; but still the silver \ntones of a language that almost sets itself to music \nas it is spoken, must have an undue attraction for \nthe harmonious ear of an Italian. Their very first \nclassical model of prose composition is an obvious \nexample of it. \n\nThe frequency of improvisation is another circum- \n4 2Q \n\n\n\n482 B10GRAPHICAJ AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nstance that has naturally tended to introduce a less \nserious and thoughtful habit of composition. Above \nall, the natural perceptions of an Italian seem to be \npeculiarly sensible to beauty, independent of every \nother quality. Any one who has been in Italy must \nhave recognised the glimpses of a pure taste through \nthe rags of the meanest beggar. The musical pieces, \nwhen first exhibited at the theatre of St. Carlos, are \ncorrectly pronounced upon by the Lazzaroni of Na- \nples, and the mob of Florence decide with equal ac- \ncuracy upon the productions of their immortal school. \nCellini tells us that he exposed his celebrated statue \nof Perseus in the public square by order of his pa- \ntron, Duke Cosmo First, who declared himself per- \nfectly satisfied with it on learning the commenda- \ntions of the people.* It is not extraordinary that \nthis exquisite sensibility to the beautiful should have \nalso influenced them in literary art, and have led \nthem astray sometimes from the substantial and the \nuseful. Who but an Italian historian would, in this \npractical age, so far blend fact and fiction as, for the \nsake of rhetorical effect, to introduce into the mouths \nof his personages sentiments and speeches never ut- \ntered by them, as Botta has lately done in his his- \ntory of the American War ? \n\nIn justice, however, to the Italians, we must ad- \nmit, that the reproach incurred by too concentrated \nan attention to beauty, to the exclusion of more en- \nlarged and useful views in their lighter compositions, \ndoes not fall upon this or the last century. They \n\n* Vita di Benvo. Cellin., torn, ii., p. 339. \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 483 \n\nhave imbibed a graver and more philosophical cast \nof reflection, for which they seem partly indebted to \nthe influence of English literature. Several of theii \nmost eminent authors have either visited or resided \nin Great Britain, and the genius of the language has \nbeen made known through the medium of skilful \ntranslations. Alfleri has transported into his trage- \ndies the solemn spirit and vigorous characterization \npeculiar to the English. He somewhere remarks \nthat " he could not read the language ;" but we are \npersuaded his stern pen would never have traced the \ndying scene of Saul, had he not witnessed a repre- \nsentation of Macbeth. Ippolito Pindemonte, in his \ndescriptive pieces, has deepened the tones of his na- \ntive idiom with the moral melancholy of Gray and \nCowper. Monti\'s compositions, both dramatic and \nmiscellaneous, bear frequent testimony to his avowed \nadmiration for Shakspeare ; and Cesarotti, Foscolo, \nand Pignotti have introduced the " severer muses" \nof the north to a still wider and more familiar ac- \nquaintance with their countrymen.* Lastly, among \nthe works of fancy which attest the practical scope \nof Italian letters in the last century, we must not \nomit the " Giorno" of Parini, the most curious and \nnicely-elaborated specimen of didactic satire produ- \nced in any age or country. Its polished irony, point- \n\n* Both the prose and poetry of Foscolo are pregnant with more se- \nrious meditation and warmer patriotism than is usual in the works of \nthe Italians. Pignotti, although his own national manner has been but \n.ittle affected by his foreign erudition, has contributed more than any \nother to extend the influence of English letters among his countrymen. \nHis works abound in allusions to them, and two of his principal poems \nare dedicated to the memory of Shakspeare and of Pope. \n\n\n\n484 CIOCRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ned at the domestic vices of the Italian nobility, indi \ncates both the profligacy of the nation and the moral \nindependence of the poet. \n\nThe Italian language, the first-born of those de- \nscended from the Latin, is also the most beautiful. \nIt is not surprising that a people endowed with an \nexquisite sensibility to beauty should have been \noften led to regard this language rather as a means \nof pleasure than of utility. We must not, however, \nso far yield to the unqualified imputation of Madame \nde Stael as to forget that they have other claims to \nour admiration than what arise from the inventions \nof the poet, or from the ideal beauties which they \nhave revived of Grecian art; that the light oi genius \nshed upon the wwld in the fourteenth, and that of \nlearning in the fifteenth century, was all derived \nfrom Italy ; that her writers first unfolded the sub- \nlimity of Christian doctrines as applied to modern \nliterature, and by their patient, philological labours \nrestored to life the buried literature of antiquity ; \nthat her schools revived and expounded the ancient \ncode of law, since become the basis of so important \na branch of jurisprudence both in Europe and our \nown country ; that she originated literary, and \nbrought to a perfection unequalled in any other lan- \nguage, unless it be our own, civil and political his- \ntory ; that she led the way in physical science and \nin that of political philosophy; and, finally, that of \nthe two enlightened navigators who divide the glory \nof adding a new quarter to the globe, the one was a \nGenoese and the other a Florentine. \n\n\n\n= \n\n\n\nITALIAN NARRATIVE POETRY. 485 \n\nIn following down the stream of Italian narrative \npoetry, we have wandered into so many details, es- \npecially where they would tend to throw light on \nthe intellectual character of the nation, that we have \nlittle room, and our readers, doubtless, less patience, \nleft for a discussion of the poems which form the \ntext of our article. The few stanzas descriptive of \nBerni, which we have borrowed from the Innamo- \nrato, may give some notion of Mr. Rose\'s manner. \nThe translations have been noticed in several of the \nEnglish journals, and we perfectly accord with the \nfavourable opinion of them, which has been so often \nexpressed that it needs not here be repeated. \n\nThe composite style of Ariosto owes its charms \nto the skill with which the delicate tints of his irony \nare mixed with the sober colouring of his narrative \nHis translators have spoiled the harmony of the \ncomposition by overcharging one or other of these \ningredients. Harrington has caricatured his original \ninto burlesque ; Hoole has degraded him into a most \nmelancholy proser. The popularity of this latter \nversion has been of infinite disservice to the fame of \nAriosto, whose aerial fancy loses all its buoyancy \nunder the heavy hexameters of the English transla- \ntor. The purity of Mr. Rose\'s taste has prevented \nhim from exaggerating even the beauties of his \noriginal. \n\n4 2Q* \n\n\n\n486 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS.* \n\nJULY, 183 1. \n\nIt is not our intention to go into an analysis, or \neven to discuss the merits of the works at the head \nof this article, which we have selected only as a text \nfor such reflections on the poetry and ornamental \nprose- writing of the Italians as might naturally sug- \ngest themselves to an English reader. The points \nof view from which a native contemplates his own \nliterature and those from which it is seen by a for- \neigner are so dissimilar, that it would be hardly pos- \nsible that they should come precisely to the same \nresults without affectation or servility on the part of \nthe latter. The native, indeed, is far better qualified \nthan any foreigner can be to estimate the produc- \ntions of his own countrymen ; but as each is sub- \njected to peculiar influences, truth may be more \nlikely to be elicited from a collision of their mutual \nopinions than from those exclusively of either. \n\nThe Italian, although the first modern tongue to \nproduce what still endure as classical models of com- \nposition, was, of all the Romance dialects, the last \n\n* [The reader may find in this article some inadvertent repetitions of \nwhat had been said in two articles written some vears before, and cov- \nering, in part, the same ground.] \n\n1. " Delia Letteratura Italiana, Di Camillo Ugoni. \xe2\x80\x94 3 torn. 12mo. \nBrescia, 1820. \n\n2. " Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Del cavaliere Giuseppe Maffei.* \n-3 torn. 12mo. Milano, 1825. \n\n3. " Storia della Letteratura Italiana nel secolo XVIII di Antonio \nLombardi. " \xe2\x80\x94 3 torn. 8vo. Modena, 1827-9 \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 487 \n\nto be applied to literary purposes. The poem of the \nCid, which, with all its rawness, exhibits the frank \nbearing of the age in a highly poetic aspect, was \nwritten nearly a century previously to this event, \nThe northern French, which even some Italian \nscholars of that day condescended to employ as the \nmost popular vebicle of thought, had been richly \ncultivated, indemnifying itself in anticipation, as it \nwere, by this extraordinary precocity, for the poetic \nsterility with which it has been cursed ever since. \nIn the Soutb, and along the shores of the Mediter- \nranean, every remote corner w 7 as alive with the \nvoice of song. A beautiful poetry had ripened into \nperfection there, and nearly perished, before the first \nlispings of the Italian muse were heard, not in her \nown land, but at the court of a foreigner, in Sicily. \nThe poets of Lombardy wrote in the Provencal. \nThe histories \xe2\x80\x94 and almost every city had its histo- \nrian, and some two or three \xe2\x80\x94 were composed in \nLatin, or in some half-formed, discordant dialect of \nthe country. " The Italian of that age," says Tira- \nboschi, "more nearly resembled the Latin than the \nTuscan does now any of her sister dialects." It \nseemed doubtful which of the conflicting idioms \nwould prevail, when a mighty genius arose, wbo, \ncollecting the scattered elements together, formed \none of those wonderful creations which make an \nepoch in the history of civilization, a,nd forever fixed \nthe destinies of his language. \n\nWe shall not trouble our readers with a particu- \nlar criticism on so popular a work as the Divine \n\n\n\n488 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nComedy, but confine ourselves to a few such desul- \ntory observations as have been suggested on a repe- \nrusal of it. The Inferno is more frequently quoted \nand eulogized than any other portion of the Corn- \nmedia. It exhibits a more marked progress of the \naction, and, while it affects us by its deepened pic \ntares of misery, it owes, no doubt, something to the \npiquant personalities which have to this day not \nentirely lost their relish. Notwithstanding this, it \nby no means displays the whole of its author\'s in- \ntellectual power, and so very various are the merits \nof the different portions of his epic, that one who \nhas not read the whole may be truly said not to \nhave read Dante. The poet has borrowed the hints \nfor his punishments partly from ancient mythology, \npartly from the metaphorical denunciations of Scrip- \nture, but principally from his own inexhaustible fan- \ncy ; and he has adapted them to the specific crimes \nwith a truly frightful ingenuity. We could wish that \nhe had made more use of the mind as a means of \ntorture, and thus given a finer moral colouring to \nthe picture. This defect is particularly conspicuous \nin his portraiture of Satan, who, far different from \nthat spirit whose form had not yet lost all her origi- \nnal brightness, is depicted in the gross and super- \nstitious terrors of a childish imagination. This de- \ncidedly bad taste must be imputed to the rudeness \nof the age in which Dante lived. The progress of \nrefinement is shown in Tasso\'s subsequent portrait \nof this same personage, who, "towering like Ca<pe \nor huge Atlas," is sustained by that unconquerable \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 489 \n\ntemper which gives life to the yet more spiritualized \nconceptions of Milton. The faults of Dante were \nthose of his age ; but in his elevated conceptions, in \nthe wild and desolating gloom which he has thrown \naround the city of the dead, the world saw, for the \nfirst time, the genius of modern literature fully dis- \nplayed ; and in his ripe and vigorous versification, it \nbeheld also, for the first time, the poetical capacities \nof a modern idiom.* \n\nThe Purgatory relies for its interest on no strong \nemotion, but on a contemplative moral tone, and on \nsuch luxuriant descriptions of nature as bring it much \nnearer to the style of English poetry than any other \npart of the work. It is on the Paradise, however, \nthat Dante has lavished all the stores of his fancy. \nYet he has not succeeded in his attempt to exhibit \nthere a regular gradation of happiness ; for happi- \nness cannot, like pain, be measured by any scale of \nphysical sensations. Neither is he always success- \nful in the notions which he has conveyed of the oc- \ncupations of the blessed. There was no source \nwhence he could derive this knowledge. The \nScriptures present no determinate idea of such oc- \ncupations, and the mythology of the ancients had so \nlittle that was consolatory in it, even to themselves, \nthat the shade of Achilles is made to say, in the \nOdyssey, that "he had rather be the slave of the \n\n* Dante anticipated the final triumph of the Italian with a generous \nconfidence, not shared by the more timid scholars of his own or the suc- \nceeding age. See his eloquent apology for it in his Convito, especially \np. 81, 82, torn, iv., ed. 1758. See, also, Purg., can. xxiv. \n\nQ Q Q \n\n\n\n490 BIOGRAPHICAL AIND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmeanest living man than rale as a sovereign among \nthe dead." \n\nDante wisely placed the moral sources of happi- \nness in the exercises of the mind. The most agree- \nable of these to himself, though, perhaps, to few of \nhis readers, was metaphysical polemics. He had, \nunfortunately, in his youth gained a prize for suc- \ncessful disputation at the schools, and in every page \nof these gladiatorial exhibitions we discern the dis- \nciple of Scotus and Aquinas. His materiel is made \nup of light, music, and motion. These he has ar- \nranged in every possible variety of combination. We \nare borne along from one magnificent /t^e to anoth- \ner, and, as we rise in the scale of being, the motion \nof the celestial dance increases in velocity, the light \nshines with redoubled brilliancy, and the music is of \na more ravishing sweetness, until all is confounded \nin the intolerable splendours of the Deity. \n\nDante has failed in his attempt to personify the \nDeity. Who, indeed, has not \\ No such person- \nification can be effected without the aid of illustra- \ntion from physical objects, and how degrading are \nthese to our conceptions of Omnipotence ! The re- \npeated failures of the Italians who have attempted \nthis in the arts of design are still more conspicuous. \nEven the genius of Raphael has only furnished an- \nother proof of the impotence of his art. The ad- \nvancement of taste may be again seen in Tasso\'s \nrepresentation of the Supreme Being by Lis attri- \nbutes,* and, with similar discretion, Milton, like .the \n\n* Ger. Lib., cix., s. 56. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 491 \n\nGrecian artist who drew a mantle over the counte- \nnance which he could not trust himself to paint, \nwhenever he has introduced the Deity, has veiled his \ndories in a cloud. \n\nThe characters and conditions of Dante and \nMilton were too analogous not to have often invited \nthe parallel. Both took an active part in the revo- \nlutions of their age ; both lived to see the extinc- \ntion of their own hopes and the ruin of their party : \nand it was the fate of both to compose their immor- \ntal poems in poverty and disgrace. These circum- \nstances, however, produced different effects on their \nminds. Milton, in solitude and darkness, from the \ncheerful ways of men cut off, was obliged to seek \ninwardly that celestial light, which, as he pathetical- \nly laments, was denied to him from without. Hence \nhis poem breathes a spirit of lofty contemplation, \nwhich is never disturbed by the impurities that dis- \nfigure the page of Dante. The latter poet, an exile \nin a foreign land, condemned to eat the bread of de- \npenclance from the hands of his ancient enemies, \nfelt the iron enter more deeply into his soul, and, in \nthe spirit of his age, has too often made his verses \nthe vehicle of his vindictive scorn. Both stood forth \nthe sturdy champions of freedom in every form, \nabove all, of intellectual freedom. The same spirit \nwhich animates the controversial writings of Milton \nglows with yet fiercer heat in every page of the Di- \nvine Comedy. How does its author denounce the \nabuses, the crying abuses of the Church, its hypoc- \nrisies, and manifold perversions of Scripture ! How \n\n\n\n492 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nboldly does he declare his determination to proclaim \nthe truth, that he may live in the memory of the just \nhereafter ! His Ghibelline connexions were indeed \nunfavourable to these principles ; but these connex- \nions were the result of necessity, not of choice. His \nhardy spirit had been nursed in the last ages of the \nRepublic ; and it may be truly said of him that he \nbecame a Ghibelline in the hope of again becoming \na Florentine. The love of his native soil, as with \nmost exiles, was a vital principle with him. How \npathetically does he recall those good old times \nwhen the sons of Florence were sure to find a \ngrave within her walls! Even the bitterness of his \nheart against her, which breaks forth in the very \ncourts of heaven, proves, paradoxical as it may ap- \npear, the tenacity of his affection. It might not be \neasy to rouse the patriotism of a modern Italian even \ninto this symptom of vitality. \n\nThe genius of both was of the severest kind. For \nthis reason, any display of their sensibility, like the \nlight breaking through a dark cloud, affects us the \nmore by contrast. Such are the sweet pictures of \ndomestic bliss in Paradise Lost, and the tender tale \nof Francesca di Rimini in the Inferno. Both are \nsublime in the highest signification of the term; but \nMilton is an ideal poet, and delights in generaliza- \ntion, while Dante is the most literal of artists, and \npaints everything in detail. He refuses no imagery, \nhowever mean, that can illustrate his subject. This \nis too notorious to require exemplification. He is, \nmoreover, eminently distinguished by the power of \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 493 \n\n.depicting his thought bj a single vigorous touch, a \nmanner well known in Italy under the name of \nDantesque. It would not be easy for such a verse \nas the following, without sacrifice of idiom, to be \ncondensed within the same compass in our language: \n\n" Con viso, che tacendo dicea, taci." \n\nIt would be interesting to trace the similarity of \ntastes in these great minds, as exhibited in theii \npleasures equally with their serious pursuits ; in their \nexquisite sensibility to music ; in their early fond- \nness for those ancient romances which they have so \noften celebrated both in prose and verse ; but our \nlimits will not allow us to pursue the subject farther. \n\nDante\'s epic was greeted by his countrymen in \nthat rude age with the general enthusiasm with \nwhich they have ever welcomed the works of genius \nA chair was instituted at Florence for the exposition \nof the Divine Comedy, and Boccaccio was the first \nwho filled it. The bust of its author was crowned \nwith laurels ; his daughter was maintained at the \npublic expense ; and the fickle Florentines vainly \nsolicited from Ravenna the ashes of their poet, whom \nthey had so bitterly persecuted when living. \n\nNotwithstanding all this, the father of Italian verse \nhas had a much less sensible influence on the taste \nof his countrymen than either of the illustrious tri- \numvirate of the fourteenth century. His bold, mas- \nculine diction and his concentrated thought were \nill suited to the effeminacy of his nation. One or \ntwo clumsy imitators of him appeared in his own \nage ; and in ours a school has been formed, profess- \n4 2R \n\n\n\n494 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nnig to be modelled on the severe principles of the \ntrecentisti; bat no one has yet arisen to bend the \nbow of Ulysses. \n\nSeveral poets. wrote in the Tuscan or Italian dia- \nlect at the close of the thirteenth century with tol- \nerable purity ; but their amorous effusions would, \nprobably, like those in the Provencal, have rapidly \npassed into oblivion, had the language not been con- \nsecrated by some established work of genius like the \nDivina Commedia. It was fortunate that its author \nselected a subject which enabled him to exhibit the \npeculiar tendency of Christianity and of modern in- \nstitutions, and to demonstrate their immense superi- \nority for poetical purposes over those of antiquity. \nIt opened a cheering prospect to those who doubted \nthe capacities of a modern idiom ; and, after ages of \nbarbarism, it was welcomed as the sign that the wa- \nters had at length passed from the face of the earth. \n\nWe have been detained long upon Dante, though \nsomewhat contrary to our intention of discussing \nclasses rather than individuals, from the circumstance \nthat he constitutes in himself, if we may so say, an \nentire and independent class. We shall now pro- \nceed, as concisely as possible, to touch upon some \nof the leading peculiarities in the lyrical poetry of \nthe Italians, which forms with them a very important \nbranch of letters. \n\nLyrical poetry is more immediately the offspring \nof imagination, or of deep feeling, than any other \nkind of verse, and there can be little chance of \nreaching to high excellence in it among a nation \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 495 \n\nwhose character is defective in these qualities. The \nItalians are, undoubtedly, the most prolific in this \ndepartment, as the French are the least so, of any \npeople in Europe. Nothing can be more mechan- \nical than a French ode. Reason, wit, pedantry, \nanything but inspiration, find their way into it ; and \nwhen the poet is in extremity, like the countryman \nin the fable, he calls upon the pagan gods of anti- \nquity to help him out. The best ode in the lan- \nguage, according to La Harpe, is that of J. B. Rous- \nseau on the Count cle Luc, in which Phoebus, or \nthe Fates, Pluto, Ceres, or Cybele, figure in every \nstanza. There is little of the genuine impetus sacer \nin all this. Lyrical compositions, the expression of \nnatural sensibiiitj, 7 , are generally most abundant in \nthe earlier periods of a nation\'s literature. Such \nare the beautiful collections of rural minstrelsy in \nour own tongue, and the fine old ballads and songs \nin the Castilian ; which last have had the advan- \ntage over ours of being imitated down to a late day \nby their most polished writers. But Italy is the only \ncountry in which lyrical composition, from the first, \ninstead of assuming a plebeian garb, has received all \nthe perfection of literary finish, and which, amid ev- \nery vicissitude of taste, has been cultivated by the \nmost polished writers of the age. \n\nOne cause of this is to be found in the circum \nstances and peculiar character of the father of Ital- \nian song. The life of Petrarch furnishes the most \nbrilliant example of the triumph of letters in a coun- \ntry where literary celebrity has been often the path \n\n\n\n496 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto political consequence. Princes and pontiffs, cities \nand universities, vied with each other in lavishing \nhonours upon him. His tour through Italy was a \nsort of royal progress, the inhabitants of the cities \nthronging out to meet him, and providing a residence \nfor him at the public expense. \n\nThe two most enlightened capitals in Europe \ncontended with each other for the honour of his po- \netical coronation. His influence was solicited in \nthe principal negotiations of the Italian States, and \nhe enjoyed, at the same time, the confidence of the \nferocious Visconti and the accomplished Robert of \nNaples. His immense correspondence connected \nhim with the principal characters, both literary and \npolitical, throughout Europe, and his personal biog- \nraphy may be said to constitute the history of his age. \n\nIt must be confessed that the heart of Petrarch \nwas not insensible to this universal homage, and \nthat his writings occasionally betray the vanity and \ncaprice which indicate the spoiled child of fortune ; \nbut, with this moderate alloy of humanity, his gen- \neral deportment exhibits a purity of principle and a \ngenerous elevation of sentiment far above the de- \ngenerate politics of his time. He was, indeed, the \nfirst in an age of servility, as Dante had been the \nlast in an age of freedom. If he was intimate with \nsome of the petty tyrants of Lombardy, he never \nprostituted his genius to the vindication of their \nvices. His political negotiations were conducted \nwith the most generous and extended views for the \nweal of all Italy. How independently did he re- \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 497 \n\nmonstrate with Dandolo on his war with the Geno- \nese ! Plow did he lift his voice against the lawless \nbanditti who, as foreign mercenaries, ravaged the \nfair plains of Lombardy ! How boldly, to a degree \nwhich makes it difficult to account for his personal \nsafety, did he thunder his invectives against the \nwestern Babylon ! \n\nEven his failings were those of a generous nature. \nDwelling much of his time at a distance from his \nnative land, he considered himself rather as a citizen \nof Italy than of any particular district of it. He \ncontemplated her with the eye of an ancient Ro- \nman, and wished to see the Imperial City once more \nresume her supremacy among the nations. This \nled him for a moment to give in to the brilliant illu- \nsion of liberty which Rienzi awakened. " Who \nwould not," he says, appealing to the Romans, "rath- \ner die a freeman than live a slave ]"* But when \nhe saw that he had been deceived, he did not at- \ntempt to conceal his indignation, and, in an anima- \nted expostulation with the tribune, he admonishes \nhim that he is the minister, not the master of the \nRepublic, and that treachery to one\'s country is a \ncrime which nothing can expiate.f \n\nAs he wandered amid the ruins of Rome, he con \ntemplated with horror the violation of her venerable \nedifices, and he called upon the pontiffs to return to \nthe protection of their " widowed metropolis." He \nwas, above all, solicitous for the recovery of the in- \n\n* Epist. ad Nic. Laurentii. \xe2\x80\x94 Opera, p. 535. \nt Famil. Epist., lib. vii., ep. 7, p. 677, Basil ed. \n4 2 R* \n\n\n\n498 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntellectual treasures of antiquity, sparing no expense \nor personal fatigue in this cause. Many of the \nmouldering manuscripts he restored or copied with \nhis own hand; and his beautiful transcript of the \nepistles of Cicero is still to be seen in the Lauren- \ntian Library at Florence. \n\nThe influence of his example is visible in the gen- \nerous emulation for letters kindled throughout Italy, \nand in the purer principles of taste which directed \nthe studies of the schools.* His extensive corre- \nspondence diffused to the remotest corners of Eu- \nrope the sacred flame which glowed so brightly in \nhis own bosom ; and it may be truly said that he \npossessed an intellectual empire such as -was never \nbefore enjoyed, and probably never can be again, in \nthe comparatively high state of civilization to which \nthe world is arrived. \n\nIt is not, however, the antiquarian researches of \nPetrarch, nor those elaborate Latin compositions,, \nwhich secured to him the laurel wreath of poetry in \nthe capitol, that have kept his memory still green in \nthe hearts of his countrymen, but those humbler ef- \nfusions in his own language, which he did not even \ncondescend to mention in his Letter to Posterity, \nand which he freely gave away as alms to ballad- \nsingers. It was auspicious for Italian literature that \n\n* In Florence, for example, with a population which Villani. at \xe2\x80\x9ehe \nmiddle of the fourteenth century, reckons at 90,000 souls, there were \nfrom eight to ten thousand children who received a liberal education \n^Istor. Fiorent., lib. xi., cap. 93), at a time when the higher classes in \nthe rest of Europe were often uninstructed in the elementary principles \nof knowledge. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 499 \n\na poet like Dante should have been followed by one \nof so flexible a character as Petrarch. It was beauty \nsucceeding vigour. The language to which Dante \nhad given all its compactness and energy was far \nfrom having reached the full harmony of numbers \nof which it was capable. He had, moreover, occa- \nsionally distorted it into such Latinized inversions, \nuncouth phrases, Hebraisms and Grecisms, as were \nforeign to the genius of the tongue. These blem- \nishes, of so little account in Dante\'s extensive poem, \nwould have been fatal to the lyrical pieces of Pe- \ntrarch, which, like miniatures, from their minuteness, \ndemand the highest finish of detail. The pains \nwhich the latter poet bestowed on the correction of \nhis verses are almost inconceivable. Some of them \nwould appear, from the memoranda which he has \nleft, to have been submitted to the file for weeks, \nnay, months, before he dismissed them. Nor was \nthis fastidiousness of taste frivolous in one who was \ncorrecting, not for himself, but for posterity, and who, \nin these peculiar graces of style, was creating beau- \ntiful and permanent forms of expression for his coun- \ntrymen. His acquaintance with the modern dialects, \nespecially the Spanish and the Provencal, enriched \nhis vocabulary with many exotic beauties. His fine \near disposed him to refuse all but the most harmo- \nnious combinations of sound. He was accustomed \nto try the melody of his verses by the lute, and, like \nthe fabled Theban, built up his elegant fabric by the \ncharms of music. By these means he created a \nstvle scarcely more antiquated than that of the pres- \n\n\n\n50U BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nent day, and which can hardly he said to contain an \nobsolete phrase; an assertion not to be ventured re- \nspecting any author in our language before the days \nof Queen Anne. Indeed, even a foreigner can hard- \nly open a page of Petrarch without being struck \nwith the precocity of a language which, like the \nvegetation of an arctic summer, seems to have ripen- \ned into full maturity at once. There is nothing \nanalogous to this in any other tongue with which \nwe are acquainted, unless it be the Greek, which, in \nthe poems of Homer, appears to have attained its last \nperfection; a circumstance which has led Cicero to \nremark, in his Brutus, that " there must, doubtless, \nhave existed poets antecedent to Homer, since in- \nvention and perfection can hardly go together." \n\nThe mass of Petrarch\'s Italian poetry is, as is \nwell known, of an amorous complexion. He was \nnaturally of a melancholy temperament, and his un- \nfortunate passion became with him the animating \nprinciple of being. His compositions in the Latin, \nas well as those in the vulgar tongue, his voluminous \ncorrespondence, his private memoranda or confes- \nsions, which, from their nature, seem never to have \nbeen destined for the public eye, all exhibit this pas- \nsion in one shape or another. Yet there have been \nthose who have affected to doubt even the existence \nof such a personage as Laura. \n\nHis Sonnets and Canzoni, chronologically arran- \nged, exhibit pretty fairly the progress of his life and \nlove, and, as such, have been judiciously used by the \nAbbe de Sade. The most trivial event seems to \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 501 \n\nhave stirred the poetic feeling within him. We \nfind no less than four sonnets indited to his mis- \ntress\'s gloves, and three to her eyes ; which last, \nstyled, par excellence, the " Three Sisters," are in the \ngreatest repute with his countrymen ; a judgment on \nwhich most English critics would be at issue with \nthem. Notwithstanding the vicious affectation of \nstyle and the mysticism which occasionally obscure \nthese and other pieces of Petrarch, his general tone \nexhibits a moral dignity unknown to the sordid ap- \npetites of the ancients, and an earnestness of passion \nrarely reflected from the cold glitter of the Proven- \ncal. But it is in the verses written after the death \nof his mistress that he confesses the inspiration of \nChristianity, in the deep moral colouring which he \nhas given to his descriptions of nature, and in those \nvisions of immortal happiness which he contrasts \nwith the sad realities of the present life. He dwells \nrather on the melancholy pleasures of retrospection \nthan those of hope ; unlike most of the poets of \nItaly, whose warm, sunny skies seem to have scat- \ntered the gloom which hangs over the poetry of the \nNorth. In this and some other peculiarities, Dante \nand Petrarch appear to have borne greater resem- \nblance to the English than to their own nation. \n\nPetrarch\'s career, however brilliant, may serve \nrather as a warning than as a model. The queru- \nlous tone of some of his later writings, the shade of \n-eal sorrow, which seems to come across even his \nbrightest moments, show the utter inefficacy of ge^ \n*rius and of worldly glory to procure to their pos- \n\n\n\n502 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsessor a substantial happiness. It is melancholy to \nwitness the aberrations of mind into which so fine \na genius was led by unfortunate*passion. The ap- \nparition of Laura haunted him by night as w r ell as \nby day, in society and in solitude. He sought to \ndivert his mind by travelling, by political or literary \noccupation, by reason and religion, but in vain. \nHis letters and private confessions show, no less than \nhis poetry, how incessantly his imagination was tor- \ntured by doubts, hopes, fears, melancholy presages, \nregrets, and despair. She triumphed over the decay \nof her personal charms, and even over the grave, for \nit was a being of the mind he worshipped. There \nis something affecting in seeing such a mind as Pe- \ntrarch\'s feeding on this unrequited passion, and more \nthan twenty years after his mistress\'s death, and when \non the verge of the grave himself, depicting her in \nall the bright colouring of youthful fancy, and fol- \nlowing her in anticipation to that Heaven where he \nhopes soon to be united to her. \n\nPetrarch\'s example, even in his own day, was \nwidely infectious. He sarcastically complains of the \nquantities of verses sent to him for correction, from \nthe farthest, north, from Germany and the British \nIsles, then the Ultima Thule of civilization. The \npedants of the succeeding age, it is true, wasted their \nefforts in hopeless experiments upon the ancient Ian \nguages, whose chilling influence seems to have en- \ntirely closed the hand of the native minstrel ; and it \nwas not until the time of Lorenzo de\' Medici, whose \ncorrect taste led him to prefer the flexible movements \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE II iLIANS. 503 \n\nof a living tongue, that the sweet tones of the I\'alian \nlyre were again awakened. The excitement, how- \never, soon became general, affecting all ranks, from \nthe purpled prelate down to the most humble artisan; \nand a collection of the Beauties (as we should call \nthem) of this latter description of worthies has been \ngathered into a respectable volume, which Baretti \nassures us, with a good-natured criticism, may be \ncompared with the verses of Petrarch. In all these \nthe burden of the song is love. Those who did not \nfeel could at least affect the tender passion. Lo- \nrenzo de\' Medici pitched upon a mistress as delib- \nerately as Don Quixote did on his Dulcinea ; and \nTasso sighed away his soul to a nymph so shadowy \nas sorely to have puzzled his commentators till the \ntime of Serassi. \n\nIt would be unavailing to attempt to characterize \nthose who have followed in the footsteps of the \nLaureate, or we might dwell on the romantic sweet- \nness of Lorenzo de\' Medici, the purity of Vittoria \nColonna, the elaborate polish of Bembo, the vivaci- \nty of Marini, and the eloquence, the Platonic rever- \nies, and rich colouring of Tasso, whose beauties and \nwhose defects so nearly resemble those of his great \noriginal in this department. But we have no leisure \nto go minutely into the shades of difference between \nthe imitators of Petrarch. One may regret that, \namid their clouds of amorous incense, he can so \nrarely discern the religious or patriotic enthusiasm \nwhich animates the similar compositions of the \nSpanish poets and which forms the noblest basis of \n\n\n\n504 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlyrical poetry at all times. The wrongs of Italy, \nthe common battle-field of the banditti of Europe \nfor nearly a century, and at the very time when her \npoetic vein flowed most freely, might well have rous- \ned the indignation of her children. The compara- \ntively few specimens on this theme from Petrarch \nto Filicaja are justly regarded as the happiest efforts \nof the Italian lyre. \n\nThe seventeenth century, so unfortunate for the \nnational literature in all other respects, was marked \nby a bolder deviation from the eternal track of the \nPetrarchists ; a reform, indeed, which may be traced \nback to Casa. Among these innovators, Chiabrera, \nwhom Tiraboschi styles both Anacreon and Pindar, \nbut who may be content with the former of these \nappellations, and Filicaja, who has found in the \nChristian faith sources of a sublimity that Pindar \ncould never reach, are the most conspicuous. Their \nsalutary example has not been lost on the modern \nItalian writers. \n\nSome of the ancients have made a distinct divis- \nion of lyrical poetry, under the title of melicus* If, \nas it would seem, they mean something of a more \ncalm and uniform tenour than the impetuous dithy- \nrambic flow ; something in which symmetry of form \nand melody of versification are chiefly considered \\ \nin which, in fine, the effeminate beauties of senti- \nment are preferred to the more hardy conceptions \nof fancy, the term may be significant of the great \nmass of Italian lyrics. But we fear that we have \n\n* Ausonius, Edyl. IV., 54. \xe2\x80\x94 Cicero, De Opt. Gen. Oratorum, L \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND R03IANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 505 \n\ninsisted too far on their defects. Our criticism lias \nbeen formed rather on the average than on the high- \nest specimens of the art. In this way the very lux- \nuriance of the soil is a disadvantage to it. The \nsins of exuberance, however, are much more corri- \ngible than those of sterility, which fall upon this de- \npartment of poetry in almost every other nation. \nWe must remember, too, that no people has exhib- \nited the passion of love under such a.\' variety of \nbeautiful aspects, and that, after all, although the \namount be comparatively small, no other modern na- \ntion can probably produce so many examples of the \nvery highest lyrical inspiration. \n\nBut it is time that we should return to the Ro- \nmantic Epics, the most important, and, perhaps, the \nmost prolific branch of the ornamental literature of \nthe Italians. They have been distributed into a \ngreat variety of classes by their own critics. We \nshall confine our remarks to some of their most em- \ninent models, without regard to their classification. \n\nThose who expect to find in these poems the \nsame temper which animates the old English tales \nof chivalry, will be disappointed. A much more \ncorrect notion of their manner may be formed from \nMr. Ellis\'s Bernesque (if we may be allowed a sig- \nnificant term) recapitulations of these latter. In \nshort, they are the marvels of an heroic age, told \nwith the fine incredulous air of a polite one. It is \nthis contrast of the dignity of the matter with the fa- \nmiliarity of the manner of narration that has occa- \nsioned among their countrymen so many animated \n4 2S \n\n\n\n506 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndisputes respecting the serious or satirical intentions \nof Pulci, Ariosto, Berni, and the rest. \n\nThe Italians, although they have brought tales of \nchivalry to higher perfection than any other people \nin the world, are, of all others, in their character \nthe most anti-chivalrous. Their early Republican \ninstitutions, which brought all classes nearly to the \nsame level, were obviously unfavourable to the spirit \nof chivalry.\' Commerce became the road to prefer- \nment. Wealth was their pedigree, and their patent \nof nobility. The magnificent Medici were bankers \nand merchants ; and the ancient aristocracy of Ven- \nice employed their capital in traffic until an advan- \nced period of the Republic. Courage, so essential \nin the character of a knight, was of little account in \nthe busy communities of Italy. Like Carthage of \nold, they trusted their defence to mercenaries, first \nforeign, and afterward native, but who in every in- \nstance fought for hire, not honour, selling themselves, \nand often their employers, to the highest bidder; and \nwho, cased in impenetrable mail, fought with so lit- \ntle personal hazard, that Machiavelli has related \nmore than one infamous encounter in which the \nonly lives lost were from suffocation under their \nponderous panoplies. So low had the military rep- \nutation of the Italians declined, that in the war of \nthe Neapolitan succession in 1502, it was thought \nnecessary for thirteen of their body to vindicate the \nnational character from the imputation of coward- \nice by solemn defiance and battle against an equal \nnumber of French knights, in presence of the bos- \ntile armies. \n\n\n\nHence other arts came to be studied than that of \nwar \xe2\x80\x94 the arts of diplomacy and intrigue. Hence \nstatesmen were formed, bat not soldiers. The cam- \npaign was fought in the cabinet instead of the field. \nEvery spring of cunning and corruption was es- \nsayed, and an insidious policy came into vogue, in \nwhich, as the philosopher, who has digested its prin- \nciples into a system, informs us, " the failure, not the \natrocity of a deed, was considered disgraceful."* \nThe law of honour became different with the Ital- \nians from what it was with other nations. Conspir- \nacy was preferred to open defiance, and assassina- \ntion was a legitimate method of revenge. The State \nof Venice condescended to employ a secret agent \nagainst the life of Francis Sforza ; and the noblest \nescutcheons in Italy, those of Este and the Medici, \nwere stained with the crimes of fratricide and incest \n\nIn this general moral turpitude, the literature of \nItaly was rapidly rising to its highest perfection. \nThere was scarcely a petty state which, in the four- \nteenth, fifteenth, and beginning of the sixteenth cen- \nturies, had not made brilliant advances in elegant \nprose, poetry, or the arts of design. Intellectual cul- \nture was widely diffused, and men of the highest \nrank devoted themselves with eagerness to the oc- \ncupation of letters ; this, too, at a time when learn- \ning in other countries was banished to colleges and \ncloisters ; when books were not always essential in \nthe education of a gentleman. Da Guesclin, the \nflower of French chivalry in the fourteenth century, \n\n* Machiavelli, Istor. Fior.. 1. vi. \n\n\n\n508 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncould not read a word. Castiglione, in his Corte- \ngiano, has given ns so pleasing a picture of the rec- \nreations of the little court of Urbino, one of the \nmany into which Italy was distributed at the close \nof the fifteenth century, as to suggest an exalted no- \ntion of its taste and cultivated habits ; and Guicci- \nardini has described, with all the eloquence of re- \ngret, the flourishing condition of his country at the \nsame period, ere the storm had descended on her \nbeautiful valleys. In all this we see the character- \nistics of a highly polished state of society, but none \nof the hardy virtues of chivalry. \n\nIt was precisely in such a state of society, light, \nlively, and licentious, possessed of a high relish for \nthe beauties of imagination, but without moral dig- \nnity, or even a just moral sense, that the Muse of \nromance first appeared in Italy ; and it was not to \nbe expected that she would retain there her majestic \nCastilian port, or the frank, cordial bearing which \nendeared her to our Norman ancestors. In fact, the \nItalian fancy seems to have caught rather the gay, \ngossiping temper of the fabliaux. The most famil- \niar and grotesque adventures are mixed in with the \nmost serious, and even these last are related in a \nfine tone of ironical pleasantry. Magnificent inven- \ntions are recommended by agreeable illusions of \nst vie ; but they not unfrequently furnish a flimsy \ndrapery for impurity of sentiment. The high devo- \ntion and general moral aspect of our English Faerie \nQueene are not characteristic, with a few eminent \nexceptions, of Italian tales of chivalry, in which we \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 509 \n\ntoo often find the best interests of our nature expo- \nsed to all the license of frivolous banter. Puki, who \nhas furnished an apology for the infamous Fucelie,* \nand Fortiguerra, with their school of imitators, may \nafford abundant examples to the curious in these \nmatters. \n\nThe first successful models of the romantic epic \nwere exhibited at the table of Lorenzo de ? Medici ; \nthat remarkable man, who, as Machiavelli says of \nhim, "seemed to unite in his person two distinct na- \ntures" \xe2\x80\x94 who could pass from the severe duties of the \ncouncil-chamber to mingle in the dances of the peo- \nple, and from the abstractions of his favourite phi- \nlosophy to the broad merriment of a convivial table. \nAmid all the elegance of the Medici, however \xe2\x80\x94 of \nLorenzo and Leo X. \xe2\x80\x94 there seems to have been a \nlurking appetite for vulgar pleasure, at least if we \nmay judge from the coarse, satirical repartee which \nFranco and his friend Pulci poured out upon one \nanother for the entertainment of their patron, and \nthe still more bald buffoonery which enlightened the \npalace of his pontifical son. \n\nThe Stanze of Politian, however, exhibit no trace \nof this obliquity of taste. This fragment of an epic, \nalmost too brief for criticism, like a prelude to some \nbeautiful air, seems to have opened the way to those \ndelightful creations of the Muse which so rapidly \nfollowed, and to have contained within itself their \n\n* See Voltaire\'s preface to it. Chapelain\'s prosy poem on the same \nsubject, La Pucelle d\'Orleans, lives now only in the satire of Boileau \nU was the hard fate of the Heroine of Orleans to be canonized in a dull \nepic, and damned in a witty one. \n\n4 2 S* \n\n\n\nf>]Q BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nvarious elements of beauty : the invention of Boiar- \ndo, the picturesque narrative of Ariosto, and Tasso\'s \nflush of colour. Every stanza is music to the ear, \nand affords a distinct picture to the eye. Unfortu- \nnately, Politian was soon seduced by the fashion of \nthe age from the culture of his native tongue. Prob- \nably no Italian poet of equal promise was ever sacri- \nficed to the manes of antiquity. His voluminous \nLatin labours are now forgotten, and this fragment \nof an epic affords almost the only point from which \nhe is still contemplated by posterity. \n\nPulci\'s Morgante is the first thorough-bred ro- \nmance of chivalry which the Italians have received \nas text of the tongue. It is fashioned much more \nliterally than any of its successors, on Turpin\'s \nChronicle, that gross medley of fact and fable, too \nbarren for romance, too false for history ; the dung- \nhill from which have shot up, nevertheless, the bright \nflowers of French and Italian fiction. In like man- \nner as in this, religion, not love, is the principle of \nPulci\'s action. The theological talk of his devils \nmay remind one of the prosy conference of Roland \nand Ferracute ; and, strange to say, he is the only \none of the eminent Italian poets who has adopted \nfrom the chronicle the celebrated rout at Ronces- \nvalles. In his concluding cantos, which those who \nhave censured him as a purely satirical or burlesque \npoet can have hardly reached, Pulci, throwing off \nthe vulgar trammels which seem to have oppressed \nhis genius, rises into the noblest conceptions of po \netry, and describes the tragical catastrophe with al! \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 511 \n\nthe eloquence of pathos and moral grandeur. Had \nhe written often thus, the Morgante would now be \nresorted to by native purists, not merely as the well \nof Tuscan undented, but as the genuine fount of epic \ninspiration. \n\nFrom the rank and military profession of Boiardo, \nit might be expected that his poem, the Orlando In- \nnamorato, would display more of the lofty tone of \nchivalry than is usual with his countrymen; but, \nwith some exceptions, the portrait of Ruggiero, for \nexample, it will be difficult to discern this. He, \nhowever, excels them all in a certain force of char- \nacterizing, and in an inexhaustible fertility of inven- \ntion. His dramatis personce, continued by Ariosto, \nmight afford an excellent subject for a parallel, which \nwe have not room to discuss. In general, he may \nbe said to sculpture where Ariosto paints. His he- \nroes assume a fiercer and more indomitable aspect, \nand his Amazonian females a more glaring and less \nfastidious coquetry. But it is in the regions of pure \nfancy that his muse delights to sport, where, instead \nof the cold conceptions of a Northern brain, which \nmake up the machinery of Pulci, we are introduced \nto the delicate fairies of the East, to gardens bloom- \ning in the midst of the desert, to palaces of crystal, \nwinged steeds, enchanted armour, and all the gay \nfabric of Oriental mythology. It has been the sin- \ngular fate of Boiardo to have had his story continued \nand excelled by one poet, and his style reformed by \nanother, until his own original work, and even his \nname, have passed into comparative oblivion. Ber- \n\n\n\n512 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nni\'s rifacimenlo is perhaps the most remarkable in- \nstance of the triumph of style on record. Every \nstanza reflects the sense of the original ; yet such is \nthe fascination of his diction, compared with the \nprovincial barbarism of his predecessor, as to remind \none of those mutations in romance where some old \nand withered hag is suddenly transformed into a \nblooming fairy. It may be doubted whether this \ncould have succeeded so completely in a language \nwhere the beauties of style are less appreciated. \nDryden has made a similar attempt in the Canter- \nbury Tales; but who does not prefer the racy, ro- \nmantic sweetness of Chaucer ? \n\nThe Orlando Furioso, from its superior literary \nexecution, as well as from its union of all the pecu- \nliarities of Italian tales of chivalry, may be taken as \nthe representative of the whole species. Some of \nthe national critics have condemned, and some have \nendeavoured to justify these peculiarities of the ro- \nmantic epopee ; its complicated narrative and pro- \nvoking interruptions, its transitions from the gravest \nto the most familiar topics, its lawless extravagance \nof fiction, and other deviations from the statutes of \nantiquity \xe2\x80\x94 but very few have attempted to explain \nthem on just and philosophical principles. The ro- \nmantic eccentricities of the Italian poets are not to \nbe imputed either to inattention or ignorance. Most \nof them were accomplished scholars, and went to \ntheir work with all the forecast of consummate art- \nists. Boiardo was so well versed in the ancient \ntongues as to have made accurate translations ol \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 5 L3 \n\nHerodotus and Apuleius. Ariosto was such an ele- \ngant Latinist, that even the classic Bembo did not \ndisdain to learn from him the mysteries of Horace, \nHe consulted his friends over and over again on the \ndisposition of his fable, assigning to them the most \nsufficient reasons for its complicated texture. In \nlike manner, Tasso shows, in his Poetical Discour- \nses, how deeply he had revolved the principles of \nhis art, and his Letters prove his dexterity in the \napplication of these principles to his own composi- \ntions. These illustrious minds understood well the \ndifference between copying the ancients and copy- \ning nature. They knew that to write by the rules \nof the former is not to write like them ; that the ge- \nnius of our institutions requires new and peculiar \nforms of expression ; that nothing is more fantastic \nthan a modern antique ; and they wisely left the \nattempt and the failure to such spiritless pedants as \nTrissino. \n\nThe difference subsisting between the ancients \nand moderns, in the constitution of society, amply \njustifies the different principles on which they have \nproceeded in their works of imagination. Religion, \nlove, honour \xe2\x80\x94 w 7 hat different ideas are conveyed by \nthese terms in these different periods of history !* \nThe love of country was the pervading feeling \n\nHow feeble, as an operative principle, must religion have been among \na people who openly avowed it to be the creation of their own poets. \n"Homer and Hesiod," says Herodotus, "created the theogony of the \nGreeks, assigning to the gods their various titles, characters, and forms." \n\xe2\x80\x94 Herod., ii., 63. Religion, it is well known, was a principal bas\\s of \nmodern chivalry. \n\nT T T \n\n\n\n514 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwhich, in the ancient Greek or Roman, seems to \nhave absorbed every other, and to have obliterated, \nas it were, the moral idiosyncrasy of the individual, \nwhile with the moderns it is the individual who \nstands forward in principal relief. His loves, his \nprivate feuds and personal adventures, form the ob- \nject almost of exclusive attention. Hence, in the \nclassical fable, strict unity of action and concentra- \ntion of interest are demanded, while in the roman- \ntic, the object is best attained by variety of action \nand diversity of interest, and the threads of personal \nadventure separately conducted, and perpetually in- \ntersecting each other, make up the complicated tex- \nture of the fable. Hence it becomes so exceedingly \ndifficult to discern who is the real hero, and what \nthe main action, in such poems as the Innamorato \nand Furioso. Hence, too, the episode, the accident, \nif we may so say, of the classical epic, becomes the \nessence of the romantic. On this explication, Tas- \nso\'s delightful excursions, his adventures of Sophro- \nnia and Erminia, so often condemned as excrescen- \nces, may be admired as perfectly legitimate beauties. \nThe poems of Homer were intended as historical \ncompositions. They were revered and quoted as \nsuch by the most circumspect of the national wri- \nters, as Thucydides and Strabo, for example. The \nromantic poets, on the other hand, seem to have in- \ntended nothing beyond a mere delasseimnt of the \nimagination. The old Norman epics, it is true, ex- \nhibit a wonderful coincidence in their delineations \nof manners with the contemporary chronicles. But \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS 515 \n\nthis is not the spirit of Italian romance, which has \nrarely had any higher ostensible aim than that of \npure amusement. \n\n" Scritta cosi come la penna getta, \nPer fuggir l\'ozio, e non per cercar gloria," \n\nand which was right, therefore, in seeking its mate- \nrials in the wildest extravagances of fiction, the mag- \nnanime menzogne of chivalry, and the brilliant chi- \nmeras of the East. \n\nThe immortal epics of Ariosto and Tasso are too \ngenerally known to require from us any particular \nanalysis. Some light, however, may be reflected on \nthese poets from a contrast of their peculiarities. \nThe period in which Tasso wrote was one of high \nreligious fermentation. The Turks, who had so \nlong overawed Europe, had recently been discom- \nfited in the memorable sea-fight of Lepanto, and the \nkindling enthusiasm of the nations seemed to threat- \nen for a moment to revive the follies of the Crusades. \nTasso\'s character was of a kind to be peculiarly \nsensible to these influences. His soul was penetra- \nted with religious fervour, to which, as Serassi has \nshown, more than to any cause of mysterious pas- \nsion, are to be imputed his occasional mental aber- \nrations. He was distinguished, moreover, by his \nchivalrous personal valour, put to the test in more \nthan one hazardous encounter; and he was reckon- \ned the most expert swordsman of his time. Tasso\'s \npeculiarities of character were singularly suited to \nhis subject. He has availed himself of this to the \nfull in exhibiting the resources and triumphs of \n\n\n\n516 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nChristian chivalry. The intellectual rather than the \nphysical attributes of his supernatural agents, his \nsolemn meditations on the fragility of earthly glory, \nand the noble ardour with which he leads us to as- \npire after an imperishable crown, give to his epic a \nmoral grandeur which no preceding poet had ever \nreached. It has been objected to him, however, that \nhe preferred the intervention of subordinate agents \nto that of the Deity ; but the God of the Christians \ncannot be introduced like those of pagan mythology. \nThey espoused the opposite sides of the contest ; \nbut, wherever He appears, the balance is no longer \nsuspended, and the poetical interest is consequently \ndestroyed. \n\n" Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni." \n\nThis might be sublime with the ancients, but would \nbe blasphemous and absurd with the moderns, and \nTasso judged wisely in availing himself of inferior \nand intermediate ministers. \nAriosto\'s various subject, \n\n" Le donne, i cavalier\', l\'arme, gli amori," \n\nwas equally well suited with Tasso\'s to his own va- \nrious and flexible genius. It did not, indeed, admit \nof the same moral elevation, in which he was him- \nself perhaps deficient, but it embraced within its \nrange every variety of human passion and portrait- \nure. Tasso w T as of a solitary, as Ariosto was of a \nsocial temper. He had no acquaintance with affairs, \nand Gravina accuses him of drawing his knowledge \nfrom books instead of men. He turned his thoughts \ninward, and matured them by deep and serious med- \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 51"/ \n\nitation. He had none of the volatile talents of his \nrival, who seems to have parted with his brilliant \nfancies as readily as the tree gives up its leaves in \nautumn. Ariosto was a man of the world, and in \nhis philosophy may be styled an Epicurean. His \nsatires show a familiarity with the practical con- \ncerns of life, and a deep insight into the characters \nof men. His conceptions, however, were of the \nearth ; and his pure style, which may be compared \nwith Alcina\'s transparent drapery, too often reveals \nto us the grossest impurity of thought. \n\nThe muse of Tasso was of a heavenly nature, and \nnourished herself with celestial visions and ideal \nforms of beauty. He was a disciple of Plato, and \nhence the source of his general elevation of thought, \nand too often of his mystical abstraction. The \nhealthful bloom of his language imparts an inexpres- \nsible charm to the purity of his sentiments, and it is \ntruly astonishing that so chaste and dignified a com- \nposition should have been produced in an age and \ncourt so corrupt. \n\nBoth of these great artists elaborated their style \nwith the utmost care, but with totally different re- \nsults. This frequently gave to Tasso\'s verse the fin- \nish of a lyrical, or, rather, of a musical composition ; \nfor many of his stanzas have less resemblance to the \nmagnificent rhythm of Petrarch than to the melodi- \nous monotony of Metastasio. This must be con- \nsidered a violation of the true epic style. It is sin- \ngular that Tasso himself, in one of his poetical crit- \nicisms, should have objected this very defect to his \n4 2 T \n\n\n\n518 BIOORAPHIOAf AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nrival * The elaboration of Ariosto, on the other \nhand, resulted in that exquisite negligence, or, rather \nartlessness of expression, so easy in appearance, but \nso difficult in reality to be imitated : \n\n" Facil\' versi che costan tanta pena." \n\nThe Jerusalem Delivered is placed, by the nice \ndiscrimination of the Italian critics, at the head of \ntheir heroic epics. In its essence, however, it is \nstrictly romantic, though in its form it is accommo- \ndated to the general proportions of the antique. In \nAriosto\'s complicated fable it is difficult to discern \neither a leading hero or a predominant action. Sis- \nmondi applauds Ginguene for having discovered this \nhero in Ruggiero. But both these writers might \nhave found this discovery, where it was revealed \nmore than two centuries ago, in Tasso\'s own Dis- \ncourses.f We doubt, however, its accuracy, and \ncannot but think that the prominent part assigned \nto Orlando, from whom the poem derives its name, \nmanifests a different intention in the author. \n\nThe stately and imposing beauties of Tasso\'s epic \nhave rendered it generally the most acceptable to \nforeigners, while the volatile graces of Ariosto have \nmade him most popular with his own nation. Both \npoets have had the rare felicity, not only of obtain- \ning the applause of the learned, but of circulating \namong the humblest classes of their countrymen \nFragments of the Furioso are still recited by the laz- \nzaroni of Naples, as those of the Jerusalem once \nwere by the gondoliers of Venice, where this leau- \n\n* Discorsi Poetici, iii. 1 Ibid., ii \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 519 \n\ntiful epic, broken up into ballads, might be heard for \nmiles along the canals on a tranquil summer even \ning. Had Boileau, who so bitterly sneers at the \n\xe2\x80\xa2clinquant of Tasso, " heard these musical contests," \nsajs Voltaire, " he would have had nothing to say." \nIt is worthy of remark, that these two celebrated \npoems, together with the Aminta, the Pastor Fido, \nand the Secchia Rapita, were all produced within \nthe brief compass of a century, in the petty princi- \npality of the house of Este, which thus seemed to \nindemnify itself for its scanty territory by its ample \nacquisitions in the intellectual world. \n\nThe mass of epical imitations in Italy, both of \nAriosto and Tasso, especially the former, is perfect- \nly overwhelming. Nor is it easy to understand the \npatience with which the Italians have resigned them- \nselves to these interminable poems of seventy, eigh- \nty, or even ninety thousand verses each. Many of \nthem, it must be admitted, are the w T ork of men of \nreal genius, and, in a literature less fruitful in epic \nexcellence, would have given a wide celebrity to \ntheir authors; and the amount of others of less note, \nin a department so rarely attempted in other coun- \ntries, shows in the nation at large a wonderful fe- \ncundity of fancy. \n\nThe Italians, desirous of combining as many at- \ntractions as possible, and extremely sensible to har- \nmony, have not, as has been the case in France and \nEngland, divested their romances of the music of \nverse. They have rarely adopted a national subject \nfor their story, but have condescended to borrow \n\n\n\n520 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthose of the old Norman minstrels; and in conform- \nity with the characteristic temperament of the na- \ntion, they have almost always preferred the mercu- \nrial temper of the court of Charlemagne to the mora \nsober complexion of the Round Table.* \n\nWith a few exceptions, the romantic poets, since \nthe time of Ariosto, appear to have gained as little \nin elevation of sentiment as in national feeling. The \nnice classification of their critics seems to relate \nonly to their varieties of comic character, and as we \ndescend to a later period, the fine, equivocal raillery \nof the older romances degenerates into a broad and \nundisguised burlesque. In the latter class, the Ric- \nciardetto of Fortiguerra is a jest rather than a sa- \ntire upon tales of chivalry. The singular union \nwhich this work exhibits of elegance of style and \nhomeliness of subject, may have furnished, especial- \nly in its introduction, the model of that species of \npoetry which Lord Byron has familiarized us with \nin Don Juan, where the contrast of sentiment and \nsatire, of vivid passion and chill misanthropy, of im- \nages of beauty and splenetic sarcasm, may remind \none of the whimsical combinations in Alpine scenery, \nwhere the strawberry blooms on the verge of a snow- \nwreath. \n\nThe Italians claim to have given the first models \nof mock heroic poetry in modern times. The Sec- \nchia Rapita of Tassoni has the merit of a graceful \nversification, exhibiting many exquisite pictures of \n\n* The French antiquary, Tressan, furnishes an exception to the gen- \neral criticism of his countrymen, in admitting the superiority of thir Wai- \nter class of romances over those of Charlemagne. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 521 \n\nvoluptuous repose, and some passages of an imposing \ngrandeur. But these accord ill with the vulgar mer \nriment and general burlesque tone of the piece, \nwhich, on the whole, presents a strange medley of \nbeauties and blemishes mixed up promiscuously to- \ngether. Twelve cantos of hard fighting and cutting \nof throats are far too serious for a joke. The blood- \nless battle of the books in the Lutrin, or those of \nthe pot-valiant heroes of Knickerbocker, are in much \nbetter keeping. The Italians have no poetry of a \nmezzo carattere like our Rape of the .Lock,* where \na fine atmosphere of irony pervades the piece, and \ngives life to every character in it. They appear to \ndelight in that kind of travestie which reduces great \nthings into little, but which is of a much less spirit- \nual nature than that which exalts little things into \ngreat. Parini\'s exquisite Giorno, if the satire had \nnot rather too sharp an edge, might furnish an ex- \nception to both these remarks. \n\nBut it is time that we should turn to the Novelle, \nthose delightful " tales of pleasantry and love," which \nform one of the most copious departments of the \nnational literature. And here we may remark two \npeculiarities : first, that similar tales in France and \nEngland fell entirely into neglect after the fifteenth \ncentury, while in Italy they have been cultivated \nwith the most unwearied assiduity from their ear- \nliest appearance to the present hour; secondly, that \nin ooth the former countries the fabliaux were almost \nuniversally exhibited in a poetical dress, while in \n\n* Pignotti, Stor. del. Toscana, torn, x., p 132. \n\n4 2T* \n\n\n\n522 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nItaly, contrary to the popular taste on all other oc- \ncasions, they have been as uniformly exhibited in \nprose. These peculiarities are undoubtedly to be \nimputed to the influence of Boccaccio, whose trans- \ncendent genius gave a permanent popularity to this \nkind of composition, and finally determined the \nforms of elegant prose with his nation. \n\nThe appearance of the Decameron is, in some \npoints of view, as remarkable a phenomenon as that \nof the Divine Comedy. It furnishes the only ex- \nample on record of the almost simultaneous devel- \nopment of prose and poetry in the literature of a \nnation. The earliest prose of any pretended liter- \nary value in the Greek tongue, the most precocious \nof any of antiquity, must be placed near four centu- \nries after the poems of Homer. To descend to \nmodern times, the Spaniards have a little work, "El \nConde Lucanor," nearly contemporary with the \nDecameron, written on somewhat of a similar plan, \nbut far more didactic in its purport. Its style, though \nmarked by a certain freshness and naivete, the healthy \nbeauties of an infant dialect, has nothing of a class- \nical finish ; to which, indeed, Castilian prose, not- \nwithstanding its fine old chronicles and romances, \ncan make no pretension before the close of the fif- \nteenth century. In France, a still later period must \nbe assigned for this perfection. Dante, it is true, \nspeaks of the peculiar suitableness of the French \nlanguage in his day for prose narration, on acconnt \nof its flexibility and freedom ;* but Dante had few \n\n* De Vulg. Eloq., lib. i., cap. x. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 523 \n\nand very inadequate standards of comparison, and \nexperience has shown how many ages of purifica- \ntion it was to undergo before it could become the \nvehicle of elegant composition. Pascal\'s Provincial \nLetters furnish, in the opinion of the national critics, \nthe earliest specimen of good prose. It would be \nmore difficult to agree upon the author, or the pe- \nriod that arrested the fleeting forms of expression in \nour own language ; but we certainly could not ven- \nture upon an earlier date than the conclusion of the \nseventeenth century. \n\nThe style of the Decameron exhibits the full ma- \nturity of an Augustan age. The finish of its periods, \nits long, Latinized involutions, but especially its re- \ndundancy and Asiatic luxury of expression, vices \nimputed to Cicero by his own contemporaries, as \nQuintilian informs us, reveal to us the model on \nwhich Boccaccio diligently formed himself. In the \nmore elevated parts of his subject he reaches to an \neloquence not unworthy of the Roman orator him- \nself. The introductions to his novels, chiefly de- \nscriptive, are adorned with all the music and the \ncolouring of poetry; much too poetic, indeed, for \nthe prose of any other tongue. It cannot be doubt- \ned that this brilliant piece of mechanism has had an \nimmense influence on the Italians, both in seducing \nthem into a too exclusive attention to mere beauties \nof style, and in leading them to solicit such beauties \nin graver and less appropriate subjects than those of \npure invention.* \n\nTn the celebrated description of the Plague, how \n\n\n\n524 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\never, Boccaccio has shown a muscular energy of \ndiction quite worthy of the pen of Thucydides. Yet \nthere is no satisfactory evidence that he had read \nthe similar performance of the Greek historian, and \nthe conjecture of Baldelli to that effect is founded \nonly on a resemblance of some detached passages, \nwhich might well occur in treating of a similar dis- \nease.* In the delineation of its fearful moral con- \nsequences, Boccaccio has undoubtedly surpassed his \npredecessor. It is singular that of the three cele- \nbrated narratives of this distemper, that by the Eng- \nlishman, De Foe, is by far the most circumstantial \nin its details, and yet that he was the only one of \nthe three historians who was not an eyewitness to \nwhat he relates.f The Plague of London happen- \ned in the year succeeding his birth. \n\nThe Italian novelists have followed so closely in \nthe track of Boccaccio, that we may discuss their \ngeneral attributes without particular reference to \nhim, their beauties and their blemishes varying only \nin degree. They ransacked every quarter for their \ninventions: Eastern legends, Norman fabliaux, do- \nmestic history, tradition, and vulgar, contemporary \nanecdote. They even helped themselves, plenis \nmanibus, to one another\'s fancies, particularly nich- \ning from the Decameron, which has for this reason \nbeen pleasantly compared to a pawnbroker\'s shop. \nBut no exceptions seem to be taken at such plagia- \n\n* Vita di Boccaccio, lib. ii., s. 2, note. \n\nf It seems probable, however, from a passage ;n Boccaccio, cited by \nBandelli, that he witnessed the plague in some other city of Italy that \nFlorence. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND RuMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 525 \n\nrism, and, as long as the story could be disguised in \na different dress, they cared little for the credit of \nthe invention. These fictions are oftentimes of the \nmost grotesque and improbable character, exhibiting \nno great skill in the liaison of events, which are \nstrung together with the rude artlessness of a prim- \nitive trouveur, while most promising beginnings are \nfrequently brought up by flat and impotent conclu- \nsions. Many of the novelle are made up of mere \npersonal anecdote, proverbialisms, and Florentine \ntable-talk, the ingredients of an encyclopedia of wit. \nIn all this, however, we often find less wit than \nmerriment, which shows itself in the most puerile \npractical jokes, played off upon idiots, unfortunate \npedants, and other imbeciles, with as little taste as \nfeeling. \n\nThe novelle wear the usual light and cheerful as- \npect of Italian literature. They seldom aim at a \nserious or didactic purpose. Their tragical scenes, \nthough very tragical, are seldom affecting. We rec- \nollect in them no example of the passion of love \ntreated with the depth and tenderness of feeling so \nfrequent in the English dramatists and novelists. \nThey can make little pretension, indeed, to accu- \nrate delineation of character of any sort. Even \nBoccaccio, who has acquired, in our opinion, a \nsomewhat undeserved celebrity in this way, paints \nprofessions rather than individuals. The brevity of \nthe Italian tale, which usually affords space only for \nthe exhibition of a catastrophe, is an important oh- \nstacle to a gradual development of character. \n\n\n\n526 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nA remarkable trait in these novelle is the extreme \nboldness with which the reputations of the clergy \nare handled. Their venality, lechery, hypocrisy, \nand abominable impositions are all exposed with a \nreckless independence. The head of the Church \nhimself is not spared. It is not easy to account for \nthis authorized latitude in a country where so jeal- \nous a surveillance has been maintained over the free- \ndom of the press in relation to other topics. War- \nton attempts to explain it, as far as regards the De- \ncameron, by supposing that the ecclesiastics of that \nage had become tainted with the dissoluteness so \nprevalent after the Plague of 1348 ; and Madame de \nStael suggests that the government winked at this \nlicense as the jesting of children, who are content to \nobey their masters so they may laugh at them. But \nneither of these solutions will suffice ; for the license \nof Boccaccio has been assumed more or less by \nnearly every succeeding novelist, and the jests of \nthis merry tribe have been converted into the most \nstinging satire on the clergy, in the hands of the gra- \nvest and most powerful writers of the nation, from \nDante to Monti. \n\nIt may be truly objected to the Italian novelists, \nthat they have been as little solicitous about purity \nof sentiment as they have been too much so about \npurity of style. The reproach of indecency lies \nheavily upon most of their writings, from the Decam- \neron to the infamous tales of Casti, which, reeking \nwith the corruption of a brothel, have passed into \nseveral surreptitious editions during the present cert- \n\n\n\nTOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 527 \n\ntury. This indecency is not always a mere excres- \ncence, but deeply ingrained in the body of the piece, \nIt is not conveyed in innuendo, or softened under \nthe varnish of sentiment, but is exhibited in all the \nnakedness of detail which a debauched imagination \ncan divine. Petrarch\'s encomiastic letter to his \nfriend Boccaccio, written at the close of his own life, \nin which he affects to excuse the licentiousness of \nthe Decameron from the youth of the author,* al- \nthough he was turned of forty when he composed it, \nhas been construed into an ample apology for their \nown transgressions by the subsequent school of nov- \nelists. \n\nIt is true that some of the popes, of a more fastid- \nious conscience, have taken exceptions at the license \nof the Decameron, and have placed it on the Index ; \nbut an expurgated edition, whose only alteration \nconsisted in the substitution of lay names for those \nof the clergy, set all things right again. \n\nSuch adventures as the seduction of a friend\'s \nwife, or the deceptions practised upon a confiding \nhusband, are represented as excellent pieces of wit \nin these fictions \xe2\x80\x94 in some of the best of them, even ; \nand often when their authors would be moral, \nthey betray, in their confused perceptions of right \nand wrong, the most deplorable destitution of a mor- \nal sense. Grazzini (il Lasca), one of the most pop- \nular of the tribe of the sixteenth century, after invo- \nking, in the most solemn manner, the countenance \nof the Deity upon his labours, and beseeching him \n\n* Petrarca Op., ed. Basil., p. 540 \n\n\n\n528 Lr\xc2\xa3 GRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nto inspire his mind with " such thoughts only as may \nredound to his praise and glory," enters immediately, \nin the next page, upon one of the most harefaced \nspecimens of "bold bawdry," to make use of the \nplain language of Roger Ascham, that is to be found \nin the whole work. It is not easy to estimate the \ndemoralizing influence of writings, many of which, \nbeing possessed of the beauties of literary finish, are \nelevated into the rank of classics, and thus find their \nway into the most reserved and fastidious libraries. \n\nThe literary execution of these tales is, however, \nby no means equal. In some it is even neglected, \nand in all falls below that of their great original. \nStill, in the larger part the graces of style are sedu- \nlously cultivated, and in many constitute the princi- \npal merit. Some of their authors, especially the \nmore ancient, as Sacchetti and Ser Giovanni, derive \ngreat repute from their picturesque proverbialisms \n(riboboli), the racy slang of the Florentine mob ; \npearls of little price with foreigners, but of great es- \ntimation with their own countrymen. On these \nqualities, however, as on all those of mere external \nform, a stranger should pronounce with great diffi- \ndence ; but the intellectual and moral character of a \ncomposition, especially the last, are open to univer \nsal criticism. The principles of taste may differ in \ndifferent nations ; but, however often obscured by \neducation or habit, there can be only one true stand- \nard of morality. \n\nWe may concede, then, to many of the novelle, \nthe merits of a delicate work of art, gracefulness, \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIA \xc2\xb0iV 523 \n\nnay, eloquence of style, agreeable facility of narra- \ntive, pleasantry that sometimes rises into wit, occa- \nsional developments of character, and an inexhaust- \nible novelty of situation. But we cannot help re- \ngretting that, while so many of the finest wits of the \nnation have amused themselves with these compo- \nsitions, they should not have exhibited virtue in a \nmore noble and imposing attitude, or studied a more \nscientific delineation of passion, or a more direct \nmoral aim or practical purpose. How rarely do we \nfind, unless it be in some few of the last century, the \ndidactic or even satirical tone of the English essay- \nists, who seldom assume the Oriental garb, so fre- \nquent in Italian tales, for any other purpose than \nthat of better conveying a prudential lesson. Gold- \nsmith and Hawkesworth may furnish us with perti- \nnent examples of this. How rarely do we recognise \nin these novette the living portraiture of Chaucer, or \nthe philosophical point which sharpens the pleasant- \nry of La Fontaine ; both competitors in the same \nwalk. Without any higher object than that of pres- \nent amusement, these productions, like many others \nof their elegant literature, seem to be thrown off in \nthe mere gayety of the heart. \n\nChaucer, in his peculiarities, represents as faith- \nfully those of the English nation as his rival and \ncontemporary, Boccaccio, represents the Italian. In \na searching anatomy of the human heart, he as far \nexcels the latter, as in rhetorical beauty he is sur- \npassed by him. The prologue to his Canterbury \nTales alone contains a gallery of portraits, such as \n4 2 U \n\n\n\n530 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nis not to be found in the whole compass of the De- \ncameron ; his friar, for example, \n\n" That somewhat lisped from his wantonnesse \nTo mako his English sweete upon his tonge ;" \n\nhis worthy parson, " glad to teche and glad to lerne ;" \nhis man of law, who \n\n" Though so besy a man as he ther n\' as, \nYet seemed besier than he was ;" \n\nand his inimitable wag of a host, breaking his jests, \nlike Falstar^ indiscriminately upon every one he \nmeets. Chaucer was a shrewd observer of the re- \nalities of life. He did not indulge in day-dreams of \nvisionary perfection. His little fragment of Sir \nThopaz is a fine quiz upon the incredibilia of chiv- \nalry. In his conclusion of the story of the patient \nGriselde, instead of adopting the somewhat /#<& eu- \nlogiums of Boccaccio, he good-naturedly jests at the \nultra perfection of the heroine. Like Shakspeare \nand Scott, his successors and superiors in the school \nof character, he seems to have had too vivid a per- \nception of the vanities of human life to allow him \nfor a moment to give into those extravagances of \nperfection which have sprung from the brain of so \nmany fond enthusiasts. \n\nChaucer\'s genius was every way equal to that of \nBoccaccio, yet the direct influence of the one can \nscarcely be discerned beyond his own age, while \nthat of the other has reached to the present genera- \ntion. A principal cause of this is the difference of \ntheir style ; that of the former exhibiting only the \nrude graces of a primitive dialect, while Boccaccio\'s \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 531 \n\nmay be said to have reached the full prime of a cul- \ntivated period. Another cause is discernible in the \nnew and more suitable forms which came to be \nad )pted for that delineation of character which con- \nstitutes the essence of Chaucer\'s fictions, viz., those \nof the drama and the extended novel, in both of \nwhich Italian literature has, until very recently, been \nsingularly deficient. Boccaccio made two elaborate \nessays in novel-writing, but his genius seems to have \nbeen ill adapted to it, and in his strange and prolix \nnarrative, which brings upon the stage again the ob- \nsolete deities of antiquity, even the natural graces \nof his style desert him. The attempt has scarcely \nbeen repeated until our day, when the impulse com- \nmunicated by the English, in romance and historical \nnovel-writing, to other nations on the Continent, \nseems to have extended itself to Italy ; and the ex- \ntraordinary favour which has been shown there to \nthe first essays in this way, may perhaps lead even- \ntually to more brilliant successes. \n\nThe Spaniards, under no better circumstances \nthan the Italians, made, previously to the last-men- \ntioned period, a nearer approach to the genuine \nnovel. Cervantes has furnished, amid his carica- \ntures of chivalry, many passages of exquisite pathos \nand pleasantry, and a rich variety of national por- \ntraiture. The same, though in a less degree, may \nbe affirmed of his shorter tales, Novelas exemplares, \nwhich, however inferior to those of the Decameron \nin rhetorical elegance, certainly surpass them in their \npractical application. But the peculiar property of \n\n\n\n532 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe Spaniards is their incaresco novel, a mere chron- \nicle of the adventures and mischievous pranks of \nyoung pickpockets and chevaliers d\' Industrie, invent- \ned, whimsically enough, by a Castilian grandee, one \nof the proudest of his caste, and which, notwithstand- \ning the glaring contrast it affords to the habitual \ngravity of the nation, has, perhaps from this very \ncircumstance, been a great favourite with it ever \nsince. \n\nThe French have made other advances in novel- \nwriting. They have produced many specimens of \nwit and of showy sentiment, but they seldom afford \nany wide range of observation, or searching views \nof character. The conventional breeding that uni- \nversally prevails in France has levelled all inequal- \nities of rank, and obliterated, as it were, the moral \nphysiognomy of the different classes, which, however \nsalutary in other respects, is exceedingly unpropi- \ntious to the purposes of the novelist. Moliere, the \nmost popular character-monger of the French, has \npenetrated the superficies of the most artificial state \nof society. His spirited sketches of fashionable fol- \nly, though very fine, very Parisian, are not always \nfounded on the universal principles of human na- \nture, and, when founded on these, they are sure to \nbe carried more or less into caricature. The French \nhave little of the English talent for humour. They \nhave buffoonery, a lively wit, and a naivete beyond \nthe reach of art \xe2\x80\x94 Rabelais, Voltaire, La Fontaine \xe2\x80\x94 \neverything but humour. How spiritless and affect- \ned are the caricatures so frequently stuck up at their \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANC 533 \n\nshop-windows, and which may be considered as the \npopular expression in this way, compared with those \nof the English. It is impossible to conceive of a \nFrench Goldsmith or Fielding, a Hogarth or a Wil- \nkie. They have, indeed, produced a Le Sage, but \nne seems to have confessed the deficiency of his own \nnation by deriving his models exclusively from a \nforeign one. \n\nOn the other hand, the freedom of the political \nand social institutions, both in this country and in \nEngland, which has encouraged the undisguised ex- \npansion of intellect and of peculiarities of temper, \nhas made them the proper theatre for the student of \nhis species. Hence man has been here delineated \nwith an accuracy quite unrivalled in any ancient or \nmodern nation, and, as the Greeks have surpassed \nevery later people in statuary, from their familiarity \nwith the visible, naked forms of manly beauty, so \nthe English may be said, from an analogous cause, \nto have excelled all others in moral portraiture. To \nthis point their most eminent artists have directed \ntheir principal attention. We have already noticed \nit in Chaucer. It formed the essence of the drama \nin Elizabeth\'s time, as it does that of the modern \nnovel. Shakspeare and Scott, in their respective \ndepartments, have undoubtedly carried this art to \nthe highest perfection of which it is capable, sacri- \nficing to it every minor consideration of probability, \nincident, and gradation of plot, which they seem to \nhave valued only so far as they might be made sub- \nservjent to the main purpose of a clearer exposition \n\nof character. \n\n2 U* \n\n\n\n534 PIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nBut it is time to return from the digression into \nwhich we have been led by a desire of illustrating \ncertain peculiarities of Italian literature, which can \nin no way be done so well as by comparing them \nwith those of corresponding departments in other \nlanguages. Such a comparison abundantly shows \nhow much deeper and more philosophical have been \nthe views proposed by prose fiction in England than \nin Italy. \n\nWe have reserved the Drama for the last, as, un- \ntil a very recent period, it has been less prolific in \neminent models than either of the great divisions of \nItalian letters. Yet it has been the one most assid- \nuously cultivated from a very early period, and this, \ntoo, by the ripest scholars and most approved wits. \nThe career was opened by such minds as Ariosto \nand Machiavelli, at a time when the theatres in oth- \ner parts of Europe had given birth only to the un- \nseemly abortions of mysteries and moralities. Bou- \nterwek has been led into a strange error in impu- \nting the low condition of the Italian drama to the \nsmall number of men, of even moderate abilities, \nwho have cultivated it.* A glance at the long mus- \nter-roll of eminent persons employed upon it, from \nMachiavelli to Monti, will prove the contrary.! The \nunprecedented favour bestowed on the most success- \nful of the dramatic writers may serve to show, at \nleast, the aspirations of the people. The Merope \n\n* See the conclusion of bis History of Spanish Literature. \n\nt See Allacci\'s Drammaturgia, passim, and Riccoboni Theatre Ital., \ntorn, i., p. 187-208. Allacci\'s catalogue, as continued lown to the mid- \ndle of the eighteenth century, occupies nearly a thousand quan* pages \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS 535 \n\nof Maffei, which may be deemed the first dawn of \nimprovement in the tragic art, passed through sixtj \neditions. Notwithstanding all this, the Italians, in \ncomedy, and still more in tragedy, until the late ap- \nparition of Alfieri, remained far below several of the \nother nations of Europe. \n\nA principal cause of their repeated failures has \nbeen often referred to the inherent vices of their \nsystem, which required a blind conformity with the \nsupposed rules of Aristotle. Under the cumbrous \nload of antiquity, the freedom and grace of natural \nmovement were long impeded. Their first attempts \nwere translations, or literal imitations of the Latin \ntheatre ; some of these, though objectionable in form, \ncontain the true spirit of comedy. Those of Ariosto \nand Machiavelli, in particular, with even greater li- \ncentiousness of detail, and a more immoral conclu- \nsion than belong either to Plautus or Terence, fully \nequal, perhaps surpass them, in their spirited and \nwhimsical draughts of character. Ariosto is never \nmore a satirist than in his comedies; and Machia- \nvelli, in his Mandragola, has exposed the hypocri- \nsies of religion with a less glaring caricature than \nMoliere has shown in his TartufTe. The spirit of \nthese great masters did not descend to their imme- \ndiate successors. Goldoni, however, the Moliere of \nItaly, in his numerous comedies or farces, has suc- \nceeded in giving a lively, graphic portraiture of local \nmanners, with infinite variety and comic power, but \nno great depth of interest. He has seldom risen to \nrefined and comprehensive views of society, and his \n\n\n\n536 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npieces, we may trust, are not to be received as faith- \nfully reflecting the national character, which they \nwould make singularly deficient both in virtue and \nthe principle of honour. Tflie writers who have \nfollowed in the footsteps of Goldoni, exhibit, for the \nmost part, similar defects, with far inferior comic \ntalent. Their productions, on the whole, however, \nmay be thought to maintain an advantageous com- \nparison with those of any other people in Europe \nduring the same period, although some of them, to \njudge from the encomiastic tone of their critics, ap- \npear to have obtained a wider celebrity with their \ncontemporaries than will be probably conceded to \nthem by posterity. The comedies of art which Gol- \ndoni superseded, and which were, perhaps, more in- \ndicative of the national taste than any other dramat- \nic performances, can hardly come within the scope \nof literary criticism. \n\nThe Italian writers would seem not even to have \nagreed upon a suitable measure for comedy, some \nusing the common versi sciolti, some the sdruccioli, \nothers, again, the martelliani, and many more pre- \nferring prose.* Another impediment to their suc- \ncess is the great variety of dialects in Italy, as nu- \nmerous as her petty states, which prevents the rec- \nognition of any one uniform style of familiar con- \nversation for comedy. The greater part of the \npieces of Goldoni are written, more .or less, in the \n\n* Professor Salfi affirms prose to be the most suitable, indeed the onl) \nproper dress for Italian comedy. See his sensible critique on the Italian \ncomic drama, prefixed to the late edition of Alberto Nota ? \xc2\xbb Commedia \nParigi, 1829. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 537 \n\nlocal idiom of one of the extremities of Italy ; an \ninconvenience which cannot exist, and which can \nhardly be appreciated in a country where one ac- \nknowledged capital has settled the medium of polite \nintercourse. \n\nThe progress of the nation in the tragic art, until \na late period, has been yet more doubtful. Some \nnotion may be formed of its low state in the last \ncentury from the circumstance that, when the play \ners were in want of a serious piece, they could find \nnone so generally acceptable as an opera of Metas- \ntasio, stripped of its musical accompaniments. The \nappearance of Alfieri at this late season, of a genius \nso austere, in the midst of the voluptuous, Sybarite \neffeminacy of the period, is a remarkable phenom- \nenon. It was as if the severe Doric proportions of \na Paestum temple had been suddenly raised up amid \nthe airy forms of Palladian architecture. The re- \nserved and impenetrable character of this man has \nbeen perfectly laid open to us in his own autobiog- \nraphy. It was made up of incongruity and paradox. \nTo indomitable passions he joined the most frigid \nexterior. With the fiercest aristocratic nature, he \nyet quitted his native state that he might enjoy un- \nmolested the sweets of liberty. He published one \nphilippic against kings, and another against the peo- \nple. His theoretic love of freedom was far from be- \ning warmed by the genuine glow of patriotism. Of \nall his tragedies, he condescended to derive two only \nrom Italian history ; and when, in his prefaces, ded- \nications, or elsewhere, he takes occasion to notice \n\nY Y Y \n\n\n\n538 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhis countrymen, he does it in the bitterness of irony \nand insult. \n\nWhen he first set about his tragedies, he could \ncompose only in a sort of French and Piedmontese \npatois. He was unacquainted with any written dra- \nmatic literature, though he had witnessed the the- \natrical exhibitions of the principal capitals of Eu- \nrope. He w T as, therefore, to form himself all fresh \nupon such models as he might prefer. His haughty \nspirit carried him back to the trecentisti, especially \nto Dante, whose stern beauties he sedulously endeav- \noured to transfuse into his own style. He studied \nTacitus, moreover, with diligence, and made three \nentire translations of Sallust. He was greatly afraid \nof falling into the cantilena of Metastasio, and sought \nto avoid this by sudden abruptions of language, by \nan eccentric use of the articles and pronouns, by \ndislocating the usual structure of verse, and by dis- \ntributing the emphatic words with exclusive refer- \nence to the sense.* \n\nThis unprecedented manner brought upon Alfieri \na host of critics, and he was compelled, in a subse- \nquent edition, to soften down its most offensive as- \nperities. He imputes to himself as many different \nstyles of composition as distinguish the works of \nRaphael, and it is pretty evident that he considers \nthe last as near perfection as he could well hope to \nattain. It is, indeed, a noble style : with the occa- \nsional turbulence of a mighty rapid, it has all its ful- \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 See a summary of these peculiarities in Casalbigi\';i Letter orehxed \nto the late editions of Alfieri\'s tragedies. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 539 \n\nness ana magnificent flow ; and it shows how utter- \nly impossible it is, by any effort of art, to repress the \nnatural melody of the Tuscan. \n\nAllien effected a still more important revolution \nin the intellectual character of the drama, arousing \nit from the lethargy into which it had fallen, and \nmaking it the vehicle of generous and heroic senti- \nment. He forced his pieces sometimes, it is true, \nby violent contrast, but he brought out his characters \nwith a fulness of relief, and exhibited a dexterous \ncombat of passion, that may not unfrequendy remind \nus of Shakspeare. He dismissed all supernumera- \nries from his plays, and put into action what his \npredecessors had coldly narrated. He dispensed, \nmoreover, with the curious coincidences, marvellous \nsurprises, and all the bei colpi di scena so familiar in \nthe plays of Metastasio. He disdained even the po- \netical aid of imagery, relying wholly for effect on the \ndignity of his sentiments, and the imposing charac- \nter of his agents. \n\nAlfieri has been thought to have made a nearer \napproach to the Greek tragedy than any of the mod- \nerns. He, indeed, disclaims the imitation of any \nforeign model, and he did not learn the Greek till \nlate in life ; but the drama of his own nation had \nalways been servilely accommodated to the rules of \nthe ancients, and he himself had rigorously adhered \nto the same code. His severe genius, too, wears \nsomewhat of the aspect of that of the father of Gre- \ncian tragedy, with which it has been repeatedly \ncompared; but any apparent resemblance in their \n\n\n\n540 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncompositions vanishes on a closer inspection. The \nassassination of Agamemnon, for example, forms the \nsubject of a tragedy with both these writers ; but on \nwhat different principles is it conducted by each ! \nThe larger proportion of the play of iEschylus is \ntaken up with the melancholy monologues of Cas- \nsandra and the chorus, which, boding the coming \ndisasters of the house of Atreus, or mourning over \nthe destiny of man, are poured forth in a lofty dith- \nyrambic eloquence, that gives to the whole the air \nof a lyrical rather than a dramatic composition. It \nw r as this lyrical enthusiasm which, doubtless, led \nPlutarch to ascribe the inspiration of iEschylus to \nthe influence of the grape.* The dialogue of the \npiece is of a most inartificial texture, and to an Eng- \nlish audience might sometimes appear flat. The \naction moves heavily, and the principal, indeed, with \nthe exception of Agamemnon, the only attempt at \ncharacter, is in the part of Clytemnestra, whose gi- \ngantic stature overshadows the whole piece, and who \nappals the spectator by avowing the deed of assas- \nsination with the same ferocity with which she had \nexecuted it. \n\nAlfieri, on the other hand, refuses the subsidiary \naids of poetical imagery. He expressly condemns, \nin his criticisms, a confounding of the lyric and the \ndramatic styles. He elaborated his dialogue with \nthe nicest art, and with exclusive reference to the \n\n* Sympos, LVIL, Prob. 10. In the same spirit, a critic of a more pol- \nished age has denounced Shakspeare\'s Hamlet as the work of a drunken \nsavage ! See Voltaire\'s Dissertation sur la Tragedie, &c, addressed to \nCardinal Querini. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 541 \n\nfinal catastrophe. Scence non levis artifex. His \nprincipal aim is to exhibit the collision of passions \nThe conflicts between passion and principle in the \nbosom of Clytemnestra, whom he has made a sub- \nordinate agent, furnish him with his most powerful \nscenes. He has portrayed the Iago-like features of \niEgisthus in the darkest colours of Italian ven- \ngeance. The noble nature of Agamemnon stands \nmore fully developed than in the Greek, and the \nsweet character of Electra is all his own. The as- \nsassination of the king of men in his bed, at the \nlonely hour of midnight, must forcibly remind the \nEnglish reader of the similar scene in Macbeth ; but, \nthough finely conceived, it is far inferior to the latter \nin those fearful poetical accompaniments which give \nsuch an air of breathless horror to the story. In \nsolemn, mysterious imaginings, who indeed can \nequal Shakspeare ? He is the only modern poet \nwho has succeeded in introducing the dim form of \nan apparition on the stage with any tolerable effect. \nYet Voltaire accuses him of mistaking the horrible \nfor the terrible. When Voltaire had occasion to \nraise a ghost upon the French stage (a ticklish ex- \nperiment), he made him so amiable in his aspect \nthat Queen Semiramis politely desires leave to \n" throw herself at his feet and to embrace them."* \n\nIt has been a matter of debate whether Italian \ntragedy, as reformed by Alfieri, is an improvement \non the French. Both are conducted on the same \ngeneral principles. A. W. Schlegel, a competent \n\n* Semiramis, acte iii., s. 6. \n4 2 V \n\n\n\n542 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncritic whenever his own prejudices are not involved, \ndecides in favour of the French. We must confess \nourselves inclined to a different opinion. The three \nmaster-spirits in French tragedy seem to have con- \ntained within themselves all the elements of dramat- \nic creation, yet their best performances have some- \nthing tame and unsatisfactory in them. We see the \ninfluence of that fine-spun web of criticism which \nin France has bound the wing of genius to the \nearth, and which no one has been hardy enough to \nburst asunder. Corneille, after a severe lesson* sub- \nmitted to it, though with an ill grace. The flexible \ncharacter of Racine moved under it with more free \ndom, but he was of too timid a temper to attempt to \ncontravene established prejudices. His reply to one \nwho censured him for making Hippolyte in love, in \nhis Phedre, is well known : " What would our pe- \ntits-moutres have said had I omitted it?" Voltaire, \nalthough possessed of a more enterprising and revo- \nlutionary spirit, left the essential principles of the \ndrama as he found them. His multifarious criticisms \nexhibit a perpetual paradox. His general principles \nare ever at variance with their particular application. \nNo one lauds more highly the scientific system of \nhis countrymen ; witness his numerous dramatic \nprefaces, dedications, and articles in the encyclope- \ndia. He even refines upon it with hypercritical \nacumen, as in his commentaries on Corneille. But \nwhen he feels its tyrannical pressure on himself, he \nis sure to wince ; see, for example, his lamentable \nprotest in his Preface to Brutus. \n\n\n\nTOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 543 \n\nAllien acknowledged the paramount authority of \nthe ancients equally with the French dramatic wri- \nters. He has but thrice violated the unity of place ; \nand very rarely that of time ; but, with all his def- \nerence for antiquity, the Italian poet has raised him- \nself far above the narrow code of French criticism. \nHe has relieved tragedy from that eternal chime of \nlove-sick damsels, so indispensable in a French \npiece, that, as Voltaire informs us, out of four hun- \ndred which had appeared before his time, there were \nnot more than twelve which did not turn upon love. \nHe substituted in its place a more pure and exalted \nsentiment. It will be difficult to find, even in Ra- \ncine, such beautiful personifications of female loveli- \nness as his Electra and Micol, to name no others. \nHe has, moreover, dispensed with the confidantes^ \nthose insipid shadows that so invariably walk the \nround of the French stage. Instead of insulated ax- \nioms, and long, rhetorical pleadings, he has introdu- \nced a brisk, moving dialogue ; and instead of the \nceremonious breeding, the peri\'uque and chapeau \nhorde of Louis XlV.th\'s court, his personages, to \nborrow an allusion from a sister art, are sculptured \nwith the bold, natural freedom which distinguishes \nthe school of Michael Angelo. \n\nIt is true that they are apt to show too much of \nthe same fierce and sarcastic temper, too much of a \nfamily likeness with himself and with one another; \nthat he sometimes mistakes passion for poetry ; that \nne has left this last too naked of imagery and rhe- \nloiical ornament: that he is sometimes stilted when \n\n\n\n544 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nhe would be dignified ; and that his affected energy \nis too often carried into mere muscular contortions \nHis system has, indeed, the appearance of an aspi- \nration after some ideal standard of excellence which \nhe could not wholly attain. It is sufficient proof of \nhis power, however, that he succeeded in establish- \ning it, in direct opposition to the ancient taste of \nhis countrymen, to their love of poetic imagery, of \nverbal melody, and voluptuousness of sentiment. It \nis the triumph of genius over the prejudices, and \neven the constitutional feelings of a nation. \n\nWe have dwelt thus long on Alfieri, because, like \nDante, he seems himself to constitute a separate de- \npartment in Italian literature. It is singular that the \ntwo poets who present the earliest and the latest \nmodels of surpassing excellence in this literature \nshould bear so few of its usual characteristics. Al- \nfieri\'s example has effected a decided revolution in \nthe theatrical taste of his countrymen. It has called \nforth the efforts of some of their most gifted minds \nMonti, perhaps the most eminent of this school, sur- \npasses him in the graces of an easy and brilliant el- \nocution, but falls far below him in energy of concep- \ntion and character. The stoical system of Alfieri \nwould seem, indeed, better adapted to his own pecu- \nliar temperament than to that of his nation ; and the \nsuccessful experiment of Manzoni in discarding the \nunities, and otherwise relaxing the unnatural rigidity \nof this system, would appear to be much better suit- \ned to the popular taste as well as talent. \n\nOur limits, necessarily far too scanty for our sub- \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 545 \n\nlect, will not allow us to go into the Opera and the \nPastoral Drama, two beautiful divisions in this de- \npartment of Italian letters. It is singular that the \nformer, notwithstanding the natural sensibility of the \nItalians to harmony, and the melody of their lan- \nguage, which almost sets itself to music as it is spo- \nken, should have been so late in coming to its per- \nfection under Metastasio. Nothing can be more \nunfair than to judge of this author, or, indeed, of \nany composer of operas, by the effect produced on \nus in the closet. Their pieces are intended to be \nexhibited, not read. The sentimental ariettes of the \nheroes, the romantic bombast of the heroines, the \nracks, ropes, poisoned daggers, and other fee-faw-fum \nof a nursery tale, so plentifully besprinkled over \nthem, have certainly, in the closet, a very fade and \nridiculous aspect ; but an opera should be consider- \ned as an appeal to the senses, by means of the illu \nsions of music, dancing, and decorations. The po- \netry, wit, sentiment, intrigue, are mere accessories, \nand of value only as they may serve to promote this \nillusion. Hence the necessity of love \xe2\x80\x94 love, the \nvivifying principle of the opera, the only passion in \nperfect accordance with its voluptuous movements. \nHence the propriety of exhibiting character in ex- \naggerated colour of light and shadow, the chiar os- \nrwo of poetry, as the imagination is most forcibly \naffected by powerful contrast. Yet this has been \noften condemned in Metastasio. On the above \nprinciple, too, the seasonable disclosures, miraculous \nescapes, and all the other magical apparatus before \n4 2 V* \n\n\n\n546 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nalluded to, may be defended. The mind of the \nspectator, highly stimulated through the medium of \nthe senses, requires a corresponding extravagance, if \nwe may so say, in the creations of the poet. In this \nstate, a veracious copy of nature would fall flat and \npowerless ; to reach the heart, it must be raised into \ngigantic proportions, and adorned with a brighter \nflush of colouring than is to be found in real life. \nAs a work of art, then, but not as a purely intellect- \nual exhibition, we may criticise the opera, and, in \nthis view of it, the peculiarities so often condemned \nin the artist may be, perhaps, sufficiently justified. \n\nThe Pastoral Drama, that attempt to shadow \nforth the beautiful absurdities of a golden age, claims \nto be invented by the Italians. It was carried to its \nultimate perfection in two of its earliest specimens, \nthe poems of Tasso and Guarini. Both these wri- \nters have adorned their subject with the highest \ncharms of versification and imagery. With Tasso \nall this seems to proceed spontaneously from the \nheart, while Guarini\'s Pastor Fido, on the other \nhand, has the appearance of being elaborated with \nthe nicest preparation. It may, in truth, be regard- \ned as the solitary monument of his genius, and as \nsuch he seems to have been desirous to concentrate \nwithin it every possible variety of excellence. Du- \nring his whole life lie was employed in retouching \nand enriching it with new beauties. This great va- \nriety and finish of details somewhat impair its unity, \nand give it too much the appearance of a curious \ncollection of specimens. Yet there are those, and \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 54? \n\nvery competent critics, too, who prefer the splendid \npatchwork of\'Guarini to the sweet, unsolicited beau- \nties of his rival. Dr. Johnson has condemned both \nthe Aminta and Pastor Fido as " trifles easily imi- \ntated and unworthy of imitation." The Italians \nhave not found them so. Oat of some hundred \nspecimens cited by Serassi, only three or four are \ndeemed by him worthy of notice. An English critic \nshould have shown more charity for a kind of com- \nposition that has given rise to some of the most ex- \nquisite creations of Fletcher and Milton. \n\nWe have now reviewed the most important \nbranches of the ornamental literature of the Italians. \nWe omit some others, less conspicuous, or not es- \nsentially differing in their characteristics from sim- \nilar departments in the literatures of other European \nnations. An exception may perhaps be made in \nfavour of satirical. writing, which, with the Italians, \nassumes a peculiar form, and one quite indicative of \nthe national genius. Satire, in one shape or anoth- \ner, has been a great favourite with them, from Ari- \nosto, or, indeed, we may say Dante, to the present \ntime. It is, for the most part, of a light, vivacious \ncharacter, rather playful than pointed. Their crit- \nics, with their usual precision, have subdivided it \ninto a great variety of classes, among which the Ber- \nnesque is the most original. This epithet, derived \nnot, as some have supposed, from the rifacimento \nbut from the Capitoli of Berni, designates a style of \nwriting compounded of the beautiful and the bur- \nlesque, of which it is nearly impossible to convey an \n\n\n\n548 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nadequate notion, either by translation or description, \nin a foreign language. Even so mature a scholar as \nMi. Roscoe has failed to do this, when, in one of \nhis histories, he compares this manner to that of \nPeter Pindar, and in the other to that of Sterne. \nBut the Italian has neither the coarse diction of the \nformer nor the sentiment of the latter. It is gener- \nally occupied with some frivolous topic, to which it \nascribes the most extravagant properties, descanting \non it through whole pages of innocent irony, and \nclothing the most vulgar and oftentimes obscene \nideas in the polished phrase or idiomatic graces of \nexpression that never fail to disarm an Italian critic. \nA foreigner, however, not so sensible to the seduc- \ntions of style, will scarcely see in it anything more \nthan a puerile debauch of fancy. \n\nHistorian\'s are fond of distributing the literature \nof Italy into masses, chronologically arranged in suc- \ncessive centuries. The successive revolutions in \nthis literature justify the division to a degree un- \nknown in that of any other country, and a brief il- \nlustration of it may throw some additional light on \nour subject. \n\nThus the fourteenth century, the age of the tre~ \ncentisti, as it is called, the age of Dante, Petrarch, \nand Boccaccio, is the period of high and original in- \nvention. These three great writers, who are alone \ncapable of attracting our attention at this distance \nof time, were citizens of a free state, and were early \nformed to the contemplation and practice of public \nvirtue. Hence their works manifest an indepeud- \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 549 \n\nence and a generous self-confidence that we seek in \nvain in the productions of a later period, forced in \nthe artificial atmosphere of a court. Their writings \nare marked, moreover, by a depth of reflection not \nto be discerned in the poets of a similar period of \nantiquity, the pioneers of the civilization of their \ntimes. The human mind was then in its infancy ; \nbut in the fourteenth century it seemed to awake \nfrom the slumber of ages, with powers newly invig- \norated, and a memory stored with the accumulated \nwisdom of the past. Compare, for example, the Di- \nvine Comedy with the poems of Homer and He- \nsiod, and observe how much superior to these latter \nwriters is the Italian in moral and intellectual sci- \nence, as well as in those higher speculations which \nrelate to our ultimate destiny.* The rhetorical \nbeauties of the great works of the fourteenth cen- \ntury have equally contributed to their permanent \npopularity and influence. While the early produc- \ntions of other countries, the poems of the Niebelun- \ngen, of the Cid, of the Norman trouveurs, and those \nof Chaucer, even, have passed, in consequence of \ntheir colloquial barbarisms, into a certain degree of \noblivion, the writings of the trecentisti are still re- \nvered as the models of purity and elegance, to be \nforever imitated, though never equalled. \n\nThe following age exhibits the reverse of all this, \n[t was as remarkable for the general diffusion of \n\n* Hesiod, it is true, has digested a compact bod) r of ethics, wonderfully \n.nature for the age in which he wrote ; but the best of it is disfigured \nwith those childish superstitions which betray the twilight of civilization. \nSee, in particular, the concluding portion of his Works and Days. \n\n\n\n550 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlearning as the preceding had been for the concen- \ntration of talent. The Italian, which had been so \nsuccessfully cultivated, came to be universally neg- \nlected for the ancient languages. It would seem \nas if the soil, exhausted by too abundant harvests, \nmust lie fallow another century before it could be \ncapable of reproduction. The scholars of that day \ndisdained any other than the Latin tongue for the \nmedium of their publications, or even of their private \nepistolary correspondence. They thought, with \nWaller, that \n\n" Those who lasting marble seek, \nMust carve in Latin or in Greek." \n\nBut the marble has crumbled into dust, while the \nnatural beauties of their predecessors are still green \nin the memory of their countrymen. To make use \nof a simile which Dr. Young applied to Ben Jonson, \nthey " pulled down, like Samson, the temple of an- \ntiquity on their shoulders, and buried themselves un- \nder its ruins." \n\nBut let us not err by despising these men as a \nrace of unprofitable pedants. They lived on the \ntheatre of ancient art, in an age when new discov- \neries were daily making of the long-lost monuments \nof intellectual and material beauty, and it is no won- \nder that, dazzled with the contemplation of these \nobjects, they should \'have been blind to the modest \nmerits of their contemporaries. We should be grate- \nful to men whose indefatigable labours preserved for \nus the perishable remains of classic literature, and \nwho thus opened a free and familiar converse with \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS 551 \n\nthe great minds of antiquity; and we may justly feel \nsome degree of reverence for the enthusiasm of an \nage in which the scholar was willing to exchange \nhis learned leisure for painful and perilous pilgrim- \nages, when the merchant was content to barter his \nrich freights for a few mouldering, worm-eaten folios, \nand when the present of a single manuscript was \ndeemed of sufficient value to heal the dissensions of \ntwo rival states. Such was the fifteenth century in \nItaly ; and Tiraboschi, warming as he approaches \nit, in his preface to the sixth volume of his history, \nhas accordingly invested it with more than his usual \nblaze of panegyric. \n\nThe genius of the Italians, however, was sorely \nfettered by their adoption of an ancient idiom, and, \nlike Tasso\'s Erminia, when her delicate form was \nenclosed in the iron mail of the warrior, lost its elas- \nticity and grace. But at the close of the century \nthe Italian muse was destined to regain her natural \nfreedom in the court of Lorenzo de\' Medici. His \nown compositions, especially, are distinguished by a \nromantic sweetness, and his light, popular pieces \xe2\x80\x94 \nCarnascialeschi, Contadineschi \xe2\x80\x94 so abundantly im- \nitated since, have a buoyant, exhilarating air, wholly \nunlike the pedantic tone of his age. Under these \nnew auspices, however, the Italian received a very \ndifferent complexion from that which had been im- \nparted to it by the hand of Dante. \n\nThe sixteenth century is the healthful, the Au- \ngustan age of Italian letters. The conflicting prim \nciples of an ancient and a modern school are, how- \n\n\n\n552 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\never, to be traced throughout almost the whole \ncourse of it. A curious passage from Varchi, who \nflourished about the middle of this century, informs \nus that, when he was at school, it was the custom \nof the instrueters to interdict to their pupils the \nstudy of any vernacular writer, even Dante and Pe- \ntrarch.* Hence the Latin came to be cultivated \nalmost equally with the Italian, and both, singularly \nenough, attained simultaneously their full develop- \nment. \n\nThere are few phrases more inaccurately applied \nthan that of the Age of Leo X., to whose brief pon- \ntificate we are accustomed to refer most of the mag- \nnificent creations of genius scattered over the six- \nteenth century, although very few, even of those \nproduced in his own reign, can be imputed to his \ninfluence. The nature of this influence in regard to \nItalian letters may even admit of question. His \nearly taste led him to give an almost exclusive at- \ntention to the ancient classics. The great poets of \nthat century, Ariosto, Sanazzaro, the Tassos, Rucel- \nlai, Guarini, and the rest, produced their immortal \nworks far from Leo\'s court. Even Bembo, the or- \nacle of his day, retired in disgust from his patron, \nand composed his principal writings in his retreat. \nAriosto, his ancient friend, he coldly neglected,f \nwhile he pensioned the infamous Aretin. He sur- \nrounded his table with buffoon literati and parasit- \n\n* Ercolano, ques. VIII. \n\nt Roscoe attempts to explain away this conduct of Leo, but the satire* \nof the poet furnish a bitter commentary upon it, not to be misunderstood. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 553 \n\nical poets, who amused him with feats of improvisa- \ntion, gluttony, and intemperance, some of whom, \nafter expending on them his convivial wit, he turn- \ned over to public derision, and most of whom, de- \nbauched in morals and constitution, were abandon- \ned, under his austere successor, to infamy and death. \nHe collected about him such court-flies as Berni \nand Molza; but, as if the papal atmosphere were \nfatal to high continued effort, even Berni, like Tris- \nsino and Rucellai, could find no leisure for his more \nelaborate performance till after his patron\'s death. \nHe magnificently recompensed his musical retainers, \nmaking one an archbishop, another an archdeacon ; \nbut what did he do for his countryman Machiavelli, \nthe philosopher of his age 1* He hunted, and hawk- \ned, and caroused; everything was a jest; and while \nthe nations of Europe stood aghast at the growing \nheresy of Luther, the merry pontiff and his minis- \nters found strange matter of mirth in witnessing the \nrepresentation of comedies that exposed the impu- \ndent mummeries of priestcraft. With such an ex- \nample, and under such an influence, it is no wonder \nthat nothing better should have been produced than \nburlesque satire, licentious farces, and frivolous im- \npromptus. Contrast all this with the elegant recre- \nations of the little court of Urbino, as described in \nthe Cortegiano ; or compare the whole result on \nItalian letters of the so much vaunted patronage of \n\n* Machiavelli, after having suffered torture on account of a suspected \nconspiracy against the Medici, in which his participation was never pro- \nved, A\'as allowed to linger out his days in poverty and disgrace. \n4 2 W \n\n\n\n554 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthis luxurious pontiff with the splendid achievements \nof the petty state of Este alone, during the first half \nof this century, and it will appear that there are few \nmisnomers which convey grosser misconceptions \nthan that of the age of Leo X. \n\nThe seventeenth century (seicento) is one of hu- \nmiliation in the literary annals of Italy ; one in \nwhich the Muse, like some dilapidated beauty, en- \ndeavoured to supply the loss of natural charms by \nall the aids of coquetry and meretricious ornament. \nIt is the prodigal use of " these false brilliants," as \nBoileau terms them, in some of their best writers, \nwhich has brought among foreigners an undeserved \ndiscredit on the whole body of Italian letters, and \nwhich has made the condemned age of the seicentisti \na by-word of reproach even with their own country- \nmen. The principles of a corrupt taste are, how- \never, to be discerned at an earlier period, in the wri- \ntings of Tasso especially, and still more of Guarini ; \nbut it was reserved for Marini to reduce them into \na system, and by his popularity and foreign resi- \ndence to diffuse the infection among the other na- \ntions of Europe. To this source, therefore, most of \nthese nations have agreed to refer the impurities \nwhich, at one time or another, have disfigured their \nliteratures. Thus the Spaniard Lampillas has mus- \ntered an array of seven volumes to prove the charge \nof original corruption on the Italians, though Marini \nopenly affected to have formed himself upon a Span- \nish model.* In like manner, La Harpe imputes to \n\n* Obras suelt. de Lope de Vega, torn, xxi., p. 17. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 555 \n\nthem the sins of Jodelle and the contemporai y wits, \nthough these last preceded, by some years, the liter- \nary existence of Marini; and the vices of the Eng- \nlish metaphysical school have been expressly refer- \nred, by Dr. Johnson, to Marini and his followers. \n\nA nearer inspection, however, might justify the \nopinion that these various affectations bear too much \nof the physiognomy of the respective nations in \nwhicb they are found, and are capable of being tra- \nced to too high a source in each, to be thus exclu- \nsively imputed to the Italians. Thus the elements \nof the cultismo of the Spaniards, that compound of \nflat pedantry and Oriental hyperbole, so different \nfrom the fine concetti of the Italian, are to be traced \nthrough some of their most eminent writers up to \nthe fugitive pieces of the fifteenth century, as col- \nlected in their Cancioneros ; and, in like manner, \nthe elements of the metaphysical jargon of Cowley, \nwhose intellectual combinations and far-fetched \nanalogies show T too painful a research after wit for \nthe Italian taste, may be traced in England through \nDonne and Ben Jonson, to say nothing of the " un- \nparalleled John Lillie," up to the veteran versifiers \nof the fifteenth and fourteenth centuries. Thus, \nalso, some features of the style precieux of the Hotel \nde Rambouillet, so often lashed by Boileau and \nlaughed at by Moliere, may be imputed to the ma- \nlign influence of the constellation of pedants, cele- \nbrated in France under the title of Pleiades, in the \nsixteenth century. \n\nThe Greek is the only literature which, from the \n\n\n\n556 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfirst, seems to have maintained a sound and healthful \nstate. In every other, the barbaric love of ornament, \nso discernible even in the best of the early writers, \nhas been chastised only by long and assiduous crit- \nicism ; but the principle of corruption still remains, \nand the season of perfect ripeness seems to be only \nthat of the commencement of decay. Thus it was \nin Italy, in the perverted age of the seicentisli, an \nage yet warm with the productions of an Ariosto \nand a Tasso. \n\nThe literature of the Italians assumed in the last \ncentury a new and highly improved aspect. With \nless than its usual brilliancy of imagination, it dis- \nplayed an intensity, and, under the circumstances in \nwhich it has been produced, we may add, intrepid- \nity of thought quite worthy of the great spirits of \nthe fourteenth century, and a freedom and nature in \nits descriptions altogether opposed to the heartless \naffectations of the seventeenth. The prejudicial in- \nfluence of their neighbours threatened at one time, \nindeed, to precipitate the language into a French \nmacheronico ; but a counter-current, equally exclu- \nsive, in favour of the trecenlisti, contributed to check \nthe innovation, and to carry them back to the an- \ncient models of purity and vigour. The most emi- \nnent writers of this period seem to have formed \nthemselves on Dante, in particular, as studiously as \nthose of the preceding age affected the more effem- \ninate graces of Petrarch. Among these, Monti, who, \nin the language of his master, may be truly said to \nhave inherited from him " Lo bello stile, che l\'ha \n\n\n\nfittto onore," is thought most nearly to resemble \nDante in the literarv execatioo of his verses; while \nAllien, Parini, and Foscolo approach him still near- \ner in the rugged virtue and independence of their \nsentiments. There seems to be a didactic import in \nmuch of the poetry of this age, too, and in its de- \nscriptions of external nature, a sober, contemplative \nvein, that may remind us of writers in our own lan- \nguage. Indeed, an English influence is clearly dis- \nccruible in some of the most eminent poets of this \nperiod, who have either visited Great Britain in per- \nson, or made themselves familiar with its language.* \nThe same influence may be, perhaps, recognised in \nthe moral complexion of many of their compositions, \nthe most elegant specimen of which is probably Pa- \nrini\'s satire, which disguises the sarcasm of Cowper \nin the rich, embroidered verse which belongs to the \nItalians. \n\nIn looking back on the various branches of liter- \nature which we have been discussing, we are struck \nwith the almost exclusive preference given to poetry \nover prose, with the great variety of beautiful forms \nwhich the former exhibits, with its finished versifica- \ntion, its inexhaustible inventions, and a wit that nev- \ner tires. Bat in all this admirable mechanism we too \noften feel the want of an informing soul, of a nobler, \nor. at least, some more practical object than mere \namusement. Their writers too rarelv seem to feel, \n\n" Divinity within them, breeding wings \nWherewith to spurn the earth.\'\' \n\n* Among these maybe mentioned Monti, Pindemonte, Cesarotti, Maz- \n*.a, Alfieri, Pignotti, and Foscolo. \n\n4 2 W * \n\n\n\n558 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nThey have gone beyond every other people in paint- \ning the intoxication of voluptuous passion ; but how \nrarely have they exhibited it in its purer and more \nethereal form ! How rarely have they built up \ntheir dramatic or epic fables on national or patriotic \nrecollections ! Even satire, disarmed of its moral \nsting, becomes in their hands a barren, though per- \nhaps a brilliant jest \xe2\x80\x94 the harmless electricity of a \nsummer sky. \n\nThe peculiar inventions of a people best show \ntheir peculiar genius. The romantic epic has as- \nsumed with the Italians a perfectly original form, in \nwhich, stripped of the fond illusions of chivalry, it \nhas descended, through all the gradations of mirth, \nfrom well-bred raillery to broad and bald buffoonery. \nIn the same merry vein their various inventions in \nthe burlesque style have been conceived. Whole \ncantos of these puerilities have been strung together \nwith a patience altogether unrivalled, except by that \nof their indefatigable commentators.* Even the \nmost austere intellects of the nation, a Machiavelli \nand a Galileo, for example, have not disdained to \nrevel in this frivolous debauch of fancy, and may re- \nmind one of Michael Angelo, at the instance of Pi- \netro de\' Medici, employing his transcendent talents \nin sculpturing a perishable statue of snow! \n\nThe general scope of our vernacular literature, as \ncontrasted with that of the Italian, will set the pe- \nculiarities of the latter in a still stronger light. In \n\n* The annotations upon Lippi\'s burlesque poem of the Malmantile Rac- \nquistata are inferior in bulk to those only on the Divine Comedy. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 559 \n\nthe English, the drama and the novel, which may be \nconsidered as its staples, aiming at more than a vul- \ngar interest, have always been made the theatre of \na scientific dissection of character. Instead of the \nromping merriment of the novelle, it is furnished with \nthose periodical essays which, in the form of apo- \nlogue, of serious disquisition or criticism, convey to \nus lessons of practical wisdom. Its pictures of ex- \nternal nature have been deepened by a sober con- \ntemplation not familiar to the mercurial fancy of \nthe Italians. Its biting satire, from Pierce Plow- \nman\'s Visions to the Baviad and Mseviad of our day, \ninstead of breaking into vapid jests, has been sharp- \nened against the follies or vices of the age, and the \nbody of its poetry, in general, from the days of \n" moralle Gower" to those of Cowper and Words- \nworth, breathes a spirit of piety and unsullied virtue \nEven Spenser deemed it necessary to shroud the \neccentricities of his Italian imagination in sober al- \nlegory ; and Milton, while he adopted in his Comus \nthe beautiful and somewhat luxurious form of the \nAminta and Pastor Fido, animated it with the most \ndevotional sentiments. \n\nThe political situation cf Italy may afford a key \nto some of the peculiarities of her literature. Op- \npressed by foreign or domestic tyrants for more than \nhve centuries, she has been condemned, in the in- \ndignant language of her poet, \n\n" Per servir sempre, o vincitrice o vinta.\'\' \n\nHer citizens, excluded from the higher walks of \npublic action, have too often resigned themselves to \n\n\n\n560 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncorrupt and effeminate pleasure, and her writers, in- \nhibited from the free discussion\xc2\xabof important topics, \nhave too frequently contented themselves with an J \nimpotent play of fancy. The histories of Machia- \nvelli and of Guicciardini were not permitted to be \npublished entire until the conclusion of the last cen- \ntury. The writings of Alemanni, from some um- \nbrage given to the Medici, were burned by the hands \nof the common hangman. Marchetti\'s elegant ver- \nsion of Lucretius was long prohibited on the ground \nof its epicurean philosophy, and the learned labours \nof Giannone were recompensed with exile. Under \nsuch a government, it is wonderful that so many, \nrather than so few writers, should have been found \nwith intrepidity sufficient to raise the voice of un- \nwelcome truth. It is not to be wondered at that \nthey should have produced so few models of civil \nor sacred eloquence, the fruit of a happier and more \nenlightened system ; that they should have been too \nexclusively devoted to mere beauties of form ; have \nbeen more solicitous about style than thought ; have \nstudied rather to amuse than to instruct. Hence \nthe superabundance of their philological treatises \nand mere verbal criticisms, of their tomes of com- \nmentaries, with which they have illustrated or ob- \nscured their most insignificant poets, where a verse \nfurnishes matter for a lecture, and a canzone becomes \nthe text for a volume. This is no exaggeration.* \n\n* Benedetto of Ravenna wrote ten lectures on the fourth sonnet of \nPetrarch. Pico della Mirandola devoted three whole books to the illus- \ntration of a canzone of his friend Benivieni, and three Arcadians publish \n\n\n\n\xe2\x99\xa6 \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 561 \n\nHence, too, the frequency and ferocity of their lit- \nerary quarrels, into which the Italians, excluded too \noften from weightier disquisition, enter with an en- \nthusiasm which in other nations can be roused only \nby the dearest interests of humanity. The compar- \native merit of some obscure classic, the orthography \nof some obsolete term, a simple sonnet, even, has \nbeen sufficient to throw the whole community into \na ferment, in which the parties have not always \nconfined themselves to a war of words. \n\nThe influence of academies on Italian literature \nis somewhat doubtful. They have probably contrib- \nuted to nourish that epicurean sensibility to mere \nverbal elegance so conspicuous in the nation. The \ngreat variety of these institutions scattered over every \nremote district of the country, the whimsicality of \ntheir titles, and still more of those of their members, \nhave an air sufficiently ridiculous.* Some of them \nhave been devoted to the investigation of science. \nBut a license, refused to individuals, will hardly be \nconceded to public associations ; and the persecution \nof some of the most eminent has proved an effectual \nwarning to confine their speculations within the in- \noffensive sphere of literary criticism. Hence the ex- \nuberance of prose and lezioni, endless dissertations \n\ned a volume in defence of the Tre Sorelle of Petrarch ! It would be easy \n10 multiply similar examples of critical prodigality. \n\n* Take at hazard some of the most familiar, the " Ardent," the " Fro- \nzen," the " Wet," the " Dry," the " Stupid," the " Lazy." The Cruscan \ntakes its name from Crusca (bran) ; and its members adopted the corre- \nsponding epithets of " brown bread," " white bread," " the kneaded," &c. \nSome of the Italians, as Lasca, La Bindo, for instance, are better known \nby their frivolous academic names than by their own. \n\n4B \n\n\n\n562 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\non barren rhetorical topics; and those vapid attempts \nat academic wit, which should never have trans- \ncended the bounds of the Lyceum. \n\nIt is not in such institutions that the great intel- \nlectual efforts of a nation are displayed. All thai \nany academy can propose to itself is to keep alive \nthe flame which genius has kindled, and in more \nthan one instance they have gone near to smother it \nThe French academy, as is well known, opened its \ncareer with its celebrated attack upon Corneille ; \nand the earliest attempt of the Cruscan was tipon \nTasso\'s Jerusalem, which it compelled its author to \nremodel, or, in other words, to reduce, by the extrac- \ntion of its essential spirit, into a flat and insipid de- \ncoction. Denina has sarcastically intimated that the \nera of the foundation of this latter academy corre- \nsponds exactly with that of the commencement of \nthe decline of good taste. More liberal critics con- \ncede, however, that this body has done much to pre- \nserve the integrity of the tongue, and that a pure \nspirit of criticism was kept alive within its bosom \nwhen it had become extinct in almost every other \npart of Italy.* Their philological labours have, in \ntruth, been highly valuable, though perhaps not so \ncompletely successful as those of the French acad- \nemicians. We do not allude to any capricious prin- \nciple on which their vocabulary may have been con- \nstructed, an affair of their own critics ; but to the \nfact that, after all, they have not been able to settle \n\n* See, in particular, the treatise of Parini, himself a I- Dmbard, De\' \nprincipi delle Belle Lettere, part ii., cap. v. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 563 \n\nthe language with the same precision and uniformity \nwith which it has heen done in France, from the \nwant of some great metropolis, like Paris, whose au- \nthority would be received as paramount throughout \nthe country. No such universal deference has heen \npaid to the Cruscan academy ; and the Italian lan- \nguage, far from being accurately determined, is even \ntoo loose and inexact for the common purposes of \nbusiness. Perhaps it is for this very reason better \nadapted to the ideal purposes of poetry. \n\nThe exquisite mechanism of the Italian tongue \nmade up of the very elements of music, and .pictu- \nresque in its formation beyond that of any other liv- \ning language, is undoubtedly a cause of the exagger- \nated consequence imputed to style by the writers of \nthe nation. The author of the Dialogue on Orators \npoints out, as one of the symptoms of depraved elo- \nquence in Rome, that " voluptuous artificial harmony \nof cadence, which is better suited to the purposes of \nthe musician or the dancer than of the orator." The \nsame vice has infected Italian prose from its earliest \nmodels, from Boccaccio and Bembo down to the \nmost ordinary book-wright of the present day, who \nhopes to disguise his poverty of thought under his \nmelodious redundancy of diction. Hence it is that \ntheir numerous Letters, Dialogues, and their speci- \nmens of written eloquence, are too often defective \nboth in natural force and feeling. Even in those \ngraver productions which derive almost their sole \nvalue from their facts, they are apt to be far more so- \nlicitous about style and ingenious turns of thought, \n\n\n\n564 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nas one of their own critics has admitted, than either \nutility or sound philosophy.* \n\nA principal cause, after all, of the various pecu- \nliarities of Italian literature, of which we have been \nspeaking, is to be traced to that fine perception of \nthe beautiful, so inherent in every order of the nation, \nwhether it proceed from a happier physical organi- \nzation, or from an early familiarity with those models \nof ideal beauty by which they are everywhere sur- \nrounded. Whoever has visited Italy must have been \nstruck with a sensibility to elegant pleasure, and a \nrefinement of taste in the very lowest classes, that in \nother countries belong only to the more cultivated. \nThis is to be discerned in the most trifling particu- \nlars ; in their various costume, whose picturesque ar- \nrangement seems to have been studied from the mod- \nels of ancient statuary; in the flowers and other taste- \nful ornaments with which, on fete days, they deco- \nrate their chapels and public temples ; in the eager- \nness with which the peasant and the artisan, after \ntheir daily toil, resort to the theatre, the opera, or \nsimilar intellectual amusements, instead of the bear- \nbaitings, bull-fights, and drunken orgies so familiar \nto the populace of other countries ; and in the quiet \nrapture with which they listen for hours, in the pub- \nlic squares, to the strains of an improvisatore, or the \nrecitations of a story-teller, without any other re- \nfreshment than a glass of water. Even the art of \nimprovisation, carried to such perfection by the Ital- \nians, is far less imputable to the facilities of their \n\n* Bettinelli, Risorgim. d\'ltalia, Introd., p. 14. \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS. 565 \n\nverse than to the poetical genius of the people ; an \nevidence of which is the abundance o\'i improvisator i \nin Latin in the sixteenth century, when that language \ncame to be widely cultivated. \n\nIt is time, however, to conclude our remarks, which \nhave already encroached too liberally on the pa- \ntience of our readers. Notwithstanding our sincere \nadmiration, as generally expressed, for the beautiful \nliterature of Italy, we fear that some of our reflec- \ntions may be unpalatable to a people who shrink \nwith sensitive delicacy from the rude touch of for- \neign criticism. The most liberal opinions of a for- \neigner, it is true, coming through so different a me- \ndium of prejudice and taste, must always present a \nsomewhat distorted aspect to the eye of a native. \nOn those finer shades of expression which consti- \ntute, indeed, much of the value of poetry, none but a \nnative can pronounce with accuracy ; but on its in- \ntellectual and moral character a foreign critic is bet- \nter qualified to decide. He may be more perspica- \ncious, even, than a native, in detecting those obli- \nquities from a correct standard of taste, to which the \nlatter has been reconciled by prejudice and long ex- \nample, or which he may have learned to reverence \nas beauties. \n\nThere must be so many exceptions, too, to the \nsweeping range of any general criticism, that it will \nalways carry with it a certain air of injustice. Thus, \nwhile we object to the Italians the diluted, redun- \ndant style of their compositions, may they not refer \nus to their versions of Tacitus aad Perseus, the most \n4 2X \n\n\n\nb66 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncondensed writers in the most condensed language \nin the world, in a form equally compact with that \nof the originals I May they not object to us Dante \nand Alfieri, scarcely capable of translation into any \nmodern tongue, in the same compass, without a vi- \nolence to idiom 1 And may they not cite the same \nhardy models in refutation of an unqualified charge \nof effeminacy ? Where shall we find examples of \npurer and more exalted sentiment than in the wri- \ntings of Petrarch and Tasso 1 Where of a more \nchastised composition than in Casa or Caro 1 And \nwhere more pertinent examples of a didactic aim \nthan in their numerous poetical treatises on hus- \nbandry, manufactures, and other useful arts, which \nin other countries form the topics of bulky disquisi- \ntions in prose 1 This is all just. But such excep- \ntions, however imposing, in no way contravene the \ngeneral truth of our positions, founded on the prevr \nalent tone and characteristics of Italian literature. \n\nLet us not, however, appear insensible to the \nmerits of a literature, pre-eminent above all others \nfor activity of fancy and beautiful variety of form, or \nto those of a country so fruitful in interesting recol- \nlections to the scholar and the artist; in which the \nhuman mind has displayed its highest energies un- \ntired through the longest series of ages ; on which \nthe light of science shed its parting ray, and where \nit first broke again upon the nations ; whose history \nis the link that connects the past with the present, \nthe ancient with the modern, and whose enterprising \ngenius enlarged the boundaries of the Old World \n\n\n\nPOETRY AND ROMANCE OF THE ITALIANS 56? \n\nby the discovery of a New ; whose scholars opened \nto mankind the intellectual treasures of antiquity ; \nwhose schools first expounded those principles of \nlaw which have become the basis of jurisprudence \nin most of the civilized nations of Europe ; whose \ncities gave the earliest example of free institutions, \nand, when the vision of liberty had passed away, \nmaintained their empire over the mind by those ad \nmirable productions of art that revive the bright pe- \nriod of Grecian glory ; and who, even now, that her \npalaces are made desolate and her vineyards trodden \ndown under the foot of the stranger, retains within \nher bosom all the fire of ancient genius. It would \nshow a strange insensibility indeed did we not sym- \npathize in the fortunes of a nation that has mani- \nfested, in such a variety of ways, the highest intel- \nlectual power ; of which we may exclaim, in the \nlanguage which a modern poet has applied to one \nof the most beautiful of her cities, \n\n" O Decus, Lux \nAusoniae, per quam libera turba sumus, \nPer quam Barbaries nobis non imperat, et Sol \nExoriens nostro clarius orbe nitet !" \n\n\n\n568 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG* \n\nJULY, 18 26. \n\nIt is remarkable that poetry, which is esteemed \nso much more difficult than prose among cultivated \npeople, should universally have been the form which \nman, in the primitive stages of society, has adopted \nfor the easier development of his ideas. It may be \nthat the infancy of nations, like that of individuals, \nis more taken up with imagination and sentiment \nthan with reasoning, and is thus instinctively led to \nverse, as best suited, by its sweetness and harmony, \nto the expression of passionate thought. It may be, \ntoo, that the refinements of modern criticism have \nmultiplied rather than relieved the difficulties of the \nart. The ancient poet poured forth his carmina i?i- \ncondita with no other ambition than that of accom- \nmodating them to the natural music of his own ear, \ncareless of the punctilious observances which the \nfastidious taste of a polished age so peremptorily de- \nmands. However this may be, it is certain that \npoetry is more ancient than prose in the records of \nevery nation, and that this poetry is found in its ear- \nliest stages almost always allied with music. Thus \nthe Rhapsodies of Homer were chanted to the sound \nof the lyre by the wandering bards of Ionia ; thus \nthe citharcedi of the ancient Romans, the Welsh \n\n* "The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with an Introduction \nand Notes, Historical and Critical, and the Characters of the Lyric Ponts. \nBy Allan Cunningham." In four volumes. London, 1825. 12rao. \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 639 \n\nharper, the Saxon gleeman, the Scandinavian scald, \nand the Norman minstrel, soothed the sensual appe- \ntites of an unlettered age by the more exalted charms \nof poetry and music. This precocious poetical spirit \nseems to have been more widely diffused among the \nmodern than the ancient European nations. The \nastonishing perfection of the Homeric epics makes \nit probable, it is true, that there must have been pre- \nviously a diligent cultivation of the divine art among \nthe natives.* \n\nThe introduction of the bards Phemius and De- \nmodocus into the Odyssey shows also that min- \nstrelsy had long been familiar to Homer\'s country- \nmen. This, however, is but conjecture, as no un- \ndisputed fragments of this early age have come down \nto us. The Romans, we know, were not, till a very \nlate period, moved by the impetus sacer. One or two \ndevotional chants and a few ribald satires are all \nthat claim to be antiquities in their prosaic literature. \n\nIt was far otherwise with the nations of modern \nEurope. Whether the romantic institutions of the \nage, or the warmth of classic literature not wholly \nextinguished, awakened this general enthusiasm, we \nknow not ; but no sooner had the thick darkness, \nwhich for centuries had settled over the nations, be \ngun to dissipate, than the voice of song was heard \nin the remotest corners of Europe, where heathen \ncivilization had never ventured ; from the frozen \nisles of Britain and Scandinavia, no less than from \n\n* "Nee dubitaii debet quin fuerint ante Homerum poetae." \xe2\x80\x94 Cic, \nBrut., 18. \n\n4 2X* \n\n\n\n670 LIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe fertile shores of Italy and Provence. We do not \nmean that the light of song was totally extinguished, \neven at the darkest period. It may be faintly dis- \ncerned in the barbaric festivals of Attila, himself the \ntheme of more than one venerable German romance ; \nand, at a later period, in the comparatively refined \ncourts of Alfred and Charlemagne. \n\nBut it was not until the eleventh or twelfth cen- \ntury that refinement of taste was far advanced among \nthe nations of Europe ; that, in spite of all the ob- \nstacles of a rude, unconcocted dialect, the founda- \ntions and the forms of their poetical literature were \ncast, which, with some modification, they have re- \ntained ever since. Of these, the ballads may be con- \nsidered as coming more immediately from the body \nof the people. In no country did they take such \ndeep root as in Spain and Scotland, and, although \ncultivated more or less by all the Northern nations, \nyet nowhere else have they had the good fortune, \nby their own intrinsic beauty, and by the influence \nthey have exerted over the popular character, to \nconstitute so important a part of the national litera- \nture. The causes of this are to be traced to the po- \nlitical relations of these countries. Spain, divided \ninto a number of petty principalities, which conterrd- \ned with each other for pre-eminence, was obliged to \ncarry on a far more desperate struggle for existence, \nas well as religion, with its Saracen invaders ; who, \nafter advancing their victorious crescent from the \nArabian desert to the foot of the Pyrenees, had es- \ntablished a solid empire over the fairest portions of \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 571 \n\nthe Peninsula. Seven long centuries was the an- \ncient Spaniard reclaiming, inch by inch, this con- \nquered territory ; thus a perpetual crusade was car- \nried on, and the fertile fields of Andalusia and Gra- \nnada became the mimic theatre of exploits similar to \nthose performed by the martial enthusiasts of Europe, \non a much greater scale, indeed, on the plains of \nPalestine. The effect of all this was to infuse into \ntheir popular compositions a sort of devotional he- \nroism, which is to be looked for in vain in any other. \nThe existence of the Cid, so early as the eleventh \ncentury, was a fortunate event for Spanish poetry. \nThe authenticated actions of that chief are so near- \nly allied to the marvellous, that, like Charlemagne \nhe forms a convenient nucleus for the manifold fic- \ntions in which successive bards have enveloped him. \nThe ballads relating to this doughty hero have been \ncollected into a sort of patchwork epic, whose fabri- \ncation thus resembles that imputed to those ancient \npoems which some modern critics have determined \nto be but a tissue of rhapsodies executed by different \nmasters. But, without comparing them with the \nepics of Homer in symmetry of design or perfection \nof versification, we may reasonably claim for them \na moral elevation not inferior, and a tone of courtesy \nand generous gallantry altogether unknown to the \nheroes of the Iliad. \n\nThe most interesting of the Spanish ballads are \nthose relating to the Moors. This people, now so \ndegraded in every intellectual and moral aspect, \nwere, as is well known, in the ninth and tenth cen- \n\n\n\n572 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nturies the principal depositaries of useful science and \nelegant art. This is particularly true of the Span- \nish caliphate ; and more than one Christian prelate \nis on record who, in a superstitious age, performed \na literary pilgrimage to the schools of Cordova, and \ndrank from these profane sources of wisdom. The \npeculiarities of Oriental costume ; their showy mili- \ntary exercises; their perilous bull-feasts and cane- \nfights ; their chivalric defiance and rencounters with \nthe Christian knights on the plains before the assem- \nbled city ; their brilliant revels, romantic wooings, \nand midnight serenades, afforded rich themes for the \nmuse ; above all, the capture and desolation of Gra- \nnada, that "city without peer," the "pride of heath- \nendom," on which the taste and treasures of the \nWestern caliphs had been lavished for seven centu- \nries, are detailed in a tone of melancholy grandeur, \nwhich comes over us like the voice of an expiring \nnation.* \n\nOne trait has been pointed out in these poems \nmost honourable to the Spanish character, and in \nwhich, in later times, it has been lamentably defi- \ncient, that of religious toleration ; we find none of \nthe fierce bigotry which armed the iron hand of the \n\n* An ancient Arabian writer concludes a florid eulogium on the ar- \nchitecture and local beauties of Granada in the fourteenth century, with \nlikening it, in Oriental fashion, to "a richly-wrought vase of silver, filled \nwith jacinths and emeralds." \xe2\x80\x94 Historia de los Arahes de Espana, torn, iii., \np. 147. Among the ballads relating to the Moorish wars, two of the \nmost beautiful are the " Lament over Alhama," indifferently translated \nby Byron, and that beginning with " En la ciudad de Granada,\'\' rendered \nby Lockhart with his usual freedom and vivacity. \xe2\x80\x94 Hita, [., 464 ai.d \nDepping, 240. \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 573 \n\nInquisition ; which coolly condemned to exile or \nthe stake a numerous native population for an hon- \nest difference of religious opinion, and desolated with \nfire and sword the most flourishing of their Chris- \ntian provinces. \n\nThe ancient Spaniard, on the contrary, influenced \nby a more enlightened policy, as well as by human- \nity, contracted familiar intimacies, nay, even matri- \nmonial alliances, with his Mohammedan rivals, and \nthe proudest of their nobles did not disdain, in an \nhonest cause, to fight under the banners of the In- \nfidel. It would be a curious study to trace the prog- \nress and the causes of this pitiable revolution in na- \ntional feeling. \n\nThe Spaniards have good reason to cherish their \nancient ballads, for nowhere is the high Castilian \ncharacter displayed to such advantage. Haughty, \nit is true, jealous of insult, and without the tincture \nof letters, which throws a lustre over the polished \ncourt of Charles and Philip ; but also without the \navarice, the insatiable cruelty, and dismal supersti- \ntion which deface the bright page of their military \nrenown.* The Cid himself, whose authentic his- \ntory may vindicate the hyperbole of romance, was \nthe beau ideal of chivalry .f \n\n* Sufficient evidence of this may he found in works of imagination, as \nwell as the histories of the period. The plays of Lope de Vega, for in- \nstance, are filled with all manner of perfidy and assassination, which \ntakes place as a matter of course, and without the least compunction. \nIn the same spirit, the barharous excesses of his countrymen in South \nAmerica are detailed by Ercilla, in his historical epic, La Araucana. The \nflimsy pretext of conscience, for which these crimes are perpetrated, \ncannot veil their enormity from any but the eyes of the offender. \n\nt The veracity of the traditionary history of the Cid, indeed his exist- \n\n\n\n574 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nThe peculiarities of early Scottish poetry may \nalso be referred, in a great degree, to the political \nrelations of the nation, which for many centuries \nwas distracted by all the rancorous dissensions inci- \ndent to the ill-balanced fabric of feudal government. \nThe frequent and long regencies, always unfavour- \nable to civil concord, multiplied the sources of jeal- \nousy, and armed with new powers the factious aris- \ntocracy. In the absence of legitimate authority, \neach baron sought to fortify himself by the increased \nnumber of his retainers, who, in their turn, willingly \nattached themselves to the fortunes of a chief who \nsecured to them plunder and protection. Hence a \nsystem of clanship was organized, more perfect and \nmore durable than has existed in any other country, \nwhich is not entirely effaced at the present day. To \nthe nobles who garrisoned the Marches, still greater \nmilitary powers were necessarily delegated for pur- \nposes of state defence, and the names of Home, \nDouglas, and Buccleuch make a far more frequent \nand important figure in national history than that ot \nthe reigning sovereign. Hence private feuds were \ninflamed and vindicated by national antipathies, and \na pretext of patriotism was never wanting to justify \nperpetual hostility. Hence the scene of the old \n\nence, discussed and denied by Masdeu, in his Historia Critica de Expand, \nhas been satisfactorily established by the learned Miiller ; and the con- \nclusions of the latter writer are recently confirmed by Conde\'s posthu- \nmous publication of translated Arabian manuscripts of great antiquity, \nwhere the Cid is repeatedly mentioned as the chief known by the name \nof the Warrior, el Campeador : " the Cid v/hom Alia curse ;" " the tyrant \nCid;" "the accursed Cid," &c. See Historia de los Arabes de Tl^pana* \nii.. 92 \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 575 \n\nballads was laid chiefly on the borders, and hence \nthe minstrels of the "North Countrie" obtained such \npre-eminence over their musical brethren. \n\nThe odious passion of revenge, which seems \nadapted by nature to the ardent temperaments of \nthe South, but which even there has been mitigated \nby the spirit of Christianity, glowed with fierce heat \nin the bosoms of those Northern savages. An oi- \nfence to the meanest individual was espoused by his \nwhole clan, and was expiated, not by the blood ot \nthe offender only, but by that of his whole kindred. \nThe sack of a peaceful castle, and the slaughter of \nits sleeping inhabitants, seem to have been as famil- \niar occurrences to these Border heroes as the lifting \nof a drove of cattle, and attended with as little com- \npunction. The following pious invocation, uttered \non the eve of an approaching foray, may show the \nacuteness of their moral sensibility : \n\n" He that ordained us to be born, \nSent us mair meat for the morn. \nCome by right or come by wrang, \nChrist, let us not fast owre lang, \nBut blithely spend what\'s gaily got. \nRide, Rowland, hough \'s i\' the pot." \n\nWhen superstition usurps the place of religion, \nthere will be little morality among the people. The \nonly law they knew was the command of their chief, \nand the only one he admitted was his sword. " By \nwhat right," said a Scottish prince to a marauding \nDouglas, " do you hold these lands V " By that of \nmy sword," he answered. \n\nFrom these causes the early Scottish poetry is \n\n\n\n576 JUOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndeeply tinged with a gloomy ferocity, and abounds \nin details of cool, deliberate cruelty. It is true that \nthis is frequently set off, as in the fine old ballads of \nChevy Chase and Auld Maitland, by such deeds of \nrude but heroic gallantry as, in the words of Sid- \nney, "stir the soul like the sound of a trumpet." \nBut, on the whole, although the scene of the oldest \nballads is pitched as late as the fourteenth century, \nthe manners they exhibit are not much superior, in \npoint of refinement and humanity, to those of our \nown North American savages.* \n\nFrom wanton or vindictive cruelty, especially \nwhen exercised on the defenceless or the innocent, \nthe cultivated mind naturally shrinks with horror \nand disgust ; but it was long ere the stern hearts of \nour English ancestors yielded to the soft impulses \nof mercy and benevolence. The reigns of the Nor- \nman dynasty are written in characters of fire and \nblood. As late as the conclusion of the fourteenth \ncentury, we find the Black^Prince, the "flower of \nEnglish knighthood," as Froissart styles him, super- \nintending the butchery of three thousand unresisting \ncaptives, men, women, and children, who vainly \nclung to him for mercy. The general usage of sur- \nrendering as hostages their wives and children, \nwhose members were mutilated or lives sacrificed on \nthe least infraction of their engagements, is a still \n\n\n\n* For proof of this assertion, see "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," \nand in particular the ballads of " Jellon Grame," " Young Benjie," " Lord \nWilliam," " Duel of Wharton and Stuart," " Death of Featherstone- \nhaugh," " Douglas Tragedy," &c. \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 57? \n\nbetter evidence of the universal barbarism of the so \nmuch lauded age of chivalry. \n\nAnother trait in the old Scotch poetry, and of a \nvery opposite nature from tbat we have been descri- \nbing:, is its occasional sensibility : touches of genuine \npathos are found scattered among the cold, appalling \npassions of the age, like the flowers which, in Switz- \nerland, are said to bloom alongside the avalanche. \nXo state of societv is so rude as to extinguish the \nspark of n.atural affection ; tenderness for our off- \nspring is but a more enlarged selfishness, perfectly \ncompatible with the utmost ferocity towards others. \nHence scenes of parental and filial attachment are \nto be met with in these poems which cannot be read \nwithout emotion. The passion of love appears to \nhave been a favourite study with the ancient Eng- \nlish writers, and by none, in any language we have \nread, is it managed with so much art and feeling as \nby the dramatic writers of Queen Elizabeth\'s day. \nThe Scottish minstrels, with less art, seem to be en- \ntitled to the praise of possessing an equal share of \ntenderness. In the Spanish ballad love glows with \nthe fierce ardour of a tropical sun. The amorous \nserenader celebrates the beauties of his Zayda (the \nname which, from its frequency, would seem to be a \ngeneral title for a Spanish mistress) in all the florid \nhyperbole of Oriental gallantry, or, as a disappoint- \ned lover, wanders along the banks of the Guadalete, \nimprecating curses on her head and vengeance on \nhis devoted rival. The calm dejection and tender \n\nmelancholy which are diffused over the Scottish \n\\ 2 Y \n\n\n\n578 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nlove-songs are far more affecting than all this turbu- \nlence of passion. The sensibility which, even in a \nrude age, seems to have characterized the Scottish \nmaiden, was doubtless nourished by the solemn com- \nplexion of the scenery by which she was surround- \ned, by the sympathies continually awakened for her \nlover in his career of peril and adventure, and by \nthe facilities afforded her for brooding over her mis- \nfortunes in the silence of rural solitude. \n\nTo similar\'physical causes may be principally re- \nferred those superstitions which are so liberally dif- \nfused over the poetry of Scotland down to the pres- \nent day. The tendency of wild, solitary districts, \ndarkened with mountains and extensive forests, to \nraise in the mind ideas of solemn, preternatural awe, \nhas been noticed from the earliest ages. " Where is \na lofty and deeply-shaded grove," writes Seneca, in \none of his epistles, " filled with venerable trees, \nwhose interlacing boughs shut out the face of heav- \nen, the grandeur of the wood, the silence of the \nplace, the shade so dense and uniform, infuse into \nthe breast the notion of a divinity;" and thus the \nspeculative fancy of the ancients, always ready to \nsupply the apparent void of nature, garrisoned each \ngrove, fountain, or grotto, with some local and tute- \nlary genius. These sylvan deities, clothed with cor- \nporeal figures, and endowed with mortal appetites, \nwere brought near to the level of humanity ; but the \nChristian revelation, which assures us of another \nworld, is the "evidence of things unseen/\' and, while \nit dissipates the gross and sensible creations of class- \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG 579 \n\nic mythology, raises our conceptions to the spiritual \nand the infinite. In our eager thirst for communi- \ncation with the world of spirits, we naturally ima- \ngine it can only he through the medium of spirits \nlike themselves, and, in the vulgar creed, these appa- \nritions never come from the abodes of the blessed, \nbut from the tomb, where they are supposed to await \nthe perLod of a final and universal resurrection, and \nwhence they are allowed to " revisit the glimpses of \nthe moon," for penance or some other inscrutable \npurpose. Hence the gloomy, undefined character \nof the modern apparition is much more appalling \nthan the sensual and social personifications of anti- \nquity. \n\nThe natural phenomena of a wild, uncultivated \ncountry greatly conspire to promote the illusions of \nthe fancy. The power of clouds to reflect, to dis- \ntort, and to magnify objects is well known, and on \nthis principle many of the preternatural appearances \nin the German mountains and the Scottish High- \nlands, whose lofty summits and unreclaimed valleys \nare shrouded in clouds and exhalations, have been \ningeniously and philosophically explained. The \nsolitary peasant, as the shades of evening close \naround him, witnesses with dismay the gathering \nphantoms, and, hurrying home, retails his adventures \nwith due amplification. What is easily believed is \neasily seen, and the marvellous incident is soon pla- \nced beyond dispute by a multitude of testimonies. \nThe appetite, once excited, is keen in detecting \nother visions and prognostics, which as speedily cir- \n\n\n\n!)80 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCEI LANIES. \n\nculate through the channels of rustic tradition, until \nin time each glen and solitary heath has its un- \nearthly visitants, each family its omen or boding \nspectre, and superstition, systematized into a sci- \nence, is expounded by indoctrinated wizards and \ngifted seers. \n\nIn addition to these fancies, common, though in a \nless degree, to other nations, the inhabitants of the \nNorth have inherited a more material mythology, \nwhich has survived the elegant fictions of Greece \nand Rome, either because it was not deemed of suf- \nficient importance to provoke the arm of the Church, \nor because it was too nearly accommodated to the \nmoral constitution of the people to be thus easily \neradicated. The character of a mythology is always \nintimately connected with that of the scenery and \nclimate in which it is invented. Thus the graceful \nNymphs and Naiads of Greece; the Peris of Persia, \nwho live in the colours of the rainbow, and on the \nodours of flowers ; the Fairies of England, who in \nairy circles " dance their ringlets to the whistling \nwind," have the frail gossamer forms and delicate \nfunctions congenial with the beautiful countries \nwhich they inhabit ; while the Elves, Bogles, Brown- \nies, and Kelpies, which seem to have legitimately de- \nscended, in ancient Highland verse, from the Scan- \ndinavian Dvergar, Nisser, &c, are of a stunted and \nmalignant aspect, and are celebrated for nothing bet- \nter than maiming cattle, bewildering the benighted \ntraveller, and conjuring out the souls of newborn \ninfants. Within the memory of the present genera- \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 581 \n\nuon, very well authenticated anecdotes of these \nghostly kidnappers have been circulated and greed- \nily credited in the Scottish Highlands. But the \nsunshine of civilization is rapidly dispelling the lin- \ngering mists of superstition. The spirits of darkness \nlove not the cheerful haunts of men, and the bustling \nactivity of an increasing, industrious population al- \nlows brief space for the fears or inventions of fancy. \nThe fierce aspect of the Scottish ballad was mit- \nigated under the general tranquillity which followed \nthe accession of James to the united crowns of Eng- \nland and Scotland, and the Northern muse might \nhave caught some of the inspiration which fired her \nSouthern sister at this remarkable epoch, had not \nthe fatal prejudices of her sovereign in favour of an \nEnglish or even a Latin idiom diverted his ancient \nsubjects from the cultivation of their own. As it \nwas, Drummond of Hawthornden, whose melodious \nand melancholy strains, however, are to be enrolled \namong English verse, is the most eminent name \nwhich adorns the scanty annals of this reign. The \ncivil and religious broils, which, by the sharp con- \ncussion they gave to the English intellect during the \nremainder of this unhappy century, seemed to have \nforced out every latent spark of genius, served only \nto discourage the less polished muse of the North. \nThe austerity of the reformers chilled the sweet \nflow of social son\xc2\xa3, and the only verse in vogue was \na kind of rude satire, sometimes pointed at the licen- \ntiousness of the Roman clergy, and sometimes at the \nformal affectation of the Puritans, but which, from \n4 2 Y* \n\n\n\n582 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe coarseness of the execution, and the transitory \ninterest of its topics, has for the most part been con- \nsigned to a decent oblivion. \n\nThe Revolution in 1688, and the subsequent \nunion of the two kingdoms, by the permanent assu- \nrance they gave of civil and religious liberty, and, \nlastly, the establishment of parochial schools about \nthe same period, by that wide diffusion of intelli- \ngence among the lower orders which has elevated \nthem above every other European peasantry, had a \nmost sensible influence on the moral and intellectual \nprogress of the nation. Improvements in art and \nagriculture were introduced; the circle of ideas was \nexpanded, and the feelings liberalized by a free \ncommunication with their southern neighbours, and \nreligion, resigning much of her austerity, lent a pru- \ndent sanction to the hilarity of social intercourse. \nPopular poetry naturally reflects the habits and pre- \nvailing sentiments of a nation. The ancient notes \nof the border trumpet were exchanged for the cheer- \nful sounds of rustic revelry ; and the sensibility which \nused to be exhausted on subjects of acute but pain- \nful interest, now celebrated the temperate pleasures \nof domestic happiness, and rational though romantic \nlove. \n\nThe rustic glee, which had put such mettle into \nthe compositions of James the First and Fifth, those \nroyal poets of the commonalty, as they have been \naptly styled, was again renewed ; ancient sougs, pu- \nrified from their original vices of sentiment or dic- \ntion, were revived ; new ones were accommodated \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 583 \n\nto ancient melodies ; and a revolution was gradually \neffected in Scottish verse, which experienced little \nvariation during the remainder of the eighteenth \ncentury. The existence of a national music is es- \nsential to the entire success of lyrical poetry. It \nmay be said, indeed, to give wings to song, which, \nin spite of its imperfections, is thus borne along from \none extremity of the nation to the other, with a ra- \npidity denied to many a nobler composition. \n\nThus allied, verse not only represents the present, \nnut the past ; and while it invites us to repose or to \nhonourable action, its tones speak of joys which are \ngone, or wake in us the recollections of ancient \nglory. \n\nIt is impossible to trace the authors of a large por- \ntion of the popular lyrics of Scotland, which, like its \nnative wild-flowers, seem to have sprung up sponta- \nneously in the most sequestered solitudes of the \ncountry. Many of these poets, even, who are famil- \niar in the mouths of their own countrymen, are bet- \nter known south of the Tweed by the compositions \nwhich, under the title of " Scottish Melodies," are \ndiligently thrummed by every miss in her teens, than \nby their names ; while some few others, as Ramsay, \nFerguson, &c, whose independent tomes maintain \nhigher reputation, are better known by their names \nthan their compositions, which, much applauded, are, \nwe suspect, but little read. \n\nThe union of Scotland with England w T as unpro- \npitious to the language of the former country; ar \nleast, it prevented it from attaining a classical per- \n\n\n\n584 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nfection, which some, perhaps, may not regret, as be- \ning in its present state a better vehicle for the popu- \nlar poetry, so consonant with the genius of the na- \ntion. Under Edward the First the two nations \nspoke the same language, and the formidable epics \nof Barbour and Blind Harry, his contemporaries, \nare cited by Warton as superior models of English \nversification. After the lapse of five centuries, the \nScottish idiom retains a much greater affinity with \nthe original stock than does the English ; but the \nuniversal habit with the Scotch of employing the \nlatter in works of taste or science, and of relinquish- \ning their own idiom to the more humble uses of the \npeople, has degraded it to the unmerited condition \nof a provincial dialect. Few persons care to be- \nstow much time in deciphering a vocabulary which \nconceals no other treasures than those of popular \nfancy and tradition. \n\nA genius like Burns certainly may do, and doubt- \nless has done, much to diffuse a knowledge and a \nrelish for his native idiom. His character as a poet \nhas been too often canvassed by writers and biog- \nraphers to require our panegyric. We define it, \nperhaps, as concisely as may be, by saying, that it \nconsisted of an acute sensibility, regulated by un- \ncommon intellectual vigour. Hence his frequent \nvisions of rustic love and courtship never sink into \nmawkish sentimentality, his quiet pictures of do- \nmestic life are without insipidity, and his mirth is \nnot the unmeaning ebullition of animal spirits, but is \npointed with the reflection of a keen observei of bu* \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 5S5 \n\nman nature. This latter talent, less applauded in \nhim than some others, is in our opinion his mosi \neminent. Without the grace of La Fontaine, or the \nbroad buffoonery of Bemi, he displays the same fa- \ncility of illuminating the meanest topics, seasons his \nhumour with as shrewd a moral, and surpasses both \nin a generous sensibility, which gives an air of truth \nand cordiality to all his sentiments. Lyrical poetry \nadmits of less variety than any other species ; and \nBurns, from this circumstance, as well as from the \nflexibility of his talents, may be considered as the \nrepresentative of his whole nation. Indeed, his uni- \nversal genius seems to have concentrated within it- \nself the rays which were scattered among his prede- \ncessors : the simple tenderness of Craw 7 ford, the \nfidelity of Ramsay, and careless humour of Ferguson. \nThe Doric dialect of his country was an instrument \npeculiarly fitted for the expression of his manly and \nunsophisticated sentiments. But no one is more in- \ndebted to the national music than Burns : embalm- \ned in the sacred melody, his songs are familiar to us \nfrom childhood, and, as we read them, the silver \nsounds with which they have been united seem to \nlinger in our memory, heightening and prolonging \nthe emotions which the sentiments have excited. \n\nMr. Cunningham, to whom it is high time we \nshould turn, in some prefatory reflections on the \ncondition of Scottish poetry, laments exceedingly \nthe improvements in agriculture and mechanics, the \nmultiplication of pursuits, the wider expansion of \n\n4E \n\n\n\n586 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nknowledge, which have taken place among the peas- \nantry of Scotland during the present century. \n\n" Change of condition, increase of knowledge," \nsays he, " the calling in of machinery to the aid of \nhuman labour, and the ships which whiten the ocean \nwith their passing and repassing sails, wafting luxu- \nries to our backs and our tables, are all matters of \ndelight to the historian or the politician, but of sor- \nrow to the poet, who delights in the primitive glory \nof a people, and contemplates with pain all changes \nwhich lessen the original vigour of character, and \nrefine mankind till they become too sensitive for en- \njoyment. Man has now to labour harder and long- \ner to shape out new ways to riches, and even \nbread, and feel the sorrows of the primeval curse, a \nhot and sweaty brow, more frequently and more se- \nverely than his ancestors. All this is uncongenial to \nthe creation of song, where many of our finest songs \nhave been created, and to its enjoyment, where it \nwas long and fondly enjoyed, among the peasantry \nof Scotland." \xe2\x80\x94 Preface. \n\nThese circumstances certainly will be a matter \nof delight to the historian and politician, and we \ndoubt if they afford any reasonable cause of lamen- \ntation to the poet. An age of rudeness and igno \nranee is not the most propitious to a flourishing con- \ndition of the art, which indulges quite as much in \nvisions of the past as the present, in recollections as \nin existing occupations ; and this is not only true of \ncivilized, but of ruder ages : the forgotten bards of \nthe Niebelungen and the Heldenbuch, of \xc2\xab,he roman- \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 587 \n\nces of Arthur and of Charlemagne, looked back \nthrough the vista of seven hundred years for their \nsubjects, and the earliest of the Border minstrelsy \ncelebrates the antique feuds of a preceding century \nOn the other hand, a wider acquaintance with spec- \nulative and active concerns may be thought to open \na bolder range of ideas and illustrations to the poet. \nExamples of this may be discerned among the Scot- \ntish poets of the present age ; and if the most emi- \nnent, as Scott, Campbell, Joanna Baillie, have de- \nserted their natural dialect and the humble themes \nof popular interest for others better suited to their \naspiring genius, and for a language which could dif- \nfuse and perpetuate their compositions, it can hardly \nbe matter for serious reproach even with their own \ncountrymen. But this is not true of Scott, who has \nalways condescended to illuminate the most rugged \nand the meanest topics relating to his own nation, \nand who has revived in his " Minstrelsy" not merely \nthe costume, but the spirit of the ancient Border \nmuse of love and chivalry. \n\nIn a similar tone of lamentation, Mr. Cunning- \nham deprecates the untimely decay of superstition \nthroughout the land. But the seeds of superstition \nare not thus easily eradicated ; its grosser illusions, \nindeed, may, as we have before said, be scattered by \nthe increasing light of science ; but the principal \ndifference between a rude and a civilized age, at \nleast as regards poetical fiction, is that the latter re- \nquires more skill and plausibility in working up the \nmateriel than the former. The witches of Macbeth \n\n\n\n588 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nare drawn too broadly to impose on the modern \nspectator, as they probably did on the credulous age \nof Queen Bess ; but the apparition in Job, or the \nBodach Glas in Waverley, is shadowed with a dim \nand mysterious portraiture, that inspires a solemn \ninterest sufficient for the purposes of poetry. The \nphilosophic mind may smile with contempt at pop- \nular fancies, convinced that the general experience \nof mankind contradicts the existence of apparitions ; \nthat the narratives of them are vague and ill authen- \nticated ; that they never or rarely appeal to more \nthan one sense, and that the most open to illusion ; \nthat they appear only in moments of excitement, \nand in seasons of solitude and obscurity; that they \ncome for no explicable purpose, and effect no per- \nceptible result ; and that, therefore, they may in ev- \nery case be safely imputed to a diseased or a deluded \nimagination. But if, in the midst of these solemn \nmusings, our philosopher\'s candle should chance to \ngo out, it is not quite certain that he would continue \nto pursue them with the same stoical serenity. In \nshort, no man is quite so much a hero in the dark as \nin broad daylight, in solitude as in society, in the \ngloom of the churchyard as in the blaze of the \ndrawing-room. The season and the place may be \nsuch as to oppress the stoutest heart with a myste \nrious awe, which, if not fear, is near akin to it. We \nread of adventurous travellers, who, through a sleep \nless night, have defied the perilous nonentities of a \nhaunted chamber, and the very interest we take in \ntheir exploits proves that the superstitious priudple \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 589 \n\nis not wholly extinguished in oar own bosoms. So, \nindeed, do the mysterious inventions of Mrs. Rad- \ncliffe and her ghostly school ; of our own Brown, in \na most especial manner ; and Scott, ever anxious to \nexhibit the speculative as well as practical character \nof his countrymen, has more than once appealed to \nthe same general principle. Doubtless few in this \nenlightened age are disposed boldly to admit the \nexistence of these spiritual phenomena ; but fewer \nstill there are who have not enough of superstitious \nfeeling lurking in their bosoms for all the purposes \nof poetical interest. \n\nMr. Cunningham\'s work consists of four volumes \nof lyrics, in a descending series from the days of \nQueen Mary to our own. The more ancient, after \nthe fashion of Burns and Ramsay, he has varnished \nover with a colouring of diction that gives greater \nlustre to their faded beauties, occasionally restoring \na mutilated member, which time and oblivion had \ndevoured. Our author\'s prose, consisting of a co- \npious preface and critical notices, is both florid and \npedantic ; it continually aspires to the vicious affec- \ntation of poetry, and explains the most common sen- \ntiments by a host of illustrations and images, thus \nperpetually reminding us of the children\'s play of \nWhat is it like I" As a poet, his fame has long \nbeen established, and the few original pieces which \nhe has introduced into the present collection have \nthe ease and natural vivacity conspicuous in his for- \nmer compositions. We will quote one or two, which \n\nwe presume are the, least familiar to our readers: \n4 2 Z \n\n\n\n590 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n"A wet sheet and a flowing sea, \n\nA wind that follows fast, \nAnd fills the white and rustling sail, \n\nAnd bends the gallant mast ! \nAnd bends the gallant mast, my boys, \n\nWhile, like the eagle free, \nAway the good ship flies, and leaves \n\nOld England on the lea. \n\n" O for a soft and gentle wind ! \n\nI heard a fair one cry ; \nBut give to me the swelling breeze, \n\nAnd white waves heaving high ; \nAnd white waves heaving high, my lads, \n\nThe good ship tight and free ; \nThe world of waters is our home, \n\nAnd merry men are we. \n\n"There\'s tempest in yon horned moon, \n\nAnd lightning in yon cloud ; \nAnd hark the music, mariners ! \n\nThe wind is wakening loud. \nThe wind is wakening loud, my boys, \n\nThe lightning flashes free ; \nThe hollow oak our palace is, \n\nOur heritage the sea." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. iv., p. 208. \n\nThis spirited water-piece, worthy of Campbell, is \none evidence among others of the tendency of the \npresent improved condition of the Scottish peasantry \nto expand the beaten circle of poetical topics and \nillustrations. The following is as pretty a piece of \nfairy gossamer as has been spun out of this skepti- \ncal age : \n\n"song of the elfin miller. \n"Full merrily rings the millstone round, \nFull merrily rings the wheel, \nFull merrily gushes out the grist \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCome, taste my fragrant meal. \nAs sends the lift its snowy drift, \n\nSo the meal comes in a shower ; \nWork, fairies, fast, for time flies past- \nI borrow\'d the mill an hour \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 591 \n\n"The miller he\'s a worldly man, \n\nAnd maun hae double fee ; \nSo draw the sluice of the churl\'s dam, \n\nAnd let the stream come free. \nShout, fairies, shout ! see, gushing out, \n\nThe meal comes like a river ; \nThe top of the grain on hill and plain \n\nIs ours, and shall be ever. \n"One elf goes chasing the wild bat\'s wing \n\nAnd one the white owl\'s horn ; \nOne hunts the fox for the white o\' his tail, \n\nAnd we winna hae him till morn. \nOne idle fay, with the glow-worm\'s ray, \n\nRuns glimmering \'mang the mosses ; \nAnother goes tramp wi\' the will-o-wisp\'s lamp, \n\nTo light a lad to the lasses. \n" O haste, my brown elf, bring me corn \n\nFrom bonnie Blackwood plains \nGo, gentle fairy, bring me grain \n\nFrom green Dalgonar mains ; \nBut, pride of a\' at Closeburn ha\', \n\nFair is the corn and fatter ; \nTaste, fairies, taste, a gallanter grist \n\nHas never been wet with water. \n"Hilloah ! my hopper is heaped high; \n\nHark to the well-hung wheels ! \nThey sing for joy ; the dusty roof \n\nIt clatters and it reels. \nHaste, elves, and turn yon mountain burn- \nBring streams that shine like siller ; \nThe dam is down, the moon sinks soon, \n\nAnd I maun grind my meller. \n\n" Ha ! bravely done, my wanton elves, \n\nThat is a foaming stream ; \nSee how the dust from the mill-ee flies, \n\nAnd chokes the cold moon-beam. \nHaste, fairies, fleet come baptized feet, \n\nCome sack and sweep up clean, \nAnd meet me soon, ere sinks the moon, \n\nIn tky green vale, Dalveen." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. iv., p. 327. \n\nThe last we can afford is a sweet, amorous effu- \nsion, in the best style of the romantic muse of the \n\n\n\n592 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nLowlands. It has before found a place in the "Niths- \ndale and Galloway" collection : \n\n" Thou hast, vow\'d by thy faith, my Jeanie, \n\nBy that pretty white hand of thine, \nAnd by all the lowing stars in heaven \n\nThat thou wouldst aye be mine ; \nAnd I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, \n\nAnd by that kind heart of thine, \nBy all the stars sown thick o\'er heaven, \n\nThat thou shalt aye be mine. \n\n" Foul fa\' the hands wad loose sic bands \n\nAnd the heart wad part sic love ; \nBut there\'s nae hand can loose the band \n\nBut the finger of Him above. \nThough the wee wee cot maun be my bield \n\nAnd my clothing e\'er sae mean, \nI should lap me up rich in the faulds of love \n\nHeaven\'s armfu\' of my Jean. \n" Thy white arm wad be a pillow to me, \n\nFar softer than the down, \nAnd Love wad winnow o\'er us his kind, kind wings \n\nAnd sweetly we\'d sleep and soun\\ \nCome here to me, thou lass whom I love, \n\nCome here and kneel wi\' me, \nThe morning is full of the presence of God, \n\nAnd I cannot pray but thee. \n\xe2\x80\xa2\' The wind is sweet amang the new flowers, \n\nThe wee birds sing saft on the tree, \nOur goodman sits in the bonnie sunshine, \n\nAnd a blithe old bodie is he ; \nThe Beuk rnaun be ta\'en when he comes hame, \n\nWi\' the holie psalmodie, \nAnd I will speak of thee when I pray, \n\nAnd thou maun speak of me." \xe2\x80\x94 Vol. iv., p. 308. \n\nOur readers may think we have been detained too \nlong by so humble a theme as old songs and ballads ; \nyet a wise man has said, " Give me the making of \nthe ballads, and I care not who makes the laws of a \nnation." Indeed, they will not be lightly regarded \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 593 \n\nby those who consider their influence on the char- \nacter of a simple, susceptible people, particularly \nin a rude age, when they constitute the authentic \nrecords of national history. Thus the wandering \nminstrel kindles in his unlettered audience a gener- \nous emulation of the deeds of their ancestors, and \nwhile he sings the bloody feuds of the Zegris and \nAbencerrages, the Percy and the Douglas, artfully \nfans the flame of an expiring hostility. Under these \nanimating influences, the ancient Spaniard and the \nBorder warrior displayed that stern military enthu- \nsiasm which distinguished them above every other \npeasantry in Europe. Nor is this influence altogeth- \ner extinguished in a polite age, when the narrow at- \ntachments of feudal servitude are ripened into a \nmore expanded patriotism ; the generous principle is \nnourished and invigorated in the patriot by the sim- \nple strains which recount the honourable toils, the \nhomebred joys, the pastoral adventures, the roman- \ntic scenery, which have endeared to him the land of \nhis fathers. There is no moral cause which oper- \nates more strongly in infusing a love of country into \nthe mass of the people than the union of a national \nmusic with popular poetry. \n\nBut these productions have an additional value in \nthe eyes of the antiquarian to what is derived from \ntheir moral or political influence, as the repertory of \nthe motley traditions and superstitions that have de- \nscended for ages through the various races of the \nNorth. The researches of modern scholars have \ndiscovered urprising affinity between the ancient \n4 2Z* \n\n\n\n594 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nScottish ballad and the Teutonic, Scandinavian, and \neven Calmuck romance. Some of the most eminent \nof the old Border legends are almost literal versions \nof those which inflamed the martial ardour of our \nDanish ancestors.* A fainter relationship had be- \nfore been detected between them and Southern and \nOriental fable. Thus, in a barbarous age, when the \nnearest provinces of Europe had but a distant inter- \ncourse with each other, the electric spark of fancy \nseems to have run around the circle of the remotest \nregions, animating them with the same wild and ori- \nginal creations. \n\nEven the lore of the nursery may sometimes as- \ncend to as high an antiquity. The celebrated Whit- \ntington and his Cat can display a Teutonic pedigree \nof more than eight centuries ; " Jack, commonly \ncalled the Giant Killer, and Thomas Thumb," says \nan antiquarian writer, " landed in England from the \nvery same keels and war-ships which conveyed \nHengist and Horsa, and Ebba the Saxon;" and the \nnursery-maid who chants the friendly monition to \nthe "Lady-bird," or narrates the "fee-faw-fum" ad- \nventure of the carnivorous giant, little thinks she has \npurloined the stores of Teutonic song and Scandi- \nnavian mythology .f The ingenious Blanco White, \n\n* Such are " The Childe of Elle," " Catharine and Janfarie," " Cos \npatric," " Willie\'s Lady," &c. \n\n" Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, \nYour house is on fire, your children will roam." \nThis fragment of a respectable little poem has soothed the slumbers \nof the German infant for many ages. The giant who so cunningly scent- \ned the "blood of an Englishman" is the counterpart of the personage \n\n\n\nSCOTTISH SONG. 595 \n\nwho, under the name of Doblado, has thrown great \nlight on the character and condition of modern \nSpain, has devoted a chapter to tracing out the ge- \nnealogies of the games and popular pastimes of his \ncountry. Something of the same kind might be at- \ntempted in the untrodden walks of nursery litera- \nture. Ignorance and youth are satisfied at no great \ncost of invention. The legend of one generation \nanswers, with little variation, for the next, and, with- \nin the precincts of the nursery, obtains that imper- \nishable existence which has been the vain boast of \nmany a loftier lyric. That the mythology of one \nage should be abandoned to the "Juvenile Cabinet" \nof another, is indeed curious. Thus the doctrines \nmost venerated by man in^he infancy of society be- \ncome the sport of infants in an age of civilization, \nfurnishing a pleasing example of the progress of the \nhuman intellect, and a plausible colouring for the \ndream of perfectibility. \n\nrecorded in the collection of Icelandic mythology made by Snorro in the \nthirteenth century. \xe2\x80\x94 Edda, Fable 23. \n\n\n\n696 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\nDA PONTE\'S OBSERVATIONS.* \n\nJULY, 1825. \n\nThe larger part of the above work is devoted to \nstrictures upon an article on " Italian Narrative Po- \netry," which appeared in October, 1824. The au- \nthor is an eminent Italian teacher at New- York, \nHis poetical abilities have been highly applauded in \nhis own country, and were rewarded with the office \nof Cesarean poet at the court of Vienna, where he \nacquired new laurels as successor to the celebrated \nMetastasio. His various fortunes in literary and \nfashionable life while in Europe, and the eccentrici- \nties of his enthusiastic character, furnish many in- \nteresting incidents for an autobiography, published \nby him two years since at New- York, and to this \nwe refer those of our readers who are desirous of a \nmore intimate acquaintance with the author. \n\nWe regret that our remarks, which appeared to \nus abundantly encomiastic of Italian letters, and \nwhich certainly proceeded from our admiration for \nthem, should have given such deep offence to the \nrespectable author of the " Osservazioni," as to com- \npel him, although a " veteran" in literature, to arm \nhimself against us in defence of his " calumniated" \ncountry. According to him, " we judge too lightly \nof the Italians, and quote as axioms the absurd opin- \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 " Alcune Osservazioni sull\' Articulo Quarto publicato nel North \nAmerican Review, il Mese d\'Ottobre dell\' Anno 1824. Da L. Da Ponte \nNuova-Jcrca. Stampatori Gray e Bunce." 1825. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 597 \n\nions of their insane rivals (accaniti rivali), the \nFrench. We conceal some things where silence \nhas the appearance of malice ; we expose others \nwhich common generosity should have induced us \nto conceal ; we are guilty of false and arbitrary ac- \ncusations, that do a grievous wrong to the most \ntender and most compassionate of nations ; we are \nwanting in a decent reverence for the illustrious men \nof his nation ; finally, we pry with the eyes of Argus \ninto the defects of Italian literature, and with one \neye only, and that, indeed, half shut (anche quello \nsocchiuso), into its particular merits." It is true, this \nsour rebuke is sweetened once or twice with a com- \npliment to the extent of our knowledge, and a " con- \nfession that many of our reasonings, facts, and re- \nflections merit the gratitude of his countrymen ; that \nour intentions were doubtless generous, praisewor- \nthy,\'\' and the like ; but such vague commendations, \nbesides that they are directly inconsistent with some \nof the imputations formerly alleged against us, are \ntoo thinly scattered over sixty pages of criticism to \nmitigate very materially the severity of the censure. \nThe opinions of the author of the Osservazioni on \nthis subject are undoubtedly entitled to great respect ; \nbut it may be questioned whether the excitable tem- \nperament usual with his nation, and the local par- \ntiality which is common to the individuals of every \nnation, may not have led him sometimes into extrav- \nagance and error. This seems to us to have been \ncue case ; and as he has more than once intimated \nthe extreme difficulty of forming a correct estimate \n\n\n\n598 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof a foreign literature, " especially of the Italian/\' w\xc2\xab \nshall rely exclusively for the support of our opinions \non the authorities of his own countrymen, claiming \none exception only in favour of the industrious Gin- \nguene, whose opinions he has himself recommended \nto " the diligent study of all who would form a cor- \nrect notion of Italian literature."* \n\nHis first objection is against what he considers \nthe unfair view which we exhibited of the influence \nof Italy on English letters. This influence, we had \nstated, was most perceptible under the reign of Eliz- \nabeth, but had gradually declined during the suc- \nceeding century, and, with a few exceptions, among \nwhom we cited Milton and Gray, could not be said \nto be fairly discerned until the commencement of \nthe present age. Our censor is of a different opin- \nion. " Instead of confining himself" (he designates \nus always by this humble pronoun) " to Milton," he \nsays, "for which exception I acknoivledge no obliga- \ntion to him, since few there are who were not pre- \nviously acquainted with it, I would have had him \nacknowledge that many English writers not only \nloved and admired, but studiously imitated our au- \nthors, from the time of Chaucer to that of the great \nBvron ; for the clearest evidence of which it will suf- \nfice to read the compositions of this last poet, of \nMilton, and of Gray. He then censures us for not \nspecifying the obligations which Shakspeare was \n\n* " Ma bisognava aver l\'anima di Ginguene, conoscer la lingua e la let- \nteratura Italiana, come Ginguene, e amar il vero come Ginguene per sen* \ntire," &c. \xe2\x80\x94 Osservazioni, p. 115, 116. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 599 \n\nunder to the early Italian novelists for the plots ot \nmany of his pieces ; " which silence" he deems " as \nlittle to be commended as would be an attempt to \nconceal the light, the most beautiful prerogative of \nthe sun, from one who had never before seen it. \nAnd," he continues, " these facts should, for two rea- \nsons, have been especially communicated to Amer- \nicans : first, to animate them more and more to study \nthe Italian tongue ; and, secondly, in order not to \nimitate, by what may appear a malicious silence, the \nexample of another nation [the French], who, after \ndrawing their intellectual nourishment from us, have \ntried every method of destroying the reputation of \ntheir earliest masters." \xe2\x80\x94 P. 74-79. \n\nWe have extracted the leading ideas diffused by \nthe author of the Osservazioni over half a dozen pa- \nges. Some of them have at least the merit of nov- \nelty. Such are not, however, those relating to Chau- \ncer, whom we believe no one ever doubted to have \nfound in the Tuscan tongue \xe2\x80\x94 the only one of that \nrude age in which \n\n"The pure well-head of poesie did dwell" \xe2\x80\x94 \n\none principal source of his premature inspiration. \nWe acknowledged that the same sources nourished \nthe genius of Queen Elizabeth\'s writers, among \nwhom we particularly cited the names of Surrey, \nSidney, and Spenser. And if we did not distin- \nguish Shakspeare amid the circle of contemporary \ndramatists whom we confessed to have derived the \ndesigns of many of their most popular plays from \n[talian models, it was because we did not think the \n\n\n\n600 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nextent of his obligations, amounting to half a dozen \nimperfect skeletons of plots, required any such spe- \ncification ; more especially as several of his great \nminor contemporaries, as Fletcher, Shirley, and oth- \ners, made an equally liberal use of the same mate- \nrials. The obligations of Shakspeare, such as they \nwere, are, moreover, notorious to every one. The \nauthor of the Osservazioni expressly disclaims any \nfeelings of gratitude towards us for mentioning those \nof Milton, because they were notorious. It is really \nvery hard to please him. The literary enterprise \nwhich had been awakened under the reign of Eliza- \nbeth was in no degree diminished under her suc- \ncessor ; but the intercourse with Italy, so favourable \nto it at an earlier period, was, for obvious reasons, at \nan end. A Protestant people, but lately separated \nfrom the Church of Rome, would not deign to resort \nto what they believed her corrupt fountains for the \nsources of instruction. The austerity of the Puritan \nwas yet more scandalized by the voluptuous beauties \nof her lighter compositions, and Milton, whose name \nwe cited in our article, seems to have been a solitary \nexception on the records of that day, of an eminent \nEnglish scholar thoroughly imbued with a relish for \nItalian letters. \n\nAfter the days of civil and religious faction had \ngone by, a new aspect was given to things under the \nbrilliant auspices of the Restoration. The French \nlanguage was at that time in the meridian of its \nglory. Boileau, with an acute but pedantic taste, \nhad draughted his critical ordinances from the most \n\n\n\nDA PONTE S OBSERVATIONS. 601 \n\nperfect models of classical antiquity. Racine, work- \ning on these principles, may be said to have put into \naction the poetic conceptions of his friend Boileau; \nand, with such a model to illustrate the excellence of \nhis theory, it is not wonderful that the code of the \nFrench legislator, recommended, as it was, too, by \nthe patronage of the most imposing court in Europe, \nshould have found its way into the rival kingdom, \nand have superseded there every other foreign influ- \nence.* It did so. " French criticism," says Bishop \nHurd, speaking of this period, " has carried it before \nthe Italian with the rest of Europe. This dexterous \npeople have found means to lead the taste, as well \nas set the fashions, of their neighbours.\' , Again : \n" The exact but cold Boileau happened to say some- \nthing of the clinquant of Tasso, and the magic of \nthis word, like the report of Astolfo\'s horn in Arios- \nto, overturned at once the solid and well-built found- \nation of Italian poetry : it became a sort of watch- \nword among the critics." Mr. Gilford, whose ac- \nquaintance w 7 ith the ancient literature of his nation \nentitles him to perfect confidence on this subject, \nwhatever we may be disposed to concede to him on \nsome others, in his introduction to Massinger re- \nmarks, in relation to this period, that " criticism, \nwhich in a former reign had been making no incon- \n\n* Boileau\'s sagacity in fully appreciating the merits of Phedre and of \nAthalie, and his independence in supporting them against the fashionable \nfactions of the day, are well known. But he conferred a still greater ob- \nligation on his friend. Racine the younger tells us that " his father, in \nhis youth, was given to a vicious taste (concetti), and that Boileau led him \nbaclr to nature, and taught him to rhyme with labour {rimer difficilemcnt)." \n\n4 3 A \n\n\n\n602 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsiderable progress under the great masters of Italy, \nwas now diverted into a new channel, and only \nstudied under the puny and jejune canons of their \ndegenerate followers, the French." Pope and Ad- \ndison, the legislators of their own and a future age, \ncannot be exempted from this reproach. The latter \nconceived and published the most contemptuous \nopinion of the Italians. In a very early paper of \nthe Spectator bearing his own signature (No. 6), he \nobserves, * The finest writers among the modern \nItalians [in contradistinction to the ancient Romans] \nexpress themselves in such a florid form of words, \nand such tedious circumlocutions, as are used by \nnone but pedants in our own country, and at the \nsame time fill their writings with such poor imagi- \nnations and conceits as our youths are ashamed of \nbefore they have been two years at the University." \nIn the same paper he adds, " I entirely agree with \nMonsieur Boileau, that one verse of Virgil is worth \nall the tinsel of Tasso." This is very unequivocal \nlanguage, and our censor will do us the justice to \nbelieve that we do not quote it from any \'* malicious \nintention," but simply to show what must have been \nthe popular taste, when sentiments like these were \npromulgated by a leading critic of the day, in the \nmost important and widely-circulated journal in the \nkingdom.* \n\n* Addison tells us, in an early number of the Spectator, that three thou~ \nsand copies were daily distributed ; and Chalmers somewhere remarks, \nthat this circulation was afterward increased to fourteen thousand ; an \namount, in proportion to the numerical population and intellectual culture \nof that day, very far superior to that of the most popular jonrnals at the \npreseut time. \n\n\n\nDA PONTES OBSERVATIONS. 603 \n\nIn conformity with this anti-Italian spirit, we find \nthat no translation of Ariosto was attempted subse- \nquent to the very imperfect one by Harrington in \nElizabeth\'s time. In the reign of George the Sec- \nond a new version was published by one Huggins. \nIn his preface he observes, " After this work was \npretty far advanced, I was informed there had been \na translation published in the reign of Elizabeth, and \ndedicated to that queen ; whereupon I requested a \nfriend to obtain a sight of that book, for it is, it seems, \nvery scarce, and the glorious original much more so \nin this country." Huggins was a learned scholar, \nalthough he made a bad translation. Yet it seems \nhe had never met with, or even heard of, the version \nof his predecessor Harrington. But, without encum- \nbering ourselves with authorities, a glance at the \ncompositions of the period in question would show \nhow feeble are the pretensions of an Italian influence, \nand we are curious to know what important names, \nor productions, or characteristics can be cited by the \nauthor of the Osservazioni in support of it. Dryden, \nwhom he has objected to us, versified, it is true, \nthree of his Fables from Boccaccio ; but this brief \neffort is the only evidence we can recall, in the mul- \ntitude of his miscellaneous writings, of a respect for \nItalian letters, and he is well known to have power- \nfully contributed to the introduction of a French \ntaste in the drama. The only exception which oc- \ncurs *o our general remark is that afforded by the \nMetaphysical School of Poets, whose vicious pro- \npensities have been referred by Dr. Johnson to Ma- \n\n\n\n604 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nrini and his followers. But as an ancient English \nmodel for this affectation may be found in Donne, \nand as the doctor was not prodigal of golden opin- \nions towards Italy, we will not urge upon our oppo-\' \nnent what may be deemed an ungenerous, perhaps \nan unjust imputation. The same indifference ap- \npears to have lasted the greater portion of the eigh- \nteenth century, and with few exceptions, enumerated \nin our former article, the Tuscan spring seems to \nhave been almost hermetically sealed against the \nEnglish scholar. The increasing thirst for every \nvariety of intellectual nourishment in our age has \nagain invited to these early sources, and while every \nmodern tongue has been anxiously explored by the \ndiligence of critics, the Italian has had the good for- \ntune to be more widely and more successfully culti- \nvated than at any former period. \n\nWe should apologize to our readers for afflicting \nthem with so much commonplace detail, but we \nknow no other way of rebutting the charge, which, \naccording to the author of the Osservazioni, might \nbe imputed to us, of a " malicious silence" in our ac- \ncount of the influence of Italian letters in England. \n\nBut if we have offended by saying too little on \nthe preceding head, we have given equal offence on \nanother occasion by saying too much ; our antago- \nnist attacks us from such opposite quarters that we \nhardly know where to expect him. We had spo- \nken, and in terms of censure, of Boileau\'s celebrated \nsarcasm upon Tasso ; and we had added that, not- \nwithstanding an affected change of opinion, "he hq- \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 605 \n\nhered until the time of his death to his original her- \nesy." "As much," says our censor, "as it would \nhave been desirable in him [the reviewer] to have \nspoken on these other matters, so it would have been \nequally proper to have suppressed all that Boileau \nwrote upon Tasso, together with the remarks made \nby him in the latter part of his life, as having a ten- \ndency to prejudice unfavourably the minds of such \nas had not before heard them. Nor should he have \ncoldly styled it his \' original heresy ;\' but he should \nhave said that, in spite of all the heresies of Boileau \nand all the blunders of Voltaire, the Jerusalem has \nbeen regarded for more than two centuries and a \nhalf, and will be regarded, as long as the earth has \nmotion, by all the nations of the civilized world, as \nthe most noble, most magnificent, most sublime epic \nproduced for more than eighteen centuries ; that \nthis consent and this duration of its splendour are \nthe strongest and most authentic seal of its incontro- \nvertible merit ; that this unlucky clinquant, that de- \nfaces at most a hundred verses of this poem, and \nwhich, in fact, is nothing but an excess of over- \nwrought beauty, is but the merest flaw in a mount- \nain of diamonds ; that these hundred verses are com- \npensated by more than three thousand, in which are \ndisplayed all the perfection, grace, learning, elo- \nquence, and colouring of the loftiest poetry." In the \nsame swell of commendation the author proceeds \nfor half a page farther. We know not what inad- \nvertence on our part can have made it necessary, by \nway of reproof to us, to pour upon Tasso\'s head such \n4 3 A* \n\n\n\n606 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\na pelting of pitiless panegyric. Among all the Ital- \nian poets, there is no one for whom we have ever \nfelt so sincere a veneration, after \n\n" quel signor dell\' altissimo canto \nChe sovra gli altri, com\' aquila vola," \n\nas for Tasso. In some respects he is even superior \nto Dante. His writings are illustrated by a purer \nmorality, as his heart was penetrated with a more \ngenuine spirit of Christianity. Oppression, under \nwhich they both suffered the greater part of their \nlives, wrought a very different effect upon the gentle \ncharacter of Tasso and the vindictive passions of \nthe Ghibelline. The religious wars of Jerusalem, \nexhibiting the triumphs of the Christian chivalry, \nwere a subject peculiarly adapted to the character \nof the poet, who united the qualities of an accom- \nplished knight with the most unaffected piety. The \nvulgar distich, popular in his day with the common \npeople of Ferrara, is a homely but unsuspicious tes- \ntimony to his opposite virtues.* His greatest fault \nwas an ill-regulated sensibility, and his greatest mis- \n\n* " Colla penna e colla spada, \n\nNessun val quanto Torquato." \n\nThis elegant couplet was made in consequence of a victory obtained \nby Tasso over three cavaliers, who treacherously attacked him in one of \nthe public squares of Ferrara. His skill in fencing is notorious, and his \npassion for it is also betrayed by the frequent, circumstantial, and mas- \nterly pictures of it in his "Jerusalem." See, in particular, the mortal \ncombat between Tancred and Argante, can. xix., where all the evolutions \nof the art are depicted with the accuracy of a professed sword-player. \nIn the same manner, the numerous and animated allusions to field-sports \nbetray the favourite pastime of the author of Waverley ; and the falcon, \nthe perpetual subject of illustration and simile in the " Divina Comme- \ndia," might lead us to suspect a similar predilection \'.. i Dante. \n\n\n\nda fonte\'s observations. 607 \n\nfortune was to have been thrown among people who \nknew not how to compassionate the infirmities of \ngenius. In contemplating such a character, one \nmay, without affectation, feel a disposition to draw a \nveil over the few imperfections that tarnished it, and \nin our notice of it, expanded into a dozen pages, \nthere are certainly not the same number of lines de- \nvoted to his defects, and those exclusively of a liter- \nary nature. This is but a moderate allowance for \nthe transgressions of any man ; yet, according to \nMr. Da Ponte, " we close our eyes against the merits \nof his countrymen, and pry with those of Argus into \ntheir defects." \n\nBut why are we to be debarred the freedom of \ncriticism enjoyed even by the Italians themselves 1 \nTo read the Osservazioni, one would conclude that \nTasso, from his first appearance, had united all suf- \nfrages in his favour; that, by unanimous acclama- \ntion, his poem had been placed at the head of all \nthe epics of the last eighteen centuries, and that the \nonly voice raised against him had sprung from the \npetty rivalries of French criticism, from which source \nwe are more than once complimented with having \nrecruited our own forces. Does our author reckon \nfor nothing the reception with which the first acad- \nemy in Italy greeted the Jerusalem on its introduc- \ntion into the world, when they would have smother- \ned it with the kindness of their criticism ? Or the \nvolumes of caustic commentary by the celebrated \nGalileo, almost every line of which is a satire ? Or, \nto descend to a later period, when the lapse of more \n\n\n\n608 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\nthan a century may be supposed to have rectified \nthe caprice of contemporary judgments, may we not \nshelter ourselves under the authorities of Andres,* \nwhose favourable notice of Italian letters our author \ncites with deference ; of Metastasio, the avowed ad- \nmirer and eulogist of Tasso ;f of Gravina, whose \nphilosophical treatise on the principles of poetry, a \nwork of great authority in his own country, exhibits \nthe most ungrateful irony on the literary pretensions \nof Tasso, almost refusing to him the title of a poet.f \nBut, to proceed no farther, we may abide by the \nsolid judgment of Ginguene, that second Daniel, \nwhose opinions we are advised so strenuously " to \nstudy and to meditate." " As to florid images, friv- \nolous thoughts, affected turns, conceits, and jeuz de \nmots, they are to be found in greater abundance in \nTasso\'s poem than is commonly imagined. The \nenumeration of them would be long, if one should \nrun over the Jerusalem and cite all that could be \nclassed under one or other of these heads, &c. Let \nus content ourselves with a few examples." He \nthen devotes ten pages to these few examples (our \nauthor is indignant that we should have bestowed as \nmany lines), and closes with this sensible reflection : \n" I have not promised a blind faith in the writers I \nadmire the most ; I have not promised it to Boileau, \nI have not promised it to Tasso ; and in literature \nwe all owe our faith and homage to the eternal laws \nof truth, of nature, and of taste."\xc2\xa7 \n\n* Dell\' Origine, &c, d\'Ogni Lett., torn, iv., p. 250. \n\nt Opere Postume di Metastasio, torn, iii , p. 30. \n\nX Ragion Poetica, p. 161, 162. $ Tom. v., p. 368, 378, \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 609 \n\nBut, in order to relieve Tasso from an undue re- \nsponsibility, we had stated in our controverted arti- \ncle that "the affectations imputed to him were to be \ntraced to a much more remote origin;" that "Pe- \ntrarch\'s best productions were stained with them, as \nwere those of preceding poets, and that they seem- \ned to have flowed directly from the Provenqale, the \nfountain of Italian lyric poetry." This transfer of \nthe sins of one poet to the door of another is not a \nwhit more to the approbation of our censor, and he \nnot only flatly denies the truth of our remark, as ap- \nplied to "Petrarch\'s best productions," but gravely \npronounces it " one of the most solemn, the most \nhorrible literary blasphemies that ever proceeded \nfrom the tongue or pen of mortal !"* " I maintain," \nsays he, " that not one of those that are truly Pe- \ntrarch\'s best productions, and there are very many, \ncan be accused of such a defect ; let but the critic \npoint me out a single affected or vicious expression \nin the three patriotic Canzoni, or in the Chiare \nfresche e dolci acque, or in the Tre Sorellc" &c. (he \nnames several others), " or, in truth, in any of the \nrest, excepting one or two only." He then recom- \nmends to us that, " instead of hunting out the errors \nand blemishes of these masters of our intellects, and \noccupying ourselves with unjust and unprofitable \ncriticism, we should throw over them the mantle of \ngratitude, and recompense them with our eulogiums \n\n* " Diro essere questa una delle piu solenni, delle piu orribili letterarie \nbestemmie, che sia stata mai pronunziata o scritta da lingua o penna \nmortale." \xe2\x80\x94 P. 94. \n\n4H \n\n\n\n610 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand applause." In conformity with which, the au- \nthor proceeds to pour out his grateful tribute on the \nhead of the ancient laureate for two pages farther, \nbut which, as not material to the argument, we must \nomit. \n\nWe know no better way of answering all this \nthan by taking up the gauntlet thrown down to us, \nand we are obliged to him for giving us the means \nof bringing the matter to so speedy an issue. We \nwill take one of the first Canzoni, of wbich he has \nchallenged our scrutiny. It is in Petrarch\'s best \nmanner, and forms the first of a series, which has \nreceived nar\' e%oxnv, the title of the Three Sisters \n(Tre Sorette). It is indited to his mistress\'s eyes, \nand the first stanza contains a beautiful invocation \nto these sources of a lover\'s inspiration ; but in the \nsecond we find him relapsing into the genuine Pro- \nvensale heresy : \n\n" When I become s?iow before their burning rays, \nYour noble pride \n\nIs perhaps offended with my unworthiness. \nOh ! if this my apprehension \nShould not temper the flame that consumes me, \nHappy should I be to dissolve ; since in their presence \nIt is dearer to me to die than to live without them. \nThen, that I do not melt. \n\nBeing so frail an object, before so potent afire, \nIt is not my own strength which saves me from it, \nBut principally fear, \n\nWhich congeals the blood wandering through my veins. \nAnd mends the heart that it may burn a long time.*\'* \n\n" Quando agli ardenti rai neve divegro ; \nVostro gentile sdegno \nForse ch\' allor mia indegnitate offende. \nO, se questa temenza \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 611 \n\nThis melancholy parade of cold conceits, of fire \nand snow, thawing and freezing, is extracted, be u \nobserved, from one of those choice productions \nwhich is recommended as without a blemish ; in- \ndeed, not only is it one of the best, but it was es- \nteemed by Petrarch himself, together with its two \nsister odes, the very best of his lyrical pieces, and \nthe decision of the poet has been ratified by poster- \nity. Let it not be objected that the spirit of an ode \nmust necessarily evaporate in a prose translation. \nThe ideas may be faithfully transcribed, and we \nwould submit it to the most ordinary taste whether \nideas like those above quoted can ever be ennobled \nby any artifice of expression. \n\nWe think the preceding extract from one of the \n" best of Petrarch\'s compositions" may sufficiently \nvindicate us from the imputation of unprecedented \n"blasphemy" on his poetical character; but, lest an \nappeal be again made, on the ground of a diversity \nin national taste, we will endeavour to fortify our \nfeeble judgment with one or two authorities among \nhis own countrymen, whom Mr. Da Ponte may be \nmore inclined to admit. \n\nThe Italians have exceeded every other people in \n\nNon temprasse 1\' arsura che m\' ineende ; \n\nBeato venir men ! che \'n lor presenza \n\nM\' e piu caro il morir, che \'1 viver senza. \n\nDunque ch\' i\' non mi sfaccia, \n\nSi frale oggetto a si possente foco, \n\nNon e proprio valor, che me ne scampi ; \n\nMa la paura un poco, \n\nChe \'1 sangue vago per le vene agghiaccia, \n\nRisalda \'1 cor, perche piu tempo avvampi." \n\nCanzone vii., neW Edizione di Muratori. \n\n\n\n612 I.IOGRAPRTCAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe grateful tribute of commentaries which they have \npaid to the writings of their eminent men ; some of \nthese are of extraordinary value, especiallv in verbal \ncriticism, while many more, by the contrary lights \nwhich they shed over the path of the scholar, serve \nrather to perplex than to enlighten it.* Tassoni and \nMuratori are accounted among the best of Petrarch\'s \nnumerous commentators, and the latter, in particu- \nlar, has discriminated his poetical character with as \nmuch independence as feeling. We cannot refrain \nfrom quoting a few lines from Muratori\'s preface, as \nexceedingly pertinent to our present purpose? "Who, \nI beg to ask, is so pedantic, so blind an admirer of \nPetrarch, that he will pretend that no defects are to \nbe found in his verses, or, being found, will desire they \nshould be respected with a religious silence f What- \never may be our rule in regard to moral defects, \nthere can be no doubt that, in those of art and sci- \nence, the public interest requires that truth should \nbe openly unveiled, since it is important that all \nshould distinguish the beautiful from the bad, in or- \nder to imitate the one and to avoid the other."f In \n\n* A single ode has famished a repast for a volume. The number of \nPetrarch\'s commentators is incredible ; no less than a dozen of the most \neminent Italian scholars have been occupied with annotations upon him \nat the same time. Dante has been equally fortunate. A noble Floren- \ntine projected an edition of a hundred volumes for the hundred cantos \nof the " Commedia," which should embrace the different illustrations. \nOne of the latest of the fraternity, Biagioli, in an edition of Dante, pub- \nlished at Paris, 1818, not only claims for his master a foreknowledge of \nthe existence of America, but of the celebrated Harveian discovery of the \ncirculation of the blood ! \xe2\x80\x94 Tom. i., p. 18, note. After this, one may feel \nless surprise at the bulk of these commentaries. \n\nt Le Rime di F. Petrarca; con le Osservazioni di Tassoni. Muzio, e \nMuratori. Pref., p. ix. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s OBSERVATIONS. 6l3 \n\nthe same tone speaks Tiraboschi, torn, v., p. 474 \nYet more to the purpose is an observation of the \nAbbe Denina upon Petrarch, " who," says he, " not \nonly in his more ordinary sonnets affords obvious ex- \namples of affectation and coldness, but in his most \ntender and most beautiful compositions approaches \nthe conceited and inflated style of which I am now \nspeaking."* And the "impartial Ginguene," a name \nwe love to quote, confesses that " Petrarch could not \ndeny himself those puerile antitheses of cold and \nheat, of ice and flames, which occasionally disfigure \nhis most interesting and most \'agreeable pieces "j- It \nwould be easy to marshal many other authorities of \nequal weight in our defence, but obviously superflu- \nous, since those we have adduced are quite compe- \ntent to our vindication from the reproach, somewhat \nsevere, of having uttered " the most horrible blas- \nphemy which ever proceeded from the pen of mor- \ntal." " \n\nThe age of Petrarch, like that of Shakspeare, \nmust be accountable for his defects, and in this man- \nner we may justify the character of the poet where \nwe cannot that of his compositions. The Proven- \n?ale, the most polished European dialect of the Mid- \ndle Ages, had reached its last perfection before the \nfourteenth century. Its poetry, chiefly amatory ana \nlyrical, may be considered as the homage offered by \nthe high-bred cavaliers of that day at the shrine of \nbeauty, and, of whatever value for its literary execu \n\n* Vicende della Letteratura, torn, ii., p. 55. \nt Hist. Lit., torn ii., p. 566. \n\n4 3B \n\n\n\n614 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntion, is interesting for the beautiful grace it diffuses \nover the iron age of chivalry. It was, as we have \nsaid, principally devoted to love ; those who did not \nfeel could at least affect the tender passion ; and \nhence the influx of subtle metaphors and frigid con- \nceits, that give a meretricious brilliancy to most of \nthe Provenqale poetry. The fathers of Italian verse, \nGuido, Cino, &c, seduced by the fashion of the pe- \nriod, clothed their own more natural sentiments in \nthe same vicious forms of expression ; even Dante, \nin his admiration, often avowed for the Trouba- \ndours, could not be wholly insensible to their influ- \nence ; but the less austere Petrarch, both from con- \nstitutional temperament and the accidental circum- \nstances of his situation, was more deeply affected by \nthem. In the first place, a pertinacious attachment \nto a mistress whose heart was never warmed, al- \nthough her vanity may have been gratified by the \nadulation of the finest poet of the age, seems to have \nmaintained an inexplicable control over his affec- \ntions, or his fancy, during the greater portion of his \nlife. In the amatory poetry of the ancients, polluted \nwith coarse and licentious images, he could find no \nmodel for the expression of this sublimated passion. \nBut the Platonic theory of love had been imported \ninto Italy by the fathers of the Church, and Petrarch, \nbetter schooled in ancient learning than any of his \ncontemporaries, became early enamoured of the spec- \nulative doctrines of the Greek philosophy. To this \nsource he was indebted for those abstractions and \nvisionary ecstasies which sometimes give a generous \n\n\n\nDA PONTE S OBSERVATIONS. 615 \n\nelevation, but very often throw a cloud over his con- \nceptions. And again, an intimate familiarity with \nthe Proven^ale poetry was the natural consequence \nof his residence in the south of France. There, too, \nhe must often have been a spectator at those meta- \nphysical disputations in the courts of love, which ex- \nhibited the same ambition of metaphor, studied an- \ntithesis, and hyperbole, as the written compositions \nof Provence. To all these causes may be referred \nthose defects which, under favour be it spoken, oc- \ncasionally offend us, even " in his most perfect com- \npositions." The rich finish which Petrarch gave to \nthe Tuscan idiom has perpetuated these defects in \nthe poetry of his country. Decipit exemplar vitiis \nimitabile. His beauties were inimitable, but to copy \nhis errors was in some measure to tread in his foot- \nsteps, and a servile race of followers sprang up in \nItaly, who, under the emphatic name of Petrarchists, \nhave been the object of derision or applause, as a \ngood or a bad taste predominated in their country. \nWarton, with apparent justice, refers to the same \nsource some of the early corruptions in English po- \netry ; and Petrarch \xe2\x80\x94 we hope it is not "blasphemy" \nto say it \xe2\x80\x94 becomes, by the very predominance of his \ngenius, eminently responsible for the impurities of \ndiction which disfigure some of the best productions \nboth in English literature and his own. \n\nWe trust that the free manner in which we have \nspoken will not be set down by the author of the \nOsservazioni to a malicious desire of " calumniating" \n(he literature of his country. We have been neces- \n\n\n\n616 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nsarily led to it in vindication of our former asser- \ntions. After an interval of nearly five centuries, the \ndispassionate voice of posterity has awarded to Pe- \ntrarch the exact measure of censure and applause. \nWe have but repeated their judgment. No one of \nthe illustrious triumvirate of the fourteenth century \ncan pretend to have possessed so great an influence \nover his own age and over posterity. Dante, sacri- \nficed by a faction, was, as he pathetically complains, \na wandering mendicant in a land of strangers; Boc- \ncaccio, with the interval of a few years in the me- \nridian of his life, passed from the gayety of a court \nto the seclusion of a cloister ; but Petrarch, the \nfriend, the minister of princes, devoted, during the \nwhole of his long career, his wealth, his wide au- \nthority, and his talents, to the generous cause of \nphilosophy and letters. He was unwearied in his \nresearches after ancient manuscripts, and from the \nmost remote corners of Italy, from the obscure re- \ncesses of churches and monasteries, he painfully col- \nlected the mouldering treasures of antiquity. Many \nof them he copied with his own hand \xe2\x80\x94 among the \nrest, all the works of Cicero ; and his beautiful tran- \nscript of the epistles of the Roman orator is still pre- \nserved in the Laurentian library at Florenc e. In \nhis numerous Latin compositions he aspired to re- \nvive the purity and elegance of the Augustan age \nand, if he did not altogether succeed in the attempt, \nhe may claim the merit of having opened the soil \nfor the more successful cultivation of later Italian \nscholars. \n\n\n\nDA ponte\'s observations. 617 \n\nHis own efforts, and the generous impulse which \nhis example communicated to his age, have justly \nentitled him to be considered the restorer of classical \nlearning. His greatest glory, however, is derived \nfrom the spirit of life which he breathed into mod- \nern letters. Dante had fortified the Tuscan idiom \nwith the vigour and severe simplicity of an ancient \nlanguage, but the graceful genius of Petrarch was \nwanting to ripen it into that harmony of numbers \nwhich has made it the most musical of modern dia- \nlects. His knowledge of the Provenqale enabled \nhim to enrich his native tongue with many foreign \nbeauties ; his exquisite ear disposed him to refuse all \nbut the most melodious combinations ; and, at the \ndistance of five hundred years, not a word in him \nhas become obsolete, not a phrase too quaint to be \nused. Voltaire has passed the same high eulogium \nupon Pascal ; but Pascal lived three centuries later \nthan Petrarch. It would be difficult to point out \n\nthe Writer who SO far fixed the enea Trrspoevra; we \n\ncertainly could not assign an earlier period than the \ncommencement of the last century. Petrarch\'s bril- \nliant success in the Italian led to most important \nconsequences all over Europe by the evidence which \nit afforded of the capacities of a modern tongue. He \nrelied, however, for his future fame on his elaborate \nLatin compositions, and, while he dedicated these \nto men of the highest rank, he gave away his Italian \nlyrics to ballad-mongers, to be chanted about the \nstreets for their own profit. His contemporaries \nmthorized this judgment, and it was for his Latin \n4 3B* \n\n\n\n618 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\neclogues, and his epic on Scipio Africanus, that he \nreceived the laurel wreath of poetry in the Capitol \nBut nature must eventually prevail over the decis- \nions of pedantry or fashion. By one of those fluc- \ntuations, not very uncommon in the history of let- \nters, the author of the Latin "Africa\' is now known \nonly as the lover of Laura and the father of Italian \nsong. \n\nWe have been led into this long, we fear tedious \nexposition of the character of Petrarch, partly from \nthe desire of defending the justice of our former crit- \nicism against the heavy imputations of the author of \nthe Osservazioni, and partly from reluctance to dwell \nonly on the dark side of a picture so brilliant as that \nof the laureate, who, in a barbarous age, with \n\n" his rhetorike so swete \nEnluminid all Itaile of poetrie." \n\nOur limits will compel us to pass lightly over \nsome less important strictures of our author. \n\nAbout the middle of the last century a bitter con- \ntroversy arose between Tiraboschi and Lampillas, a \nlearned but intemperate Spaniard, respecting which \nof their two nations had the best claim to the re- \nproach of having corrupted the other\'s literature in \nthe sixteenth century. In alluding to it, we had re- \nmarked that " the Italian had the better of his ad- \nversary in temper, if not in argument." The author \nof the Osservazioni styles this " a dry and dogmatic \ndecision, which so much displeased a certain Italian \nletterato that he had promised him a confutation of \nit." We know not who the indignant letterato may \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 619 \n\nbe whose thunder has been so long hanging over us, \nbut we must say that, so far from a " dogmatic decis- \nion," if ever we made a circumspect remark in our \nlives, this was one. As far as it went, it was com- \nplimentary to the Italians ; for the rest, we waived \nall discussion of the merits of the controversy, both \nbecause it was impertinent to our subject, and be- \ncause we were not sufficiently instructed in the de- \ntails to go into it. One or two reflections, however, \nwe may now add. The relative position of Italy \nand Spain, political and literary, makes it highly \nprobable that the predominant influence, of what- \never kind it may have been, proceeded from Italy. \n1. She had matured her literature to a high perfec- \ntion while that of every other nation was in its in- \nfancy, and she was, of course, much more likely to \ncommunicate than to receive impressions. 2. Her \npolitical relations with Spain were such as particu- \nlarly to increase this probability in reference to her. \nThe occupation of an insignificant corner of her \nown territory (for Naples was* very insignificant in \nevery literary aspect) by the house of Aragon open- \ned an obvious channel for the transmission of her \nopinions into the sister kingdom. 3. Any one, even \nan Italian, at all instructed in the Spanish literature, \nwill admit that this actually did happen in the reign \nof Charles the Fifth, the golden age of Italy; that \nnot only, indeed, the latter country influenced, but \nchanged the whole complexion of Spanish letters, \nestablishing, through the intervention of her high- \np-iesis. Boscan and Garcilaso, what is universally \n\n\n\n620 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nrecognised under the name of an Italian school. \nThis was an era of good taste ; hut when, only fifty \nyears later, hoth languages were overrun with those \ndeplorable affectations which, in Italy particularly, \nhave made the very name of the century (seictnto) \na term of reproach, it would seem probable that the \nsame country, which but so short a time before had \npossessed so direct an influence over the other, \nshould through the same channels have diffused the \npoison with which its own literature was infected. \nAs Marini and Gongora, however, the reputed found- \ners of the school, were contemporaries, it is ex- \ntremely difficult to adjust the precise claims of either \nto the melancholy credit of originality, and, after all, \nthe question to foreigners can be one of little inter- \nest or importance. \n\nMuch curiosity has existed respecting the source \nof those affectations which, at different periods, have \ntainted the modern languages of Europe. Each na- \ntion is ambitious of tracing them to a foreign origin, \nand all have at some period or other agreed to find \nthis in Italy. From this quarter the French critics \nderive their style precieux, which disappeared before \nthe satire of Moliere and Boileau ; from this the \nEnglish derive theii metaphysical school of Cowley; \nand the cultismo, of which we have been speaking, \nwhich Lope and Quevedo condemned by precept, \nbut authorized by example, is referred by the Span- \niards to the same source. The early celebrity of \nPetrarch and his vicious imitators may afford a spe- \ncious Justification of all this ; but a genero as criti- \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 621 \n\ncism may perhaps be excused in referring them to a \nmore ancient origin. The Proven^ale for three cen- \nturies was the most popular, and, as we have before \nsaid, the most polished dialect in Europe. The lan- \nguage of the people all along the fertile coasts of the \nMediterranean, it was also the language of poetry in \nmost of the polite courts in Europe ; in those of \nToulouse, Provence, Sicily, and of several in Italy ; it \nreached its highest perfection under the Spanish no- \nbles of Aragon ; it passed into England in the twelfth \ncentury with the dowry of Eleanor of Guienne and \nPoictou ; even kings did not disdain to cultivate it, \nand the lion-hearted Richard, if report be true, could \nembellish the rude virtues of chivalry with the mild- \ner glories of a Troubadour.* When this precocious \ndialect had become extinct, its influence still remain- \ned. The early Italian poets gave a sort of classical \nsanction to its defects ; but while their genius may \nthus, with justice, be accused of scattering the seeds \nof corruption, the soil must be confessed to have \nbeen universally prepared for their reception at a \nmore remote period. \n\nThus the metaphysical conceits of Cowley\'s \n\n* Every one is acquainted with Sismondi\'s elegant treatise on the \n^rovencjale poetry. It cannot, however, now be relied on as of the high- \nest authority. The subject has been much more fully explored since the \npublication of his work by Monsieur Raynouard, Secretary of the French \nAcademy. His Poesies des Troubadours has now reached the sixth vol- \nume ; and W. A. Schlegel, in a treatise of little bulk but great learning, \nentitled Observations sur la Langue et la Litterature Provenqale, has pro- \nnounced it, by the facts it has brought to light, to have given the coup dt \ngrace to the theory of Father Andres, whom Sismondi has chiefly fol- \nlowed. \n\n\n\n622 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nschool, which Dr. Johnson has referred to Marini, \nmay be traced through the poetry of Donne, of \nShakspeare and his contemporaries, of Surrey, Wy- \natt, and Chaucer, up to the fugitive pieces of the \nthirteenth and fourteenth centuries, which have been \nredeemed from oblivion by the diligence of the an- \ntiquarian. In the same manner, the religious and \namatory poetry of Spain at the close of the thir- \nteenth century, as exhibited in their Cancioneros, \ndisplays the same subtleties and barbaric taste for \nornament, from which few of her writers, even in \nthe riper season of her literature, have been wholly \nuncontaminated. Perhaps the perversities of Voi- \nture and of Scudery may find as remote a genealogy \nin France. The corruptions of the Pleiades may \nafford one link in the chain, and any one who has \nleisure might verify our suggestions. Almost every \nmodern literature seems to have contained, in its \nearliest germs, an active principle of corruption. \nThe perpetual lapses into barbarism have at times \ntriumphed over all efforts of sober criticism ; and the \nperversion of intellect, for the greater part of a cen- \ntury, may furnish to the scholar an ample field for \nhumiliating reflection. How many fine geniuses in \nthe condemned age of the seicentisti, wandering after \nthe false lights of Marini and his school, substituted \ncold conceits for wit, puns for thoughts, and wire- \ndrawn metaphors for simplicity and nature ! How \nmany, with Cowley, exhausted a genuine wit in \nhunting out remote analogies and barren combina- \ntions; or with Lope, and even Calderon, devoted \n\n\n\n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 623 \n\npages to curious distortions of rhyme, to echoes or \nacrostics, in scenes which invited all the eloquence \nof poetry ! Prostitutions of genius like these not \nmerely dwarf the human mind, but carry it back \ncenturies to the scholastic subtleties, the alliterations, \nanagrams, and thousand puerile devices of the Mid- \ndle Ages. \n\nBut we have already rambled too far from the au- \nthor of the " Osservazioni." Our next rock of of- \nfence is a certain inconsiderate astonishment which \nwe expressed at the patience of his countrymen un- \nder the infliction of epics pf thirty and forty cantos \nin length ; and he reminds us of our corresponding \ntaste, equally unaccountable, for novels and roman- \nces, spun out into an interminable length, like those, \nfor example, by the author of Waverley [p. 82 to \n85]. A liberal criticism, we are aware, will be dif- \nfident of censuring the discrepancies of national \ntastes. Where the value of the thought is equal, the \nluxury of polished verse and poetic imagery may \nyield a great superiority to poetry over prose, par- \nticularly with a people so sensible to melody and of \nso vivacious a fancy as the Italians; but, then, to \naccomplish all this requires a higher degree of skill \nin the artist, and mediocrity in poetry is intolerable. \n\n" Mediocribus esse poetis \nNon homines, non Di," &c. \n\nHorace\'s maxim is not the less true for being some \nwhat stale. D\'Alembert has uttered a sweeping de- \nnunciation against all long works in verse, as im- \npossible to be read through without experiencing \n\n\n\n624 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nennui; from which he does not except even the \nmasterpieces of antiquity.* What would he have \nsaid to a second-rate Italian epic, wiredrawn into \nthirty or forty cantos, of the incredibilia of chivalry ! \n\nThe English novel, if tolerably well executed, may \nconvey some solid instruction in its details of life, \nof human character, and of passion ; but the tales \nof chivalry \xe2\x80\x94 the overcharged pictures of an imagin- \nary state of society ; of " Gorgons, hydras, and chi- \nmeras dire" \xe2\x80\x94 can be regarded only as an intellectual \nrelaxation. In a less polished dialect, and in a sim- \npler age, they beguiled the tedious evenings of our \nunlettered Norman ancestors, and, as late as Eliza- \nbeth\'s day, they incurred their parting malediction \nfrom the worthy Ascham, as " stuff for wise men to \nlaugh at, whose whole pleasure standeth in open \nmanslaughter and bold bawdry." The remarks in \nour article, of course, had no reference to the chef \nd\'cBuvres of their romantic muse, many of which we \nhad been diligently commending. It is the prerog- \native of genius, we all know, to consecrate whatever \nit touches. \n\nSome other of our general remarks seem to have \nbeen barbed arrows to the patriot breast of the au- \nthor of the " Osservazioni." Such are our reflec- \ntions " on the want of a moral or philosophical aim \nin the ornamental writings of the Italians ;" on " love, \nas suggesting the constant theme and impulse to \ntheir poets;" on the evil tendency of their language, \nin seducing their writers into " an overweening at- \n\n* CEuvres Philosophiques, &c, torn, iv., p. 152. \n\n\n\nDA PONTE S OBSERVATIONS. 625 \n\ntention to sound." There are few general reflec- \ntions which have the good fortune not to require \nmany, and sometimes very important exceptions. \nThe physiognomy of a nation, whether moral or in- \ntellectual, must be made up of those features which \narrest the eye most frequently and forcibly on a \nwide survey of them ; yet how many individual por- \ntraits, after all, may refuse to correspond with the \nprevailing one. The Boeotians were dull to a prov- \nerb ;* yet the most inspired, in the most inspired re- \ngion of Greek poetry, was a Boeotian. The most \namusing of Greek prose writers was a Boeotian. \nOr, to take recent examples, when we find the " ac- \ncurate Ginguene" speaking of " the universal corrup- \ntion of taste in Italy during the seventeenth cen- \ntury," or Sismondi telling us that " the abuse of wit \nextinguished there, during that age, every other spe- \ncies of talent" we are obviously not to nail them \ndown to a pedantic precision of language, or how \nare we to dispose of some of the finest poets and \nscholars Italy has ever produced ; of Chiabrera, Fil- \nicaja, Galileo, and other names sufficiently numerous \nto swell into a bulky quarto of Tiraboschi 1 The \nsame pruning principle applied to writers who, like \nMontesquieu, Madame de Stael, and Schlegel, deal \nin general views, would go near to strip them of all \nrespect or credibility. \n\nBut it is frivolous to multiply examples. Dante \nTasso, Alamanni, Guidi, Petrarch often, the gener- \nous Filicaja always, with, doubtless, very many oth- \n\n* " Sus Bceotica, aims Bceotioa, Boeoticum ingenium." \n\n4 30 \n\n\n\n626 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ners, afford an honourable exception to our remark \non the want of a moral aim in the lighter walks of \nItalian letters, and to many of these, by indirect crit- \nicism, we accorded it in our article. But let any \nscholar cast his eye over the prolific productions of \ntheir romantic muse, which even Tiraboschi cen- \nsures as " crude and insipid,"* and Gravina deplores \nas having " excluded the light of. truth" from his \ncountrymen ;f or on their thousand tales of pleasant- \nry and love, which, since Boccaccio\'s example, have \nagreeably perpetuated the ingenious inventions of a \nbarbarous age ;J or round "the circle of frivolous ex- \ntravagances," as Salfi\xc2\xa7 characterizes the burlesque \nnovelties with which the Italian wits have regaled \nthe laughter-loving appetite of their nation ; or on \ntheir hecatombs of amorous lyrics alone, and he may \naccept, in these saturated varieties of the national \nliterature, a decent apology, if not an ample justifi- \ncation for our assertion. \n\n* Lett. Ital., torn, vii., P. iii., s. 42. t Ragion Poetica, p. 14. \n\n\\ The Italian Novelle, it is well known, were originally suggested by \nthe French Fabliaux of the 12th and 13th centuries. It may be worthy \nof remark, that, while in Italy these amusing fictions have been diligent- \n1} propagated from Boccaccio to the present day, in England, although \nrecommended by a genius like Chaucer, they have scarcely been adopted \nhy a single writer. The same may be said of them in France, their na- \ntive soil, with perhaps a solitary exception in the modern imitations bv \nLa Fontaine, himself inimitable. \n\n\xc2\xa7 This learned Italian is now employed in completing the unfinished \nhistory of M. Ginguene. With deference to the opinions of the author \nof the " Osservazioni" (vide p. 115, 116), we think he has shown in it a \nmore independent and impartial criticism than his predecessor. Hia \nown countrymen seem to be of the same opinion, and in a recent flat- \ntering notice of his work they have qualified their general encomium with \nmore than one rebuke on the severity of his strictures. Vide Antologia \nfor April, 1824. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations, 627 \n\nBut are we not to speak of " love as furnishing \nthe great impulse to the Italian poet," and " as pre- \nvailing in his bosom far over every other affection \nor relation in life !" Have not their most illustrious \nwriters, Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Sannazarins, \nTasso, uay, philosophic prelates like Bembo, politic \nstatesmen like Lorenzo, embalmed the names of \ntheir mistresses in verse, until they have made them \nfamiliar in every corner of Italy as their own 1 Is \nnot nearly half of the miscellaneous selection of lyr- \nics, in the vulgar edition of " Italian classics," exclu- \nsively amatory 1 Had Milton, Dryden, Pope, or, \nstill more, such solid personages as Bishop Warbur- \nton or Dr. Johnson (whose " Tetty," we suspect, \nnever stirred the doctor\'s poetic feeling), dedicated, \nnot a passing sonnet, but whole volumes to their \nBeatrices, Lauras, and Leonoras, we think a critic \nmight well be excused in regarding the tender pas- \nsion as the vivida vis of the English author. Let \nus not be misunderstood, however, as implying that \nnothing but this amorous incense escapes from the \nItalian lyric muse. To the exceptions which the \nauthor of the Osservazioni has enumerated, he might \nhave added, had not his modesty forbidden him, as \ninferior to none, the sacred melodies which adorn \nhis own autobiography ; above all, the magnificent \ncanzone on the " Death of Leopold," which can de- \nrive nothing from our commendation, when a critic \nlike Mathias has declared it to have " secured to its \nauthor a place on the Italian Parnassus, by the side \nof Petrarch and Chiabrera."* \n\n* A letter from Mr. Mathias, which fell into our hands some time \n\n\n\n623 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nAs to our remark on the tendency of the soft Ital- \nian tones " to seduce their writers into an overween- \ning attention to sound," we are surprised that this \nshould have awakened two such grave pages of ad- \nmonition from our censor. Why, we were speak- \ning of \n\n" The Tuscan\'s siren tongue, \nThat music in itself, whose sounds are song." \n\nWe thought the remark had been as true as it was \nold. We cannot but think there is something in it, \neven now, as we are occasionally lost in the mellif- \nluous redundances of Bembo or Boccaccio, those \ncelebrated models of Italian eloquence. At any rate, \nour remark fell far short of the candid confession of \nBettinelli, who, in speaking of historical writing, ob- \nserves that " in this, as in every other department of \nliterature, his countrymen have been more solicitous \nabout style, and ingenious turns of thought, than \nutility or good philosophy."* \n\nBut we must hasten to the last, not by any means \nthe least offence recorded on the roll of our enormi- \nties. This is an ill-omened stricture on the poetical \ncharacter of Metastasio, for which the author of the \nOsservazioni, after lavishing upon him a shower of \ngolden compliments at our expense, proceeds to cen- \nsure us as " wanting in respect to this famous man ; \nas perspicacious only in detecting blemishes ; as \n\nsince, concludes a complimentary analysis of the above canzone with \nthis handsome eulogium : "After having read and reflected much on this \nwonderful production, I believe that, if Petrarch could have heard it, he \nwould have assigned to its author a seat very near to his own, without \nrequiring any other evidence of his vivacious, copious, and sublime \ngenius." * Risorg. d\'Jtalia Introduz., torn, i., p. 14. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 629 \n\nguilty of extravagant and unworthy expressions, \nwhich prove that we cannot have read or digested \nthe works of this exalted dramatist, nor those of his \nbiographers, nor of his critics." \xe2\x80\x94 P. 98-111. And \nwhat, think you, gentle reader, invited these unsa- \nvoury rebukes, with the dozen pages of panegyrical \naccompaniment on his predecessor 1 " The melo- \ndious rhythm of Tasso\'s verse has none of the monot- \nonous sweetness so cloying in Metastasis ." In this \nitalicised line lies the whole of our offending ; no \nmore. \n\nWe shall consult the comfort of our readers by \ndisposing of this point as briefly as possible. We \ncertainly do not feel, and we will not affect, that \nprofound veneration for Metastasio which the author \nof the Osservazioui professes, and which may have \nlegitimately descended to him with the inheritance \nof the Cesarean laurel. We have always looked \nupon his operas as exhibiting an effeminacy of sen- \ntiment, a violent contrivance of incident, and an ex- \ntravagance of character, that are not wholly to be \nvindicated by the constitution of the Musical Drama. \nBut nothing of all this was intimated in our unfor- \ntunate suggestion ; and as we are unwilling to star- \ntle anew the principles or prejudices of our highly \nrespectable censor, we shall content ourselves with \nbringing into view one or two stout authorities, be- \nhind whom we might have intrenched ourselves, \nqnd resign the field to him. \n\nThe author has presented his readers with an ab- \nstract of about forty pages of undiluted commenda- \n4 3 C* \n\n\n\n630 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntion on his favourite poet, by the Spaniard Arteaga. \nWe have no objection to this ; bat, while he recom- \nmends them as the opinions of" a learned, judicious, \nand indubitably impartial critic,\' \' we think it would \nhave been fair to temper these forty pages of com- \nmendation with some allusion to five-and-thirty pa- \nges of almost unmitigated censure which immediate- \nly follow them.* In the course of this censorious \nanalysis, it may be noticed that the " impartial Arte- \naga," speaking of the common imputation of monot- \nony in the structure of Metastases verse, and of his \nperiods, far from acquitting him, expressly declines \npassing judgment upon it. \n\nBut we may find ample countenance for our " ir- \nreverent opinion" in that of Ugo Foscolo, a name \nof high consideration both as a poet and a critic, \nand whom, for his perspicacity in the latter vocation, \nour author, on another occasion, has himself cited \nand eulogized as his " magnns Apollo." Speaking \nincidentally of Metastasio, he observes : " To please \nthe court of Vienna, the musicians, and the public \nof his day, and to gratify the delicacy of his own \nfeminine taste, Metastasio has reduced his language \nand versification to so limited a number of words, \nphrases, and cadences, that they seem always the same, \nand in the end produce only the effect of a flute, \nwhich conveys rather delightful melody than quick \nand distinct sensations."! To precisely the same \neffect speaks W. A. Schlegel, in his eighth lecture \n\n* Le Rivoluzioni del Teatro Musicale, &c., p. 375 416. \nt Essays on Petrarch, p. 93. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 631 \n\non Dramatic Literature, whose acknowledged excel- \nlence in this particular department, of criticism may \ninduce us to quote him, although a foreigner. These \nauthorities are too pertinent and explicit to require \nthe citation of any other, or to make it necessary, \nby a prolix but easy enumeration of extracts from \nthe poet, more fully to establish our position. \n\n" Hie aliquid plus \nQuam satis est." \n\nWe believe we are quite as weary as our readers \nof the very disagreeable office of dwelling on the de- \nfects of a literature so beautiful, and for which we \nfeel so sincere an admiration, as the Italian. The \nsevere impeachment made, both upon the spirit and \nthe substance of our former remarks, by so accom- \nplished a scholar as the author of the Osservazioni, \nhas necessarily compelled us to this course in self- \ndefence. The tedious parade of citations must be \nexcused by the necessity of buoying up our opinions \nin debatable matters of taste by those whose author- \nity alone our censor is disposed to admit \xe2\x80\x94 that of \nhis own countrymen. He has emphatically repeat- \ned his distrust of the capacity of foreigners to decide \nupon subjects of literary taste ; yet the extraordi- \nnary diversity of opinion manifest between him and \nthose eminent authorities whom we have quoted \nmight lead us to anticipate but little correspondence \nin the national criticism. An acquaintance with \nItalian history will not serve to diminish our suspi- \ncions ; and the feuds which, from the learned but \nquerulous scholars of the fifteenth century to those \n\n\n\n632 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof our own time, have divided her republic of letters, \nhave not been always carried on with the bloodless \nweapons of scholastic controversy.* \n\nThat some assertions too unqualified, some errors \nor prejudices should have escaped, in the course of \nfifty or sixty pages of remark, is to be expected from \nthe most circumspect pen ; but a benevolent critic, \ninstead of fastening upon these, will embrace the \nspirit of the whole, and by this interpret and excuse \nany specific inaccuracy. It may not be easy to \ncome up to the standard of our author\'s principles, \nit may be his partialities, in estimating the intellect- \nual character of his country ; but we think we can \ndetect one source of his dissatisfaction with us, in \nhis misconception of our views, which, according to \nhim, were, that " a particular knowledge of the Ital- \nian should be widely diffused in America." This he \nquotes and requotes with peculiar emphasis, object- \ning it to us as perfectly inconsistent with our style \nof criticism. Now, in the first place, we made no \nsuch declaration. We intended only to give a ve- \nracious analysis of one branch of Italian letters. But, \nsecondly, had such been our design, we doubt ex \nceedingly, or, rather, we do not doubt, whether the \nbest way of effecting it would be by indiscriminate \n\n* Take two familiar examples : that of Caro and that of Marini. The \nadversary of the former poet, accused of murder, heresy, &c, was con- \ndemned by the Inquisition, and compelled to seek his safety in exile. \nThe adversary of Marini, in an attempt to assassinate him, fortunately \nshot only a courtier of the King of Sardinia. In both cases, the wits of \nItaly, ranged under opposite banners, fought with incredible acrimony \nduring the greater part of a century. The subject of fierce dispute, in \nbo*h instances, was a sonnet ! \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 633 \n\npanegyric. The amplification of beauties, and the \nprudish concealment of all defects, would carry with \nit an air of insincerity that must dispose the mind \nof every ingenuous reader to reject it. Perfection \nis not the lot of humanity more in Italy than else- \nwhere. Such intemperate panegyric is, moreover, \nunworthy of the great men who are the objects of \nit. They really shine with too brilliant a light to \nbe darkened by a few spots ; and to be tenacious of \ntheir defects is in some measure to distrust their \ngenius. Rien nest beau, que le vrai, is the familiar \nreflection of a critic, whose general maxims in his \nart are often more sound than their particular appli- \ncation. \n\nNotwithstanding the difficulty urged by Mr. Da \nPonte of forming a correct estimate of a foreign lan- \nguage, the science of general literary criticism and \nhistory, which may be said to have entirely grown \nup within the last fifty years, has done much to erad- \nicate prejudice and enlarge the circle of genuine \nknowledge. A century and a half ago, "the best \nof English critics,"* in the opinion of Pope and Dry- \nden, could institute a formal examination, and, of \ncourse, condemnation of the plays of Shakspeare "by \nthe practice of the ancients." The best of French \ncritics,f in the opinion of every one, could condemn \nthe " Orlando Furioso" for wandering from the rules \n\n* " The Tragedies of the last Age, considered and examined by the \npractice of the Ancients," &c. By Thomas Rymer. London, 1678. \n\nf "Dissertation Critique sur l\'A venture de Joconde." CEuvres da \nBoneau, torn. li. \n\n41 \n\n\n\n634 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof Horace ; even Addison, in his triumphant vindi- \ncation of the " Paradise Lost," seems most solicitous \nto prove its conformity with the laws of Aristotle ; \nand a writer like Lope de Vega felt obliged to apol- \nogize for the independence with which he deviated \nfrom the dogmas of the same school, and adapted his \nbeautiful inventions in the drama to the peculiar \ngenius of his own countrymen.* The magnificent \nfables of Ariosto and Spencer were stigmatized as \nbarbarous, because they were not classical ; and the \npolite scholars of Europe sneered at " the bad taste \nwhich could prefer an \xe2\x96\xa0 Ariosto to a Virgil, a Ro- \nmance to an Iliad.\' "f But the reconciling spirit of \nmodern criticism has interfered ; the character, the \nwants of different nations and ages have been con- \nsulted ; from the local beauties peculiar to each, the \nphilosophic inquirer has deduced certain general \nprinciples of beauty applicable to all ; petty national \nprejudices have been extinguished; and a difference \nof taste, which for that reason alone was before \n\n* "Arte de hacer Comedias." Obras Sueltas, torn, iv., p. 406. \n\nY qnando he de escribir una Comedia, \n\nEncierro los preceptos con seis Haves ; \n\nSaco a Terencio y Plauto de mi estudio \n\nPara que no me den voces, que suele \n\nDar gritos la verdad en libros mudos, &c. \nt See Lord Shaftesbury\'s "Advice to an Author ;" a treatise of great \nauthority in its day, but which could speak of the " Gothic Muse of \nShakspeare, Fletcher, and Milton as lisping with stammering tongues, \nthat nothing but the youth and rawness of t\\ e age could excuse !" Sir \nWilliam Temple, with a purer taste, is net more liberal. The term \nGothic, with these writers, is applied to much the same subjects with \nthe modern term Romantic, with this difference : the latter is simply ins- \ntinctive, while the former was also an opprobrious epithet. \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations 635 \n\ncondemned as a deformity, is now admired as a \nbeautiful variety in the order of nature. \n\nThe English, it must be confessed, can take little \ncredit to themselves for this improvement Their \nresearches in literary history amount to little in their \nown language, and to nothing in any other. War- \nton, Johnson, and Campbell have indeed furnished \nan accurate inventory of their poetical wealth ; but, \nexcept it be in the limited researches of Drake and \nof Dunlop, what record have we of all their rich and \nvarious prose ? As to foreign literature, while other \ncultivated nations have been developing their views \nin voluminous and valuable treatises, the English \nhave been profoundly mute.* Yet for several rea- \nsons they might be expected to make the best gen- \neral critics in the world, and the collision of their \n\n* The late translation of Sismondi\'s " Southern Europe" is the only- \none, we believe, which the English possess of a detailed literary history. \nThe discriminating taste of this sensible Frenchman has been liberal- \nized by his familiarity with the languages of the North. His knowl- \nedge, however, is not always equal to his subject, and the credit of his \nopinions is not unfrequently due to another. The historian of the " Ital- \nian Republics" may be supposed to be at home in treating of Italian let- \nters, and this is undoubtedly the strongest part of his work ; but in \nwhat relates to Spain, he has helped himself "manibus plenis" from \nBouterwek, much too liberally, indeed, for the scanty acknowledgments \nmade by him to the accurate and learned German. Page upon page is \nliterally translated from him. Sismondi\'s work, however, is intrinsically \nvaluable for its philosophical illustrations of the character of the Span- \niards, by the peculiarities of their literature. His analysis of the na- \ntional drama, as opposed to that of Schlegel, is also extremely inge- \nnious. Is it not more sound than that of the German 1 We trust that \nthis hitherto untrodden field in our language will be entered before long \nby one of our own scholars, whose researches have enabled him to go \nmuch more extensively into the Spanish department than either of his \npredecessors. \n\n\n\n636 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\njudgments in this matter with those of the other Eu- \nropean scholars, might produce new and important \nresults. \n\nThe author of the Osservazioni has accused us of \nbeing too much under the influence of his enemies, \nthe French (p. 112). There are slender grounds for \nthis imputation. We have always looked upon this \nfastidious people as the worst general critics possible ; \nand we scarcely once alluded to their opinions in \nthe course of our article without endeavouring to \ncontrovert them. The truth is, while they have con- \ntrived their own system with infinite skill, and are \nexceedingly acute in detecting the least violation of \nit, they seem incapable of understanding why it \nshould not be applied to every other people, however \nopposite its character from their own. The conse- \nquence is obvious. Voltaire, whose elevated views \nsometimes advanced him to the level of the generous \ncriticism of our own day, is by no means an excep- \ntion. His Commentaries on Corneille are filled with \nthe finest reflections imaginable on that eminent poet, \nor, rather, on the French drama ; but the application \nof these same principles to the productions of his \nneighbours leads him into the grossest absurdities. \n"Addison\'s Cato is the only well-written tragedy in \nEngland." " Hamlet is a barbarous production, that \nwould not be endured by the meanest populace in \nFrance or Italy." " Lope de Vega and Calderon \nfamiliarized their countrymen with all the extrava- \ngances of a gross and ridiculous drama. ,, But the \nFrench theatre, modelled upon the ancient Greek, \n\n\n\nda ponte\'s observations. 63? \n\ncan boast " of more than twenty pieces which sur- \npass their most admirable chefd\'asuvres, without ex- \ncepting those of Sophocles or Euripides." So in \nother walks of poetry, Milton, Tasso, Ercilla, occa- \nsionally fare no better. M Who would dare to talk \nto Boileau, Racine, Moliere, of an epic poem upon \nAdam and Eve! Voltaire had one additional rea- \nson for the exaltation of his native literature at the \nexpense of every other : he was himself at the head, \nor aspired to be of every department in it. \n\nMadame de Stael is certainly an eminent excep- \ntion, in very many particulars, to the general charac- \nter of her nation. Her defects, indeed, are rather \nof an opposite cast. Instead of the narrowness of \nconventional precept, she may be sometimes accused \nof vague and visionary theory ; instead of nice spe- \ncific details, of dealing too freely in abstract and in- \ndependent propositions. Her faults are of the Ger- \nman school, which she may have in part imbibed \nfrom her intimacy with their literature (no common \ncircumstance with her countrymen), from her resi- \ndence in Germany, and from her long intimacy with \none of its most distinguished scholars, who lived un- \nder the same roof with her for many years. But, \nwith all her faults, she is entitled to the praise of hav- \ning showed a more enlarged and truly philosophical \nspirit of criticism than any of her countrymen. \n\nThe English have never yielded to the arbitrary \nlegislation of academies ; their literature has at dif- \nferent periods exhibited all the varieties of culture \nwhich have prevailed over the other European \n4 3D \n\n\n\n638 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntongues ; and their language, derived both from the \nLatin and the Teutonic idiom, affords them a much \ngreater facility for entering into the spirit of foreign \nletters than can be enjoyed by any other European \npeople, whose language is derived almost exclusively \nfrom one or the other of these elements. With all \nthese peculiar facilities for literary history and crit- \nicism, why, with their habitual freedom of thought, \nhave they remained in it, so far behind most other \ncultivated nations I \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 639 \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE.* \n\nJANUARY, 1852. \n\nLiterary history is the least familiar kind of his- \ntorical writing. It is, in some respects, the most \ndifficult, requiring certainly far the most laborious \nstudy. The facts for civil history we gather from \npersonal experience, or from the examination of a \ncomparatively few authors, whose statements the \nhistorian transfers, with such modification and \ncommentary as he pleases, to his own pages. But \nin literary history, the hooks are the facts, and \npretty substantial ones in many cases, which are \nnot to be mastered at a glance, or on the report of \nanother. It is a tedious process to read through \na library in order to decide that the greater part is \nprobably not worth reading at all. \n\nLiterary history must come late in the intellect- \nual development of a nation. It is the history of \nbooks, and there can be no history of books till \nbooks are written. It presupposes, moreover, a \ncritical knowledge \xe2\x80\x94 an acquaintance with the \nprinciples of taste, which can come only from a \nwide study and comparison of models. It is, there- \nfore, necessarily the product of an advanced state \nof civilization and mental culture. \n\nAlthough criticism, in one form or another, was \nstudied and exemplified by the ancients, yet they \n\n* " History of Spanish Literature." By George Ticknor. New York . \nHarper & Brothers. 1849 : 3 vols. 8vo. \n\n\n\n640 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmade no progress in direct literary history. Nei* \nther has it been cultivated by all the nations of \nmodern Europe. At least, in some of them it has \nmet with very limited success. In England, one \nmight have thought, from the free scope given to \nthe expression of opinion, it would have flourished \nbeyond all other countries. But Italy, and even \nSpain, with all the restraint imposed on intellect- \nual movement, have done more in this way than \nthe whole Anglo-Saxon race. The very freedom \nwith which the English could enter on the career \nof political action has not only withdrawn them \nfrom the more quiet pursuits of letters, but has giv- \nen them a decided taste for descriptions of those \nstirring scenes in which they or their fathers have \ntaken part. Hence the great preponderance with \nthem, as with us, of civil history over literary. \n\nIt may be further remarked, that the monastic in- \nstitutions of Roman Catholic countries have been \npeculiarly favourable to this, as to some other kinds \nof composition. The learned inmates of the clois- \nter have been content to solace their leisure with \nthose literary speculations and inquiries which had \nno immediate connexion with party excitement \nand the turmoils of the world. The best literary \nhistories, from whatever cause, in Spain and in It- \naly, have been the work of members of some one \nor other of the religious fraternities. \n\nStill another reason of the attention given to this \nstudy in most of those countries may be found in \nthe embarrassments existing there to the general \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 641 \n\npursuit of science, which have limited the powers \nto the more exclusive cultivation of works of im- \nagination, and those other productions of elegant \nliterature that come most properly within the prov- \nince of taste and of literary criticism. \n\nYet in England, during the last generation, in \nwhich the mind has been unusually active, if there \nhave been few elaborate works especially devoted \nto criticism, the electric fluid has been impercep- \ntibly carried off from a thousand minor points, in \nthe form of essays and periodical reviews, which \ncover nearly the whole ground of literarv inquiry, \nboth foreign and domestic. The student who has \nthe patience to consult these scattered notices, if \nhe cannot find a system ready made to his hands, \nmay digest one for himself by a comparison of con- \ntradictory judgments on every topic under review. \nYet it may he doubted if the multitude of cross \nlights thrown at random over his path will not \nserve rather to perplex than to enlighten him. \n\nWherever we are to look for the reasons, the \nfact will hardly be disputed, that, since Warton\'s \nlearned fragment, no general literary history has \nbeen produced in England which is likely to en- \ndure, with the exception of Hallam\'s late work, \nthat, under the modest title of an " Introduction," \ngives a general survey of the scientific and literary \nculture of Europe during three centuries. If the \nEnglish have done so little in this way for their \nown literature, it can hardly be expected that they \nshould do much for that of their neighbours. If \n4 3D* \n\n\n\n642 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthey had extended their researches to the Conti- \nnent, it might probably have been in the direction \nof Spain ; for no country has been made with them \nthe subject of so large historical investigation. \nOne or two good histories devoted to Italy and Ger- \nmany, as many to the revolutionary period of \nFrance \xe2\x80\x94 the country with which they are most \nnearly brought into contact \xe2\x80\x94 make up the sum of \nwhat is of positive value in this way. But for \nSpain, a series of writers \xe2\x80\x94 Robertson, Watson, \nDunlop, Lord Mahon, Coxe, some of the highest \norder, all respectable \xe2\x80\x94 have exhibited the political \nannals of the monarchy under the Austrian and \nBourbon dynasties. Even at the present moment, \na still livelier interest seems to be awakened to \nthe condition of this romantic land. Two excel- \nlent works, by Head and by Stirling \xe2\x80\x94 the latter \nof especial value \xe2\x80\x94 have made the world acquaint- \ned, for the first time, with the rich treasures of art \nin the Peninsula. And last, not least, Ford, in his \nHand-book and other works, has joined to a curi- \nous erudition, that knowledge of the Spanish char- \nacter and domestic institutions that can be ob- \ntained only from singular acuteness of observation \ncombined with a long residence in the country \nhe describes. \n\nSpain, too, has been the favourite theme of more \nthan one of our own writers, in history and ro- \nmance ; and now the long list is concluded by the \nattempt of the work before us to trace the progress \nof intellectual culture in the Peninsula. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 643 \n\nNo work on a similar extended plan is to be \nfound in Spain itself. Their own literary histories \nhave been chiefly limited to the provinces, or to \nparticular departments of letters. We may except, \nindeed, the great work of Father Andres, which, \ncomprehending the whole circle of European sci- \nence and literature, left but a comparatively small \nportion to his own country. To his name may \nalso be added that of Lampillas, whose work, how- \never, from its rambling and its controversial char- \nacter, throws but a very partial and unsatisfactory \nglance on the topics which he touches. \n\nThe only books on a similar plan, which cover \nthe same ground with the one before us, are the \nhistories of Bouterwek and Sismondi. The former \nwas written as part of a great plan for the illus- \ntration of European art and science since the re- \nvival of learning \xe2\x80\x94 projected by a literary associa- \ntion in Gottingen. The plan, as is too often the \ncase in such copartnerships, was very imperfectly \nexecuted. The best fruits of it were the twelve \nvolumes of Bouterwek, on the elegant literature \nof modern Europe. That of Spain occupies one \nof these volumes. \n\nIt is written with acuteness, perspicuity, and \ncandour. Notwithstanding the writer is perhaps \ntoo much under the influence of certain German \ntheories then fashionable, his judgments, in the \nmain, are temperate and sound, and he is entitled \nto great credit as the earliest pioneer in this un- \ntrodden field of letters. The great defect in the \n\n\n\n644 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nbook is the want of proper materials on which to \nrest these judgments. Of this the writer more \nthan once complains. It is a capital defect, not \nto be compensated by any talent or diligence in \nthe author. For in this kind of writing, as we \nhave said, books are facts, the very stuff out of \nwhich the history is to be made. \n\nBouterwek had command of the great library of \nGottingen. But it would not be safe to rely on \nanyone library, however large, for supplying all the \nmaterials for an extended literary history. Above \nall, this is true of Spanish literature. The diffi- \nculty of making a literary collection in Spain is far \ngreater than in most other parts of Europe. The \nbooksellers\' trade there is a very different affair \nfrom what it is in more favoured regions. The \ntaste for reading is not, or, rather, has not been, \nsufficiently active to create a demand for the re- \npublication always of even the best authors, the \nancient editions of whose works have become \nscarce and most difficult to be procured. The im- \npediment to a free expression of opinion has con- \ndemned many more works to the silence of man- \nuscript. And these manuscripts are preserved, or, \nto say truth, buried, in the collections of old fam- \nilies, or of public institutions, where it requires \nno ordinary interest with the proprietors, private \nor public, to be allowed to disinter them. Some \nof the living Spanish scholars are now busily at \nwork in these useful explorations, the result of \nwhich they are giving, from time to time, to the \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 64r> \n\nworld in the form of livraisons or numbers, which \nseem likely to form an important contribution to \nhistorical science. For the impulse thus given to \nthese patriotic labours the world is mainly indebt- \ned to the late venerable Navarrete, who, in his own \nperson, led the way by the publication of a series \nof important historical documents. It is only from \nthese obscure and uncertain repositories, and from \nbooksellers\' stalls, that the more rare and recon- \ndite works in which Spain is so rich can be pro- \ncured ; and it is only under great advantages that \nthe knowledge of their places of deposit can be ob- \ntained, and that, having obtained it, the works \ncan be had, at a price proportioned to their rarity. \nThe embarrassments caused by this circumstance \nhave been greatly diminished under the more lib- \neral spirit of the present day, which, on a few oc- \ncasions, has even unlocked the jealous archives \nof Simancas, that Robertson, backed by the per- \nsonal authority of the British ambassador, strove \nin vain to penetrate. \n\nSpanish literature occupies also one volume of \nSismondi\'s popular work on the culture of South- \nern Europe. But Sismondi was far less instructed \nin literary criticism than his German predecessor, \nof whose services he has freely availed himself in \nthe course of his work. Indeed, he borrows from \nhim, not merely thoughts, but language, transla- \nting from the German page after page, and incor- \nporating it with his own eloquent commentary. \nHe dees not hesitate to avow his obligations ; but \n\n\n\n646 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthey prove at once his own deficiencies in the per- \nformance of his critical labours, as well as in the \npossession of the requisite materials. Sismondi\'s \nground was civil history, whose great lessons no \none had meditated more deeply ; and it is in the \napplication of these lessons to the character of the \nSpaniards, and in tracing the influence of that char- \nacter on their literature, that a great merit of his \nwork consists. He was, moreover, a Frenchman \n\xe2\x80\x94 or, at least, a Frenchman in language and ed- \nucation ; and he was prepared, therefore, to correct \nsome of the extravagant theories of the German \ncritics, and to rectify some of their j udgments by \na moral standard, which they had entirely over- \nlooked in their passion for the beautiful. \n\nWith all his merits, however, and the additional \ngrace of a warm and picturesque style, his work, \nlike that of Bouterwek, must be admitted to afford \nonly the outlines of the great picture, which they \nhave left to other hands to fill up in detail, and on \na far more extended plan. To accomplish this \ngreat task is the purpose of the volumes before \nus ; we are now to inquire with what result. But, \nbefore entering on the inquiry, we will give some \naccount of the preparatory training of the writer, \nand the materials which he has brought together. \n\nMr. Ticknor, who now first comes before the \nworld in the avowed character of an author, has \nlong enjoyed a literary reputation which few au- \nthors who have closed their career might not envy. \nWhile quite a young man, he was appointed to \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 647 \n\nfill the chair of Modern Literature in Harvard Col. \nlege, on the foundation of the late Abiel Smith, \nEsq., a distinguished merchant of Boston. When \nhe received the appointment, Mr. Ticknor had been \nsome time in Europe pursuing studies in philolo- \ngy. He remained there two or three years after- \nward, making an absence of above four years in \nall. A part of this period was passed in diligent \nstudy at Gottingen. In Paris, he explored, under \nable teachers, the difficult romance dialects, the \nmedium of the beautiful Proven9al. \n\nDuring his residence in Spain, he perfected him- \nself in the Castilian, and established an intimacy \nwith her most eminent scholars, who aided him in \nthe collection of rare books and manuscripts, to \nwhich he assiduously devoted himself. It is a \nproof of the literary consideration which, even at \nthat early age, he had obtained in the society of \nMadrid, that he was elected a corresponding mem- \nber of the Royal Academy of History. His acqui- \nsitions in the early literature of modern Europe at- \ntracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, who, in a \nletter to Southey, printed in Lockhart\'s Life, speaks \nof his young guest (Mr. Ticknor was then at Ab- \nbotsford) as "a wonderful fellow for romantic \nlore." \n\nOn his return home, Mr. Ticknor entered at once \non his academic labours, and delivered a series of \nlectures on the Castilian and French literatures, \nas well as on some portions of the English, before \nsuccessive classes, which he continued to repeat. \n\n\n\n648 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwith the occasional variation of oral instruction, \nduring the fifteen years he remained at the Uni- \nversity. \n\nWe well remember the sensation produced on \nthe first delivery of these Lectures, which served \nto break down the barrier which had so long con- \nfined the student to a converse with antiquity; \nthey opened to him a free range among those great \nmasters of modern literature who had hitherto been \nveiled in the obscurity of a foreign idiom. The \ninfluence of this instruction was soon visible in the \nhigher education, as well as the literary ardour \nshown by the graduates. So decided was the im- \npulse thus given to the popular sentiment, that \nconsiderable apprehension was felt lest modern lit- \nerature was to receive a disproportionate share of \nattention in the scheme of collegiate education. \n\nAfter the lapse of fifteen years so usefully em- \nployed, Mr. Ticknor resigned his office, and, thus \nreleased from his academic labours, paid a second \nvisit to Europe, where, in a second residence of \nthree years, he much enlarged the amount and the \nvalue of his literary collection. In the more per- \nfect completion of this he was greatly assisted by \nthe professor of Arabic in the University of Madrid, \nDon Pascual de Gayangos, a scholar to whose lit- \nerary sympathy and assistance more than one \nAmerican writer has been indebted, and who to a \nprofound knowledge of Oriental literature unites \none equally extensive in the European. \n\nWith these aids, and his own untiring efforts, \n\n\n\n- SPANISH LITERATURE. 649 \n\nMr. Ticknor succeeded in bringing together a body \nof materials in print and manuscript, for the illus- \ntration of the Castilian, such as probably has no \nrival either in public or private collections. This \nwill be the more readily believed, when we find \nthat nearly every author employed in the compo- \nsition of this great work \xe2\x80\x94 with the exception of a \nfew, for which he has made ample acknowledg- \nments \xe2\x80\x94 is to be found on his own shelves. We \nare now to consider in what manner he has availed \nhimself of this inestimable collection of materials. \n\nThe title of the book \xe2\x80\x94 the " History of Spanish \nLiterature" \xe2\x80\x94 is intended to comprehend all that \nrelates to the poetry of the country, its romances, \nand works of imagination of every sort, its criticism \nand eloquence \xe2\x80\x94 in short, whatever can be brought \nunder the head of elegant literature. Even its \nchronicles and regular histories are included ; for, \nthough scientific in their import, they are still, in \nrespect to their style and their execution as works \nof art, brought into the department of ornamental \nwriting. In Spain, freedom of thought, or, at least, \nthe free expression of it, has been so closely fetter- \ned that science, in its strictest sense, has made \nlittle progress in that unhappy country, and a his- \ntory of its elegant literature is, more than in any \nother land,- a general history of its intellectual \nprogress. \n\nThe work is divided into three great periods, \nhaving reference to time rather than to any phil- \nosophical arrangement. Indeed, Spanish litera- \n4 3E \n\n\n\n050 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nture affords less facilities for such an arrangement \nthan the literature of many other countries, as that \nof England and of Italy, for example, where, from \ndifferent causes, there have heen periods exhibit- \ning literary characteristics that stamp them with \na peculiar physiognomy. For example, in Eng- \nland we have the age of Elizabeth, the age of \nQueen Anne, our own age. In Italy, the philo* \nsophical arrangement seems to correspond well \nenough with the chronological. Thus, the Tre- \ncentisti, the Seicentisti, convey ideas as distinct \nand as independent of each other as the different \nschools of Italian art. But in Spain, literature is \ntoo deeply tinctured at its fountain-head not to re- \ntain somewhat of the primitive colouring through \nthe whole course of its descent. Patriotism, chiv- \nalrous loyalty, religious zeal, under whatever mod- \nification, and under whatever change of circum- \nstances, have constituted, as Mr. Ticknor has well \ninsisted, the enduring elements of the national lit- \nerature. And it is this obvious preponderance of \nthese elements throughout which makes the dis- \ntribution into separate masses on any philosophi- \ncal principle extremely difficult. A proof of this \nis afforded by the arrangement now adopted by \nMr. Ticknor himself, in the limit assigned to his \nfirst period, which is considerably shorter than that \nassigned to it in his original Lectures. The alter- \nation, as we shall take occasion to notice hereafter, \nis, in our judgment, a decided improvement. \nThe first great division embraces the whole iims \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 651 \n\nfrom the earliest appearance of a written document \nin the Castilian to the commencement of the six- \nteenth century, the reign of Charles the Fifth \xe2\x80\x94 \na period of nearly four centuries. \n\nAt the very outset, we are met by the remark- \nable poem of the Cid, that primitive epic, which, \nlike the Nieblungenlied or the Iliad, stands as the \ntraditional legend of an heroic age, exhibiting all \nthe freshness and glow which belong to the morn- \ning of a nation\'s existence. The name of the au- \nthor, as is often the case with those memorials of \nthe olden time, when the writer thought less of \nhimself than of his work, has not come down to us. \nEven the date of its composition is uncertain \xe2\x80\x94 \nprobably before the year 1200 ; a century earlier \nthan the poem of Dante ; a century and a half be- \nfore Petrarch and Chaucer. The subject of it, as \nits name imports, is, the achievements of the re- \nnowned Ruy Diaz de Bivar \xe2\x80\x94 the Cid, the Cam- \njwador, " the lord, the champion," as he was fondly \nstyled by his countrymen, as well as by his Moor- \nish foes, in commemoration of his prowess, chiefly \ndisplayed against the infidel. The versification \nis the fourteen-syllable measure, artless, and ex- \nhibiting all the characteristics of an unformed idi- \nom, but, with its rough melody, well suited to the \nexpression of the warlike and stirring incidents in \nwhich it abounds. It is impossible to peruse it \nwithout finding ourselves carried back to the he- \nroic age of Castile ; and we feel that, in its simple \nand cordial portraiture of existing manners, we get \n\n\n\n652 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\na more vivid impression of the feudal period than \nis to be gathered from the more formal pages of \nthe chronicler. Heeren has pronounced that the \npoems of Homer were one of the principal bonds \nwhich held the Grecian states together. The as- \nsertion may seem extravagant ; but we can well \nunderstand that a poem like that of the Cid, with \nall its defects as a work of art, by its proud histor- \nic recollections of an heroic age, should do much \nto nourish the principle of patriotism in the bosoms \nof the people. \n\nFrom the " Cid" Mr. Ticknor passes to the re- \nview of several other poems of the thirteenth, and \nsome of the fourteenth century. They are usually \nof considerable length. The Castilian muse, at \nthe outset, seems to have delighted in works of \nlongue haleine. Some of them are of a satirical \ncharacter, directing their shafts against the clergy, \nwith an independence which seems to have mark- \ned also the contemporaneous productions of other \nnations, but which, in Spain at least, was rarely \nfound at a later period. Others of these venerable \nproductions are tinged with the religious bigotry \nwhich enters so largely into the best portions of \nthe Castilian literature. \n\nOne of the most remarkable poems of the peri- \nod is the Danza General \xe2\x80\x94 the " Dance of Death." \nThe subject is not original with the Spaniards, and \nhas been treated by the bards of other nations in \nthe elder time. It represents the ghastly revels \nof the dread monarch, to which all are summon . \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 6^3 \n\ned, of every degree, from the potentate to the peas- \nant. \n\n"It is founded on the well-known fiction, so \noften illustrated both in painting and in verse du- \nring the Middle Ages, that all men, of all condi- \ntions, are summoned to the Dance of Death ; a \nkind of spiritual masquerade, in which the differ- \nent ranks of society, from the Pope to the young \nchild, appear dancing with the skeleton form of \nDeath. In this Spanish version it is striking and \npicturesque \xe2\x80\x94 more so, perhaps, than in any other \n\xe2\x80\x94 the ghastly nature of the subject being brought \ninto a very lively contrast with the festive tone \nof the verses, which frequently recalls some of the \nbetter parts of those flowing stories that now and \nthen occur in the \' Mirror for Magistrates.\' \n\n" The first seven stanzas of the Spanish poem \nconstitute a prologue, in which Death issues his \nsummons partly in his own person, and partly in \nthat of a preaching friar, ending thus : \n\nCome to the Dance of Death, all ye whose fate \nBy birth is mortal, be ye great or small ; \n\nAnd willing come, nor loitering, nor late, \nElse force shall bring you struggling to my thrall : \nFor since yon friar hath uttered loud his call \n\nTo penitence and godliness sincere, \n\nHe that delays must hope no waiting here ; \nFor still the cry is, Haste ! and, Haste to all ! \n\n" Death now proceeds, as in the old pictures and \npoems, to summon, first, the Pope, then cardinals, \nkings, bishops, and so on, down to day-labourers ; \nail of whom are forced to join his mortal dance, \nthough each first makes some remonstrance that \n\'4 3E* \n\n\n\n654 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nindicates surprise, horror, or reluctance. The call \nfco youth, and beauty is spirited : \n\nBring to my dance, and bring without delay, \nThose damsels twain you see so bright and fair ; \n\nThey came, but came not in a willing way, \nTo list my chants of mortal grief and care : \nNor shall the flowers and roses fresh they wear, \n\nNor rich attire, avail their forms to save. \n\nThey strive in vain who strive against the grave ; \nIt may not be ; my wedded brides they are." \n\nAnother poem, of still higher pretensions, but, \nlike the last, still in manuscript, is the Poema de \nJose \xe2\x80\x94 The " Poem of Joseph." It is probably the \nwork of one of those Spanish Arabs who remain- \ned under the Castilian domination after the great \nbody of their countrymen had retreated. It is \nwritten in the Castilian dialect, but in Arabic char- \nacters, as was not very uncommon with the wri- \ntin gs of the Moriscoes. The story of Joseph is told , \nmoreover, conformably to the version of the Koran, \ninstead of tha/fc of the Hebrew Scriptures. \n\nThe manner in which the Spanish and the Ara- \nbic races were mingled together after the great in- \nvasion produced a strange confusion in their lan- \nguages. The Christians, who were content to \ndwell in their old places under the Moslem rule, \nwhile they retained their own language, not un- \nfrequently adopted the alphabetical characters of \ntheir conquerors. Even the coins struck by some \nof the ancient Castilian princes, as they recovered \ntheir territory from the invaders, were stamped \nwith Arabic letters. Not unfrequently, the ar- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 655 \n\nchives and municipal records of the Spanish cities, \nfor a considerable time after their restoration to \ntheir own princes, were also written in Arabic \ncharacters. On the other hand, as the great in- \nundation gradually receded, the Moors who lin- \ngered behind under the Spanish sway often adopt- \ned the language of their conquerors, but retained \ntheir own written alphabet. In other words, the \nChristians kept their language, and abandoned \ntheir alphabetical characters ; while the Moslems \nkept their alphabetical characters, and abandoned \ntheir language. The contrast is curious, and may, \nperhaps, be accounted for by the fact that the su- \nperiority conceded by the Spaniards to the Arabic \nliterature in this early period led the few scholars \namong them to adopt, for their own compositions, \nthe characters in which that literature was writ- \nten. The Moriscoes, on the other hand, did what \nwas natural, when they retained their peculiar \nwriting, to which they had been accustomed in \nthe works of their countrymen, while they con- \nformed to the Castilian language, to which they \nhad become accustomed in daily intercourse with \nthe Spaniard. However explained, the fact is cu- \nrious. But it is time we should return to the Span- \nish Arab poem. \n\nWe give the following translation of some of its \nverses by Mr. Ticknor, with his few prefatory re- \nmarks : \n\n" On the first night after the outrage, Jusuf, as \nhe is called in the poem, when travelling along \n\n\n\nH56 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nin charge of a negro, passes a cemetery on a hill, \nside where his mother lies buried. \n\nAnd when the negro heeded not, that guarded him behind, \nFrom off the camel Jusuf sprang, on which he rode confined, \nAnd hastened, with all speed, his mother\'s grave to find, \nWhere he knelt and pardon sought, to relieve his troubled mind. \n\nHe cried, \' God\'s grace be with thee still, Lady mother dear ! \n\nmother, you would sorrow, if you looked upon me here ; \nFor my neck is bound with chains, and I live in grief and feai, \nLike a traitor by my brethren sold, like a captive to the spear. \n\n\'They have sold me ! they have sold me ! though I never did them harm ; \nThey have torn me from my father, from his strong and living arm, \nBy art and cunning they enticed me, and by falsehood\'s guilty charm, \nAnd I go a base-bought captive, full of sorrow and alarm.\' \n\nBut now the negro looked about, and knew that he was gone \nFor no man could be seen, and the camel came alone ; \nSo he turned his sharpened ear, and caught the wailing tone, \nWhere Jusuf, by his mother\'s grave, lay making heavy moan. \n\nAnd the negro hurried up, and gave him there a blow ; \n\nSo quick and cruel was it, that it instant laid him low ; \n\n1 A base-born wretch,\' he cried aloud, \' a base-born thief art thou : \n\nThy masters, when we purchased thee, they told us it was so.\' \n\nBut Jusuf answered straight, \'Nor thief nor wretch am I ; \nMy mother\'s grave is this, and for pardon here I cry ; \n\n1 cry to Allah\'s power, and send my prayer on high, \n\nThat, since I never wronged thee, his curse may on thee lie.\' \n\nAnd then all night they travelled on, till dawned the coming day, \nWhen the land was sore tormented with a whirlwind\'s furious sway ; \nThe sun grew dark at noon, their hearts sunk in dismay, \nAnd they knew not, with their merchandise, to seek or make their way." \n\nThe manuscript of the piece, containing about \n1200 verses, though not entirely perfect, is in Mr. \nTicknor\'s hands, with its original Arabic charac- \nters concerted into the Castilian. He has saved \nit from the chances of time by printing it at length \nin his Appendix, accompanied by the following \ncommendations, which, to one practiced in the old \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 657 \n\nCastilian literature, will probably not be thought \nbeyond its deserts. \n\n" There is little, as it seems to me, in the early \nnarrative poetry of any modern nation better worth \nreading than this old Morisco version of the story \nof Joseph. Parts of it overflow with the tenderest \nnatural affection ; other parts are deeply pathetic ; \nand every where it bears the impress of the extra- \nordinary state of manners and society that gave it \nbirth. From several passages, it may be inferred \nthat it was publicly recited ; and even now, as we \nread it, we fall unconsciously into a long-drawn \nchant, and seem to hear the voices of Arabian cam- \nel- drivers, or of Spanish muleteers, as the Oriental \nor the romantic tone happens to prevail. I am \nacquainted with nothing in the form of the old \nmetrical romance that is more attractive \xe2\x80\x94 nothing \nthat is so peculiar, original, and separate from ev- \nery thing else of the same class." \n\nWith these anonymous productions, Mr. Tick- \nnor enters into the consideration of others from an \nacknowledged source, among which are those of \nthe Prince Don Juan Manuel and Alfonso the \nTenth, or Alfonso the Wise, as he is usually term- \ned. He was one of those rare men who seem to \nbe possessed of an almost universal-genius. His \ntastes would have been better suited to a more re- \nfined period. He was, unfortunately, so far in ad- \nvance of his age, that his age could not fully profit \nby his knowledge. He was raised so far above the \ngeneral level of his time, that the light of his ge- \n\n4N \n\n\n\n658 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nnius, though it reached to distant generations, left \nhis own in a comparative obscurity. His great \nwork was the code of the Siete Pai-tidas \xe2\x80\x94 little \nheeded in his own day, though destined to become \nthe basis of Spanish jurisprudence both in the Old \nWorld and in the New. \n\nAlfonso caused the Bible, for the first time, to \nbe translated into the Castilian. He was an his- \ntorian, and led the way in the long line of Castil- \nian writers in that department, by his Cronica \nGeneral. He aspired also to the laurel of the \nMuses. His poetry is still extant in the Gallician \ndialect, which the monarch thought might in the \nend be the cultivated dialect of his kingdom. The \nwant of a settled capital, or, to speak more correct- \nly, the want of civilization, had left the different \nelements of the language contending, as it were, \nfor the mastery. The result was still uncertain at \nthe close of the thirteenth century. Alfonso him- \nself did, probably, more than any other to settle \nit, by his prose compositions \xe2\x80\x94 by the Siete Par- \ntidas and his Chronicle, as well as by the vernac- \nular version of the Scriptures. The Gallician be- \ncame the basis of the language of the sister king- \ndom of Portugal, and the generous dialect of Cas- \ntile became, in Spain, the language of the court \nand of literature. \n\nAlfonso directed his attention also to mathemat- \nical science. His astronomical observations are \nheld in respect at the present day. But, as Mari- \nana sarcastically intimates, while he was gazing \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 659 \n\nat the stars he forgot the earth, and lost his king- \ndom. His studious temper was ill accommodated \nto the stirring character of the times. He was \ndriven from his throne by his factious nobles ; and \nin a letter written not long before his death, of \nwhich Mr. Ticknor gives a translation, the un- \nhappy monarch pathetically deplores his fate and \nthe ingratitude of his subjects. Alfonso the Tenth \nseemed to have at command every science but that \nwhich would have been of more worth to him than \nall the rest \xe2\x80\x94 the science of government. He died \nin exile, leaving behind him the reputation of be- \ning the wisest fool in Christendom. \n\nIn glancing over the list of works which, from \ntheir anomalous character as well as their anti- \nquity, are arranged by Mr. Ticknor in one class, \nas introductory to his history, we are struck with \nthe great wealth of the period \xe2\x80\x94 not great, certain- \nly, compared with that of an age of civilization, \nbut as compared with the productions of most other \ncountries in this portion of the Middle Ages. Much \nof this ancient lore, which may be said to consti- \ntute the foundations of the national literature, has \nbeen but imperfectly known to the Spaniards them- \nselves ; and we have to acknowledge our obliga- \ntions to Mr. Ticknor, not only for the diligence \nwith which he has brought it to light, but for the \nvaluable commentaries, in text and notes, which \nsupply all that could reasonably be demanded, both \nm a critical and bibliographical point of view. To \nestimate the extent of this information, we must \n\n\n\n660 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncompare it with what we have derived on the same \nsubject from his predecessors ; where the poverty \nof original materials, as well as of means for illus- \ntrating those actually possessed, is apparent at a \nglance. Sismondi, with some art, conceals his pov- \nerty, by making the most of the little finery at his \ncommand. Thus his analysis of the poem of the \nCid, which he had carefully read, together with \nhis prose translation of no inconsiderable amount, \ncovers a fifth of what he has to say on the whole \nperiod, embracing more than four centuries. He \nhas one fine bit of gold in his possession, and he \nmakes the most of it, by hammering it out into a \nsuperficial extent altogether disproportionate to its \nreal value. \n\nOur author distributes the productions which oc- \ncupy the greater part of the remainder of his first \nperiod into four great classes : Ballads, Chronicles, \nRomances of Chivalry, and the Drama. The mere \nenumeration suggests the idea of that rude, roman- \ntic age, when the imagination, impatient to find \nutterance, breaks through the impediments of an \nunformed dialect, or, rather, converts it into an in- \nstrument for its purposes. Before looking at the \nresults, we must briefly notice the circumstances \nunder which they were effected. \n\nThe first occupants of the Peninsula who left \nabiding traces of their peculiar civilization were \nthe Romans. Six tenths of the languages now \nspoken are computed to be derived from them. \nThen came the Visigoths, bringing with them the \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 661 \n\npeculiar institutions of the Teutonic races. And \nlastly, after the lapse of three centuries, came the \ngreat Saracen inundation, which covered the whole \nland up to the northern mountains, and, as it slowly \nreceded, left a fertilizing principle, that gave life \nto much that was good as well as evil in the char- \nacter and literature of the Spaniards. It was near \nthe commencement of the eighth century that the \ngreat battle was fought, on the banks of the Gua- \ndalete, which decided the fate of Roderic, the last \nof the Goths, and of his monarchy. It was to the \nGoths \xe2\x80\x94 the Spaniards, as their descendants were \ncalled \xe2\x80\x94 what the battle of Hastings was to the \nEnglish. The Arab conquerors rode over the \ncountry, as completely its masters as were the \nNormans of Britain. But they dealt more merci- \nfully with the vanquished. The Koran, tribute, \nor the sword, were the terms offered by the victors. \nMany were content to remain under Moslem rule, \nin the tolerated enjoyment of their religion, and, to \nsome extent, of their laws. Those of nobler metal \nwithdrew to the rocks of the Asturias ; and every \nmuleteer or water-carrier who emigrates from this \nbarren spot glories in his birth-place as of itself a \npatent of nobility. \n\nThen came the struggle against the Saracen in- \nvaders \xe2\x80\x94 that long crusade to be carried on for cen- \nturies \xe2\x80\x94 in which the ultimate triumph of a hand- \nful of Christians over the large and nourishing \nempire of the Moslems is the most glorious of the \n\ntriumphs of the Cross upon record. But it was the \n4 3 F \n\n\n\n6C2 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwork of eight centuries. During the first of these \nthe Spaniards scarcely ventured beyond their fast \nnesses. The conquerors occupied the land, and \nsettled in greatest strength over the pleasant pla- \nces of the South, so congenial with their own vo- \nluptuous climate in the East. Then rose the em- \npire of Cordova, which, under the sway of the \nOmeyades, rivalled in splendour and civilization \nthe caliphate of Bagdad. Poetry, philosophy, let- \nters, every where flourished. Academies and gym- \nnasiums were founded, and Aristotle was expound- \ned by commentators who acquired a glory not in- \nferior to that of the Stagirite himself. This state \nof things continued after the Cordovan empire had \nbeen broken into fragments, when Seville, Murcia, \nMalaga, and the other cities which still flourished \namong the ruins, continued to be centres of a civ- \nilization that shone bright amid the darkness of the \nMiddle Ages. \n\nMeanwhile, the Spaniards, strong in their relig- \nion, their Gothic institutions, and their poverty, \nhad emerged from their fastnesses in the North, \nand brought their victorious banner as far as the \nDouro. In three centuries more, they had ad- \nvanced their line of conquest only to the Tagus. \nBut their progress, though slow, was irresistible, \ntill at length the Moslems, of all their proud pos- \nsessions, retained only the petty territory of Gran- \nada. On this little spot, however, they made a \nstand for more than two centuries, and bade defi- \nance to the whole Christian power ; while at the \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 663 \n\nsame time, though sunk in intellectual culture, \nthey surpassed their best days m the pomp of their \narchitecture and in the magnificence of living \ncharacteristic of the East. At the close of the fif- \nteenth century, this Arabian tale \xe2\x80\x94 the most splen- \ndid episode in the Mohammedan annals \xe2\x80\x94 was \nbrought to an end by the fall of Granada before \nthe arms of Ferdinand and Isabella. \n\nSuch were the strange influences which acted \non the Spanish character, and on the earliest de- \nvelopment of its literature \xe2\x80\x94 influences so peculiar, \nthat it is no wonder they should have produced re- \nsults to which no other part of Europe has fur- \nnished a parallel. The Oriental and the European \nfor eight centuries brought into contact with one \nanother ! yet, though brought into contact, too dif- \nferent in blood, laws, and religion ever to coalesce. \nUnlike the Saxons and Normans, who sprung from \na common stock, with a common faith, were grad- \nually blended into one people ; in Spain, the con- \nflicting elements could never mingle. No length \nof time could give the Arab a right to the soil. \nHe was still an intruder. His only right was the \nright of the sword. He held his domain on the \ncondition of perpetual war \xe2\x80\x94 the war of race against \nrace, of religion against religion. This was the \ninheritance of the Spaniard, as well as of the Mos- \nlem, for eight hundred years. What remarkable \nqualities was this situation not calculated to call \nout ! Loyalty, heroism, the patriotic feeling, and \nthe loftier feeling of religious enthusiasm. What \n\n\n\n664 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwonder that the soldier of the Cross should fancy \nthat the arm of Heaven was stretched out to pro- \ntect him ? That St. Jago should do battle for him, \nwith his celestial chivalry ? That miracles should \ncease to be miracles ? That superstition, in short, \nshould be the element, the abiding element, of the \nn a tional character ? Yet this religious enthusiasm, \nin the early ages, was tempered by charity towards \na foe whom even the Christian was compelled to \nrespect for his superior civilization. But as the \nlatter gained the ascendant, enthusiasm was fan- \nned by the crafty clergy into fanaticism. As the \nMoslem scale became more and more depressed, \nfanaticism rose to intolerance, and intolerance end- \ned in persecution when the victor was converted \ninto the victim. It is a humiliating story \xe2\x80\x94 more \nhumiliating even to the oppressors than to the op- \npressed. \n\nThe literature ail the while, with chameleon- \nlike sensibility, took the colour of the times ; and \nit is for this reason that we have always dwelt \nwith greater satisfaction on the earlier period of \nthe national literature, rude though it be, with \nits cordial, free, and high romantic bearing, than \non the later period of its glory \xe2\x80\x94 brilliant in an in- \ntellectual point of view, but in its moral aspect \ndark and unrelenting. \n\nMr. Ticknor has been at much pains to unfold \nthese peculiarities of the Castilian character, in \norder to explain by them the peculiarities of the \nliterature, and indeed to show their reciprocal ac- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 6f)5 \n\ntion on each other. He has devoted occasionai \nchapters to this subject, not the least interesting \nin his volumes, making the history of the litera- \nture a running commentary on that of the nation ; \nand thus furnishing curious information to the po- \nlitical student, no less than to the student of let- \nters. His acute, and at the same time accurate, \nobservations, imbued with a spirit of sound philos- \nophy, give the work a separate value, and raise it \nabove the ordinary province of literary criticism. \nBut it is time that we should turn to the ballads \n\xe2\x80\x94 or romances, as they are called in Spain, the \nfirst of the great divisions already noticed. No- \nwhere does this popular minstrelsy flourish to the \nsame extent as in Spain. The condition of the \ncountry, which converted every peasant into a sol- \ndier, and filled his life with scenes of stirring and \nromantic incident, may in part account for it. We \nhave ballads of chivalry, of the national history, \nof the Moorish wars, mere domestic ballads \xe2\x80\x94 in \nshort, all the varieties of which such simple poet- \nical narratives are susceptible. The most attract- \nive of these to the Spaniards, doubtless, were those \ndevoted to the national heroes. The Cid here oc- \ncupies a large space. His love, his loyalty, his in- \nvincible prowess against the enemies of God, are \nall celbbrated in the frank and cordial spirit of a \nprimitive age. They have been chronologically \narranged into a regular series \xe2\x80\x94 as far as the date \ncould be conjectured \xe2\x80\x94 like the Robin Hood bal- \nlads in England, so as to form a tolerably complete \n4 3 F* \n\n\n\n666 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nnarrative of his life. It is interesting to observe \nwith what fondness the Spaniards are ever ready \nto turn to their ancient hero, the very type of Cas- \ntilian chivalry, and linked by so many glorious \nrecollections with the heroic age of their country. \nThe following version of one of these ballads, \nby Mr. Ticknor, will give a fair idea of the origi- \nnal. The time chosen is the occasion of a sum- \nmons made by the Cid to Queen Urraca to surren- \nder her castle, which held out against the arms of \nthe warrior\'s sovereign, Sancho the Brave \n\n" Away ! away ! proud Roderic ! \n\nCastilian proud, away ! \nBethink thee of that olden time, \n\nThat happy, honoured day, \nWhen, at St. James\'s holy shrine, \n\nThy knighthood first was won ; \nWhen Ferdinand, my royal sire, \n\nConfessed thee for a son. \nHe gave thee then thy knightly arms, \n\nMy mother gave thy steed ; \nThy spurs were buckled by these hands, \n\nThat thou no grace might\'st need. \nAnd had not chance forbid the vow, \n\nI thought with thee to wed ; \nBut Count Lozano\'s daughter fair, \n\nThy happy bride was led. \nWith her came wealth, an ample store, \n\nBut power was mine, and state : \nBroad lands are good, and have their grace, \n\nBut he that reigns is great. \nThy wife is well ; thy match was wise ; \n\nYet, Roderic ! at thy side \nA vassal\'s daughter sits by thee, \n\nAnd not a royal bride !" \n\nOur author has also given a pleasing version of \nthe beautiful romance of u Fontefrida,fontefrida" \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 667 \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 "Cooling fountain, cooling fountain" \xe2\x80\x94 which \nwe are glad to see rendered faithfully, instead of \n\xe2\x80\xa2 following the example of Dr. Percy, in his version \nof the fine old hallad in a similar simple style, \n"Rio verde, rio verde" which we remember he \ntranslates by " Gentle river, gentle river," &c. \nIndeed, to do justice to Mr. Ticknor\'s translations, \nwe should have the text before us. Nowhere do \nwe recall so close fidelity to the original, unless in \nCary\'s Dante. Such fidelity does not always at- \ntain the object of conveying the best idea of the \noriginal. But in this humble poetry it is eminent- \nly successful. To give these rude gems a polish \nwould be at once to change their character, and \ndefeat the great object of our author \xe2\x80\x94 to introduce \nhis readers to the peculiar culture of a primitive \nage. \n\nA considerable difficulty presents itself in find- \ning a suitable measure for the English version of \nthe romances. In the original they are written in \nthe eight-syllable line, with trochaic feet, instead of \nthe iambics usually employed by us. But the real \ndifficulty is in the peculiarity of the measure \xe2\x80\x94 the \nasonante, as it is called, in which the rhyme de- \npends solely on the conformity of vowel sounds, \nwithout reference to the consonants, as in English \nverse. Thus the words dedo, tiempo, viejos, are all \ngood asonantes, taken at random from one of these \nold ballads. An attempt has been made by more \nthan one clever writer to transplant them into Eng- \nlish verse. But it has had as little success as the \n\n\n\n668 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nattempt to naturalize the ancient hexameter, \nwhich neither the skill of Southey nor of Longfel- \nlow will, probably, be able to effect. The Span- \nish vowels have, for the most part, a clear and \nopen sound, which renders the melody of the vers- \nification sufficiently sensible to the ear ; while \nthe middle station which it occupies between the \nperfect rhyme and blank verse seems to fit it, in \nan especial manner, for these simple narrative \ncompositions. The same qualities have recom- \nmended it to the dramatic writers of Spain as the \nbest medium of poetical dialogue, and as such it \nis habitually used by the great masters of the na- \ntional theatre. \n\nNo class of these popular compositions have \ngreater interest than the Moorish romances, afford- \ning glimpses of a state of society in which the \nOriental was strangely mingled with the Europe- \nan. Some of them may have been written by the \nMoriscoes, after the fall of Granada. They are re- \ndolent of the beautiful land which gave them birth \n\xe2\x80\x94 springing up like wild flowers amid the ruins of \nthe fallen capital. Mr. Ticknor has touched light- \nly on these in comparison with some of the other \nvarieties, perhaps because they have been more \nfreely criticised by preceding writers. Every lov- \ner of good poetry is familiar with Mr. Lockhart\'s \npicturesque version of these ballads, which has ev- \nery merit but that of fidelity to the original. \n\nThe production of the Spanish baliads is evi- \ndence of great sensibility in the nation ; but it \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 669 \n\nmust also "be referred to the exciting scenes in \nwhich it was engaged. A similar cause gave rise \nto the beautiful border minstrelsy of Scotland. \nBut the adventures of robber chieftains and roving \noutlaws excite an interest of a very inferior order \nto that created by the great contest for religion \nand independence which gave rise to the Spanish \nballads. This gives an ennobling principle to \nthese compositions, which raises them far above \nthe popular minstrelsy of every other country. It \nrecommended them to the more polished writers \nof a later period, under whose hands, if they have \nlost something of their primitive simplicity, they \nhave been made to form a delightful portion of \nthe national literature. We cannot do better than \nto quote on this the eloquent remarks of our au- \nthor. \n\n"Ballads, in the seventeenth century, had be- \ncome the delight of the whole Spanish people. \nThe soldier solaced himself a\\ itli them in his tent, \nand the muleteer amid the sierras ; the maiden \ndanced to them on the green, and the lover sang \nthem for his serenade ; they entered into the low \norgies of thieves and vagabonds, into the sumptu- \nous entertainments of the luxurious nobility, and \ninto the holiday services of the Church ; the blind \nbeggar chanted them to gather alms, and the pup- \npet-showman gave them in recitative to explain \nhis exhibition ; they were a part of the very foun- \ndation of the theatre, both secular and religious, \nand the theatre carried them every where, and \n\n\n\n670 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nadded every where to their effect and authority. \nNo poetry of modern times has been so widely \nspread through all classes of society, and none has \nso entered into the national character. The bal- \nlads, in fact, seem to have been found on every \nspot of Spanish soil. They seem to have filled \nthe very air that men breathed." \n\nThe next of the great divisions of this long pe- \nriod is the Chronicles \xe2\x80\x94 a fruitful theme, like the \nformer, and still less explored. For much of this \nliterature is in rare books, or rarer manuscripts. \nThere is no lack of materials, however, in the pres- \nent work, and the whole ground is mapped out \nbefore us by a guide evidently familiar with all \nits intricacies. \n\nThe Spanish Chronicles are distributed into sev- \neral classes, as those of a public and of a private \nnature, romantic chronicles, and those of travels. \nThe work which may be said to lead the van of \nthe long array is the "Chronica General" of Al- \nfonso the Wise, written by this monarch probably \nsomewhere about the middle of the thirteenth cen- \ntury. It covers a wide ground, from the creation \nto the time of the royal writer. The third book \nis devoted to the Cid, ever the representative of \nthe heroic age of Castile. The fourth records the \nevents of the monarch\'s own time. Alfonso\'s work \nis followed by the " Chronicle of the Cid," in which \nthe events of the champion\'s life are now first de- \ntailed in sober prose. \n\nThere is much resemblance between large por- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 671 \n\ntions of these two chronicles. This circumstance \nhas led to the conclusion that they both must have \nbeen indebted to a common source, or, as seems \nmore probable, that the " Chronicle of the Cid" \nwas taken from that of Alfonso. This latter opin- \nion Mr. Ticknor sustains by internal evidence not \neasily answered. There seems no reason to doubt, \nhowever, that both one and the other were indebt- \ned to the popular ballads, and that these, in their \nturn, were often little more than a versification \nof the pages of Alfonso\'s Chronicle ; Mr. Ticknor \nhas traced out this curious process by bringing to- \ngether the parallel passages, which are too numer- \nous and nearly allied to leave any doubt on the \nmatter. \n\nSepulveda, a scholar of the sixteenth century, \nhas converted considerable fragments of the " Gen- \neral Chronicle" into verse, without great violence \nto the original \xe2\x80\x94 a remarkable proof of the near \naffinity that exists between prose and poetry in \nSpain ; a fact which goes far to explain the facil- \nity and astonishing fecundity of some of its pop \nular poets. For the Spaniards, it was nearly as \neasy to extemporize in verse as in prose. \n\nThe example of Alfonso the Tenth was follow- \ned by his son, who appointed a chronicler to take \ncharge of the events of his reign. This practice \ncontinued with later sovereigns, until the chroni- \ncle gradually rose to the pretensions of regular \nhistory ; when historiographers, with fixed salaries, \nwere appointed by the crowns of Castile and Ar- \n\n\n\n672 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nagon ; giving rise to a more complete body of com \ntemporary annals, from authentic public sources, \nthan is to be found in any other country in Chris- \ntendom. \n\nSuch a collection, beginning with the thirteenth \ncentury, is of high value, and would be of far high- \ner, were its writers gifted with any thing like a \nsound spirit of criticism. But superstition lay too \nclosely at the bottom of the Castilian character to \nallow of this ; a superstition nourished by the \nstrange circumstances of the nation, by the legends \nof the saints, by the miracles coined by the clergy \nin support of the good cause, by the very ballads \nof which we have been treating, which, mingling \nfact with fable, threw a halo around both that \nmade it difficult to distinguish the one from the \nother. So palpable to a modern age are many of \nthese fictions in regard to the Cid, that one inge- \nnious critic doubts even the real existence of this \npersonage. But this is a degree of skepticism \nwhich, as Mr. Ticknor finely remarks, "makes too \ngreat a demand on our credulity." \n\nThis superstition, too deeply seated to be erad- \nicated, and so repugnant to a philosophical spirit \nof criticism, is the greatest blemish on the writings \nof the Castilian historians, even of the ripest age \nof scholarship, who show an appetite for the mar- \nvellous, and an easy faith scarcely to be credited \nat the present day. But this is hardly a blemish \nwith the older chronicles, and was suited to the \ntwilight condition of the times. They are, indeed, \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 673 \n\na most interesting body of ancient literature, with \nall the freshness and chivalrous hearing of the age ; \nwith their long, rambling episodes, that lead to \nnothing ; their childish fondness for pageants and \nknightly spectacles ; their rough dialect, which, \nwith the progress of time, working off the impuri- \nties of an unformed vocabulary, rose, in the reign \nof John the Second and of Ferdinand and Isabella, \ninto passages of positive eloquence. But we can- \nnot do better than give the concluding remarks of \nour author on this rich mine of literature, which \nhe has now, for the first time, fully explored and \nturned up to the public gaze. \n\n" As we close it up," he says \xe2\x80\x94 speaking of an old \nchronicle he has been criticising \xe2\x80\x94 " we should not \nforget that the whole series, extending over full \ntwo hundred and fifty years, from the time of Al- \nfonso the Wise to the accession of Charles the \nFifth, and covering the New World as well as the \nOld, is unrivalled in richness, in variety, and in \npicturesque and poetical elements. In truth, the \nchronicles of no other nation can, on such points, \nbe compared to them ; not even the Portuguese, \nwhich approach the nearest in original and early \nmaterials ; nor the French, which, in Joinville and \nFroissart, make the highest claims in another di- \nrection. For these old Spanish chronicles, wheth- \ner they have their foundations in truth or in fable, \nalways strike farther down than those of any oth- \ner nation into the deep soil of the popular feeling \nand character. The old Spanish loyalty, the old \n4 3G \n\n\n\n674 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nSpanish religious faith, as both were formed and \nnourished in the long periods of national trial and \nsuffering, are constantly coming out ; hardly less \nin Columbus and his followers, or even amid the \natrocities of the conquests in the New World, than \nin the half-miraculous accounts of the battles of \nHazinas and Tolosa, or in the grand and glorious \ndrama of the fall of Granada. Indeed, wherever \nwe go under their leading, whether to the court \nof Tamerlane or to that of Saint Ferdinand, we \nfind the heroic elements of the national genius \ngathered around us ; and thus, in this vast, rich \nmass of chronicles, containing such a body of an- \ntiquities, traditions, and fables as has been offered \nto no other people, we are constantly discovering, \nnot only the materials from which were drawn a \nmultitude of the old Spanish ballads, plays, and \nromances, but a mine which has been unceasing- \nly wrought by the rest of Europe for similar piu- \nposes, and still remains unexhausted." \n\nWe now come to the Romances of Chivalry, to \nwhich the transition is not difficult from the ro- \nmantic chronicles we have been considering. It \nwas, perhaps, the romantic character of these com- \npositions, as well as of the popular minstrelsy of \nthe country, which supplied the wants of the \nSpaniards in this way, and so long delayed the \nappearance of the true Romance of Chivalry. \n\nLong before it was seen in Spain, this kind of \nwriting had made its appearance, in prose and \nverse, in other lands ; and the tales of Arthur and \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 67/> \n\nthe Round Table, and of Charlemagne and his \nPeers, had beguiled the long evenings of our Nor- \nman ancestors, and of their brethren on the other \nside of the Channel. The first book of chivalry \nthat was published in Spain even then was not \nindigenous, but translated from a Portuguese work, \nthe Amadis de G-aula. But the Portuguese, ac- \ncording to the account of Mr. Ticknor, probably \nperished with the library of a nobleman, in the \ngreat earthquake at Lisbon, in 1755 ; so that Men- \ntal van\'s Castilian translation, published in Queen \nIsabella\'s reign, now takes the place of the origi- \nnal. Of its merits as a translation who can speak ? \nIts merits as a work of imagination, and, consid- \nering the age, its literary execution, are of a high \norder. \n\nAn English version of the book appeared early \nin the present century, from the pen of Southey, \nto whom English literature, is indebted for more \nthan one valuable contribution of a similar kind. \nWe well remember the delight with which, in our \nearly days, we pored over its fascinating pages \xe2\x80\x94 \nthe bright scenes in which we revelled of Oriental \nmythology, the beautiful portraiture which is held \nup of knightly courtesy in the person of Amadis, \nand the feminine loveliness of Oriana. It was an \nideal world of beauty and magnificence, to which \nthe Southern imagination had given a far warmer \ncolouring than was to be found in the ruder concep- \ntions of the Northern minstrel. At a later period, \nwe have read \xe2\x80\x94 tried to read \xe2\x80\x94 the same story in \n\n\n\n676 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nthe pages of Montalvan himself. But the age of \nchivalry was gone. \n\nThe "Arnadis" touched the right spring in the \nCastilian bosom, and its popularity was great and \nimmediate. Edition succeeded edition; and, what \nwas worse, a swarm of other knight-errants soon \ncame into the world, claiming kindred with the \nAmadis. But few of them bore any resemblance \nto their prototype, other than in their extravagance. \nTheir merits were summarily settled by the wor- \nthy curate in " Don Quixote," who ordered most \nof them to the flames, declaring that the good qual- \nities of Amadis should not cloak the sins of his pos- \nterity. \n\nThe tendency of these books was very mischiev- \nous. They fostered the spirit of exaggeration, both \nin language and sentiment, too natural to the Cas- \ntilian. They debauched the taste of the reader, \nwhile the voluptuous images, in which most of \nthem indulged, did no good to his morals. They \nencouraged, in fine, a wild spirit of knight-errant- \nry, which seemed to emulate the extravagance of \nthe tales themselves. Sober men wrote, preachers \ndeclaimed against them, but in vain. The Cortes \nof 1553 presented a petition to the crown, that the \npublication of such works might be prohibited, as \npernicious to society. Another petition of the same \nbody, in 1555, insists on this still more strongly, \nand in terms that, coming as they do, from so grave \nan assembly, can hardly be read at the present \nday without a smile. Mr. Ticknor notices both \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 677 \n\nthese legislative acts, in an extract which we shall \ngive. But he omits the words of the petition of \n1555, which dwells so piteously on the grievances \nof the nation; and which we will quote, as they \nmay amuse the reader. " Moreover," says the in- \nstrument, " we say that it is very notorious what \nmischief has been done to young men and maid- \nens, and other persons, by the perusal of books full \nof lies and vanities, like Amadis, and works of that \ndescription, since young people especially, from \ntheir natural idleness, resort to this kind of read- \ning, and becoming enamoured of passages of love \nor arms, or other nonsense which they find set \nforth therein, when situations at all analogous of- \nfer, are led to act much more extravagantly than \nthey otherwise would have done. And many \ntimes the daughter, when her mother has locked \nher up safely at home, amuses herself with read- \ning these books, which do her more hurt than \nshe would have received from going abroad. All \nwhich redounds, not only to the dishonour of in- \ndividuals, but to the great detriment of conscience, \nby diverting the affections from holy, true, and \nChristian doctrine, to those wicked vanities, with \nwhich the wits, as we have intimated, are com- \npletely bewildered. To remedy this, we entreat \nyour majesty, that no book treating of such mat- \nters be henceforth permitted to be read, that those \nnow printed be collected and burned, and that \nnone be published hereafter without special li- \ncfmse ; by which measures your majesty will ren\xc2\xab \ni 3 a* \n\n\n\n678 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nder great service to God, as well as to these king- \ndoms," &c, &c. \n\nBut what neither the menaces of the pulpit noi \nthe authority of the law could effect, was Drought \nabout by the breath of ridicule : \n\n" That soft and summer breath, whose subtile power \nPasses the strength of storms in their most desolate hour." \n\nThe fever was at its height when Cervantes sent \nhis knight- errant into the world to combat the \nphantoms of chivalry ; and at one touch of his \nlance, they disappeared forever. From the day of \nthe publication of the " Don Quixote," not a book \nof chivalry was ever written in Spain. There is \nno other such triumph recorded in the annals of \ngenius. \n\nWe close these remarks with the following ex- \ntract, which shows the condition of society in Cas- \ntile under the influence of these romances. \n\n" Spain, when the romances of chivalry first ap- \npeared, had long been peculiarly the land of knight- \nhood. The Moorish wars, which had made every \ngentleman a soldier, necessarily tended to this re- \nsult ; and so did the free spirit of the communities, \nled on as they were, during the next period, by \nbarons, who long continued almost as independent \nin their castles as the king was on his throne. \nSuch a state of things, in fact, is to be recognized \nas far back as the thirteenth century, when the \nPartidas, by the most minute and painstaking \nlegislation, provided for a condition of society not \neasily to be distinguished from that set forth in \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 679 \n\nthe Amadis or the Palmerin. The poem and his* \ntory of the Cid hear witness yet earlier, indirectly \nindeed, but very strongly, to a similar state of the \ncountry; and so do many of the old ballads and \nother records of the national feelings and traditions \nthat had come from the fourteenth century. \n\n" But in the fifteenth, the chronicles are full of \nit, and exhibit it in forms the most grave and im- \nposing. Dangerous tournaments, in some of which \nthe chief men of the time, and even the kino-s \nthemselves, took part, occur constantly, and are \nrecorded among the important events of the age. \nAt the passage of arms near Orbigo, in the reign \nof John the Second, eighty knights, as we have \nseen, were found ready to risk their lives for as \nfantastic a fiction of gallantry as is recorded in any \nof the romances of chivalry ; a folly of which this \nwas by no means the only instance. Nor did they \nconfine their extravagances to their own country. \nIn the same reign, two Spanish knights went as \nfar as Burgundy, professedly in search of adven- \ntures, which they strangely mingled with a pil- \ngrimage to Jerusalem ; seeming to regard both as \nfeligious exercises. And as late as the time of \nFerdinand and Isabella, Fernando del Pulgar, their \nwise secretary, gives us the names of several dis- \ntinguished noblemen, personally known to himself, \nwho had gone into foreign countries, \' in order,\' as \nhe says, \' to try the fortune of arms with any cav- \nalier that might be pleased to adventure with them, \nand so gain honour for themselves, and the fame \n\n\n\n6S0 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nof valiant and bold knights for the gentlemen of \nCastile.\' \n\n" A state of society like this was the natural re- \nsult of the extraordinary development which the \ninstitutions of chivalry had then received in Spain. \nSome of it was suited to the age, and salutary ; \nthe rest was knight-errantry, and knight-errantry \nin its wildest extravagance. When, however, the \nimaginations of men were so excited as to tolerate \nand maintain, in their daily life, such manners and \ninstitutions as these, they would not fail to enjoy \nthe boldest and most free representations of a cor- \nresponding state of society in works of romantic \nfiction. But they went farther. Extravagant \nand even impossible as are many of the adventures \nrecorded in the books of chivalry, they still seemed \nso little to exceed the absurdities frequently wit- \nnessed or told of known and living men, that many \npersons took the romances themselves to be true \nhistories, and believed them. Thus, Mexia, the \ntrustworthy historiographer of Charles the Fifth, \nsays, in 1545, when speaking of \' the Amadises, \nLisuartes, and Clarions,\' that \' their authors do \nwaste their time and weary their faculties in wri- \nting such books, which are read by all and believed \nby many. For,\' he goes on, \' there be men who \nthink all these things really happened, just as they \nread or hear them, though the greater part of the \nthings themselves are sinful, profane, and unbe- \ncoming.\' And Castillo, another chronicler, tells \nus gravely, in 1587, that Philip the Second, when \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 681 \n\nhe married Mary of England, only forty years ear- \nlier, promised, that if King Arthur should return \nto claim the throne, he would peaceably yield to \nthat prince all his rights; thus implying, at least \nin Castillo himself, and probably in many of his \nreaders, a full faith in the stories of Arthur and \nhis Round Table. \n\n" Such credulity, it is true, now seems impossi- \nble, even if we suppose it was confined to a mod- \nerate number of intelligent persons ; and hardly \nless so, when, as in the admirable sketch of an \neasy faith in the stories of chivalry by the inn- \nkeeper and Maritornes in Don Quixote, we are \nshown that it extended to the mass of the people. \nBut before we refuse our assent to the statements \nof such faithful chroniclers as Mexia, on the ground \nthat what they relate is impossible, we should rec- \nollect, that in the age when they lived, men were \nin the habit of believing and asserting every day \nthings no less incredible than those recited in the \nold romances. The Spanish Church then coun- \ntenanced a trust in miracles as of constant recur- \nrence, which required of those who believed them \nmore credulity than the fictions of chivalry ; and \nyet how few were found wanting in faith ! And \nhow few doubted the tales that had come down \nto them of the impossible achievements of their \nfathers during the seven centuries of their warfare \nagainst the Moors, or the glorious traditions of all \nsorts, that still constitute the charm of their brave \nold chronicles, though we now see at a glance that \n\n\n\n682 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nman y of them are as fabulous as any thing told of \nPalmerin or Launcelot ! \n\n" But whatever we may think of this belief in \nthe romances of chivalry, there is no question that \nin Spain, during the sixteenth century, there pre- \nvailed a passion for them such as was never known \nelsewhere. The proof of it comes to us from all \nsides. The poetry of the country is full of it, from \nthe romantic ballads that still live in the memory \nof the people, up to the old plays that have ceased \nto be acted and the old epics that have ceased to \nbe read. The national manners and the national \ndress, more peculiar and picturesque than in oth- \ner countries, long bore its sure impress. The old \nlaws, too, speak no less plainly. Indeed, the pas- \nsion for such fictions was so strong, and seemed \nso dangerous, that in 1553 they were prohibited \nfrom being printed, sold, or read in the American \ncolonies ; and in 1555 the Cortes earnestly asked \nthat the same prohibition might be extended to \nSpain itself, and that all the extant copies of ro- \nmances of chivalry might be publicly burned. \nAnd, finally, half a century later, the happiest \nwork of the greatest genius Spain has produced \nbears witness on every page to the prevalence of \nan absolute fanaticism for books of chivalry, and \nbecomes at once the seal of their vast popularity \nand the monument of their fate." \n\nWe can barely touch on the Drama, the last of \nthe three great divisions into which our author has \nthrown this period. It is of little moment, for \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 683 \n\ndown to the close of the fifteenth century, the Cas- \ntilian drama afforded small promise of the brilliant \nfortunes that awaited it. It was horn under an \nItalian sky. Almost its first lispings were at the \nvice-regal court of Naples, and, under a foreign in- \nfluence, it displayed few of the national character- \nistics which afterward marked its career. Yet \nthe germs of future excellence may be discerned \nin the compositions of Encina and Naharro ; and \nthe "Celestina," though not designed for the \nstage, had a literary merit that was acknowl- \nedged throughout Europe. \n\nMr. Ticknor, as usual, accompanies his analysis \nwith occasional translations of the best passages \nfrom the ancient masters. From one of these \xe2\x80\x94 \na sort of dramatic eclogue, by Gil Vicente \xe2\x80\x94 we \nextract the following spirited verses. The scene \nrepresents Cassandra, the heroine of the piece, as \nrefusing all the solicitations of her family to change \nher state of maiden freedom for married life : \n\n" They say, \' \'Tis time, go, marry ! go !\' \nBut I\'ll no husband ! not I ! no ! \nFor I would live all carelessly, \nAmid these hills, a maiden free, \nAnd never ask, nor anxious be, \n\nOf wedded weal or wo. \nYet still they say, \' Go, marry ! go !\' \nBut I\'ll no husband ! not I ! no ! \n\n"So, mother, think not I shall wed, \nAnd through a tiresome life be led, \nOr use, in folly\'s ways instead, \n\nWhat grace the heavens bestow. \nYet still they say, \'Go, marry, go !\' \nBut I\'ll no husband ! not I ! no ! \n\n\n\n684 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nThe man has not been born, I ween, \n\nWho as my husband shall be seen ; \n\nAnd since what frequent tricks have been \n\nUndoubtingly I know. \nIn vain they say, < Go, marry ! go !\' \nFor I\'ll no husband! not I! no!" \n\nShe escapes to the woods, and her kinsmen, \nafter in vain striving to bring her back, come in \ndancing and singing as madly as herself: \n\n" She is wild ! she is wild ! \nWho shall speak to the child 1 \n\nOn the hills pass her hours, \nAs a shepherdess free ; \n\nShe is fair as the flowers, \nShe is wild as the sea ! \nShe is wild ! she is wild ! \nWho shall speak to the child 1" \n\nDuring the course of the period we have been \nconsidering there runs another rich vein of litera- \nture, the beautiful Provencal \xe2\x80\x94 those lays of love \nand chivalry poured forth by the Troubadours in \nthe little court of Provence, and afterward of Cat- \nalonia. During the twelfth and thirteenth centu- \nries, when the voice of the minstrel was hardly \nheard in other parts of Europe, the northern shores \nof the Mediterranean, on either side of the Pyr- \nenees, were alive with song. But it was the mel- \nody of a too early spring, to be soon silenced un- \nder the wintry breath of persecution. \n\nMr. Tickuor, who paid, while in Europe, much \nattention to the Romance dialects, has given a \npleasing analysis of this early literature, after it \nhad fled from the storms of persecution to the \ndouth of Spain. But few will care to learn a Ian- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 685 \n\nguage which locks up a literature that was rather \none of a heautiful promise than performance \xe2\x80\x94 that \nprematurely perished and left no sign. And yet \nit did leave some sign of its existence, in the in \nfluence it exerted both on Italian and Castilian \npoetry. \n\nThis was peculiarly displayed at the court of \nJohn the Second of Castile, who nourished toward \nthe middle of the fifteenth century. That prince \ngathered around him a circle of wits and poets, \nseveral of them men of the highest rank ; and the \nintellectual spirit thus exhibited shows like a \nbright streak in the dawn of that higher civiliza- \ntion which rose upon Castile in the beginning of \nthe following century. In this literary circle King \nJohn himself was a prominent figure, correcting \nthe verses of his loving subjects, and occasionally \ninditing some of his own. In the somewhat se- \nvere language of Mr. Ticknor, " he turned to let- \nters to avoid the importunity of business, and to \ngratify a constitutional indolence." There was, \nit is true, something ridiculous in King John\'s most \nrespectable tastes, reminding us of the character \nof his contemporary, Rene of Anjou. But still it \nwas something, in those rough times, to manifest \na relish for intellectual pleasures ; and it had its \neffect in weaning his turbulent nobility from the \nIndulgence of their coarser appetites. \n\nThe same liberal tastes, with still better result, \nwere shown by his daughter, the illustrious Isa- \nbella the Catholic. Not that any work of great \n4 3H \n\n\n\n686 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\npretensions for its poetical merits was then pro- \nduced. The poetry of the age, indeed, was pret- \nty generally infected with the meretricious con- \nceits of the Provencal and the old Castilian verse. \nWe must except from this reproach the " Copias" \nof Jorge Manrique, which have found so worthy \nan interpreter in Mr. Longfellow, and which would \ndo honour to any age. But the age of Isabella \nwas in Castile what that of Poggio was in Italy. \nLearned men were invited from abroad, and took \nup their residence at the court. Native scholars \nw r ent abroad, and brought back the rich fruits of \nan education in the most renowned of the Italian \nuniversities. The result of this scholarship was \nthe preparation of dictionaries, grammars, and va- \nrious philological works, which gave laws to the \nlanguage, and subjected it to a classic standard. \nPrinting was introduced, and, under the royal pat- \nronage, presses were put in active operation in va- \nrious cities of the kingdom. Thus, although no \ngreat work was actually produced, a beneficent \nimpulse was given to letters, which trained up the \nscholar, and opened the way for the brilliant civ- \nilization of the reign of Charles the Fifth. Our \nauthor has not paid the tribute to the reign of Is- \nabella to which, in our judgment, it is entitled \neven in a literary view. He has noticed with com- \nmendation the various efforts made in it to intro- \nduce a more liberal scholarship, but has by no \nmeans dwelt with the emphasis th^y deserve on \nthe importance of the results. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 687 \n\nWith the glorious rule of Ferdinand and Isa- \nbella closes the long period from the middle of the \ntwelfth to the beginning of the sixteenth century \n\xe2\x80\x94 a period which, if we except Italy, has no rival \nin modern history for the richness, variety, and \npicturesque character of its literature. It is that \nportion of the literature which seems to come spon- \ntaneously like the vegetation of a virgin soil, that \nmust lose something of its natural freshness and \nperfume when brought under a more elaborate \ncultivation. It is that portion which is most thor- \noughly imbued with the national spirit, unaffect- \ned by foreign influences ; and the student who \nwould fully comprehend the genius of the Span- \niards must turn to these pure and primitive sour- \nces of their literary culture. \n\nWe cannot clo better than close with the re- \nmarks in which Mr. Ticknor briefly, but with his \nusual perspicuity, sums up the actual achievements \nof the period. \n\n" Poetry, or at least the love of poetry, made \nprogress with the great advancement of the nation \nunder Ferdinand and Isabella; though the taste \nof the court in whatever regarded Spanish litera- \nture continued low and false. Other circumstan- \nces, too, favoured the great and beneficial change \nthat was every where becoming apparent. The \nlanguage of Castile had already asserted its su- \npremacy, and, with the old Castilian spirit and \ncultivation, it was spreading into Andalusia and \nAragon, and planting itself amid the ruins of the \n\n\n\n688 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nMoorish power on the shores of the Mediterranean. \nChronicle- writing was become frequent, and had \nbegun to take the forms of regular history. The \ndrama was advanced as far as the \'Celestina\' in \nprose, and the more strictly scenic efforts of Tor- \nres Naharro in verse. Romance- writing was at \nthe height of its success. And the old ballad \nspirit \xe2\x80\x94 the true foundation of Spanish poetry \xe2\x80\x94 \nhad received a new impulse and richer materials \nfrom the contests in which all Christian Spain had \nborne a part amid the mountains of Granada, and \nfrom the wild tales of the feuds and adventures \nof rival factions within the walls of that devoted \ncity. Every thing, indeed, announced a decided \nmovement in the literature of the nation, and al- \nmost every thing seemed to favour and facilitate \nit." \n\nThe second great division embraces the long in- \nterval between 1500 and 1700, occupied by the \nAustrian dynasty of Spain. It covers the golden \nage, as generally considered, of Castilian literature; \nthat in which it submitted in some degree to the \ninfluences of the advancing European civilization \nand which witnessed those great productions of \ngenius that have had the widest reputation with \nforeigners ; the age of Cervantes, of Lope de Ve- \nga, and of Calderon. The condition of Spain it- \nself was materially changed. Instead of being \nhemmed in by her mountain barrier, she had ex- \ntended her relations to every court in Europe, and \nestablished her empire in every quarter of the \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 689 \n\nglobe. Emerging from her retired and solitary \ncondition, she now took the first rank among the \nstates of Christendom. Her literature naturally \ntook the impress of this change, but not to the ex- \ntent \xe2\x80\x94 or, at least, not in the precise manner \xe2\x80\x94 it \nwould have done if left to its natural and inde- \npendent action. But, unhappily for the land, the \ngreat power of its monarchs was turned against \ntheir own people, and the people were assailed, \nmoreover, through the very qualities which should \nhave entitled them to forbearance from their mas- \nters. Practicing on their loyalty, their princes \ntrampled on their ancient institutions, and loyalty \nwas degraded into an abject servility. The reli- \ngious zeal of early days, which had carried them \ntriumphant through the Moorish struggle, turned, \nunder the influence of the priests, into a sour fa- \nnaticism, which opened the way to the Inquisition \n\xe2\x80\x94 the most terrible engine of oppression ever de- \nvised by man \xe2\x80\x94 not so terrible for its operation on \nthe body as on the mind. Under its baneful in- \nfluence, literature lost its free and healthy action ; \nand, however high its pretensions as a work of art, \nit becomes so degenerate in a moral aspect, that \nit has far less to awaken our sympathies than the \nproductions of an earlier time. From this circum- \nstance, as well as from that of its being much bet- \nter known to the generality of scholars, we shall \npass only in rapid review some of its most remark- \nable persons and productions. Before entering on \nthis field, we will quote some important observa- \n4 3 H* \n\n\n\n690 BIOftRAPtflCAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntions of our author on the general prospects of the \nperiod he is to discuss. Thus to allow coming \nevents to cast their shadows before, is better suit- \ned to the purposes of the literary historian than \nof the novelist. His remarks on the Inquisition \nare striking. \n\n" The results of such extraordinary traits in the \nnational character could not fail to be impressed \nupon the literature of any country, and particu- \nlarly upon a literature which, like that of Spain, \nhad always been strongly marked by the popular \ntemperament and peculiarities. But the period \nwas not one in which such traits could be produced \nwith poetical effect. The ancient loyalty, which \nhad once been so generous an element in the Span- \nish character and cultivation, was now infected \nwith the ambition of universal empire, and was \nlavished upon princes and nobles who, like the \nlater Philips and their ministers, were unworthy \nof its homage ; so that, in the Spanish historians \nand epic poets of this period, and even in more \npopular writers, like Qnevedo and Calderon, we \nfind a vainglorious admiration of their country, \nand a poor flattery of royalty and rank, that re- \nminds us of the old Castiiian pride and deference \nonly by showing how both had lost their dignity. \nAnd so it is with the ancient religious feeling that \nwas so nearly akin to this loyalty. The Christian \nspirit, which gave an air of duty to the wildest \nforms of adventure throughout the country, during \nits long contest with the power of misbelief, was \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 691 \n\nnow fallen away into a low and anxious bigotry, \nfierce and intolerant toward every thing that dif- \nfered from its own sharply-defined faith, and yet \nso pervading and so popular, that the romances \nand tales of the time are full of it, and the national \ntheatre, in more than one form, becomes its strange \nand grotesque monument. \n\n" Of course, the body of Spanish poetry and elo- \nquent prose produced during this interval \xe2\x80\x94 the \nearlier part of which was the period of the greatest \nglory Spain ever enjoyed \xe2\x80\x94 was injuriously affect- \ned by so diseased a condition of the national char- \nacter. That generous and manly spirit which is \nthe breath of intellectual life to any people, was \nrestrained and stifled. Some departments of lit- \nerature, such as forensic eloquence and eloquence \nof the pulpit, satirical poetry, and elegant didactic \nprose, hardly appeared at all ; others, like epic \npoetry, were strangely perverted and misdirected ; \nwhile yet others, like the drama, the ballads, and \nthe lighter forms of lyrical verse, seemed to grow \nexuberant and lawless, from the very restraints im- \nposed on the rest ; restraints which, in fact, forced \npoetical genius into channels where it would oth- \nerwise have flowed much more scantily and with \nmuch less luxuriant results. \n\n" The books that were published during the \nwhole period on which we are now entering, and \nindeed for a century later, bore everywhere marks \nof the subjection to which the press and those who \nwrote for it were alike reduced. From the abject \n\n\n\n692 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ntitle-pages and dedications of the authors them* \nselves, through the crowd of certificates collected \nfrom their friends to establish the orthodoxy of \nworks that were often as little connected with re- \nligion as fairy tales, down to the colophon, sup- \nplicating pardon for any unconscious neglect of \nthe authority of the Church or any too free use of \nclassical mythology, we are continually oppressed \nwith painful proofs, not only how completely the \nhuman mind was enslaved in Spain, but how \ngrievously it had become cramped and crippled \nby the chains it had so long worn. \n\n"Bat we shall be greatly in error, if, as we no- \ntice these deep marks and strange peculiarities in \nSpanish literature, we suppose they were produced \nby the direct action either of the Inquisition or of \nthe civil government of the country, compressing, \nas if with a physical power, the whole circle of \nsociety. This would have been impossible. No \nnation would have submitted to it ; much less so \nhigh-spirited and chivalrous a nation as the Span- \nish in the reign of Charles the Fifth and in the \ngreater part of that of Philip the Second. This \ndark w r ork was done earlier. Its foundations were \nlaid deep and sure in the old Castilian character. \nIt was the result of the excess and misdirection of \nthat very Christian zeal which fought so fervent- \nly and gloriously against the intrusion of Moham- \nmedanism into Europe, and of that military loy- \nalty which sustained the Spanish princes so faith- \nfully through the whole of that terrible contest; \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 693 \n\nboth of them high and ennobling principles, which \nin Spain were more wrought into the popular \ncharacter than they ever were in any other country. \n\n"Spanish submission to an unworthy despot, \nism, and Spanish bigotry, were, therefore, not the \nresults of the Inquisition and the modern appli- \nances of a corrupting monarchy ; but the Inquisi- \ntion and the despotism were rather the results of \na misdirection of the old religious faith and loy- \nalty. The civilization that recognised such ele- \nments presented, no doubt, much that was brill- \niant, picturesque, and ennobling ; but it was not \nwithout its darker side ; for it failed to excite and \ncherish many of the most elevating qualities of our \ncommon nature \xe2\x80\x94 those qualities which are pro- \nduced in domestic life, and result in the cultiva- \ntion of the arts of peace. \n\n" As we proceed, therefore, we shall find, in the \nfull development of the Spanish character and lit- \nerature, seeming contradictions, which can be rec- \nonciled only by looking back to the foundations \non which they both rest. We shall find the In- \nquisition at the height of its power, and a free and \nimmoral drama at the height of its popularity \xe2\x80\x94 \nPhilip the Second and his two immediate success- \nors governing the country with the severest and \nmost jealous despotism, while Quevedo was wri- \nting his witty and dangerous satires, and Cervan- \ntes his genial and wise Don Quixote. But the \nmore carefully we consider such a state of things, \nthe more we shall see that these are moral contra \n\n\n\n694 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES \n\ndictions which draw after them grave moral mis- \nchiefs. The Spanish nation and the men of genius \nwho illustrated its hest days, might be light-heart- \ned because they did not perceive the limits within \nwhich they were confined, or did not, for a time, \nfeel the restraints that were imposed upon them. \nWhat they gave tip might be given up with cheer- \nful hearts, and not with a sense of discouragement \nand degradation ; it might be done in the spirit \nof loyalty and with the fervor of religious zeal ; \nbut it is not at all the less true that the hard lim- \nits were there, and that great sacrifices of the best \nelements of the national character must follow. \n\n" Of this time gave abundant proof. Only a \nlittle more than a century elapsed before the gov- \nernment that had threatened the world with a uni- \nversal empire was hardly able to repel invasion \nfrom abroad, or maintain the allegiance of its own \nsubjects at home. Life \xe2\x80\x94 the vigorous, poetical \nlife which had been kindled through the country \nin its ages of trial and adversity\xe2\x80\x94 was evidently \npassing out of the whole Spanish character. As \na. people they sunk away from being a first-rate \npower in Europe, till they became one of alto- \ngether inferior importance and consideration ; and \nthen, drawing back haughtily behind their mount- \nains, rejected all equal intercourse with the rest \nof the world, in a spirit almost as exclusive and \nintolerant as that in which they had formerly re- \nfused intercourse with their Arab conquerors. The \ncrude and gross wealth poured in from their Amer- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 695 \n\nLean possessions sustained, indeed, for 3-et anothei \ncentury the forms of a miserable political exist- \nence in their government ; but the earnest faith, \nthe loyalty, the dignity of the Spanish people, were \ngone ; and little remained in their place but a \nweak subserviency to the unworthy masters of the \nstate, and a low, timid bigotry in whatever related \nto religion. The old enthusiasm, rarely directed \nby wisdom from the first, and often misdirected \nafterward, faded away ; and the poetry of the \ncountry, which had always depended more on the \nstate of the popular feeling than any other poetry \nof modern times, faded and failed with it." \n\nThe first thing that strikes us, at the very com- \nmencement of this new period, is the attempt to \nsubject the Castilian to Italian forms of versifica- \ntion. This attempt, through the perfect tact of \nBoscan, and the delicate genius of Garcilasso, who \nrivalled in their own walks the greatest masters \nof Italian verse, was eminently successful. It \n\'would, indeed, be wonderful if the intimate rela- \ntions now established between Spain and Italy \ndid not lead to a reciprocal influence of their lit- \neratures on each other. The two languages, de- \nscended from the same parent stock, the Latin, \nwere nearest of kin to each other \xe2\x80\x94 in the relation, \nif we may so speak, of brother and sister. The \nCastilian, with its deep Arabic gutturals, and its \nclear, sonorous sounds, had the masculine charac- \nter, which assorted well with the more feminine \ngraces of the Italian, with its musical cadences \n\n\n\n696 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand soft vowel terminations. The transition from \none language to the other was almost as natural \nas from the dialect of one province of a country to \nthat of its neighbour. \n\nThe revolution thus effected went far below the \nsurface of Spanish poetry. It is for this reason \nthat we are satisfied that Mr. Ticknor has judged \nwisely, as we have before intimated, in arranging \nthe division lines of his two periods in such a \nmanner as to throw into the former that primitive \nportion of the national literature which was un- \ntouched, at least to any considerable extent, by a \nforeign influence. \n\nYet, in the compositions of this second period, \nit must be admitted that by far the greater portion \nof what is really good rests on the original basis \nof the national character, though under the con- \ntrolling influences of a riper age of civilization. \nAnd foremost of the great writers of this national \nschool we find the author of " Don Quixote,\'\' \nwhose fame seems now to belong to Europe, as \nmuch as to the land that gave him birth. Mr. \nTicknor has given a very interesting notice of the \ngreat writer and of his various compositions. The \nmaterials for this are, for the most part, not very \ndifficult to be procured ; for Cervantes is the au- \nthor whom his countrymen, since his death, with \na spirit very different from that of his contempo- \nraries, have most delighted to honour. Fortu- \nnately, the Castilian romancer has supplied us \nwith materials for his own biography, which re \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 697 \n\nmind us of the lamentable poverty under which \nwe labour in all that relates to his contemporary, \nShakspeare. In Mr. Ticknor\'s biographical notice, \nthe reader will find some details probably not \nfamiliar to him, and a careful discussion of those \npoints over which still rests any cloud of uncer- \ntainty. \n\nHe inquires into the grounds of the imputation \nof an unworthy jealousy having existed between \nLope and his illustrious rival, and we heartily con- \ncur with him in the general results of his investi- \ngation. \n\n" Concerning his relations with Lope de Vega \nthere has been much discussion to little purpose. \nCertain it is that Cervantes often praises this great \nliterary idol of his age, and that four or five times \nLope stoops from his pride of place and compli- \nments Cervantes, though never beyond the meas- \nure of praise he bestows on many whose claims \nwere greatly inferior. But in his stately flight, it \nis plain that he soared much above the author of \nDon Quixote, to whose highest merits he seemed \ncarefully to avoid all homage ; and though I find \nno sufficient reason to suppose their relation to each \nother was marked by any personal jealousy or ill- \nwill, as has been sometimes supposed., yet I can \nfind no proof that it was either intimate or kind- \nly. On the contrary, when we consider the good \nnature of Cervantes, which made him praise to \nexcess nearly all his other literary contemporaries, \nas well as the greatest of them all, and when wo \n4 31 \n\n\n\n698 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nallow for the frequency of hyperbole in such praises \nat that time, which prevented them from being \nwhat they would now be, we may perceive an occa- \nsional coolness in his manner, when he speaks of \nLope, which shows that, without overrating his \nown merits and claims, he was not insensible to \nthe difference in their respective positions, or to the \ninj Listice towards himself implied by it. Indeed, \nhis whole tone, whenever he notices Lope, seems \nto be marked with much personal dignity, and to \nbe singularly honourable to him." \n\nMr. Ticknor, in a note to the above, states that \nhe has been able to find only fi\\e passages in all \nLope de Vega\'s works where there is any mention \nof Cervantes, and not one of these written after \nthe appearance of the " Don Quixote," during its \nauthor\'s lifetime \xe2\x80\x94 a significant fact. One of the \npassages to which our author refers, and which is \nfrom the " Laurel de Apolo," contains, he says, "a \nsomewhat stiff eulogy on Cervantes." We quote \nthe original couplet, which alludes to the injury \ninflicted on Cervantes\' hand in the great battle of \nLepanto. \n\n" Porque se d.iga que una mano herida \nPudo dar a su dueno eterna vida." \n\nWhich may be rendered, \n\nThe hand, though crippled in the glorious strife, \nSufficed to gain its lord eternal life. \n\nWe imagine that most who read the distich \xe2\x80\x94 the \nCastilian, not the English \xe2\x80\x94 will be disposed to re- \ngard it as no inelegant, and certainly not a parsi- \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 699 \n\ninpnious tribute from one bard to another \xe2\x80\x94 at least, \nif made in the lifetime of the subject of it. Un- \nfortunately, it was not written till some fourteen \nyears after the death of Cervantes, when he was \nbeyond the power of being pleased or profited by \npraise from any quarter. \n\nMr. Ticknor closes the sketch of Cervantes with \nsome pertinent and touching reflections on the cir- \ncumstances under which his great work was com- \nposed. \n\n" The romance which he threw so carelessly \nfrom him, and which, I am persuaded, he regard- \ned rather as a bold effort to break up the absurd \ntaste of his time for the fancies of chivalry than \nas any thing of more serious import, has been es- \ntablished by an uninterrupted, and, it may be said, \nan unquestioned, success ever since, both as the \noldest classical specimen of romantic fiction, and \nas one of the most remarkable monuments of mod- \nern genius. But though this may be enough to \nfill the measure of human fame and glory, it is not \nall to which Cervantes is entitled ; for, if we would \ndo him the justice that would have been dearest \nto his own spirit, and even if we would ourselves \nfully comprehend and enjoy the whole of his Don \nQuixote, we should, as we read it, bear in mind \nthat this delightful romance was not the result of \na youthful exuberance of feeling and a happy ex- \nternal condition, nor composed in his best years, \nwhen the spirits of its author were light and his \nhopes high ; but that \xe2\x80\x94 with all its unquenchable \n\n\n\n700 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nand irresistible humour, with its bright views of \nthe world, and its cheerful trust in goodness and \nvirtue \xe2\x80\x94 it was written in his old age, at the conclu- \nsion of a life nearly every step of which had been \nmarked with disappointed expectations, disheart- \nening struggles, and sore calamities ; that he be- \ngan it in a prison, and that it was finished when \nhe felt the hand of death pressing heavy and cold \nupon his heart. If this be remembered as we read, \nwe may feel, as we ought to feel, what admiration \nand reverence are due, not only to the living pow- \ner of Don Quixote, but to the character and genius \nof Cervantes." \n\nThe next name that meets us in the volume is \nthat of Lope de Vega Carpio, the idol of his gen- \neration, who lived, in all the enjoyment of wealth \nand worldly honours, in the same city, and, as \nsome accounts state, in the same street, where his \nillustrious rival was pining in poverty and neglect. \nIf posterity has reversed the judgment of their con- \ntemporaries, still we cannot withhold our admira- \ntion at the inexhaustible invention of Lope, and \nthe miraculous facility of his composition. His \nachievements in this way, perfectly well authen- \nticated, are yet such as to stagger credibility. He \nwrote in all about eighteen hundred regular dra- \nmas, and four hundred autos \xe2\x80\x94 pieces of one act \neach. Besides this, he composed, at leisure inter- \nvals, no less than twenty-one printed volumes of \nmiscellaneous poetry, including eleven narrative \nand didactic poems of much length, in ottava r?ma. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 701 \n\nand seven hundred sonnets, also in the Italiau \nmeasure. His comedies, amounting to between \ntwo and three thousand lines each, were mostly \nrhymed, and interspersed with ballads, sonnets, \nand different kinds of versification. Critics have \nsometimes amused themselves with computing the \namount of matter thus actually thrown off by him \nin the course of his dramatic career. The sum \nswells to twenty-one million three hundred thou- \nsand verses ! He lived to the age of seventy-two, \nand if we allow him to have employed fifty years \n\xe2\x80\x94 which will not be far from the truth \xe2\x80\x94 in his \ntheatrical compositions, it will give an average of \nsomething like a play a week, through the whole \nperiod, to say nothing of the epics and other mis- \ncellanies ! He tells us farther, that, on one occa- \nsion, he produced five entire plays in a fortnight. \nAnd his biographer assures us that more than \nonce he turned off a whole drama in twenty-four \nhours. These plays, it will be recollected, with \ntheir stores of invention and fluent versification, \nwere the delight of all classes of his countrymen, \nand the copious fountain of supply to half the the- \natres of Europe. Well might Cervantes call him \nthe " monstruo de naturaleza" \xe2\x80\x94 the " miracle of \nnature." \n\nThe vast popularity of Lope, and the unprece- \ndented amount of his labours, brought with them, \nas might be expected, a substantial recompense. \nThis remuneration was of the most honourable \nkind, for it was chiefly derived from the public \n4 3 1* \n\n\n\n702 BTOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nft is said to have amounted to no less than a \nhundred thousand ducats \xe2\x80\x94 which, estimating the \nducat at its probable value of six or seven dollars \nof our day, has no parallel \xe2\x80\x94 or, perhaps, not more \nthan one \xe2\x80\x94 upon record. \n\nYet Lope did not refuse the patronage of the \ngreat. From the Duke of Sessa he is said to have \nreceived, in the course of his life, more than twen- \nty thousand ducats. Another of his noble patrons \nwas the Duke of Alva; not the terrible duke of \nthe Netherlands, but his grandson \xe2\x80\x94 a man of some \nliterary pretensions, hardly claimed for his great \nancestor. Yet with the latter he has been con- \nstantly confounded, by Lord Holland, in his life \nof the poet, by Southey, after an examination of \nthe matter, and lastly, though with some distrust, \nby Nicholas Antonio, the learned Castilian biog- \nrapher. Mr. Ticknor shows, beyond a doubt, from \na critical examination of the subject, that they are \nall in error. The inquiry and the result are clearly \nstated in the notes, and are one among the many \nevidences which these notes afford of the minute \nand very accurate researches of our author into \nmatters of historical interest, that have baffled \neven the Castilian scholars. \n\nWe remember meeting with something of a sim- \nilar blunder in Schlegel\'s Dramatic Lectures, where \nhe speaks of the poet Garcilasso de la Vega as de- \nscended from the Peruvian Incas, and as having \nlost his life before Tunis. The fact is, that the \npoet died at Nice, and that, too some years before \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 703 \n\nthe birth of the Inca Garcilasso, with whom Schle- \ngel so strangely confounds him. One should be \ncharitable to such errors \xe2\x80\x94 though a dogmatic crit- \nic like Schlegel has as little right as any to de- \nmand such charity \xe2\x80\x94 for we well know how diffi- \ncult it is always to escape them, when, as in Cas- \ntile, the same name seems to descend, as an heir- \nloom, from one generation to another ; if it be not, \nindeed, shared by more than one of the same gen- \neration. In the case of the Duke of Alva, there \nwas not even this apology. \n\nMr. Ticknor has traced the personal history of \nLope de Vega, so as to form a running comment- \nary on his literary. It will be read with satis- \nfaction, even by those who are familiar with Lord \nHolland\'s agreeable life of the poet, since the pub- \nlication of which more ample researches have been \nmade into the condition of the Castilian drama. \nThose who are disposed to set too high a value \non the advantages of literary success may learn a \nlesson by seeing how ineffectual it was to secure \nthe happiness of that spoiled child of fortune. We \ngive our author\'s account of his latter days, when \nhis mind had become infected with the religious \ngloom which has too often settled round the even- \ning of life with the fanatical Spaniard. \n\n"But as his life drew to a close, his religious \nfeelings, mingled with a melancholy fanaticism, \npredominated more and more. Much of his poetry \ncomposed at this time expressed them ; and at last \nthey rose to such a height, that he was almost \n\n\n\n704 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nconstantly in a state of excited melancholy, or, as \nit was then beginning to be called, of hypochon- \ndria. Early in the month of August, he felt him- \nself extremely weak, and suffered more than ever \nfrom that sense of discouragement which was \nbreaking down his resources and strength. His \nthoughts, however, were so exclusively occupied \nwith his spiritual condition, that, even when thus \nreduced, he continued to fast, and on one occasion \nwent through with a private discipline so cruel, \nthat the walls of the apartment where it occurred \nwere afterward found sprinkled with his blood. \nFrom this he never recovered. He was taken ill \nthe same night ; and, after fulfilling the offices \nprescribed by his Church with the most submis- \nsive devotion \xe2\x80\x94 mourning that he had ever been \nengaged in any occupations but such as were ex- \nclusively religious \xe2\x80\x94 he died on the 25th of August, \n1635, nearly seventy-three years old. \n\n" The sensation produced by his death was such \nas is rarely witnessed even in the case of those \nupon whom depends the welfare of nations. The \nDuke of Sessa, who was his especial patron, and \nto whom he left his manuscripts, provided for the \nfuneral in a manner becoming his own wealth and \nrank. It lasted nine days. The crowds that \nthronged to it were immense. Three bishops of- \nficiated, and the first nobles of the land attended \nas mourners. Eulogies and poems followed on all \nsides, and in numbers all but incredible. Those \nwritten in Spain make one considerable volume. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 70t> \n\nand end with a drama in which his apotheosis \nwas brought upon the public stage. Those writ- \nten in Italy are hardly less numerous, and fill an \nother. Bat more touching than any of them was \nthe prayer of that much-loved daughter, who had \nbeen shut up from the world fourteen years, that \nthe long funeral procession might pass by her con- \nvent and permit her once more to look on the face \nshe so tenderly venerated ; and more solemn than \nany was the mourning of the multitude, from \nwhose dense mass audible sobs burst forth, as his \nremains slowly descended from their sight into the \nhouse appointed for all living." \n\nMr. Ticknor follows up his biographical sketch \nof Lope with an analysis of his plays, concluding \nthe whole with a masterly review of his qualities \nas a dramatic writer. The discussion has a wider \nimport than at first appears. For Lope de Vega, \nalthough he built on the foundations of the an- \ncient drama, yet did this in such a manner as to \nsettle the forms of this department of literature \nforever for his countrymen. \n\nIt would be interesting to compare the great \nSpanish dramatist with Shakspeare, who flourish- \ned at the same period, and who, in like manner, \nstamped his own character on the national thea- \ntre. Both drew their fictions from every source \nindiscriminately, and neither paid regard to prob- \nabilities of chronology, geography, or scarcely his- \ntory. Time, place, and circumstance were of lit- \ntle moment in their eyes. Both built their dramas \n\n4 Q \n\n\n\n706 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n\n\non the romantic model, with its magic scenes of \njoy and sorrow, in the display of which each was \nmaster in his own way ; though the English poet \ncould raise the tone of sentiment to a moral gran- \ndeur, which the Castilian, with all the tragic col- \nouring of his pencil, could never reach. Both fas- \ncinated their audiences hy that sweet and natural \nflow of language, that seemed to set itself to music \nas it was uttered. But, however much alike in \nother points, there was one distinguishing feature \nin each, which removed them and their dramas \nfar as the poles asunder. \n\nShakspeare\'s great object was the exhibition of \ncharacter. To this everything was directed. Sit- \nuation, dialogue, story \xe2\x80\x94 all were employed only \nto this great end. This was in perfect accordance \nwith the taste of his nation, as shown through \nthe whole of its literature, from Chaucer to Scott. \nLope de Vega, on the other hand, made so little \naccount of character that he reproduces the same \nleading personages, in his different plays, over and \nover again, as if they had been all cast in the \nsame mould. The galan, the damn, the gracioso, \nor buffoon, recur as regularly as the clown in the \nold English comedy, and their role is even more \nprecisely defined. \n\nThe paramount object with Lope was the in- \ntrigue \xe2\x80\x94 the story. His plays were, what Mr \nTicknor well styles them, dramatic novels. And \nthis, as our author remarks, was perfectly conform- \nable to the prevalent spirit of Spanish literature \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 707 \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 clearly narrative \xe2\x80\x94 as shown in its long epics of \nthe twelfth and thirteenth centuries, its host of \nballads, its gossiping chronicles, its chivalrous ro- \nmances. The great purpose of Lope was to ex- \ncite and maintain an interest in the story. "Keep \nthe denouement in suspense," he says ; " if it be \nonce surmised, your audience will turn their backs \non you." He frequently complicates his intrigues \nin such a manner that only the closest attention \ncan follow them. He cautions his hearers to give \nthis attention, especially at the outset. \n\nLope, with great tact, accommodated his thea- \ntre to the prevailing taste of his countrymen. \n" Plant us and Terence," he says, " I throw into \nthe fire when I begin to write ;" thus showing \nthat it was not by accident, but on a settled prin- \nciple that he arranged the forms of his dramas. \nIt is the favourite principle of modern economists, \nthat of consulting the greatest happiness of the \ngreatest number. Lope did so, and was reward- \ned for it, not merely by the applause of the million, \nbut by that of every Spaniard, high and low, in \nthe country. In all this, Lope de Vega acted on \nstrictly philosophical principles. He conformed \nto the romantic, although the distinction was not \nthen properly understood ; and he thought it ne- \ncessary to defend his departure from the rules of \nthe ancients. But, in truth, such rules were not \nsuited to the genius and usages of the Spaniards, \nany more than of the English ; and more than one \nexperiment proved that they would be as little \ntolerated by the one people as the other. \n\n\n\n708 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nIt is remarkable that the Spaniards, whose lan- \nguage rests so broadly on the Latin, in the same \nmanner as with the French and the Italians, should \nhave refused to rest their literature, like them, on \nthe classic models of antiquity, and have chosen \nto conform to the romantic spirit of the more north- \nern nations of the Teutonic family. It was the \nparamount influence of the Gothic element in their \ncharacter, co-operating with the peculiar, and most \nstimulating influences of their early history. \n\n"We close our remarks on Lope de Vega with \nsome excellent reflections of our author on the ra- \npidity of his composition, and showing to what ex- \ntent his genius was reverenced by his contempo- \nraries. \n\n" Lope de Vega\'s immediate success, as we have \nseen, was in proportion to his rare powers and fa- \nvourable opportunities. For a long time nobody \nelse was willingly heard on the stage ; and during \nthe whole of the forty or fifty years that he wrote \nfor it, he stood quite unapproached in general pop- \nularity. His unnumbered plays and farces, in all \nthe forms that were demanded by the fashions of \nthe age, or permitted by religious authority, filled \nthe theatres both of the capital and the provinces ; \nand so extraordinary was the impulse he gave to \ndramatic representations, that, though there were \nonly two companies of strolling players at Madrid \nwhen he began, there were, about the period of \nhis death, no less than forty, comprehending nearly \na thousand persons. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 709 \n\n" Abroad, too, his fame was hardly less remark- \nable. In Rome, Naples, and Milan, his dramas \nwere performed in their original language ; in \nFrance and Italy his name was announced in or- \nder to fill the theatres when no play of his was to \nbe performed ; and once even, and probably ofteri- \ner, one of his dramas was represented in the se- \nraglio at Constantinople. But perhaps neither all \nthis popularity, nor yet the crowds that followed \nhim in the streets and gathered in the balconies \nto watch him as he passed along, nor the name \nof Lope, that was given to whatever was esteem- \ned singularly good in its kind, is so striking a proof \nof his dramatic success, as the fact, so often com- \nplained of by himself and his friends, that multi- \ntudes of his plays were fraudulently noted down \nas they were acted, and then printed for profit \nthroughout Spain; and that multitudes of other \nplays appeared under his name, and were repre- \nsented all over the provinces, that he had never \nheard of till they were published and performed. \n\n" A large income naturally followed such pop- \nularity, for his plays were liberally paid for by the \nactors ; and he had patrons of a munificence un- \nknown in our days, and always undesirable. But \nhe was thriftless and wasteful ; exceedingly char- \nitable ; and, in hospitality to his friends, prodigal. \ntie was, therefore, almost always embarrassed. \nAt the end of his \' Jerusalem,\' printed as early as \n1^09, he complains of the pressure of his domes- \ntic affairs ; and in his old age he addressed some \n4 3 K \n\n\n\n710 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nverses, in the nature of a petition, to the still more \nthriftless Philip the Fourth, asking the means of \nliving for himself and daughter. After his death, \nhis poverty was fully admitted by his executor; \nand yet, considering the relative value of money, \nno poet, perhaps, ever received so large a compen- \nsation for his works. \n\n" It should, however, be remembered, that no \nother poet ever wrote so much with popular effect. \nFor, if we begin with his dramatic compositions, \nwhich are the best of his efforts, and go down to \nhis epics, which, on the whole, are the worst, we \nshall find the amount of what was received with \nfavour, as it came from the press, quite unparal- \nleled. And when to this we are compelled to add \nhis own assurance, just before his death, that the \ngreater part of his works still remained in manu- \nscript, we pause in astonishment, and, before we \nare able to believe the account, demand some ex- \nplanation that will make it credible ; an explana- \ntion which is the more important because it is the \nkey to much of his personal character, as well as\' \nof his poetical success. And it is this. No poet \nof any considerable reputation ever had a genius \nso nearly /elated to that of an improvisator, or ever \nindulged his genius so freely in the spirit of im- \nprovisation. This talent has always existed in \nthe southern countries of Europe ; and in Spain \nhas, from the first, produced, in different ways, the \nmost extraordinary results. We owe to it the \ninvention and perfection of the old ballads, which \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 711 \n\nwere originally improvisated and then preserved \nby tradition ; and we owe to it the seguidillas, \nthe boleros, and all the other forms of popular \npoetry that still exist in Spain, and are daily \npoured forth by the fervent imaginations of the \nuncultivated classes of the people, and sung to the \nnational music, that sometimes seems to fill the \nair by night as the light of the sun does by day. \n\n" In the time of Lope de Vega, the passion for \nsuch improvisation had risen Higher than it ever \nrose before, if it had not spread out more widely. \nActors were expected sometimes to improvisate on \nthemes given to them by the audience. Extem- \nporaneous dramas, with all the varieties of verse \ndemanded by a taste formed in the theatres, were \nnot of rare occurrence. Philip the Fourth, Lope\'s \npatron, had such performed in his presence, and \nbore a part in them himself. And the famous \nCount De Lemos, the viceroy of Naples, to whom \nCervantes was indebted for so much kindness, \nkept, as an apanage to his viceroyalty, a poetical \ncourt, of which the two A^gensolas were the chief \nornaments, and in which extemporaneous plays \nwere acted with brilliant success. \n\n" Lope de Vega\'s talent was undoubtedly of near \nkindred to this genius of improvisation, and pro- \nduced its extraordinary results by a similar pro- \ncess, and in the same spirit. He dictated verse, \nwe are told, with ease, more rapidly thar) an \namanuensis could take it down ; and wrote out \nau entire play in two days, which could with dif. \n\n\n\n712 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nficulty be transcribed by a copyist in the same \ntime. He was not absolutely an improvisator, for \nhis education and position naturally led him to \ndevote himself to written composition ; but he was \ncontinually on the borders of whatever belongs to \nan improvisator\'s peculiar province ; was continu- \nally showing, in his merits and defects, in his ease, \ngrace, and sudden resource, in his wildness and \nextravagance, in the happiness of his versification \nand the prodigal abundance of his imagery, that \na very little more freedom, a very little more in- \ndulgence given to his feelings and his fancy, would \nhave made him at once and entirely, not only an \nimprovisator, but the most remarkable one that \never lived." \n\nWe pass over the long array of dramatic writers \nwho trod closely in the footsteps of their great \nmaster, as well as a lively notice of the satirist \nQuevedo, and come at once to Calderon de la Bar- \nca, the great poet who divided with Lope the em- \npire of the Spanish stage. \n\nOur author has given a full biography of this \nfamous dramatist, to which we must refer the \nreader ; and we know of no other history in Eng- \nlish where he can meet with it at all. Calderon \nlived in the reign of Philip the Fourth, which, ex- \ntending from 1621 to 1665, comprehends the most \nflourishing period of the Castilian theatre. The \nelegant tastes of the monarch, with his gay and \ngracious manners, formed a contrast to the austere \ntemper of the other princes of the house of Austria. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 713 \n\nHe was not only the patron of the drama, but a \nprofessor of the dramatic art, and, indeed, a per- \nformer. He wrote plays himself, and acted them \nin his own palace. His nobles, following his ex- \nample, turned their saloons into theatres ; and the \ngreat towns, and many of the smaller ones, par- \ntaking of the enthusiasm of the court, had their \nown theatres and companies of actors, which al- \ntogether amounted, at one time, to no less than \nthree hundred. One may understand that it re- \nquired no small amount of material to keep such \na vast machinery in motion. \n\nAt the head of this mighty apparatus was the \npoet Calderon, the favourite of the court even more \nthan Lope de Vega, but not more than he the fa- \nvourite of the nation. He was fully entitled to \nthis high distinction, if we are to receive half that \nis said of him by the German critics, among whom \nSchlegel particularly celebrates him as displaying \nthe purest model of the romantic ideal, the most \nperfect development of the sentiments of love, he- \nroism, and religious devotion. This exaggerated \n\n\' to to\xc2\xa9 \n\ntone of eulogy calls forth the rebuke of Sismondi, \nwho was educated in a different school of criti- \ncism, and whose historical pursuits led him to look \nbelow the surface of things to their moral tenden- \ncies. By this standard, Calderon has failed. And \nyet it seems to be a just standard, even when \ncriticising a work by the rules of art ; for a disre- \ngard of the obvious laws of morality is a violation \ns>f the principles of taste, on which the beautiful \n4 3 K* \n\n\n\n714 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nmust rest. Not that Calderon\'s plays are charge* \nable with licentiousness or indecency to a greater \nextent than was common in the writers of the \nperiod. But they show a lamentable confusion of \nideas in regard to the first principles of morality, \nby entirely confounding the creed of the individual \nwith his religion. A conformity to the established \ncreed is virtue, the departure from it vice. It is \nimpossible to conceive, without reading his per- \nformances, to what revolting consequences this \nconfusion of the moral perceptions perpetually \nleads. \n\nYet Calderon should not incur the reproach of \nhypocrisy, but that of fanaticism. He was the \nvery dupe of superstition ; and the spirit of fanati- \ncism he shares with the greater part of his coun- \ntrymen \xe2\x80\x94 even the most enlightened \xe2\x80\x94 of that pe- \nriod. Hypocrisy may have been the sin of the \nPuritan, but fanaticism was the sin of the Catho- \nlic Spaniard of the sixteenth and seventeenth cen- \nturies. The one quality may be thought to reflect \nmore discredit on the heart, the other on the head . \nThe philosopher may speculate on their compara- \ntive moral turpitude ; but the pages of history show \nthat fanaticism armed with power has been the \nmost fruitful parent of misery to mankind. \n\nCalderon\'s drama turns on the most exaggerated \nprinciples of honour, jealousy, and revenge, min \ngled with the highest religious exaltation. Some* \nof these sentiments, usually referred to the innV \nence of the Arabs, Mr. Ticknor traces to the ancienl \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 715 \n\nGothic laws, which formed the hasis of the early \nSpanish jurisprudence. The passages he cites are \npertinent, and his theory is plausible ; yet, in the \nrelations with woman, we suspect much must still \nhe allowed for the long contact with the jealous \nArabia n. \n\nCalderon\'s characters and sentiments are form- \ned, for the most part, on a purely ideal standard. \nThe incidents of his plots are even more startling \nthan those of Lope de Vega, more monstrous than \nthe fictions of Dumas or Eugene Sue. But his \nthoughts are breathed forth in the intoxicating \nlanguage of passion, with all the glowing imagery \nof the East, and in tones of the richest melody of \nwhich the Castilian tongue is capable. \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nMr. Ticknor has enlivened his analysis of Cal- \nderon\'s drama with several translations, as usual, \nfrom which we should be glad to extract, but must \ncontent ourselves with the concluding portion of \nhis criticism, where he sums up the prominent \nqualities of the bard. \n\n" Calderon neither effected nor attempted any \ngreat changes in the forms of the drama. Two or \nthree times, indeed, he prepared dramas that were \neither wholly sung, or partly sung and partly spo- \nken ; but even these, in their structure, were no \nmore operas than his other plays, and were only a \ncourtly luxury, which it was attempted to intro- \nduce, in imitation of the genuine opera just brought \ninto France by Louis the Fourteenth, with whose \ncourt that of Spain was now intimately connect. \n\n\n\n736 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ned. But this was all. Calderon has added to the \nstage no new form of dramatic composition. Nor \nhas he much modified those forms which had been \nalready arranged and settled by Lope de Vega. \nBut he has shown more technical exactness in \ncombining his incidents, and arranged everything \nmore skillfully for stage effect. He has given to \nthe whole a new colouring, and, in some respects, \na new physiognomy. His drama is more poetical \nin its tone and tendencies, and has less the air of \ntruth and reality, than that of his great predeces- \nsor. In its more successful portions \xe2\x80\x94 which are \nrarely objectionable from their moral tone \xe2\x80\x94 it \nseems almost as if we were transported to .another \nand more gorgeous world, where the scenery is \nlighted up with unknown and preternatural splen- \ndour, and where the motives and passions of the \npersonages that pass before us are so highly \nwrought, that we must have our own feelings not \na little stirred and excited before we can take an \nearnest interest in what we witness or sympathize \nin its results. But even in this he is successful. \nThe buoyancy of life and spirit that he has in- \nfused into the gayer divisions of his drama, and \nthe moving tenderness that pervades its graver \nand more tragical portions, lift us unconsciously \nto the height where alone his brilliant exhibitions \ncan prevail with our imaginations \xe2\x80\x94 where alone \nwe can be interested and deluded, when we find \nourselves in the midst, not only of such a confu- \nsion of the different forms of the drama, but of sucb \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 717 \n\na confusion of the proper limits of dramatic and \nlyrical poetry. \n\n" To this elevated tone, and to the constant ef- \nfort necessary in order to sustain it, we owe much \nof what distinguishes Calderon from his predeces- \nsors, and nearly all that is most individual and \ncharacteristic in his separate merits and defects. \nIt makes him less easy, graceful, and natural than \nLope. It imparts to his style a mannerism which, \nnotwithstanding the marvellous richness and flu- \nency of his versification, sometimes wearies and \nsometimes offends us. It leads him to repeat from \nhimself till many of his personages become stand- \ning characters, and his heroes and their servants, \nhis ladies and their confidants, his old men and \nhis buffoons, seem to be produced, like the masked \nfigures of the ancient theatre, to represent, with \nthe same attributes and in the same costume, the \ndifferent intrigues of his various plots. It leads \nhim, in short, to regard the whole of the Spanish \ndrama as a form, within whose limits his imagin- \nation may be indulged without restraint ; and in \nwhich Greeks and Romans, heathen divinities, \nand the supernatural fictions of Christian tradition, \nmay be all brought out in Spanish fashions and \nwith Spanish feelings, and led, through a succes- \nsion of ingenious and interesting adventures, to \nthe catastrophes their stories happen to require. \n\n" In carrying out this theory of the Spanish \ndrama, Calderon, as we have seen, often succeeds, \nand often fails. But when he succeeds, his sue- \n\n\n\n718 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncess is sometimes of no common character. He \nthen sets before us only models of ideal beauty, \nperfection, and splendour ; a world, he would have \nit, into which nothing should enter but the high- \nest elements of the national genius. There, the \nfervid, yet grave, enthusiasm of the old Castilian \nheroism ; the chivalrous adventures of modern, \ncourtly honour ; the generous self-devotion of in- \ndividual loyalty ; and that reserved but passion- \nate love, which, in a state of society where it was \nso rigorously withdrawn from notice, became a \nkind of unacknowledged religion of the heart ; all \nseem to find their appropriate home. And when \nhe has once brought us into this land of enchant- \nment, whose glowing impossibilities his own ge- \nnius has created, and has called around him forms \nof such grace and loveliness as those of Clara and \nDoiia Angela, or heroic forms like those of Tuza- \nni. Mariamne, and Don Ferdinand, then he has \nreached the highest point he ever attained, or ever \nproposed to himself; he has set before us the grand \nshow of an idealized drama, resting on the purest \nand noblest elements of the Spanish national char- \nacter, and one which, with all its unquestionable \ndefects, is to be placed among the extraordinary \nphenomena of modern poetry." \n\nWe shall not attempt to follow down the long \nfile of dramatic writers who occupy the remainder \nof the period. Their name is legion ; and we are \nfilled with admiration as we reflect on the intrepid \ndiligence with which our author has waded through \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE, 719 \n\nthis amount of matter, and the fidelity with which \nhe has rendered to the respective writers literary \njustice. We regret, however, that we have not \nspace to select, as we had intended, some part of \nhis lively account of the Spanish players, and of \nthe condition of the stage. It is collected frun \nvarious obscure sources, and contains many curi- \nous particulars. They show that the Spanish the- \natre was conducted in a manner so dissimilar from \nwhat exists in other European nations as perfect- \nly to vindicate its claims to originality. \n\nIt must not be supposed that the drama, though \nthe great natural diversion, was allowed to go on \nin Spain, any more than in other countries, in an \nuninterrupted flow of prosperity. It met with \nconsiderable opposition more than once in its ca- \nreer ; and, on the representations of the clergy, at \nthe close of Philip the Second\'s reign, perform- \nances were wholly interdicted, on the ground of \ntheir licentiousness. For two years the theatre \nwas closed. But, on the death of that gloomy \nmonarch, the drama, in obedience to the public \nvoice, was renewed in greater splendour than be- \nfore. It was urged by its friends that the theatre \nwas required to pay a portion of its proceeds to \ncertain charitable institutions, and this made all \nits performances in some sort an exercise of char \nity. Lope de Yega also showed his address by his \nComedias de Santos, under which pious name the \nlife of some saint or holy man was portrayed, \nwhich, however edifying in its close, afforded, too \n\n\n\n720 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\noften, as great a display of profligacy in its earlier \nportions as is to be found in any of the secular \nplays of the capa y espada. His experiment seems \nto have satisfied the consciences of the opponents \nof the drama, or at least to have silenced thei r \nopposition. It reminds us of the manner in which \nsome among us, who seem to have regarded the \ntheatre with the antipathy entertained by our Pu- \nritan fathers, have found their scruples vanish at \nwitnessing these exhibitions under the more rep- \nutable names of "Athenaeum," "Museum," or "Ly- \nceum." \n\nOur author has paid due attention to the other \nvarieties of elegant literature which occupy this \nprolific period. We can barely enumerate the ti- \ntles. Epic poetry has not secured to itself the \nsame rank in Castile as in many other countries. \nAt the head stands the " Araucana" of ErcilJa, \nwhich Voltaire appears to have preferred to " Par- \nadise Lost !" Yet it is little more than a chroni- \ncle done in rhyme ; and, notwithstanding certain \npassages of energy and poetic eloquence, it is of \nmore value as the historical record of an eyewit- \nness than as a work of literary art. \n\nIn Pastoral poetry the Spaniards have better \nspecimens. Bat they are specimens of an insipid \nkind of writing, notwithstanding it has found fa- \nvour with the Italians, to whom it was introduced \nby a Spaniard \xe2\x80\x94 a Spaniard in descent \xe2\x80\x94 the cele- \nbrated author of the "Arcadia." \n\nIn the higher walks of Lyrical composition they \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 721 \n\nhave been more distinguished. The poetry of \nHerrera, in particular, seems to equal, in its dithy- \nrambic flow, the best models of classic antiquity ; \nwhile the Muse of Luis de Leon is filled with the \ngenuine inspiration of Christianity. Mr. Ticknor \nhas given a pleasing portrait of this gentle enthu- \nsiast, whose life was consecrated to Heaven, and \nwho preserved a tranquillity of temper unruffled \nby all the trials of an unmerited persecution. \n\nWe cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of quo- \nting a translation of one of his odes, as the last ex- \ntract from our author. The subject is, the feelings \nof the disciples on witnessing the ascension of their \nMaster. \n\n"And dost thou, holy Shepherd, leave \nThine unprotected flock alone, \nHere, in this darksome vale, to grieve, \nWhile thou ascend\'st thy glorious throne 1 \n" 0, where can they their hopes now turn, \nWho never lived but on thy love 1 \nWhere rest the hearts for thee that burn, \nWhen thou art lost in light above } \n" How shall those eyes now find repose \nThat turn, in vain, thy smile to see 1 \nWhat can they hear save mortal woes, \nWho lose thy voice\'s melody \\ \n" And who shall lay his tranquil hand \nUpon the troubled ocean\'s might! \nWho hush the wind by his command 1 \n\nWho guide us through this starless night ! \n" For Thou art gone ! \xe2\x80\x94 that cloud so bright, \nThat bears thee from our love away, \nSprings upward through the dazzling light, \nAnd leaves us here to weep and pray !" \n\nA peculiar branch of Castilian literature is its \nProverbs ; those extracts of the popular wisdom \xe2\x80\x94 \n4 3L \n\n\n\n722 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\n" short sentences from long experience," as Cer- \nvantes publicly styles them. They have been \ngathered, more than once, in Spain, into printed \ncollections. One of these, in the last century, con- \ntains no less than twenty-four thousand of these \nsayings ! And a large number was still left float- \ning among the people. It is evidence of extraor- \ndinary sagacity in the nation, that its humblest \nclasses should have made such a contribution to \nits literature. They have an additional value with \npurists for their idiomatic richness of expression \n\xe2\x80\x94 like the riboholi of the Florentine mob, which \nthe Tuscan critics hold in veneration as the racy \nrunnings from the dregs of the people. These pop- \nular maxims may be rather compared to the cop- \nper coin of the country, which has the widest cir- \nculation of any, and bears the true stamp of an- \ntiquity \xe2\x80\x94 not adulterated, as is too often the case \nwith the finer metals. \n\nThe last department we shall notice is that of \nthe Spanish Tales \xe2\x80\x94 rich, various, and highly pic- \nturesque. One class\xe2\x80\x94 the jpicaresco tales \xe2\x80\x94 are \nthose with which the world has become familiar \nin the specimen afforded by the " Gil Bias" of Le \nSage, an imitation \xe2\x80\x94 a rare occurrence \xe2\x80\x94surpassing \nthe original. This amusing class of fictions has \nfound peculiar favour with the Spaniards, from its \nlively sketches of character, and the contrast it de- \nMghts to present of the pride and the poverty of \nthe hidalgo. Yet this kind of satirical fiction was \ninvented by a man of rank, and one of the pioud- \nest of his order. \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 723 \n\nOar lemarks have swelled to a much greater \ncompass than we had intended, owing to the im- \nportance of the work before us, and the abundance \nof the topics, little familiar to the English reader. \nWe have no room, therefore, for farther discussion \nof this second period, so fruitful in great names, \nand pass over, though reluctantly, our author\'s \ncriticism on the historical writings of the age, in \nwhich he has penetrated below the surface of their \nliterary forms to the scientific principles on which \nthey were constructed. \n\nNeither can we pause on the last of the three \ngreat periods into which our author has distribu- \nted the work, and which extends from the acces- \nsion of the Bourbon dynasty in 1700 to some way \ninto the present century. The omission is of the \nless consequence, from the lamentable decline of \nthe literature, owing to the influence of French \nmodels, as well as to the political decline of the \nnation under the last princes of the Austrian dy- \nnasty. The circumstances which opened the way \nboth to this social and literary degeneracy are well \nportrayed by Mr. Ticknor, and his account will be \nread with profit by the student of history. \n\nWe regret still more that we can but barely al- \nlude to the Appendix, which, in the eye of the \nSpanish critic, will form not the least important \nportion of the work. Besides several long poems, \nhighly curious for their illustration of the ancient \nliterature, now for the first time printed from the \noriginal manuscripts, we have, at the outset, a dis- \n\n\n\n724 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ncussion of the origin and formation of the Castil- \nlan tongue, a truly valuable philological contri- \nbution. The subject has too little general attrac- \ntion to allow its appearance in the body of the \ntext ; but those students who would obtain a thor- \nough knowledge of the Castilian and the elements \nof which it is compounded, will do well to begin \nthe perusal of the work with this elaborate essay. \n\nNeither have we room to say anything of our \nauthor\'s inquiry into the genuineness of two works \nwhich have much engaged the attention of Cas- \ntilian scholars, and both of which he pronounces \napocryphal. The manner in which the inquiry is \nconducted affords a fine specimen of literary criti- \ncism. In one of these discussions occurs a fact \nworthy of note. An ecclesiastic named Barrien- \ntos, of John the Second\'s court, has been accused \nof delivering to the flames, on the charge of nec- \nromancy, the library of a scholar then lately de- \nceased, the famous Marquis of Yillena. The good \nbishop, from his own time to the present, has suf- \nfered under this grievous imputation, which ranks \nhim with Omar. Mr. Ticknor now cites a manu- \nscript letter of the bishop himself, distinctly ex- \nplaining that it was by the royal command that \nthis literary auto daft was celebrated. This in- \ncident is one proof among many of the rare char- \nacter of our author\'s materials, and of the careful \nstudy which he has given to them. \n\nSpanish literature has been until now less thor- \noughly explored than the literature of almost any \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 725 \n\nother European nation. Everybody has read " Gil \nBias," and, through this foreign source, has got a \ngood idea of the social condition of Spain, at the \nperiod to which it belongs; and the social condi- \ntion of that country is slower to change than that \nof any other country. Everybody has read " Don \nQuixote," and thus formed, or been able to form, \nsome estimate of the high value of the Castilian \nliterature. Yet the world, for the most part, seems \nto be content to take Montesquieu\'s witticism for \ntruth \xe2\x80\x94 that " the Spaniards have produced one \ngood book, and the object of that was to laugh at \nall the rest." All, however, have not been so ig- \nnorant; and more than one cunning adventurer \nhas found his way into the pleasant field of Cas- \ntilian letters, and carried off materials of no little \nvalue for the composition of his own works. Such \nwas Le Sage, as shown in more than one of his \nproductions ; such, too, were various of the dra- \nmatic writers of France and other countries, where \nthe extent of the plunder can only be estimated \nby those who have themselves delved in the rich \nmines of Spanish lore. \n\nMr. Ticknor has now, for the first time, fully \nsurveyed the ground, systematically arranged its \nvarious productions, and explored their character \nand properties. In the disposition of his immense \nmass of materials he has maintained the most per- \nfect order, so distributing them as to afford every \nfacility for the comprehension of the student, \n\nWe are everywhere made conscious of the abun \n4 8L* \n\n\n\n726 B/OGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\ndance, not merely of these materials \xe2\x80\x94 though one \nthird of the subjects brought under review, at least, \nare new to the public \xe2\x80\x94 but of the writer\'s intel- \nlectual resources. We feel that we are supplied \nfrom a reservoir that has been filled to overflowing \nfrom the very fountains of the Muses ; which^ is, \nmoreover, fed from other sources than those of the \nCastilian literature. By his critical acquaintance \nwith the literatures of other nations, Mr. Ticknor \nhas all the means at command for illustration and \ncomparison. The extent of this various knowl- \nedge may be gathered from his notes, even more \nthan from the text. A single glance at these will \nshow on how broad a foundation the narrative \nrests. They contain stores of personal anecdote, \ncriticism, and literary speculation, that might al- \nmost furnish materials for another work like the \npresent. \n\nMr. Ticknor\'s History is conducted in a truly \nphilosophical spirit. Instead of presenting a bar- \nren record of books \xe2\x80\x94 which, like the catalogue of \na gallery of paintings, is of comparatively little \nuse to those who have not previously studied them \n\xe2\x80\x94 he illustrates the works by the personal history \nof their authors, and this, again, by the history of \nthe times in which they lived; affording, by the \nreciprocal action of one on the other, a complete \nrecord of Spanish civilization, both social and in- \ntellectual. It would be difficult to find a work \nmore thoroughly penetrated with the true Castil- \nian spirit, or to which the general student, or the \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 727 \n\nstudent of civil history, may refer with no less ad- \nvantage than one who is simply interested in the \nprogress of letters. A pertinent example of this \nis in the account of Columbus, which contains pas- \nsages from the correspondence of that remarkable \nman, which, even after all that has been written \non the subject \xe2\x80\x94 and so well written \xe2\x80\x94 throw im- \nportant light on his character. \n\nThe tone of criticism in these volumes is tern, \nperate and candid. We cannot but think Mr. Tick- \nnor has profited largely by the former discussion \nof this subject in his academic lectures. Not that \nthe present book bears much resemblance to those \nLectures \xe2\x80\x94 certainly not more than must necessa- \nrily occur in the discussion of the same subject \nby the same mind, after a long interval of time. \nBut this interval has enabled him to review, and \nno doubt in some cases to reverse his earlier judg- \nments, and his present decisions come before us as \nthe ripe results of a long and patient meditation. \nThis gives them still higher authority. \n\nWe cannot conclude without some notice of the \nstyle, so essential an element in a work of elegan t \nliterature. It is clear, classical, and correct, with \na sustained moral dignity that not unfrequently \nrises to eloquence. But it is usually distinguish- \ned by a calm philosophical tenor that is well suit- \ned to the character of the subject. It is espe- \ncially free from any tendency to mysticism \xe2\x80\x94 from \nvagueness of expression, a pretty sure indication \nof vague conceptions in the mind of the author, \n\n\n\n728 BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL MISCELLANIES. \n\nwhich he is apt to dignify with the name of phi. \nlosophy. \n\nIn our criticism on Mr. Ticknor\'s lahours, we \nmay be thought to have dwelt too exclusively on \nhis merits. It may he that we owe something to \nthe contagion of his own generous and genial tone \nof criticism on othe rs. Or it may be that we feel \nmore than common interest in a subject which is \nnot altogether new to us ; and it is only an ac- \nquaintance with the subject that can enable one \nto estimate the difficulties of its execution. Where \nwe have had occasion to differ from our author, \nwe have freely stated it. But such instances are \nfew, and of no great moment. We consider the \nwork as one that does honour to English literature. \nIt cannot fail to attract much attention from Eu- \nropean critics who are at all instructed in the top- \nics which it discusses. We predict with confidence \nthat it will be speedily translated into Castilian \nand into German; and that it must become the \nstandard work on Spanish literature, not only for \nthose who speak our own tongue, but for the Span- \niards themselves. \n\nWe have still a word to add on the typograph- \nical execution of the book, not in reference to its \nmechanical beauty, which is equal to that of any \nother that has come from the Cambridge press, but \nin regard to its verbal accuracy. This is not an \neasy matter in a work like the present, involving \nsuch an amount of references in foreign languages, \nas well as the publication of poems of considerable \n\n\n\nSPANISH LITERATURE. 729 \n\nlength from manuscript, and that, too, in the Cas- \ntilian. We doubt if any similar work of erudition \nhas been executed by a foreign press with greater \naccuracy. We do not doubt that it would not \nhave been so well executed, in this respect, by any \nother press in this country. \n\n\n\nTHE END \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n00 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\n\n.0 \n\n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n"o C \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nx ^ \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xab ** \n\n\n\n,0o \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper proc< \n*%> Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \n\nTreatment Date: Sept. 2007 \n\n\n\n* ~0 \n\n\n\nPreservationTechnologii \n\nA WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERVAT \n\n111 Thomson Park Drive \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n>*"- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2^ \n\n\n\nV * \n\n\n\n\n\n\n</> \\ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n& *+\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nK$ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n; r ,^ V V \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^ \' \n\n\n\n\n\n\n-\\" \n\n\n\n^, <f : \n\n\n\n\\\xc2\xb0^. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n^0 \n\n\n\n^ -^ \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n'