-».;-:.^>^ 'f- 3 5 8 I LIBRARY FACILn 9 8 ,fc# >«»■■-':' ",.5 ^';/^j >t:^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE GIFT OF Mrs. E. H. Daly x^i^^ i CSC j£^ "^ ^«^^< « ■««: 4«: *ionately loved their mistresses, suffered them to enjoy more liberty ; and of all the countries under the Arabian yoke, Spain was that in which their manners partook most largely of the gallantry and chivalry of the Europeans. It was this country also which produced the most powerful effects on the cultivation of the intellect, in the south of Christian Europe. Abdalrahman I. who detached Spain from the em- pire of the Abassides, and founded that of the Ommi- ades, commenced his reign at a period when the religious fanaticism of the Musulmans was considerably weakened* He introduced literature and the arts into the "West, and in Spain they attained greater prosperity than in any other por- tion of the Musulman dominions. A complete toleration had been granted by the first conquerors to the Christian Goths, who, under the name of Mo^arabians (mixed Arabians), lived in the midst of the Musulmans. Abdalrahman, who obtained and merited the name of the Just, respected the rights of his Christian subjects, and only sought to attach them to his empire by that prodigious superiority in arts, letters, sciences, and cultivation, which then distinguished the Arabians. The Christians, living amidst the Arabians, attempted to follovA them in the career in which the latter had acquired such celebrity. Abdalrahman, who was the contemporary of Charlemagne, like him was the patron of letters ; but, more enlightened than that prince, he pursued, even in the civili- zation of the Christians themselves, a more beneficent and permanent policy than that of the French monarch. The study of the Arabic language was considered by the Mo^ara- Lians as the only means of developing their genius.* As • Four princes of the name of Abdalrahman made a distinguished figure in Spain, from the middle of the eighth to the commencement 82 ON THE LITEKATUKE early as the middle of the ninth century, Alvaro of Cordova complains, in his Indiculus luminosus, that his countrymen have abandoned the study of their own sacred characters for those of the Chaldfeans. John of Seville, for the convenience of those Christians who were better acquainted with the Ai-abian than the Latin, wrote in the former language an exposition of the sacred Scriptures. At the same period, a collection of the canons, according to the Church of Spain, was translated into Arabic ; whilst, on the other hand, several treatises on the law and religion of the Arabians were composed in Spanish. Thus, throughout the whole extent of the Arabian dominions in Spain, the two languages were universally spoken, and, in this manner, the literatui'e of the Arabians became familiar to the Christians of the West, without the latter being under the necessity of acqumng the Arabic tongue. The colleges and universities, founded by Abdalrahman and his successors, were frequented by all the learned of Europe. One of the most distinguished of these was Gerbert, who appears to have studied at Seville and Cordova, and who had acquired so intimate a knowledge of Arabian literature, and was so superior to his age, that after having been successively the admiration of France and Italy, and having ascended all the steps of the hierarchy, he filled the papal chair, from 999 to 1003, under the name of Syl- vester II. Many others, and more particularly the restorers of the exact sciences in Finance, England, and Italy, in the of the tenth century, and are easily confounded Avith one another. The first, Abdoul-Kahman-Bcn-AbdouUali, was only a lieutenant or viceroy of the Caliph Yesid; and yet it was lie who endangered France, and after having taken possession of half that country, was defeated in the plains of Tours, by Charles Martel, in 733. This is probably the same prince whom Ariosto, in imitation of the ancient Komance writers, has introduced, by an anachronism, as the antagonist of Charlemagne, under the name of Agramante. The second, the individual mentioned in the text, Abdoul-ltahman-Ben-Moawiah, was the only one of his family who escaped being massacred in 749, when the Ommiadan Caliphs, his an- cestors, lost the throne of Damascus, lie wandered as a fugitive for six years in the deserts of Africa, when Spain declared in his favour. He enjoyed a glorious reign from 756 to 787. Two of his descendants, Alxlalrahman II. (822—852) and Abdalrahman III. (912—961) bore with no Icr^H virtue and ])ro8pcrity the titles of Caliph of the West, and of Emin-El-Moumcnym (Prince of tlie Faithful); and thus the most brilliant exploits, and tiic highest prosperity of the Moors of Spain, are connected with the name of Abdalrahman. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 83 eleyentli century, completed their studies, by a residence of longer or shorter duration, in some of the universities of the south of Spain. Campanus of Novara, Gerard of Carmona, Atelard, Daniel Morley, and many others, confess, in their wi'itings, that they ai'e indebted to the Arabians for ail that they have communicated to the public. The monarchy of the Ommiades gave way, in Spain, to a number of petty Moorish sovereignties, which, ceasing to make war upon one another, became rivals in the cultivation of the arts and of letters. A great number of poets were attached to the courts of the princes of Grenada, of Seville, of Cordova, of Toledo, of Valencia, and of Saragossa ; and numbers of astronomers, physicians, and chroniclers enjoyed, at those courts, a distinguished rank and the favour of the sovereign. Amongst these many wei'e Christians and M05- arabians, and many belonged, both by religion and birth, to the two languages and the two countries. Whenever they experienced any mortifications at the courts of the Moorish kings, or whenever they felt any apprehension for their liberty or their property, they fled, carrying with them their talents and their industry to the Christians, who received them like unfortunate brethren. The petty princes of the growing kingdoms of Spain, more especially those of Cata- lonia and Arragon, by which, until the year 1112, the Mus- sulman kingdom of Saragossa was surrounded, attached to their persons, the mathematicians, the philosophers, the physicians, and the Troubadours, or inventors of stories and songs, who had received their first education in the schools of Andalusia, and who entertained those courts by the tales and the works of fiction which they borrowed from the litera- ture of the East. The union of the sovereignties of Catalonia and Provence, introduced these men of science and the Trou- badours into the states of Raymond Berenger. The various dialects of the Romance were not then so distinct as they are at present, and the Troubadours passed with ease from the Castilian to the Proven9al, which was then reputed the most elegant of all the languages of the South.* • In a little -work published in 1818, On the Language and Litera- ture of Provence, Augustus William Schlegel attempts to disprove tlia influence of the Arabians on the civilization and poetrj' of the Pro- ven9als. He attributes to the Spaniards of the Middle Ages, and he 84 ON THE LITERATURE Thus it was that the nations of modern Europe were taught the art of poetry ; and the rules which were imposed enable lis to recognise the school from which it proceeded. The first rule, which may be called peculiar to modern poetry, was rhyme. The invention of rhyming the terminations of verses, or the middle of the verse with the termination, was unknown to the Greeks, though it is sometimes to be found in the classical Latin poets, where, however, it appears to have been admitted with a different view than that which we propose to ourselves by the use of rhyme. It was introduced less for the purpose of mai'king the verses than the sense ; and it was formed merely by a coincidence in the construc- tion of the sentence. One verb, or one noun, was placed in opposition to another, and the effect of the repetition was to indicate, by the eai', that the poet was pursuing analogous lias done so on other occasions, the intolerance and religious hatred whicli their descendants evinced, under the three Philips. History does not mention tliis aversion between the Spaniards and the Jloors, Until the time of Alphonso X. of Castile, there was not a single reign in which some Christian prince did not take refage at a Moorish court, or when a Moorish sovereign did not seek shelter from a Christian king. Por a hundred and fifty years, we see at the courts of the two Rogers and the two "Williams of Sicily, as well as at that of Frederick II., Arabian courtiers mingled with Italian, and the judges of all the provinces in the two Sicilies selected from amongst the Saracens. The two na- tions were intimately blended, in the south of Europe, during at least five centui'ies. M. Kaynouard has produced proofs of the existence of the Romance language at Coimbra in Portugal, in the year 734, in an ordonnance of Alboacem, son of Mahomet Alhamar. At this verj' time, all the provinces of the south of France had been conquered by Abdal- rahman. The taking of Toledo, in 10S5, is not, then, the period which the Abbe Andres, M. Ginguene, or myself, have fixed as the sera of the Provencal poetry; nor does the discover}- of the Romance poem of Boethius, anterior to the year 1000, give us the coup de grace. The taking of Toledo merely placed the most celebrated school of the Arabians in the power of the Christians. This school continued to spread the sciences of the Arabians in the West, long after the mixture of the courts had rendered their poetry familiar. The influence of the Moors over the Latins is distinguishable in the study of science, philosophy, the arts, commerce, agriculture, and even religion. It would be strange then, indeed, if it did not extend te the Bongs which enlivened the festivals in which the two nations used to mingle, when we know how passionately fond they both were of music and poetry'. The same air adapted by turns to Arabian and Romance words, necessarily required the same time in the stanza and the same distribution of the rhvmcs. OF THE TUOCBADOURS. 85 ideas for three or four verses, after which the rhyming was abandoned. The Latin poems of the IMiddle Ages are more frequently rhymed, even as early as the eighth or ninth century. But it must be recollected that the mixture of the Arabians and the Latins took place in the eighth century, and it would, therefore, be difficult to prove that tlie first rhymed Latin poetry was not borrowed from the Arabians. So, also, with regard to the German rhymed poetry, the most ancient poems which we find rhymed in couplets, are not near so early as the first poetical attempts, which were always in rhyme, of the Arabians, or, indeed, as the first 5nown intercourse between the two nations. It is very pos- sible that the Goths, on their invasion of Europe, may have introduced the use of rhyme from those Eastern countries whence they issued. But the most essential and antique form of versification, amongst the Teutonic nations, was borrowed from the Scandinavians, and consisted in alliteration, and not in rhyme. This alliteration is the repetition of the same letters at the commencement of the words, and not of the same sound at the termination. The Niebelungen, which was written early in the thirteenth century, is rhymed in couplets, and almost, it may be said, in the French style. But the same poem, in the Icelandic traditions, which was versified in the ninth or tenth century, is not rhymed.* The consonants held a very important place in the lan- guages of the North, which abound in tliem, as do the vowels in those of the South. Alliteration, therefore, which is but a repetition of the consonants, is the ornament of the Northern tongues ; while assonance, or the rhyming of the terminating vowels, is peculiar to the popular verses of the nations of the South, although the practice has been reduced into a system only amongst the Spaniards. Rhyme, then, which was essential to all the poetry of the Arabians, and was combined by them in various ways to * The following is an example of the alliterations which supplied the place of rhjTiie. The lines arc from the German imitation of Fouque : HqW ver/ifiissen //at's mcin o/ieim, ATurz mein Leh&n kuhn mein iust ; i?asch mein rache, i?aiih der ausgang, jf/jcsscnd blut im Ni_/?Mngenstam. 86 ON THE LITERATURE please the ear, was introduced by the Troubadours into the Provengal language, with all its variations of sound. The most usual form in Arabic poetry, is the rhyming in couplets ; not making the two accordant lines rhyme simply with one another, unconnected with the preceding or subse- quent rhymes, as in the poetry of the Niebelungen, or in our heroic verse ; but rhyming every other line together, so that the rhyme is continued through the whole stanza, or the whole poem. This is, likewise, the most ancient form of Spanish poetry. A well-known poem of the Emperor Frederick J. proves that the same order of rhymes was employed by the Provencals. This emperor, who spoke almost all the languages of his time, met Raymond Beren- gerll. Count of Provence, at Turin, in 1154, and bestowed on him the investiture of his fiefs. The count was accompanied by a great number of the poets of his nation, of whom almost all were amongst the principal nobility of his court. They delighted Frederick by the richness of their imaginations, and the harmony of their verses. Frederick repaid their attentions by the following lines.* A Frencliman 111 hare for my cavalier, . And a Catalonian dame, A Genoese for his honour clear. And a court of Castilian fame ; The Proven9al songs my ear to please. And the dances of Trevisan, I'll have the grace of the Arragonese, And the pearl of Julian ; An Englishman's hands and face for me. And a youth I'll have from Tuscany. * Plas mi cavalier Francez, E la donna Catalana, E Toni-ar del Ginoes, E la court de Castellana, Lou cantar Proven^alez, E la danza Trevisana, E lou corps Aragones, E la perla Juliana, La mans e kara d'Angles, E lou donzel de Toscana. [The above translation is borro-n-ed from one of the very able articles on the Poetical Literature of Spain, which have appeared in the Kctro- spective Review, and which are, we believe, correctly attributed to the pen of Mr. Bowiin^. — TV.] OF THE TROUBADOimS. 87 In AraliHC poetry, also, the second verse of each couplet frequently terminates with the same word, and this repetition has been, likewise, adopted by the Proven9al3. A remarkable example of it may be found in some verses of Geoffrey de Rudel, a gentleman of Blieux in Provence, and one of those who were presented to Frederick Barbarossa, in 1154. The occasion on wliich these lines were composed was an ex- traordinary one, and very illustrative of the wildness of the imagination and manners of the Troubadours. The knights, who had returned from the Holy Land, spoke with enthu- siasm of a Countess of Tripoli, who had extended to them the most generous hospitality, and whose grace and beauty equalled her virtues. Geoffrey Rudel, hearing this account, fell deeply in love with her, without having ever seen her; and prevailed upon one of his friends, Bertrand d'Allamanon, a Troubadour like himself, to accompany him to the Levant. In 1162, he quitted the court of England, whither he had been conducted by Geoffrey the brother of Richard I., and embarked for the Holy Land. On liis voyage, he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech, when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her, on board a vessel which was entering the roads, visited him on shipboard, took him kindly by the hand, and attempted to cheer his spirits. Rudel, we are assured, recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry, which the countess raised to his memory, with an Arabic inscription. I have transcribed his verses on distant love, which he composed previous to his last voyage. The French version, which I have added to this Provencal fragment, has no pretensions to poetry, but is merely to be considered as an attempt to pre- serve the measure and rhymes of the original. It is the Provencal itself, with its • repetitions, its refinement, its occasional obscurity, though, at the same time, with its simplicity, composed in obedience to rules peculiar to itself but foreign to us, which it is my object to give. If I had wished to translate the Provencal into French verse, I must have paid a very different degree of attention 88 ON THE LITERATURE to the construction of our language, and to its poetical character.* An^ry and sad shall be my way. If I behold not her afar. And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God ! who hast formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar. Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her 1 love afar. Oh, Lord ! believe my faithful lay. For well I love her though afar. Though but one blessing may repay The thousand griefs I feel afar, No other love shall shed its ray On me, if not this love afar, A brighter one, where'er I stray I shall not see, or near, or far. * [The original Proven9al, and M. de Sismondi's version, are both given below. The attempt which the Translator has made to present these singular verses in an English di-ess, is, he is aware, a verj- imper- fect one. — ifV.] Irat et dolent m'en partray S'ieu non vey cet amour de luench, Et non say qu' oura la veray Car sont trop noutras terras luench. Dieu que fez tout quant van e vay Et forma aquest amour luench !My don poder al cor car hay Esper vezer I'amour de luench. Segnour, tenes mi pour veray ' L'amour qu'ay vers ella de luench Car pour un ben que m'en esbay Hay mille mals, tant soy de luench. Ja d'autr'amour non jauzirai S'ieu non jau desfamour de luench Qu'una plus bella non en say En luez que sia ny prez ni luench. Irrite, dolent partirai. Si ne vols cet amour de loin, Et ne sais quaud je le verrai. Car sont par trop nos tcrres loin. Dieu, qui toutes choses as fait, Et formas cet amour si loin, Donne force a mon cceur, car ai L'espoir de voir m'amour au loin. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 89 But the Troubadours did not always adhere to this form, which is essentially of Arabic invcntiou. They varied their rhymes in a thousand different ways. They crossed and intertwined their verses, so that the return of the rhyme was preserved throughout the whole stanza ; and they relied on their harmonious language, and on the well exercised ears of their readers, for making the expectation of the rhyme, and its return after many verses, equally productive of pleasure. In this manner, they have always appeared to me to have been completely masters of rhyme, and to have treated it as their own peculiar property ; w^hilst the Germans, who pretend to have communicated it to them, managed it in the most timid manner, even in the twelfth century, rhyming their lines together, two and two, when they ought to have rhymed them alternately ; as though they feared that, in a language so heavy as their ow^n, two rhymes, not immediately con- nected, would be lost. Still less did they attempt to restore the rhyme after an interval of several lines. It is true, that at a later period, in the thirteenth century, the Minne- singers, or reciters of love-songs, the Troubadours of Ger- many, imitated this play upon the rhymes, and all the difficult variations which they saw in use amongst the Provencals. Rhyme was the very groundwork of the Provencal poetry, whence it crept into the poetry of all the other nations of modern Europe. But it did not constitute all the requisites of verse. The number and the accentuation of the syllables were substituted by the Provencals, in imitation of the Arabians, as far as we can judge, in the place of the quantity or the emphasis, which formed the basis of Greek and Latin verse. In the languages of antiquity, each syllable had, in the pronunciation, a sound, the duration of which was in- variably fixed. The relative duration of these sounds was likewise determined by an exact standard ; and, all the syllables being distributed into two classes of long and short. Ah ! Seigneur, tenez pour bien vrai L'amour qu'ai pour die dc loiu. Car pour un bien que j 'en aurai, J'ai mille maux, tant je suis loin. Ja d'autr'amour ne jouirai, Sinon de cet amour de loin, (^u'une plus belle je ne'n syais, En lieu qui soit ni pr^s ni loin. VOL. I. F '90 ON THE LITERATURE the versification was founded on this primary classification, and very much resembled the measure in music. The verse was formed of a certain number of measures which were called feet, and which marked the rise and fall of the tune, which always comprised the same time, and, whatever varia- tion there might be in the sound of the pronunciation, the line still preserved the same uniform measure. This mixture of different feet gave the Greeks and Romans a prodigious number of verses, of various lengths and measures, in which it was essentially necessary to arrange the words in such a manner, that the ear might be struck by the equality of the time, and by the uniform cadence of the sounds. In none of the Romance languages can the ear distinguish the syllables into long and short, or assign them a precise and propor- tionate quantity. Accent, in them, supplies the place of quantity. In all of them, with the exception of the French, there is some one syllable, in every word, upon which the stress of pronunciation is laid, and which seems to determine the predominant sound of the word. The Provencal in particular, is strongly accentuated. The Troubadours, per- ceiving this, and being probably unacquainted with the harmony of Latin verse, produced something analogous to it in their own poetry, by mixing accentuated with unaccentu- ated syllables. The ear alone was their guide, for they did not, in their jDoetry, attempt to imitate the classical authors. Indeed, they ill understood the rules which they themselves obeyed, and would have found it difficult to communicate them. The organization of their verse was more simple than that of the ancients. They only employed a measure which consisted of two syllables unequally accentuated, and that of two kinds, the trochee, consisting of a long and short syllable, and the iambic, of a short and a long ; and they preferred for constant use, and for the ground-work of their verse, the iambic, as did afterwards the Italians. The Spaniards, on the contrary, in their ancient poetry, made choice of the trochee, and preserved also, in their heroic poetry, los versos de arte mayor, the dactyl, consisting of a long and two short syllables, or the amphibrach, of a long syllable between two short ones. But it must not be supposed that the Provencals, the Spaniards, and the Italians, or even the Greeks and Romans, took any extraordinary pains in the selection of the syllables, OF THE TKOUBADOURS. 91 SO as to place the long and short syllables alternately and in the requisite order. Certain parts of the line required an accent or a long syllable. There were thus two or three syllables in each verse, as the fourth or the sixth, the eighth and the tenth, the quantity and position of which were fixed ; and, in consequence of the regular proportion in the modern languages, between the accentuated and the unaccentuated syllables, the former naturally drew the others into their proper places and communicated the measure to the verse. These syllables, the quantity of which is fixed in the modern languages, are those which mark the caesura, those which correspond with it, and those which terminate the verse. The csesura is that point of rest which the ear, in accordance with the sense, determines in the middle of the line, dividing it into two parts of uniform proportion. In the verse of ten syllables, which is most frequently met with in the Romance languages, this point, which ought naturally to occur after the fourth syllable, may, according to the taste of the poet, be deferred to the sixth ; and it is one branch ol the art, so to intermix these unequal proportions as to pre - vent the ear from being fatigued with the too great monotony of the verse. "When the caesura is placed regularly after the fourth syllable, that syllable ought to be strongly accentuated ; so ought the eighth, with which it corresponds at an equal disiance ; and the same is to be observed with regard to the tenth syllable, upon which the voice dwells, at the end of the verse. In those verses, in which tliis disposition of the accents is varied, and the first hemistich is longer than the second, the caesui'a falls upon the sixth syllable, Avhich ought to be accentuated as Avell as the tenth. When all the equal syllables are accentuated, it almost necessarily happens that the unequal ones are not so, and the verse naturally divides itself into five iambics. The poet has only the power of sometimes substituting a trochee in the place of the first and third foot, or of the first and second ; and the quantity of the line cannot be false, unless when the fourth, the eighth, and the ninth, or the sixth and the tenth, are not accentuated.* * However fatiguing these details may appear, I have thought it necessary to add, in a note, some examples, drawn from different lan- guages, for the benefit of those only who are desirous of seriously study- ing the laws of versification, in foreign languages. In fact, the prosody f2 92 ON THE LITERATtJRE I must claim the indulgence of the reader, for these dry and fatiguing details, into which I am compelled to enter. The laws of versification which the Troubadours discovered, which the Provencals invented, is universally adopted in the modem languages, ■with the exception of the rrench. The French, M-ho are Btrange4-s to these rules, are inclined to deny their existence. They judge of the verse of other nations by their own. They count the sylla- bles and observe the rhyme, but whilst they neglect the study of the prosody, it is impossible for them to feel that harmony of language to which jioetry owes its most powerful effects. In prosody, two marks are employed ; the one ( — ) distinguishes the long or accentuated syllables ; the other ( o ) the short syllables. These I have placed over the corresponding syllables in the verse, and I have divided the hemistich after the caesura by this mark (=). Lo jorn que us vi=o donna primament Quant a vos plac = que us mi laisest vezer Parti mon cor = tot autre pensamen, E forum ferm en vos = tuit mei voler Que sim passez = Donna en mon coi Tenveia A un dolz riz = et ab un dolz esgard Slie quant es = mi fezes oblidar Arnaud de Marveilh. In the Provencal verses, at least in those of ten syllables, the quantity IS more difficult to fix, since the poet has the choice of such a variety of measures, and has only one, or at most two feet, in the verse, the quan- tity of which is determined. Still it is always the variation of the accent which gives the verse its harmony. The same rules apply, without exception, to all the other modern languages ; and the Italian verses, for instance, ought to be scanned, on the Provenyal principle, thus : ]\Iiser chi mal o pran = do si con hda Ch' ognor star deb = bia il maleficio occulto, Che quando ogn' altro tac =: cia intorno grida L' aria e la terra stes = sa in ch' 6 sepulto. Ariosto. It should be remarked, that the coesura often divides a word in the middle, but, in this case, the accent is on the first syllable ; and thus, the mute syllable which follows, being scarcely sounded, re-attaches itself to the first hemistich. The lines, in Italian, terminate almost OF THE TROUBADOURS. 93 are of very general application. They extend to the litera ture of all those nations, of which I propose to treat. They have been adopted by all tlie countries of the south, and by alwaj-s with a mute syllable, so that they are composed of five iambics and a half. The Spanish and Portuguese verses, after the time of Charles Y., are perfectly similar. Solo y penso ■= so en prados y desiertos Mis passos doy = cuy doses y cansados Y entrambos o =jos traygo levantados A ver no vea alguien = mi3 desconciertos. Boscan. De tamanhas victo = rias triumphava velho Afon = so Principe subido Quando quern tudo em fim = vencendo audava r>a larga e muita ida = de foi vencido. Camotns, But the Spanish or Portuguese redondilha, employed in romances, Bongs, and dramatic dialogues, is composed of trochees, which are the inverse of the iambics. Sentose el conde a la mesa No cenava ni podia Con sus hijos al costado Que muy mucho los queria. Romance d' Alar cos. Canta o caminhante ledo No caminho trabalhoso Por entre o espesso arvoredo E de noite o temeroso. Cantando refrea o medo. Camoens, Eedondilhas. The ancient heroic verse of the Spanish and Portuguese, which they call verso de arte mayor, was composed of four dactyls or ampliibrachs, or of three dactyls and a spondee. Corao ^ ON THE LITERATURE most of the people of tlie north of Europe. This structure of tlie verse, this mechanical part of poetry, is singularly connected, by some secret and mysterious associations, with our feelings and our emotions, and with all that speaks to our imaginations and our hearts. It would be wrong, in studying the divine language of poetry, to regard it merely as the trammels of thought. Poetry excites our emotions, and awakens or captivates our passions, only because it is some- thing which comes more home to our bosoms than prose ; something, which seizes upon our whole being, by the senses as well as by the soul, and impresses us more deeply than language alone could do. Symmetry is one of the properties of the souk It is an idea which precedes all knowledge, which is applicable to all the arts, and which is inseparable from our perceptions of beauty. It is by a principle, anterior to all reflection, that we look, in buildings, in furniture, and Como no creo que fossen meuores De los Africanos los hechos del Cid ? Ni que feroees menos en la lid Entrassen los nuebtros que los Agenoresl Juan de Mena, LabjTintho. Lastly, th> English heroic, and the German dramatic verse, com- pletely resemble the Proven5al and Italian iambic of ten syllables. The former I have scanned. Now morn her rosy steps = in th' eastern climo Advancing so'O'ed = the earth with orient pearl "When Adam wak'd = so custom'd, for his; sleep Was airy light = from pure digestion bred. Milton, however, is not so easy to scan, as he often attempted to imitate the Latin prosody in his English verses. Of all modem pro- sodies, the German is the most fixed, for it always agrees with the grammar. Ha welche wonne fliesst = in diesem bUck Auf einmal mir = durch alle meine Sinnen ! Ich fuhle inn"=ge heil'ges Lebens gluck, Xeu gluhend mil- = durch ner>' und adem rinnen. GoWie, Faust. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 95 jn every production of human art, for the same proportion which the hand of Nature lias so visibly imprinted on the ligure of man and of the inferior animals. This symmetry, which is founded on the harmonious relation of the parts to the whole, and is so different from uniformity, displays itself in the regular return of the strophes of an ode, as well as in the correspondence of the wings of a palace. It is more dis- tinguishable in modern poetry than in that of antiquity, in consequence of the rhyme, which harmonizes the different parts of the same stanza. Rhyme is an appeal to our memory and to our expectations. It awakens the sensations we have already experienced, and it makes us wish for new ones. It encreases the importance of sound, and gives, if I may so ex- press myself, a colour to the words. In our modern poetrj", the importance of the syllables is not measured solely by their duration, but by the associations they afford ; and vowels, by turns, slightly, perceptibly, or emphatically marked, are no longer unnoticed, when the rhyme announces their approach, and determines their position. What would become of the Provencal poetry, if we perused it only to discover the sentiment, such as it would appear in languid prose ? It was not the ideas alone which gave delight, when the Troubadour adapted his beautiful language to the melodious tones of his harp ; wlien, inspired by valour, he uttered his bold, nervous, and resounding rhymes ; or, in tender and voluptuous strains, expressed the vehemence of his love. The rules of his art, even more than the words in which he expressed himself, were in accordance with his feelings. The rapid and re- curring accentuation, which marked every second syllable in his iambic verses, seemed to correspond with the pulsations of his heart, and the very measure of the language answered to the movements of his own soul. It was by this exquisite sensibility to musical impressions, and by this dehcate organization, that the Troubadours became the inventors of ah art, which they themselves were unable to explain. They discovered the means of communicating, by this novel hai'- mony, those emotions of the soul, which all poets have endeavoured to produce, but which they are now able to effect, only by following the steps of these inventors of our poetical measures. CHAPTER IV ON THE STATE OF THE 7K0UBAD0CRS, AND OX THEIR AMATORY AXD MARTIAt POEMS. The Counts of Provence were not the only sovereigns, amongst those of the south of France, at whose court the Langue d'Oc, or Romance Proven9al, was spoken, and where the reciters of tales, and the poets, who had been formed in the Moorish schools, found a flattering reception and sure protection. At the conclusion of the eleventh century, one half of France was governed by independent princes, whose only common bond was the Pi'oven^al language, which was spoken alike by them all. The most renowned of these sovereigns were, the Counts of Toulouse, the Dukes of Aquitain, of the house of Poitou, the Dauphins of Viennois and of Auvergne, the Princes of Orange, of the house of Baux, and the Counts de Foix. After these, came an infi- nite number of viscounts, barons, and lords, who in some petty province or town, or even castle, enjoyed the preroga- tives of sovereignty. To these inferior courts, the physicians, the astrologers, and the reciters of tales, resorted, in pursuit of fortune, and introduced into the North an acquaintance with the learning and the arts of Spain. Their highest am- bition, probably, was to amuse the leisure of the great, and to please them by their flatteries. The recompense which they promised themselves, and which they received alike from the Christian and Moorish princes, was the permission to take a part in the festivals, to which they gave animation by their recitals and their songs, and to accept the presents of rich habits and of horses which were there bestowed upon them. But it was to heroes they addressed themselves ; and as they sang of love and glory, their verses, penetrating to the inmost hearts of their hearers, communicated to them the deep emo- tion which swelled within the poet's own bosom. It was thus that the subject of their songs gave an elevation to their characters, and that the fugitives from the Moorish territories THE TROUBADOURS. 97 became the instructors of princes. Scarcely had the art of song been introduced into southern France, and the rules of versification been invented, when poetry became the recrea.- tion of the most illustrious men. The lyric form, which it had Teceived from the Arabians, rendered it proper to convey only the noblest sentiments. In verse, the poet sang his love, his martial ardour, and the independence of his soul ; and no sovereign sate upon so proud a throne, as not to think him- self honoured in the capacity of expressing such sentiments. The amorous monarchs celebrated their mistresses in verse ; and when the first sovereigns of Europe had thus assumed their rank, amongst the poets or Troubadours, there was not a single baron or knight, who did not think it his duty to superadd to his fame, as a brave and gallant man, the reputa- tion of a gentle Troubadour. To these poetical pursuits, nothing more was necessary, than a perception of what it> musical and harmonious. In obedience to this faculty, the words naturally fell into the order most agreeable to the ear, and the thoughts, the images, and the sentiments, acquired that general accordance and melodious congruity which seem to proceed from the soul, and to which study can add nothing. It is astonishing to observe what very slight traces of learn- • ing, the poetry of the Troubadours displays. No allusion to history or mythology ; no comparison, borrowed from foreign manners ; no reference to the sciences or the learning of the schools, are mingled with their simple effusions of sentiment. This fact enables us to comprehend, how it was possible for princes and knights, who were often unable to read, to be yet ranked amongst the most ingenious Troubadours. Several public events materially contributed to enlarge the sphere of intellect of the knights of the Langue d'Oc ; to make enthusiasm, rather than interest, their spring of action ; to present a new world to their eyes, and to strike their imaginations with extraordinary images. Never does a nation display a more poetical character, than when some great and uncommon circumstances operate upon minds, yet endowed with all the vigour of youth. The first of these events was the conquest of Toledo, and of all New Castile, by Alfonso VI. King of Castile. That monarch, who was then seconded by the hero of Spain, the Cid Rodriguez, or Kuy Diaz de Bivar, invited a number of 98". ON THE LITERATURE French, Proveugal and Gascon knights, who were connected with him by his marriage with Constance of Burgundy, to take part in the expedition, in which he was engaged from 1083 to 1085, and the result of which more than doubled his territories, and confirmed tlie preponderance of the Christians in Spain. Tiiis was the first Avar against the infidels, iu which, for two hundred years, the French had been engaged, and it preceded, by forty years, the preaching of the first crusade. The warriors, gathered together in one army from various states, finding themselves thus in the midst of stranger nations, became still more deeply attached to glory. The fa^e of the Cid was pre-eminent above that of every other man of his age. The Moorish and Castilian poets had already begun to celebrate it, and to prove how Avell their popular songs were calculated to spread the renown of their heroes. The conquest of Toledo, also, mingled the Moors and the Christians in a more intimate manner. A complete toleration was granted to such of the Moors as remained subject to the King of Castile ; and Alfonso engaged, even by oath, to permit them to use the cathedral as a mosque. Of this, however, he afterwards deprived them, at the solicitation of his wife, and in obedience to a pretended miracle. From this period, even until the reign of Philip III., for the space of 530 years, Toledo always contained a numerous Moorish population, intermingled with the Christians. This city, one of the most celebrated universities of the Arabians, retained its schools and all its learned institutions, and spread, amongst the Christians, the knowledge of Eastern letters. The M09- Arabians assumed a rank in the court and the army, and the French knights found themselves residing amongst men, whose imagination, intellect, and taste, had been developed by the Saracens. When, after the capture of Toledo, on the 25th of May, 1085, they returned from this glorious expedition, they carried back with them, into their own country, a por- tion of that cultivation of mind, which they had witnessed in Spain. The second circumstance, which contributed to impress a poetical character on the eleventh and twelfth centuries, was the preaching of the crusade in 1095, and the continued com- munication, which was in consequence established, between Christendom and the Levant. The crusade appears to have OF THE TROUBADOURS. 99 been preached with much zeal in the countries of the Langue d'Oc. Clermont d'Auvergne, where the council was held, was within that territory. Tiie Pontifical Legate at th.e cru- sade, the Bishop of Puy, the Count of Toulouse, Eaymond de Saint-Gilles, and the Duke of Acquitain, William IX. Count of Poitou, were at that time the principal sovereigns of the south of France, and amongst the most distinguished of the Crosses. Of all the events recorded in the history of the world, there is, perhaps, not one of a nature so highly poetical as the crusades ; not one, which presents a more powerful picture of the grand effects of enthusiasm, of noble sacrifices of self-interest, which is ever prosaic in its nature, to faith, sentiment, and passion, which are essentially poetical. Many of the Troubadours partook of the enthusiasm of their countrymen, and accompanied them to the crusade. The most distinguished of these poets as well as warriors, was WilUam IX. Count of Poitou, and Duke of Acquitain, the oldest of the poets, whose works M. de la Curne de Sainte- Palaye has collected. He was born in 1071, and died in 1127. The famous Eleanor, Queen of France, and after- wards of England, who, when divorced by Louis le Jeune, transferred the sovereignty of Guienne, Poitou, and Saint- onge, to Henry II. of England, was grand-daughter to this prince. The succession of the kings of England to the sovereignty of a considerable part of the countries where the Langue d'Oc prevailed, was the third great political event which influenced the manners and opinions of the people, and consequently of the Troubadours also, by mingling the different races of men, introducing poets to the courts of the most powerful monarchs, and extending to literature something of that national inte- rest, to which the long rivalry between the Kings of France and England had given rise. On the other hand, the encou- ragement given to the Troubadours, by the kings of the house of Plantagenet, had a great influence on the formation of the English language, and furnished Chaucer, the father of Eng- lish literature, with his first model for imitation. This language was adopted, at one and the same time, by the sovereigns of one half of Europe. We find Provencal verses composed by the Emperor of Germany, Frederick. Barbarossa, Richard I. of England, Alfonso II. and Peter III. 100 ox TIIK LITEIJATLUK of Aragon, Frederick III. of Sicily, the Daupliin of Au' vergne, the Count de Foix, the Prince of Orange, and the Marquis of Montferrat, King of Thessalonica. It well de- served the preference which it obtained over all other lan- guages. The grammar was regular and complete ; the vei'bs had the same inflexions which the Italian verbs have at the present day, and even more.* The regularity of their moods allowed the suppression of the pronouns, and thus added to the rapidity of the expression. The substantives had a quality peculiar to this language, of being employed either as masculines or as feminines, at the option of the writer.| The flexibility of the substantives gave the language a more figurative character. Inanimate beings were clothed with a sex at the will of the poet, and were by turns masculine and fierce, or sweet and voluptuous, according to the gender which was assigned to them. The substantives, as well as tlie adjectives, had terminations which expressed all the mo- difications, both of augumentation and diminution, which denoted either agreeable or disagreeable ideas, contempt, ridicule, or approbation. This is still the case in the Italian and Spanish; whilst, in French, the diminutives have become solely expressive of the ridiculous, and augmentatives are no longer known. The Provencal language, as we now find it written, appears to us to be studded with consonants, but most of those which terminated the words were suppressed in the pronunciation. On the other hand, almost all the diph- thongs were pronounced with the two sounds united in the same syllable (for example, daurada, and not dorada), which gave greater fulness and richness to the language. A great * As, for instance, a peculiar gerund — tout-harjan, signifying the duration of the act of speaking ; cspandiguen, the duration of the act of extending. t Thus they said lou cap, or la capa, the head ; I'os, or I'ossa, the hone ; unfais, or una faissa, a burden ; lou ruse, or la rusca, the bark; lou ram, or la rama, the foliage; unfielh, or unafielha, a leaf, &c. Another peculiarity of this language, which is not to be found in any other, is its having preserved, instead of declensions, a sign which dis- tinguishes the nominative and the vocative from the other cases. In general the nominative singular has its termination in 5, which is abandoned in the other singular cases ; whilst the nominative plural wants the s, and the other plural cases have it. Some words have their termination in aire in the nominative, and in ador in other cases : El Trohaire diz al Trohador — the Troubadour said to the Troubadour. OP THE TROUBADOURS. 101 Tiumber of the words were figurative, and expressed their signification in their sound. Many were peculiar to the language, and can only be translated by employing a peri- phrasis.* This beautiful language was exclusively employed, for a long time, in those compositions to which it was so peculiarly appropriate — in amatory and martial songs. The multitude of Provencal poems which are extant, may be classed under one or the other of these two divisions ; and although they bear different names, they all of them equally belong to the lyrical style of composition. Love and war furnished the only occupation, the only delight of all the kings and soldiers, of the most powerful barons and the most humble knights of the age. Now kneeling at the feet of their mistresses, whom they often addressed in language applicable only to the Deity, and now braving their enemies, their verses bear the double imprint of their pride of character and of the power of their love. The poems of the Provencals, according as they ex- pressed the one or the other of these passions, were divided into chanzos and sirventes. The object of the former was gallantry ; of the latter, war, politics, or satire. The struc- ture of both was the same. The ProvenQal songs were, in general, composed of five stanzas and an envoy. The form of the stanza was perfectly regular, and often so uniform, that the same rhyme was repeated in the same place in each stanza. These rhymes were distinguished, as in the French, into masculine and feminine; that is to say, into those accen- tuated on the last syllable, and those on the penultimate; and were dexterously interwoven, not so as to follow one another in the regular order of our poetry, but in such a manner that their disposition always produced a harmony, conformable to the sense of the verse and the feelings of the hearer. This original perception of harmony afterwards gave place, it is true, to the refinement of affecting to vanquish difficulties, and the Troubadours, by imposing upon themselves rules which were both ridiculous and difficult to obey, with regard to the return of the same rhymes, or of the same words at the termination of the verses, contracted a puerile habit of playing with words, to which they too often sacrificed both * See M. Fabre D'Olivet, Preface to his Poetics Occitaniques. 102 ON THE LITERATUEB •the idea and the sentiment. They displayed a more delicate and correct taste in the choice of the different metres which •they employed; in the mixture of long and short verses, from the heavy Alexandrine to the lines of one or two syllables ; and in the skilful use of the regular terminations in the stanza. All our knowledge upon this subject is derived from ■their experience. It was they who invented those varied •measures of the stanzas, which give so much harmony to the canzoni of Petrarch. We are likewise indebted to them for the forms of the French ode, and particularly for the beautiful stanza of ten lines, in one quatrain and two tercets, which J. B. Rousseau has employed in his most elevated subjects. Some sonnets are also found in their language, but, at the same time, it appears to me, that they are posterior to the earliest Italian sonnets, and even to those of Petrarch. Lastly, the ballad, the first verse of which is converted into a burthen for the others, and in which the return of the same thought produces such a graceful and pleasing effect, is of Proven9al origin. It is my wish rather to familiarize my readers with the Troubadours themselves, and to make them acquainted with their poems, than to detail the opinions which have been entertained respecting them, and the romances of which they have been the heroes. But of all the poems which it will be necessary for us to notice, these are the least likely to pro- duce an impression in a translation. "We must not look, in them, for that wit and that faculty of invention, which in modern poetry shed such brilliancy upon the ideas, by inge- nious contrasts and by happy reflections of light. Nor must we look for profound thoughts. The Provencals were too young a nation, they had seen too little, and they had not ■sufficiently analyzed and compared what they saw, to entitle them to lay any claim to the empire of thought. Invention seems to have been out of the question in so narrow a field, ^nd in compositions which never dwelt on more than two sentiments. Their merit entirely consists in a certain har- mony and simplicity of expression, which cannot be trans- ferred to another language. I have therefore been obliged, whenever I have wished to give an idea of their imagination and their sensibility, or of the charm and elegance of their style, to direct the attention of my readers to their personal OF THE TROUBADOURS. 103 character. It is not in my power to awaken, for their talents, an admiration which can only be felt by those who thoroughly understand their language ; but without judging of them as poets, their adventures may yet excite our interest. The connexion, between a romantic life and the wild imaginations of the poet, is not altogether ideal. Such of the Troubadours as were regarded as the most celebrated men of their day, were likewise those who had met with the most renowned adventures. The poet has always been a hero to his bio- grapher. The latter has ever persuaded himself that the most beautiful verses were addressed to the most beautiful women ; and as time has passed away, our imaginations have invested the Troubadour knight with new glories. No one has experienced this good fortune in an equal degree with Sordello of Mantua,* whose real merit consists in the harmony and sensibility of his verses. lie was amongst the first to adopt the ballad-form of writing, and in one of those, which has been translated by Millot, he beauti- fully contrasts, in the burthen of his ballad, the gaieties of nature, and the ever-reviving grief of a heart devoted to love.f Sordel, or Sordello, was born at Goito, near Mantua, and was, for some time, attached to the household of the Count of S. Bonifazio, the chief of the Guelph party, in the march of Treviso. He afterwards passed into the service of Raymond Berenger, the last Count of Provence of the house of Barcelona. Although a Lombard, he had adopted, in his compositions, the Proven9al language, and many of his coun- trymen imitated him. It was not, at that time, believed that the Italian was capable of becoming a polished language. The age of Sordello was that of the most brilliant chivalric virtues, and the most atrocious crimes. He lived in the midst of heroes and monsters. The imagination of the people was still havmted by the recollection of the ferocious Ezzelino, tyrant of Verona, with whom Sordello is said to have had a contest, and who was, probably, often mentioned in his verses. The historical monuments of this reign of blood were, however, little known, and the people mingled the name of their favourite poet with every revolution which had * [See Parnas^e Occitanien, I. 145- Tr.'\ f Aylas e que m'fan miey huelh Quar no vezon so qu'ieu vueilh. 104 ON Tin: literature excited their terror. It was said that he liad carried off the wife of the Count of S. Bonifazio, tlie sovereign of Mantua, that he had married the daughter or sister of Ezzehno, and that he had fought this monster, with glory to himself. He united, according to popular report, the most brilliant military exploits to the most distinguished poetical genius. By the voice of Saint Louis himself, he had been recognized, at a tourney, as the most valiant and gallant of knights ; and, at last, the sovereignty of 3Iantua had been bestowed upon this noblest of the poets and warriors of his age. Historians o.f credit have collected, three centuries after Sordello's death, these brilliant fictions, wliich are, however, disproved by the testimony of contemporary writers. The reputation of Sor- dello is owing, very materially, to the admiration which has been expressed for him by Dante ; who, when he meets liim at the entrance of Purgatory, is so struck with the noble haughtiness of his aspect, that he compares him to a lion in a state of majestic repose, and represents Virgil as embracing him, on hearing his name. M. de la Curne de Sainte-Palaye has collected thirty-four poems of Sordello's. Fifteen of these are love-songs, and some of them are written in a pure and delicate style. Amongst the other pieces, is a funeral eulogium on the Chevalier de Blacas, an Aragonese Trouba- dour, whose heart, Sordello says, should be divided amongst all the monarchs in Christendom, to supply them with the courage of which they stand in need. At the same time, we find amongst the compositions of Sordello, some pieces, little worthy of the admiration which has been bestowed upon his personal character, and not altogether in accordance with the delicacy of a knight and a troubadour. In one, he speaks of Jiis success in his amours, with a kind of coarse complacency, very far removed from the devotion which was due to the sex from every cavalier. In another, he thus replies to Charles of Anjou, who pressed him to follow him to the crusade, " My lord Count, you ought not to ask me, in this manner, to affront death. If you want an expert seaman, take Ber- trand d'Alamanon, who understands the winds, and who wishes for nothing better than to be your follower. Every one is seeking his salvation by sea ; but, for my own part, I am not eager to obtain it. My wish is, to be transported to another life as late as possible." In a tcnso7i, in which he OF THE TROUBADOURS. 105 is an interlocutor, he sustains the least heroic side of the question. The Tensons, or jeux partis, were songs, in dia- logue, between two speakers,* in which each interlocutor recited successively a stanza with the same rhymes. The other party who, in this tenson, disputes with Sordello, is the same Bertrand d'Alamanon, whom, as I have just related, he recommended as a crusader. " Sordello. K it were necessary either to forego the delight of lady-love, and to renounce the friends whom you possess or may possess, or to sacrifice to the lady of your heart, the lionour which you have acquired, and may acquire, by chivalry, which of the two would you choose V " " Bertraxd. The mistresses whom I have loved, have despised me so long, and so Jittle have I gained by them, that I cannot compare them to chivalry. Yours may be the folly of love, the enjoyment of which is so frail. Still continue to chase the pleasures, which lose their value as soon as tasted. But I, in the career of arms, ever behold before me new conquests and new glories. " Bordello. What is glory without love ? How can I abandon joy and gallantry for wounds and combats ? Thirst and hunger, a burning sun or piercing frost, are these to be preferred to love ? Ah ! willingly do I resign to you these benefits, for the sovereign joys which my mistress bestows. " Bertraxd. What ! dare you then appear before your mistress, if you dare not draw your sword for the combat ? Without valour, there is no real pleasure ; it is valour which elevates man to the highest honours, but love is the degrada- tion and the fall of those whom he seduces. " Sordello. Let me but be brave in the eyes of her I love, and I heed not the contempt of others. From her, all my happiness flows ; I seek for no other felicity. Go then, overthrow your castles and your walls, while I enjoy the sweet kisses of my mistress. You may gain the esteem of all noble Frenchmen ; but, for my part, I prize more her inno- cent favours, than all the achievements of the lance. * [Sometimes the interlocutors were more than two, in which case it was called a Torueyamen. A specimen of this species of composition is given by M. Kaynouard, vol. ii. p. 199. The interlocutors are, Savari di Mauleon, Hugiies de la Bachelerie, and Gaucelm Faidit. A par phrase is given by Millet. Tr.] VOL. I. G 106 ON THE LITERATUEE " Bertrand. But, Sordello, to love without valour, is to deceive her whom you love. . I would not wish for the love of her I serve, did I not at the same time merit her esteem. A treasure, so ill acquired, would be my grief. Do you, then, be the protector of the follies of love, whilst the honour of arms is mine ; since you are so deluded as to place false joys in the balance against real happiness." This teJison may, perhaps, give an idea of those poetical contests, which were the great ornament of all festivals. When the haughty baron invited to his court the neighbouring lords and the knights his vassals, three days were devoted to jousts and tourneys, the mimicry of war. The youthful gentlemen, who, under the name of pages, exercised them- selves in the profession of arms, combated the first day ; the second was set apart for the newly-dubbed knights ; and the third, for the old warriors. The lady of the castle, surrounded by youthful beauties, distributed crowns to those who were declared, by the judges of the combat, to be the conquerors. She then, in her turn, opened her court, constituted in imitation of the seignorial tribunals, and as her baron collected his peers around him, when he dispensed justice, so did she form her Court of Love, consisting of young, beau- tiful, and lively women. A new career was opened to those who dared the combat, not of arms but of verse, and the name of Tenson, which was given to these dramatic skir- mishes, in fact signified a contest,* It frequently happened that the knights, who had gained the prize of valour, became candidates for the poetical honours. One of the two, with his harp upon his arm, after a prelude, proposed the subject of the dispute. The other then advancing, and singing to the same air, answered him in a stanza of the same measure, and very frequently having the same rhymes. This ex- tempore composition was usually comprised in five stanzas. The court of love then entered upon a grave deliberation, and discussed, not only the claims of the two poets, but the merits of the question ; and a judgment or arret-d^ amour was given, frequently in verse, by which the dispute was supposed to be decided. At the present day, we feel inclined to believe that these dialogues, though little resembling those of Tityrus and Melibteus, were yet, like those, the production * [According to EajTiouard, it -was derived from Coniektio. Tr^ • OF THE TROUBADOURS. 107 of the poet sitting at ease iu his closet. But, besides the historical evidence -which we possess of the Troubadours having been gifted with those improvisatorial talents, which the Italians have preserved to the present times, many of the iewso?«s extant bear evident traces of the rivalry and animosity of the two interlocutors. The mutual respect, with which the refinements of civilization have taught us to regard one another, was at this time little known. There existed not the same delicacy upon questions of honour, and injury re- turned for injury was supposed to cancel all insults. We have a tenson extant, between the Marquis Albert Malespina and Rambaud de Vaqueiras, two of the most powerful lords and valiant captains, at the commencement of the thirteenth century, in which they mutually accuse one another of having robbed on the highway and deceived their allies by false oaths. We must charitably suppose, that the perplexities of versification and the heat of their poetical inspiration com- jDclled them to overlook sarcasms, which they could never have suffered to pass in plain prose. Many of the ladies, who sate in the Courts of Love, were able themselves to reply to the verses which they inspired. A few of their compositions only remain, but they have always the advantage over those of the Troubadours. Poetry, at that time, aspired, neither to creative energy, nor to sublimity of thought, nor to variety. Those powerful conceptions of genius which, at a later period, have given birth to the drama and the epic, were yet unknown ; and, in the expression of sentiment, a tenderer and more delicate in- spiration naturally endowed the productions of these poetesses with a more lyrical character. One of the most beautiful of these songs is written by Clai'a d'Andusa, and is unfinished. A translation is subjoined, which can give but little idea of a poem, the excellence of which so essentially consists in the harmony of the verse.* Into -what cruel grief and deep distress The jealous and the false have plunged; my heart. Depriving it by every treacherous art Of all its Hopes of joy and happiness : * [The French prose translation given by M. de Sismondi, is by 11. Fabre d'Olivet, Poesies Occitaniques, vol. Vii. p. 32. The original, g2 108 ON THE LITERATURE. For they have forced thee from my arms to fly. Whom far above this evil life I prize ; And they have hid thee from my loving eyes. Alas ! with grief, and ire, and rage I die. Yet they, who blame my passionate love to thee. Can never teach my heart a nobler flame, A sweeter hope, than that which thrills my frame, A love, so full of joy and harmony. Nor is there one — no, not my deadliest foe. Whom, speaking praise of thee, I do not love, Nor one, so dear to me, who would not move My wrath, if fi-om his lips dispraise should flow. Fear not, fair love, my heart shall ever fail In its fond trust — fear not that it will change Its faith, and to another loved one range ; No ! though a hundred tongues that heart assail — • which follows, is extracted from the Parnasse Occitanien, vol. i. p. 252l En greu esmai ct en greu pessamen An mes mon cor, et en granda error Li lauzengier el fals devinador, Abaissador de joi e de joven ; Quar vos, qu ieu am mais que re quel mon sia An fait de me departir c lonhar Li qu' ieu nous pose vezer in remirar, Don muer de dol e d' ir' e de feunia. Cel que m blasma vostr' amor ni m defon Mo podon far en re mon cor melhor, Ni'l dous desir qu 'ieu ai de vcs major, Ni I'enveja, ni '1 dezir ni '1 talen. E non es horn, tan mos enemies sia, Si 1 n'aug dir ben, que no '1 tenha en car ; E si' n ditz mal, mais no m pot dir ni far, Neguna re quez a plazer me sia. Ja nous donets, bels amies, espaven Quez ieu ves vos aia cor treehador, Ni queus camge per nul autr" amador Si m pregavon d'autras domnas un ecu ; Qu 'amors que m te per vos eu sa bailia. Vol que mon cor vos estuj'e vos gar ; E farai o : e s'ieu pogues emblar Mon cors, tals 1' a que jamais no 1 'auria. Amies, tan ai d'ira c de feunia Quar no vos vei, que quant ieu cug cantar Plang e sospir ; per qu' ieu no pose so far A mas coblas que "1 cor complir volria. OF THE TROUBADOURS. lOSf For Love, who has my heart at his command, Decrees it shall be faithful found to thee, And it sliall he so. Oh, had I been free. Thou, who hast all my heart, hadst had my hand. Love ! so o'ermastering is my soul's distress, At not beholding thee, that, when I sing. My notes are lost in tears and sorrowing, Nor can my verse my heart's desires express. "We have already said that the Sirventes, which constitute the second chiss of Froven9al poems, were martial and poli- tical songs. At a period, when almost all the poets were knights likewise, and when the love of combats, and the in- fatuation of dangers, were the prominent passions of the soul, we naturally look to the martial songs for instances of the noblest inspiration. Thus, Guillaume de Saint-Gregory, in an harmonious sirvente, in stanzas of ten lines, like those of our odes, celebrates his love of war, and seems to feel the inspiration of the field of battle.* The beautiful spring delights me well, When flowers and leaves are growing; And it pleases my heart, to hear the swell Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing In the echoing wood ; And I love to see all seatter'd around, Pavilions and tents, on the martial ground ; And my spirit finds it good To see, on the level plains beyond, Gay knights and steeds caparison'd.f * [This Sirvente is attributed by M. EajTiouard to Bertrand de Bom, Poesies de Troubadours, ii. 209, and in the Farnasse Occikmien, i. 65, where a diSerent version of it is given. The text is taken from M. Raj-nouard, and for the translation the editor is indebted to the kind- ness of a friend. — Tr.] t Be m play lo douz temps de pascor. Que fai fuelhas e flors venir ; E play mi quant aug la vaudor Dels auzels que fan retentir Lor chan per lo boscatge ; E plai me quan vey sus els pratz, Tendas e pavallos format z ; E plai m'en nion coratge ; Quan vey per campanha.s rengatz Ca valuers ab cavals armatz. E play fl0 ON THE LITERATLTtE It pleases me, when the lancers bold Set men and armies flying ; And it pleases me, too, to hear around The voice of the soldiers crjing ; And joy is mine. When the castles strong besieged shake. And walls uprooted totter and quake, And I see the foe-men join On the moated shore, all compass'd round With the palisade and guarded mound. j« * * * Lances and swords, and stained helms. And shields dismantled and broken. On the verge of the bloody battle-scene. The field of ivrath betoken ; And the vassals are there. And there fly the steeds of the dying and dead ; And where the mingled strife is spread. The noblest warrior's care Is to cleave the foeman's limbs and head. The conqueror less of the living than dead. I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer. Or banqueting or reposing. Like the onset cry of " charge them" rung From each side, as in battle closing ; AVhere the horses neigh. E play mi quan li corredor Fan las gens els aver fugir ; E plai me quan vey aprop lor Gran ren d'aimatz ensems brugir ; E ai gran alegratge, Quan vey fortz castels assetjatz, E murs fondre e derolatz ; E vey I'ost pel ribatge Qu'es tot entorn claus de fossatz, Ab lissas de fortz pals serratz. Atressi m play de bon senhor. Quant es primiers a I'envazir, Ab caval armat, ^es temor ; C'aissi fai los sieus enardir, Ab vallen vassallatge ; E quant el es el camp intratz, Quascus deu esser assermatz, E segr el dagradatge, Quan nulhs hom non es rea prezatz Tro qu'a manhs colps pres e donatz. Lansas e brans elens de color, Escutz trancar e desguarnir, Vevrem OF THE TROUBADOURS. Ill And the call to "aid" is echoing loud. And there, on the earth, the lowly and proud In the foss together lie ; And yonder is piled the mingled heap Of the hrave that scaled the trench's steep. Barons ! your castlea in safety place, Your cities and villages, too, Before ye haste to the battle-scene : And, Papiol ! » quickly go, And tell the Lord of " Yes and No"\ That peace already too long hath been ! This warlike ode is dedicated to Beatrix of Savoy, the wife of Eaymond Berenger V. the last Count of Provence. Beatrix was the mother of four queens of France, of Ger- many, of England, and of Naples. Like her husband, she T/as a great patroness of the Troubadours, and some verses of this illustrious couple are stiU preserved, which are want- ing neither in poetical skill nor in delicacy. The lines written by the countess are addressed to her lover, in which she Veyrem a I'intrar, de Test or, E manhs vassalhs ensems ferir Don anaran a ratge, Cavalhs dels mortz c dels nafratz ; E la pus I'estom er mesclatz ; Negus horn d'aufc paratge Non pens mas d'asclar caps e bratz Que mais val mortz que vius sobratz. Je us die que tan no m'a sabor Slangars ni beure in dormir. Cum a quant aug cridar ; a lor ! D'ambas las partz ; et aug agnir ! ■ Cavals voitz per I'ombratge, Et aug cridar : aidatz ! aidatz ! E vei cazer per los possatz Panes e grans per I'erbatge ; E vei los mortz que pels costazt Au los tronsons outre passatz. Baros, metetz en gatge, Castels e vilas e ciutatz, Enans q'usquecs no us guerreiatz Papiol, d'agradatge, Ad oc e no, ten vai viatz. Die li que trop estan en patz. * The name of the Troubadour's Jongleur, or page. ■* llichard Cccur de Lion. 112 ON THE LITEUATUUE reproaches him with being too reserved and timid. For the honour of the princess, we must suppose that this reproach is a mere sally of wit. But the war, of all others, most fitted to inspire a poet, was the crusade. Whilst the preachers, from every pulpit, announced salvation to those who should shed their blood to deliver the tomb of Christ, the Troubadours, who partook of the same enthusiasm, were still more strongly influenced by tlie new and strange adventures, which the fairy realms of the East promised them. Their imaginations wandered Avitli delight over those romantic countries, and they sighed as well for the conquest of that terrestrial paradise, as for that which was promised them in heaven. Many of them were, however, detained in Europe by the bonds of love ; and the contests between these two passions, these two reli- gions of their hearts, frequently gave an interesting character to the poems Avhicli were composed to animate the crusaders. This conflict is no where more agreeably described than in a tenson between Peyrols and Love. Peyrols was a knight of slender fortune, from the neighbourhood of Roquefort in Auvergne.* His distinguished talents for poetry introduced him to the court of the Dauphin of Auvergne. He there fell passionately in love with the sister of that prince, the Baroness de Mercoeur ; and the Dauphin prevailed upon his sister to return the passion of his Troubadour, in order to encourage those poetical talents which were the ornament of his court. Neither the Baroness nor the Troubadour were able rigorously to preserve the strict bounds of a poetical attachment ; and Peyrols, who for a considerable time had only celebrated, in his verse, the cruelty of his mistress, at length sang the victories and the exultation of a happy lover. The Baron de Mercosur was offended. The Dauphin resented the injury which he believed his brother-in-law had sustained, and Peyrols was banished. Other attachments succeeded this first love, which are also celebrated in his verses. The preaching of the second crusade changed, at once, his mode of life. The following is his dialogue with Love, the original of which has been published by M. Fabre d'Olivet, who has * [Three poems by PejTols are given in the Parnasse Occitanien, i. 88, and six, ia Raynouard, iii. 26S. — Tr.] OF THE TROUCADOUPcS. ' 113 happily n:in<;|flecl in his " Court of Love" many ancient frag- m(!nts with his own verses."* Love ! I long have been your slave, Till my heart is broken ; What is the reward I have ! Where, my duty's token] Peyrols ! can you then forget That same blooming Beauty, Whom Tvith such delight you met. Swearing love and duty 1 That 's the way I paid the debt ! Let me tell you, your light heart Tender thoughts disperses ; When you act the lover's part You falsify your verses. Love ! I've still been true to you. And if now I leave yon, 'Tis v.'hat I am forced to do ; Do not let it grieve you. Heaven will see me safely through ! Heaven, too, make the kings agree I Keep them both from fighting ! Lest Saladin their folly see Which he '11 take delight in. Peyrols ! do the best you will. You alone can't save it ; Every Turk you cannot kill, That storms the Tower of David ; Here remain and sing your fill ! You 're not wanted by the kings ; Stay then and amuse you. They 're so fond of quarrclings They can well excuse you. Love ! I 've felt your power depart ; Though my fair one's beauty Lingers still about my heart. Yet I '11 do my duty. !Many a lover now must part ; Many hearts must now begin To feel their sad griefs springing, Which, but for cruel Saladin, Had joyously been singing. Peyrols did, in fact, visit the Holy Land, and a siri-ente, composed by him in Syria, after the Emperor Frederic Bar- * [The original of this curious poem is not given by M. de Sismondi. It is to be found, with some variations, in the Parnasse Occitanien, vol. i. p. 90, and likewise in l»aynouard, iii. 279. 2'r.] 114 ON THE LITERATURE barossa had lost his life, and the Kings of England and iFrance had abandoned the Crusade, is still preserved. I have seen the Jordan river, I have seen the holy grave ; Lord ! to thee my thanks I render For the joys thy goodness gave, Shewing to my raptured sight. The spot wherein thou saw'st the light. Vessel good, and favouring breezes. Pilot trusty, soon shall we Once more see the towers of Marseilles Eising o'er the briny sea. Farewell, Acre ! farewell, all Of Temple or of Hospital ! Now, alas ! the world's decaj-ing — When shall we once more behold Kings like lion-hearted Richard — France's monarch, stout and bold — Montfcrrat's good Marquis — or The Empire's glorious Emperor ! Ah ! Lord God, if you believed me. You would pause in granting powers Over cities, kingdoms, empires. Over castles, to^-ns, and towers ; For the men that powerful be Pay the least regard to thee.* The poem terminates with a violent invective against the reigning emperor. This was caused by the treacherous con- duct of Henry VI., who detained in his prisons Richard Coeur de Lion, w^hen, on his return from the crusade, after having been shipwrecked on the coast of Istria, he was seized, as he traversed Germany, in the disguise of a pilgrim, by Leopold, Duke of Austria, in 1192. Richard, who was the hero of the age ; who had humbled Tancred and Philip Augustus ; who, in a short space of time, had conquered the island of Cyprus, and had bestowed that kingdom on the unfortunate Lusignan ; who had vanquished Saladin in a pitched battle, and had dispersed the innumerable armies of the East ; who had inspired such terror into the infidels, that his name alone was long the signal of affright ; who had remained, after the return of all the other sovereigns from the crusade, and had * [The Translator has been imable to discover the original of this .Sirvente ; the lines in the text are, therefore, only a version of the French prose translation.] OF THE TROUBADOURS. 115 alone commanded tlie Christian host ; and who had signed the treaty, in virtue of which the pilgrims were allowed to accom- plish their long journey to the Holy Sepulchre — Richard was equally dear to all the Crosses. They pardoned the vices and the ferocity, which were inseparable from the manners of the age. They reproached him not with the odious massacre of all the prisoners whom he had captured from Saladin; and, in short, they seemed to think that so much valour miglit dispense with all other virtues. But, above all, Eichard was dear to the Troubadours. Himself a royal poet and knight, he united ia his own person all the brilliant qualities of the age. He was a bad son, a bad husband, a bad brother, a bad king ; but he was the most valiant and intrepid warrior in the army. His companions in arms loved him with a kind of idolatry. The devotion of William des Preaux, one of his followers, saved him, contrary to all expectation, from a Saracen prison. He was sleeping under the shade of a tree in Syria, with six of his knights, when he was surprised by a troop of the enemy. He had only time to mount his horse, and defend himself with his accustomed bravery ; and four of his companions having fallen, he was on the point of being taken prisoner, when William des Preaux, seeing his master's danger, exclaimed in Arabic, " Spare me ! I am the King of England !" The Saracens, who had not sus- pected that a prisoner of such importance was in their power, threw themselves immediately on Des Preaux, that they might all claim a share in the capture, and paid no attention to Richard, who gallopped away. Fauchet asserts, that he like- wise owed his liberty in Germany to the zeal of his minstrel, Blondel ; and this is the story which has been dramatised. We cannot help regretting that this tale has been ranked amongst the apocrypha of history. Henry VI., according to Fauchet, carefully concealed the fact of his having detained the King of England as a prisonei', lest he should incur the excommunication of the Crusaders, Blondel, who had been shipwrecked with him on the coast of Istria, and who had sought him in all the fortresses of Germany, sang, beneath the tower in which he was confined, a tenson which he and Richard had composed in common. Scarcely had he finished the first stanza, when Richard commenced the second. Blon- del, having discovered his master, carried into England the 116 ox THE LITERATURE -tidings of his captivity, and engaged bis brother to treat for his ransom. If tliis Icnmn, wliich delivered the King of Enghmd from captivity, had been preserved, it might have been some confirmation of an anecdote to which we are so willing to give credit. We do, liowever, possess a sirvente which he composed in prison, after fifteen months' captivity.* The uniform and masculine rhymes, no doubt, augmented, to the ear of Richard, the melancholy of his verses. * It is not known in -what language this song was originally written, for the different manuscripts in which we lind it, with many variations, give it in the Proven9al and Langue d'Oil. It seems to me an agreeable task to compare, in the words of the brave King Richard, the two lan- guages which so long divided France between them. Below, I have given the two first verses in Proven9al, from a manuscript of M. de la Curne de Sainte-Palaye, and also the entire song in old French, together ■with the sixth stanza, and an envoy, from a manuscript in the Royal Library. Ja nul hom prbs non dira sa razon Adreitamen, se come hom doulcn non ; Mas per conort pot el faire canson. Prou ha d'amicz, ma padre son li don ! Honta y auran se por ma rehezon Sony fach dos hivers prez. Or sachan ben mici hom e miei baron, Angles, Norman, Peytavin ct Gascon, Qu'yeu non hai ja si padre compagnon Que per ave, lou laissesse en prezon ; Faire reproch, certas yeu voli non, Mas souy dos hivers prez. La ! nus homs pris ne dira sa raison Adroitement, se dolantement non, Mais por effort puet-il faire chanson ; ]\Ioeople for their new masters ; his attachment to the Spaniards, and his persuasion that the King of Aragon was ixlone entitled to the sovereignty of Provence.f Boniface III., of Castellan, seems to feel, still more vividly, the atfront i)ut upon the Provencals by this foreign usurpation ; while, at the same time, he accuses them of having merited by their cowardice, the opprobrium of being subjected to a rival nation. He attempts, by every mode, to rouse them from this langour ; and he excites to vengeance James I. of Aragon, whose father, Peter II., had been slain in 1213, at the battle of Muret, whilst fighting in defence of the Count of Toulouse and the Albigenses. Castellan at length suc- ceeded in rousing Marseilles to revolt, and placed himself at the head of the insurgents ; but Charles of Anjou having anenaced the city with a siege, Castellan was deUvered up. He was beheaded, and his goods wei'e confiscated. The great satirist of the Provencals, Piei-re Cardinal, whose verses display the most impetuous passions, seems to have been struck with hori'or at the conduct of the Crusaders. Sometimes he paints the desolation of the country, which was the theatre of the war ; at other times, he attempts to inspire the Count of Toulouse with corn-age. " Neither the Arch- bishop of Narbonne, nor the King of France, have the power to change one so wicked, into a man of honour (speaking of Simon de Montfort.) They may bestow gold and silver, and garments, and wines, and viands upon him ; but. for good- ness, God alone can give it. "Would you know what share he will have in the spoils of this war ? — the cries, the terrors the frightful spectacles, which he has beheld, the misfortunes Millot, iii. 45, 49, oce. [A trauslation of the -vrhole of this curious piece will be found at the end of the chapter. — Tr.^ + Millot, iii. 141, ka. . , . . . OF THE TEODBADOUKS. 163 and the evils wMch he has occasioned, these will form the equipage with which he will return from the battle."* De Montford perished in an action before Toulouse, on the •25th of June, 1218, though not without having lived to enjoy, for a considerable time, the bloody spoils of Raymond VI. During the period at which the country of the Langue d'Oc was in its most flourishing state, and the Counts of Provence and Toulouse, rivalling one another in riches and power, invited the most distinguished poets to their courts, all the neighbouring princes and people attempted to make themselves familiar with a language, wdiieh seemed to be appropx'iated to love and gallantry. The dialects of the other countries were, hitherto, by no means fixed, and were regarded as vulgar, when compared with the pure Provencal. All the north of Italy received with eagerness the lessons of the Troubadours. Azzo VII. of Este, invited them to the court of Ferrara, and Gerard de Camino, to Treviso ; while the Marquis of Montferrat introduced them into his kingdom of Thessalonica, in Greece. The crusade against the Albi- genses, however, entirely put an end to the influence of the Provencals. The country which had given birth to so many elegant poets, was now only a scene of carnage and torture. For a long period after the first war, the massacres and perse- cutions, as well as the resistance of the unfortunate victims, continued even down to the reign of Louis XIV.. when the war of the Camisards may be said to be the last scene of the fatal tragedy of the Albigenses. A language which appeared only to serve the purpose of repeating funereal lamentations, was heard with a kind of horror ; while the Italians, perhaps, believed that it was exclusively applied to spreading the venomous doctrines of heresy. Charles of Anjou, moreover, in the middle of this century, possessed himself of the king- *• L' arsivesquc de Xarbona ' Tals a sus el cap corona Nil Rey non aa tan de sen E porta blanc vestimcn Que de malvaiza persona Quel' volontatz es felona, Puescan far home valen ; Com de lops e do serpen ; Uar li podon aur o arjen E qui tols ni trai ni men E draps, e vi e anona, Ki aussiz ni cmpoizona (f) Mais lo bel essenhamen Ad aquo es ben parven Ha sel a cui Dieus lo dona. Quals volcr hi abotona. (f) Alluding to the death of the Viscount de Beziers. 164 ON THE LITERATURE dom of Naples, carrying with him in his train the principal nobility of Provence ; and the hitter, consequently, became familiar Avith the Italian language, which at that period, waa assuming a more polished shape. This ferocious monarch would have contributed little to the advancement of poetry, whether he favoured the language of his wife, the Proven9al, or that of his new subjects, the Italians ; for his talent was rather to destroy than to create, and he sacrificed the pros- perity of the beautiful country which his wife had brought him as lier dowry, to his passion for war and his unmeasured ambition. He loaded the people with excessive taxes, destroyed the liberty and privileges of his barons, dragged into Italy all his subjects who were capable of bearing arms, and desolated Provence,* for the purpose of carrying deso- lation into the heart of new territories. In his reign, the Courts of Love were abolished, which had so long excited the emulation of poets, by granting the most brilliant rewards to talent ; and which had largely contributed to the refine- ment of manners, by inflicting, with the assistance of public opinion, a punishment upon those who trespassed against the laws of delicacy. Not only temporary Courts of Love were erected in all the manors of the greater barons, after every fete and tourney, but some of them appear to have received a more solemn form, and a more durable existence. Thus, mention is made of the Court of Love of Pierrefeu, in which Stephanette des Baux, daughter of the Count of Provence, presided, and which was composed of ten of the most con- siderable ladies of the country ; of the Court of Love of * This terrific prince ■was, however, a poet, for at this period, to ■which -we have given the title of baruarous, all the sovereigns and the po"werful nobles ■were compelled to sacrifice to the muses. In the manuscripts in the Koyal Libiarj- there exists a love-song by him in. the Langue d'Oil, -which has nothing very remarkable about it The following lines form the conclusion. Tin seul confort me tient en bon espoir, Et c'est de ce qu'oncques ne la guerpi, Servie I'ai tojours a mon pooir N'oncques vers autr ai pense fors qu'3, li ; Et 5, tout ce, me met en non chaloir ; Et si, sai bien ne Tai pas desservi. Si me convieut attendre son voloir Et atendrai come loyal ami.' Par li quens oTA njou, p. 148. OF THE TROUBADOURS. 165 Romanin, presided over by the lady of that name ; and of the Courts of Aix and of Avignon, the latter of which was established under the ' immediate protection of the Pope. These four courts appear to have been permanent bodies, which assembled at fixed periods, and acquired a high repu- tation for delicacy and gallantry ; and to them were sub- mitted such love-causes as the inferior courts did not dare to decide. The Arrets cV Amour were religiously preserved ; and Martial d'Auvergne, in 1480, made a compilation of fifty-one of these an^U, which were afterwards translated into Spanish by Diego Grazian.* But all this solemnity, this studious attention to gallantry and poetry, ceased in the absence of the sovereign, who adopted a foreign language, and drew to the court of Naples the knights and ladies, who used to combat at the tourneys and sit in the Courts of Love. The successors of Charles I., though more literary in their liabits, were more entirely Italian. Charles II., and especially Robert, patronized the literature of Italy. The latter was the friend and protector of Petrarch, who elected him as judge before he received the poetical crown. Some Proven9al poems, addressed to him, etill remain. Crescimbeni makes mention, amongst others, of a sonnet, in his honour, by Guillaume des Amalrics;t but this little poem, which is composed in the Italian style, gives no idea of the ancient poetry of Provence. Joanna I. of Naples, the grandaughter of Robert, appears, during her * [If Tve are to take the arri^s of Martial D'Auvergne as real specimens of the proceedings in the Courts of Love, they certainly could not have been of that grave and solemn cast which M. De Sismondi and other ■meters would lead us to believe. Nor do they give us, by any means, a favourable idea of the delicacy of the fair judges. The most ridiculous questions are propounded and argued in the gravest manner, and some- times fictitious personages, as Love and Death, are introduced. If, indeed, these arrets be the original judgments of the Courts of Love, it proves that all their proceedings were mere jests and badinage ; but probably the work was intended by the author as a satire upon the real courts. It is true, as Sismondi obser^'cs in his note on this passage, that the same unfavourable impression is produced in perusing all that has been left us by the Troubadours, after having been so much ap- plauded, and supplied such a variety of subjects for brilliant fictions, we approach them with enthusiasm, it is seldom that wc leave them without disgu.st. — Tr.] . t y'itc de' Foeti Provenzali, p. 131, 1.66 ON THE LITERATUEE ' residence in Provence, to have made an attempt to reanimate the former ardour of the Troubadours, and to infuse new life into the Provencal poetry. The beautiful Joanna, whose heart was proved to be so tender and passionate, was, cer- tainly, the fittest of aU the princesses of Europe to preside in the Courts of Love, and to discuss questions of sentiment. Her stay in Provence, however, was not of long duration, and, during all that period, she suffered misfortunes and oppression; while her return to Naples, in 1348, separated her again from the poets whom she had patronized. Joanna, on being detlu'oned, thirty years afterwards, adopted a French prince, Louis I. of Anjou, to whom, however, she could only assure the possession of Provence ; the kingdom of Naples passing to the house of Duraz. But though Provence, after a separation of a century and a half, again possessed her sove- reign in her bosom, literature experienced no protection from him. Louis spoke the Langue D'Oui, or the dialect of the north of France, and had no taste for the poetry of the Langue D'Oc ; and, moreover, he was engaged, as were afterwards his son Louis IL and his grandson Louis IIL, in a series of unfortunate wars in Italy. His other grandson, Rene, who in his turn assumed, in the fifteenth century, the title of King of Naples and Count of Provence, endeavoured, it is true, with great earnestness, to revive the poetry of Provence. The effort, however, -was too late ; the race of the Trouba- dours was extinct ; and the invasions of the English, who desolated France, did not dispose the minds of the people to rencAV the cultivation of the Gay Science. It is, however, to the zeal of this king that we owe the Lives of the Trouba- dours, which were collected for him by the Monk of the Isles of Gold. If the establishment of the sovereign of Provence in Italy was so deadly a blow to the Proven9al language, the establish- ment of an Italian sovereign in Provence was no less fatal to it. At the commencement of the fourteenth century, the court of Rome was transferred to Avignon. The Popes, it is true, who, for seventy years filled the pontifical chair while it was fixed at that place, were all of them Frenchmen by birth, and inhabitants of the country where the Langue D'Oc was spoken. But, like the sovereigns of Rome, and of a great part of Italy, their courts were composed of Italians ; and the OF THE TROUBADOURS. 167 Tuscan language became so familiar in the city M-hlch they inhabited, that Petrarch, the first poet of the age, who lived at Avignon, and loved a Provencal lady, never employed any other language than the Italian to express Iris attachment.. Whilst the native poetry, and even the language of Pro- vence, properly so called, were every day declining, reiterated efforts were made, in the county of Toulouse, to re-illume the ancient flame. The house of Saint-Giles, the ancient counts^ was extinct, and most of the great feudatories had eithei* perished, or been ruined by the crusades, - The castles vv-ere no longer the asylum of pleasures and chivakic festivals, although some of the towns were recovering from the cala- mities of war. Toulouse could again boast of her numerous population, her riches, her elegance, and her taste for letters r.iid poetry. In southern France, from the eleventh to the thirteenth century, the nobility gave to the age its character and spirit. in the two centuries which succeeded, the inhabitants of the towns assumed a more important rank. Their privileges had been augmented by the sovereign. They were allowed to raise fortifications, to choose their own magistrates, and to possess a militia. The crown was thus enabled either to op- pose the powerful barons, whom it wished to humble ; or to defend itself in the wars between France and England ; or, lastly, to raise, from this source, increased taxes, since the principal part of the revenues of the state were derived from the towns. The inhabitants speedily imbibed republican sentiments ; the principles of equality became general ; and a respect for property, and an enlightened protection of industry and activity, were the consequences. Zeal for the public good, and a great degree of the esprit de corps, united the citizens in their patriotic bonds. The state was much better governed; but the poetical spirit had declined. It is not under the operation of the wisest laws, and in times of good order and pro- sperity, that the imagination of a people is most powerfully developed. Idleness is much better suited to the poet than activity; and that vigilant and paternal administration which forms good fathers, good mercliants, good artisans, and honest citizens, was much less calculated to elicit the genius of the Troubadours, than a life spent in wandering from castle to castle ; in alternate intercourse with the nobles and the 168 ON THE LITERATURE people, the ladies and the shepherds; and amid the enjoy- ments of luxury, rendered more exquisite by poverty. The good citizens of Toulouse, or of Marseilles, had their business to superintend and their livelihood to earn ; and if a man devoted himself, from his youth, to singing at festivals, or meditating in groves, he was looked upon by his fellow- citizens either as a fool, or as one who wished to live on the contributions of others. No esteem was felt for a man, who, when he was capable of becoming independent by his own labour, chose to owe his subsistence to the bounty of the great. Reason and good sense are both the accompaniments of prose; and the most briUiant faculties of the human mind, are not always those which are most requisite to our happiness. Still the Capitoiils de Toulouse, the name by which the chief- magistrates of that city were distinguished, were desirous, for the honour of their country, of preserving the brilliant reputation which it had formerly enjoyed for poetical studies, and which was now about to expire. They were not, perhaps, themselves, very sensible of the charms of verse and harmony ; but they were unwilling that it should be said, that, under their administration, the flame, Avhich had shed such lustre on the reigns of the Counts of Toulouse, was extinguished. A few versifiers of little note had assumed, at Toulouse, the name of Troubadours, and were accustomed, half-yearly, to assemble together in the gardens of the Au- gustine monks, where they read their compositions to one another. In 1323, these persons resolved to form themselves into a species of academy del Gai Saber, and they gave it the title of La Sobregaya Coiwpanhia dels sept Trobadors de Tolosa. This " most gay society " was eagerly joined by the Capitoids, or venerable magistrates, of Toulouse, who wished, by some public festival, to reanimate the spirit of poetry.* * If the celebrated Clemence Isanre, whose eulogy was pronounced every year in the assembly of the Floral Games, and whose statue, crowned with flowers, ornamented their festivals, be not merely an imaginary being, she appears to have been the soul of these little meet- ings, before either the magistrates had noticed them or the public were invited to attend them. But neither the circulars of the Sobregaya Comjjanhia, nor the registers of the magistrates, make any mention of her ; and, notwithstanding all the zeal with which, at a subsequent period, the glory of founding the Floral Games has l;een attributed to her, her existence is still problematical. OF THK TROUBADOURS. 169 A circular letter was addressed to all the cities of the Langue d'Oc, to give notice that, on the 1st ofMayj 1324, a golden violet would be decreed, as a prize, to the author of the best poem in the Proven9al language. The circular is written both in prose and verse ; in the name as well of " the very gay company of Troubadours," as of " the very grave assembly of Capitouls." The gravity of the latter is manifested by their wonderful display of learninir, and by the number of their quotations ; for when the Gay Science was transported from the castles into the cities, it was united to a knowledge of antiquity, and of those studies which were again beginning to be cultivated. Harmony and sentiment alone were not now all-sufficient. On the other hand, the Troubadours cited the scriptures, in defence of their recreations. " Is it not," said they, " pleasing to God, our Creator, and our Sovereign Lord and Master, that man should render homage to him in joy and gladness of heart, as the Psalmist has borne testimony when he says, ' Sing and be glad in the Lord.' The crowds which collected on the first of itay, were prodigious. The magistrates, the neighbouring nobility, and the common people, all assembled in the garden of the Augustines, to hear the songs publicly read, which were intended to dispute the prize. The violet was adjudged to Arnaud Vidal of Castelnaudary, for his song in honour of the Holy Virgin, and the successful candidate was immediately declared a Doctor in the Gay Science. Such was the origin of the Floral Games. In 1355, the Capitouls announced that, instead of one prize, they would give three. The violet of gold was reserved for the best song. An- eglantine of silver, not the flower of the rose, but of the Spanish jasmine, was promised to the author of the best sirvente, or of the most beautiful pastoral ; and lastly, the Jlor de gang, or joy-flower, the yellow and odoriferous flower of the thorny acacia, was to be bestowed upon the writer of the best ballad. These flowers were more than a foot high, and were carried on a pedestal of silver gilt, upon which were engraved the arms of the city. It seems that in copying these flowers always from the same model, the artists forgot what they originally represented : the eglantine became a colum- bine, and the joy-flower a marigold. The Academy of the Floral Games has survived to the present day, although it •seldom crowns any but French poets. Its secretary is always VOL. I. L 170 ON THE LITERATURE , a doctor of laws, and its rules are denominated the Laws ot Love. The name of Ti'oubadour is still heard there, and the ancient forms of Proven9al poetry, the song, the sirvente, and the ballad, are preserved with reverence. No man of real talent, however, has signalized himself amongst the fraternity j and as for the Troubadours, properly so called, the chanters of love and of chivalry, who bore from castle to castle, and from tourney to tourney, their own verses and the fame of their ladies, the race was extinct before the commencement of the Floral Games. In another quarter, however, a flourishing kingdom was daily making i-apid steps towards power, prosperity, and military glory. The kingdom of Aragou had preserved the Provencal language, and placed her fame in the cultivation of that literature. The employment of that tongue, in all the acts of government, was conisdered, nearly to our own times, as one of the most precious jorivileges which that country pos- sessed. Marriage, succession, and conquest, had united many rich provinces under the dominion of the kings of Aragon ; originally, merely the chiefs of a few Christian refugees, who had escaped into the mountains to avoid the Mooi's. Petro- niUe, in 1137, carried the crown of Ai-agon to Raymond Berenger V., then sovereign of Provence, of Catalonia, of Cerdagne, and of Eoussillon. In 1220, their descendants conquered the islands of Majorca, JSIinorca, and Ivica ; and, in 1238, the kingdom of Valencia. Sicily fell under their dominion in 1282, and, in 1323, they conquered Sardinia. At the period when all these kingdoms were united under one crown, the Catalans were the hardiest navigators of the Mediterranean. Their commercial relations were very ex- tended. They had frequent intercourse with the Greek em- pire, and were the constant rivals of the Genoese, and the no less faithful friends of the Venetians. Their reputation in arms was as brilliant as in the ai'ts of peace. Not content with fighting the battles of their own country, they sought opportunities of practising their military skill in foreign service, and exercised their valour in combats, in which they had no sort of interest. The redoubtable soldiery of the Almogavares, issuing out of Aragon, carried terror into Italy and Greece. They vanquished the Turks, and humbled Con- stantinople ; conquering Athens and Thebes, and destroying^ OF THE TROUBADOURS. 171 in 1312, in the battle of tlie Cephisus, the remnant of the French cavaliers who had formerly overthrown the Greek empire. The Aragonese succeeded in rendering their liberties secure and respected by their chiefs. Even the kings them- selves were under the dominion ofa supreme judge, called the Jicsiicia, who girt on the sword in their support, if they were faithful, and against them, if they abandoned their duty. The four members of the Cortes, by virtue of the privilege of union, similar to that of the confederation of Poland, had the power of legally opposing force and resistance to any usurped authority. Their religious freedom was equal to their civil immunities ; and, to preserve it, the Aragonese did not scruple to brave, for the space of two centuries, the Papal excommunications. This bold and troubled life, this constant success in every enterprise, this national glory, which was continually encreasing, were much better fitted to inflame the imagination, and to sustain a poetical spirit, than the prudent, but confined and citizen-like life of the good people of Toulouse. Many celebrated Troubadours issued from the kingdoms of Ai'agon and Catalonia, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries ; and on the extinction of the Trouba- dours, the Ai-agonese dis])layed a new kind of talent. The Provencal, or rather the Catalan, literature did not die with the poets of Provence. One of the most celebrated of those who cultivated the art of poetry, after the disappearance of the Troubadours, was Don Henri d'Aragon, Marquis of Villena, who died in 1434, at an advanced age. His marquisate, the most ancient in Spain, was situated on the confines of the kingdoms of Cas- tile and Valencia ; and, in fact, Villena belonged to both the monarchies. In both, he filled the most important ofiices, and governed them alternately during the minorities of their princes ; and in both, after having been the favourite of the kings, he was persecuted and despoiled of his property. During his administration, he made some attempts to awaken a taste for letters, and to unite the study of ancient literature to the cultivation of Romance poetry. He persuaded John I., of Aragon, to establish, in his states, an academy, similar to the Floral Games of Toulouse, in order to reanimate the ardour of the Troubadours, who wgre now rapidly declining. ;The Academy of Toulouse dispatched, in the year 1390, two L 2 172 ON THE LTTERATDRE Doctors of Love to Barcelona, to found in that city a Branch Academy. All the rules, the laws, and the judgments of Love were adopted, and the Floral Games commenced at Barcelona; but the civil war soon afterwards interrupted them. Henn in the middle ages, is introduced, not surrounded by the pomp of antiquity, but by the splendours of chivalry. Of the dilferent parts of this poem, one is called LI Rouvians de tote Chevalerie, because Alexander is represented in it, as the greatest and noblest of cavaliers. Another bears the title of Le Vwu du Paon, or The Vow of the Peacock, from its containing a description of the taking of the oath of chivalry, as it was practised at the court of the Macedonian hero. The high renown of this poem, wliich was universally read, and translated into several languages, has given the name of Alexandrine verse to the measure in which it is written ; a measure, which the French have denominated the heroic* Thus, in the twelfth century, the Romance-Wallon became a literary language, subsequent, by at least a hundred years, to the Roraance-provengal. The wars against the Albi- genses, which at this period caused an intercourse between the two nations into which France was divided, contributed probably to inspire a taste for poetry in that province, which was the most tardy in emerging from a state of barbarism, and which could boast, only towards the year 1220, a poetical literature consisting of lyrical pieces, of songs, virelays, * The poems mentioned above are written in versos of eight syllables, rhymed two and two, and preserving the distinction of masculine and feminine verses, but without regarding the rule, which the French poets of the present day observ'c, of using them alternately. Nearly all the Faljliaux are written in the same measure. The Alexandrine of twelve syllables, with the ccesura in the middle, divides itself general!}-, to the ear, into two lines of equal length. Formerly it was even more monoto- nous and laboured than at present, for the poets used frequently to leave a mute syllable in the middle of the verse, at the end of the caesura. The Italians, in their Leonine verses, and the Spanish, in their verses de arte iruiyor, have the same monotonous defect. It may be .observed in the commencement of the poem of Alexander. Qui vers de riche estoire veut entendre et oir, Pour prendre bon exemplc de prouesse cueillir, La vie d'Alcxandre, si com je I'ai trovee En plusieurs leus ecrite et i!e boche contue . . . . kc. 192 ON THE LITERATURE ballad?, and sirventes. The reciters of tales, and the poets, giving the name of Troubadour a French termination, called themselves TrouvSres.* With the exception of the difference of language, it may be thought that the Troubadour and the Trouvere, whose merit was pretty nearly equal ; who were equally ignorant or well-informed ; who both of tiiem spent their lives at courts, at which they composed their poems, and where they mingled with knights and ladies ; and who were both accompanied by their Jongleurs and minstrels, should have preserved the same resemblance in their productions. Nothing, however, can be more dissimilar than their poems. All that remains of the poetry of the Troubadours is of a lyrical character, while that of the Trouveres is decidedly epic. The Provencals, it is true, have appealed against the judgment which has been passed upon their poets, to whom the partizans of the Trouveres have denied all the merit of invention. The former maintain,! that it is evident that this charge is folse, from the long catalogue of the tales, romances, and fables, with which it was the duty of the Jongleurs to be acquainted, in order to entertain the great, and which have since either been lost or are preserved in the Langue d'Oih They further insist, that amongst the poems of the Trouveres, many are to be found of Provencal origin, which appears from the scene being laid in Provence ; and they maintain that the Trouveres contented themselves with translating the romances and fabliatix, of which they were not the inventors. It seem.s, however, exceedingly unac- countable, that the songs only of the Provencals, and the tales of the French, should have been preserved, if the genius of the two nations, in this respect, were not essentially distinct.^ * We have elseTvhere remarked, that in Proven9al, Trohairc is the nominative of Troubadors. + Among others, in the " Conseils au Jongleur" those of Giraud de Calanson, of which we have given an extract, and which are referred to the year 1210. — Vide Pappon, Lettres sur les Troubadours, p. 225 a 227. X [This must be taken with much qualification. A mere reference to the pages of Laborde's Essay on Music, will show that there are yet remaining, in manuscript, an immense number of hTic pieces of the northern school. It is hardly safe to found any very positive opinions on the absence of tales and romances from the manuscript collections of OF THE TltOUVERES* 193 The biography of tlie Troubadours has been frequently p;iven to the public. The lives which were published by Nostradamus, and the accounts collected by M. de Sainte- Palaye, and afterwards made known to the public by Millot, are, for the most part, highly romantic. They contain the history of their intrigues with noble ladies, of their sufferings, and of tlieir chivalric achievements. The lives of the Trou- veres are much more obscure. Scarcely have the names of any survived, nor is the history of the most celebrated indi- viduals known. If a few anecdotes have been preserved, they possess little either of interest or of adventure. Tiie Trouveres have left us many romances of chivalry, and fabliaux; and upon the former, the twelfth and thirteenth centuries muse rest their claims to glory. The spirit of chivalry, which burst forth in these romances ; the heroism of honour and love ; the devotion of the powerful to the weak; the noble purity of cliaracter, triumphing over all opposition, which is held forth as a model in these works ; and the supernatural fictions, so novel and so dissimilar to everything which either antiquity or later times had produced, display a force and a brilliancy of imagination, which, as nothing had prepared the way for them, seem quite inex- plicable. After searching, on all sides, for the inventors of that chivalric spirit which burns in the romances of the middle ages, we are astonished to observe how sudden was that burst of genius. AVe in vain attempt to discover, in the manners or in the traditions of the Germans, the birth of chivalry. That people, although they respected women and admitted them to tlieir counsels and their worship, had still more deference than tenderness for the sex. Gallantry was unknown to them ; and their brave, loyal, but rude manners, could never have contributed to the development of the the Troubadours yet preserved to us. It had often been a subject of ■wonder, that, notwithstanding the prevalence of Troubadour poetry in Catalonia, no remains of it were kno\N'n to be preserved there. Yet a recent visit to the archives of its churches, has shown that an immense quantity is yet in existence, though unpublished. Had it not been for the Hterary zeal of one individual (Mr. Edgar Taylor, in his work, called, Lai/s of the Minnesingers, or German Troubadours), the his- torian might now have asserted, without fear of contradiction that the Minnesimjers wrote no lyrical poetry. — Tr.l 194 GN THE LtTEKATUEE sentiment and heroism of 'chivalry. Their imaginatiou Avas gloomy, !Uid their supernatural world was peopled with malicious beings. The, most ancient poem of Germany, that of the Niebelungen, in the form in which we at present find it, is posterior to the first French romances, and may have been modified by tliem. But the manners it describes are not those of chivalry. Love acts no part in it ; for the war- riors are actuated by far different interests and far different passions from that of gallantry. Women are seldom intro- duced, and then not as objects of devotion ; while the men are not softened down and civilized by their union with them. Tlie inventors of the romances of chivalry, on the contrary, have united in painting their heroes, as endowed with the most brilliant qualities of all the nations with which they had come in contact ; with the fidelity of the Germans, the gallantry of the French, and the rieh imagination of the Ai'abians. It is to the last source, according to others, that we are to look for the primary origin of the romance of chivahy. At the first view, this opinion appears to be natural, and to be supported by many tacts. Some very ancient romances represent the system of chivalry as having been established amongst the Moors, as well as amongst the Christians, and introduce Moorish knights ; whilst all the reciters of tales, the historians, and the poets of Spain, represent the manners of the Moors as those of chivalry. Thus Ferragus, Ferrau, or Fier-a-bras, the bravest and the most loyal of the Moorish knights, figures in the Chronicle of Turpin, which preceded all the romances of chivalry. The same chronicle afiirms, that Charlemagne was dubbed a knight by Galafron, Emir (Admirantus,) or Saracen prince of Coleto, in Provence. So, Bernard Carpio, the most ancient hero of Christian Spain, signalized himself, chieiiy in the Moorish army, by his chivalrous deeds. The History of the civil wars of Grenada is a chivalric romance ; and, in the Diana of Montemayor, the only chivalric adventure which is contained in that pas- toral composition, is laid amongst the Moors, It is the history of Abindarraes, one of the Abencerrages of Grenada, 'and the beautiful Xarifa. The ancient Spanish romances, .and their oldest poem, the Cid, attribute the same manners to the Arabians, as early as the twelfth centmy. All that por- OF THE THOUYERES. 195 lion of Spain, whicH was occupied by the Moors, was covered with strong castles, built on all the heights ; and every petty prince, every lord, and even every chieh, exercised an inde- pendent power. There certainly existed in Spain, at least, a 'sort of Arabian feudalism, and a . spirit of liberty, very different from that of Islamism. The notions on the point of honour, which not only possessed a great influence over the system of chivalry, but even over our modern manners, rather belonged to the Arabians than to the German tribes. To tliem, we owe that spirit of vengeance which has been so religiously observed, and that fastidious sensibility to insults and affronts, which has induced men to sacrifice not only their own lives but those of their families, to wash out a stain upon their honour ; and which produced the revolt of the Alpuxarraof Grenada in the year 1568, and the destruc- tion of fifty thousand Moors, to avenge a blow given by D. Juan de Mendoza to D. Juan de Malec, the descendant of the Aben-IIumeyas. Devotion to the female sex appears to be still peculiar to those nations, whose blood has felt the ardent influence of a burning sun. They love with a passion and an excess, of which neither our ordinary life nor even our romances present any idea. They regard the habitations of their wives as a sanctuary, and a reflection upon them as a blasphemy. The honour of a man is deposited in the hands of her whom he loves. The period, when chivah-y took its rise, is precisely that, when the moral feelings of the Ara- bians attained their highest pitch of delicacy and refinement. Virtue was then the object of their enthusiasm ; and the purity of the language, and of the ideas of their authors, ought to make us ashamed of the corruption of our own. As a further proof, of all the nations of Europe, the Spanish are the most chivalric ; and they alone were the immediate scholars of the Arabians. But, if chivalry be of Arabic origin, whence comes it, that we have so few traces of it in their writings ? "Whence comes it, that we are not indebted to the Spanish and the Provencals, for our first romances ? and how does it happen, that the scene, in the earliest works of that kind, is laid in France or England ; countries, over which the Arabians had, certainly, never any influence ? 196 ON THE LITERATURE The romances of chivalry are divided into three distinct classes. They relate to three different epochs, in the early part of the middle ages ; and they represent three communi- ties, three bands of fabulous heroes, Avho never had commu- nication with each other. The origin and peculiar character of these three romantic mythologies, may, perhaps, throw considerable light on the first invention of chivalry. In the romances of chivalry of the first class, the exploits of Arthur, son of Pendragon, the last British king who defended England against the invasions of the Anglo-Saxons, are celebrated. At the court of this king and his wife Genevra, we find the enchanter. Merlin ; and to it belonged the institution of the Kound Table, and the knights, Sir Tristan of Leonois,* Lancelot of tlie Lake, and many others. The origin of this history may be traced in the Romance of Brutus, by Gasse, the text of which contains the date of 1155. Li this fabulous chronicle, both King Arthur, and the Round Table, and the prophet INIerlin, are to be found.f But it was the later romances which perfected this idea, and peopled the court of King Arthur with living beings, who were then as well known as the courtiers of Louis XIV. are to us. The Romance of Merlin, who was said to be the son of the devil and a Breton lady, wdio lived in the reign of * [The Lyonnese, a part of Cormrall, no longer visible above water. — Tr.] f The author of the Eomance of Brutus, who grounds himself upon the authority of more ancient histories, or rather versifies all kinds of traditions, and everj' historical and poetical ramour which was afloat at the time, represents Arthur and his tviclve peers as treating ■with the Emperor of the Komans : Artus fut assis a un dois, Environ lui contes et rois, Et sont doze hommes Wanes venus, Bien atornes et bien vestus, Deux et deux en ces palais vindrent Et deux et deux les mains se tindrent, Douze estoient, et douze Remains ; D'olive portent en lors mains. Petit pas ordinairement, Et vindrent moult avenamment, Parmi la sale trespass&rent, Al roi vindrent ; le salu&rent, De Rome, se disant, venoient, etc. Manusc. de la Biblioth, du Eoi. Cange 27. OF THE TROU VERES. 197 Vortiger, makes us acquainted with the wars of Uther and Pendragon against the Saxons, the birth and youth of Arthur, the miracles with which the prophet of chivahy sanctified the establishment of the Round Table, and the prophecies which he left behind him, and to which all the subsequent Romance writers have had recourse. The Romance of Saint- Greaal, which is written in verse, by Christian de Troyes, in the twelfth century, is a mixture of Breton chivalry and sacred history. The cup out of which the Messiah drank, during his crucifixion, was known to the Romance writers under the name of Saint Greaal. They suppose it to have been carried into England, where it came into the possession of the knights of the Round Table, Lancelot of the Lake, Galaar, his son, Percival of Wales, and Boort, of whom the history of each is given.* King Arthur, Gawain his nephew, * The original Eomance of Saint-Greaal may be found in the Eoyal Librarj', No. 7523. It is a very large manuscript volume, in 4to., written in double columns, and containing nearly the whole history of the Knights of the Round Table. It was afterwards translated into prose, and printed lit. Goth. Paris, 1516,/o. Christian de Troyes, who originally composed it in verse, may fairly be ranked amongst the best poets of the earlier ages of his language. There is both harmony in the verses, and sensibility in the narrative. At the commencement of the Romance, we find a mother, who, after having lost her husband and her two elder sons in battle, attempting to prevent her third child from taking up anns, and entering upon the career of glory, detains him in a .solitarj- castle, never allowing him to hear even the name of knight. The young gentleman, however, during one of his visits to the neigh- bouring peasantry, accidentally meets with some ladies and knights- errant, and is immediately seized with a love of adventure. After making his mother repeat to him the history of his family, he instantly sets ofi" to beg the honour of knighthood from the king. Biaux fils, fait elle, diex vos doint Joie ; plus que ne m'en remaint, Vous doint-il oil que vous aillez. .... Quand li varlet fut eloigne, Le giet d' une pierre menue Se regarda, et vit chalie « Sa m^re, au chief du pont arriSre, Et fat pasmee en tel mani^re Comme s' el fut pasmee morte. In another celebrated Eomance, by the same Christian de Troyes, the author, with vast simplicity, delivers his opinion, that France had arrived at that period of glory and science which so greatly distin- guished Rome and Greece. The passage is to be found at the 198 ox THE LITEBATtTRB Perlevaux, nephew of King Pecheur, jMeliot de Logres, arid Meliaus of Denmark, are the heroes of this illustrious coui-t, whose adventures are recounted by different Romance writers, with a curious mixture of simplicity, grandeur, gallantry and superstition. The Romance of Lancelot of the Lake was commenced by Christian de Troyes, but continued, after his death, by Godfrey de Ligny. The Romance of Tristan, son of King Meliadus of Leonois, the first which was written in prose, and which is most frequently cited by ancient authors, was written in 1190, by a Trouverc whose name is forgotten.* When we examine this numerous family of heroes, and the scenes in which their achievements are laid, we feel confirmed in the opinion that the Normans are the real inventors of this new school of poetry. Of all the people of ancient Europe, the Normans shewed themselves, during the period which preceded the rise of the Romance literature, to be the most adventurous and intrepid. Their incursions, from Denmark and Norway, on the coasts of France and England, in open vessels, in which they traversed the most dangerous seas, and sailing up the rivers, surprised nations in the midst of peace, who were not even aware of their existence, astonish and confound the imagination, by the audacity which they dis- commencement of the Eomance of Alexander, the descendant of King Arthur. Biblioth. manusc. 7498. 3. Ce nos ont nos livi-es appris Que Grtice eut de chevalerie Le premier loz, et de clcrgie (savoir) Puis Tint chevalerie k Eome Et ja de clergie la some, Qui ore est en France venue, Dieu doint qu'elle y soit retenue Et que 11 leus li abellisse, Tant qv.e ja de France ne isse L'onor qui s'y est arretee, Dont elle est prisee et dotee Mieux des Grejois et des Eomains. * In the edition of Paris, 1533, in small folio, the first chapter thus* commences : " Je Luce chevalier, seigneur du chasteau du Gast, voysin prochain de Salcsbiere en Angleterre, ay voulu rediger et mettre en volume I'histoire autentique des vertueux, nobler et glorieux fait du tffes- vaillant et renomme chevalier Tristan, fils du puyssant roy Meliadus de Leonnoys." The Chevalier Luce, however, is a new editor, and not thft original author. - OF THE TROUTERES. 199 play. Other tribes of Normans, passing through the wild deserts of Russia, sword in hand, and cutting their way through a perfidious and sanguinary nation, arrived at Con- stantinople, where they became the guards of the Emperor. They purchased, with their blood, the luxurious fruits of the South ; and, even at the present day, " the love of figs" is a phrase in Iceland, signifying the most vehement appetite ; an appetite which impelled their forefathers to the wildest ad- ventures. Others of the Normans established themselves in Russia ; and their unconquerable Jjravery, seconded by the natives, soon rendered them exceedingly powerful. They there founded the dynasty of the Warags or the Warangians, Avhich lasted until the invasion of the Tartars. A powerful colony of Normans, who established themselves in France, :ind gave their own name to Neustria, adopted the language and the laws of the people, in the midst of whom they lived ; without, however, abandoning their taste for foreign incur- sions. The conquests of these Normans astonish us by their haixlihood, and by the adventurous spirit which seems to have actuated every individual. At the commencement of the eleventh century, a few pilgrim adventurers, who were drawn by devotion and curiosity into the kingdom of Naples, suc- cessively conquered La Puglia, Calabria, and Sicily. Scarcely fifty years had elapsed from the period when the Normans first discovered the way to these distant lands, when Robert Guiscard beheld, in tlie same year, the Emperors of the East and the West flying before him. In the middle of the eleventli century^ a Duke of Normandy conquered England ; and at the commencement of the next century, Boemond, another Norman, founded the principality of Antioch. The adven- turers of the North were thus established in the centre of Syria. A people so active, so enterprising, and so intrepid, found no other delight in their leisure hours, than listening to tales of adventures, dangers and battles. Their ungovernable imaginations were dissatisfied, unless they were engaged in a game of hazard, at which the stakes were human lives. Nothing delighted them so much as to see some hero Avander- ing alone, combating alone, and gaining the victory by his single arm, as William Bras-de-fer, Osmond, Robert, Roger and Boemond had done, at a period which was then recent. 200 ON THE LITERATURE. Courage was valued by them, above every other quality. The other chivalric virtues were held in little estimation ; and the nation, whose great hero had assumed the surname of Guiscard (the cunning, or the thief), by no means punished treachery with the same severity as cowardice. Thus, in the romance of Lancelot, it is said that " his father had a neigh- bour, who lived near him in the county of Berry, then called the Desert. This neighbour's name was Claudas, and he was lord of Bourges and the adjacent country. Claudas was a king, chivalric and wise, but wonderfully treacherous."* Love, which is to be found in the poetry of every nation, formed a part of their narratives. But it was not love, with that mixture of constancy, purity, and delicacy which the Spanish Romance writers have thrown around it ; and which, when awakened amongst the nations of the South, is the most tender and ardent of all passions. Nor was the supernatural world represented with that beauty, which, from a better ac- quaintance with the fictions of the South, distinguishes the later romances. There were none of those genii, who dis- pensed, at will, all the wonders of art and nature ; who created enchanted palaces at their beck, while every thing that can dazzle or charm the senses, started up at the word of a magi- cian. They had only a kind of fays, powerful, yet dependant beings, who influenced the destinies of men, and yet had themselves, occasionally, need of human protection. Their existence had been an article in the creed of all the noi'thern nations, even during the reign of paganism. The priestesses of the sombre divinities of the woods were then theii* inter- pi'eters and their organs. Christianity had not as yet taught the Normans to disbelieve in the existence of these beings. It merely attributed to them another origin. The ancient worship was considered as a magical art ; and the powers, attributed to the fays, were a modification of those possessed by the devil. " At this time,"* says the author of the romance * Lancelot of Hie Lake, p. 1, chap. 1. Paris, 1533, 3 vols fol. lit Goth. + " En cclui temps, etoient appclccs fees toutes celles qui s'entremet- toicnt d'cnchantenicns et de charmes; et moult en estoit pour lors, principalement en la Grande-Brctaigne ; ct savoient la force et la vertu des paroles, des pierres, des herbes, parquoi elles estoient tenues en jeunessc, en bcautu et en grandcs richesscs : celle-ci avoit appris tout ce qu'clle savoit do nygromaucic dc Merlin le prophiite aux Anglois, qui OF THE TKOUVERES. 201 of Lancelot, " all those Avere called foys, who dealt in enchant- ments and charms ; and there were many of thera, principally in Great Britain. They knew the power and virtue of words, and of stones, and of herbs, whereby they preserved themselves in youth and beauty, and got great riches. They learned all the necromancy of Merlin, the English prophet, who possessed all the wisdom that the devil can bestow. The said Merlin was a man engendered between a woman and the devil, and he was called the fatherless child." The heroes of chivalry were never tired of roaming through France, Brittany, England, Scotland, and Ireland. Many kingdoms are named ; and the kings of Logres, of Leonois, of CornAval!, and twenty other places, are introduced ; but all their territories might be comprised within a very small circle. The provinces of France, whither the scene is often trans- ported, are generally those Avhich, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, belonged to the English, or which were well known to that people. We meet with no knightly adventures in that portion of France where the Langue d'Oc was spoken, nor in the countries beyond Paris. Sometimes the Romans are ob- scurely mentioned, as if that nation still existed ; but the knights never passed into Italy, nor do any of the chivalry of that country ever make their appearance amongst them.* Neither Spain nor the Moors ai'e mentioned, nor is any notice taken of Germany and the inland countries of the North. The most perfect ignorance, indeed, of every other part of the world, is manifested. In addition to their native country, • s^ut toute la sapience qui des diables peut descendre. Or fut lo dit Merlin ung homme engendre en femme- par ung diable, et fut appele I'enfant sans p^re." Part I. fol. 6. * " Durant ce temps estoient le roy de Cornouailles et celui de Leonnois subjects au roi de Gaule. Cornouailles rendoit au roy de Gaul cent jouvenceaux et cent damoyselles, et cent chevaux de prix, et le roy de Leonnois autant. Et tenoit le roy de Gaule de la seigneurie de Rome. Et saclicz que'alors rendoient tribut a Kome toutes les terres du monde. N'en Gaule n'avoit encore nul chreticn, ains estoient tons payens. Le roy que adoncques estoit en Gaule, estoit Maroneus (no doubt, Maroreus), que moult estoit prud'homme de sa loi. Et apr^s sa mort, vint saint Remy en France, que convertit Clovis il la loi chrctienne." {Tristan de Leonnois, fol. 5.) This passage is copied from the edition of Paris, 1533 ; but the oldest editions are modern when compared with the manuscripts, and bear evident traces of more recent times. It is only in the manuscripts of the Royal Library, that we find the unmixed and genuine picture of the twelfth century. VOL. I. N 202 ON TUE LITERATURE the Romance writers appear to have been only acquainted with the places mentioned in Scri[)ture. Joseph of Arimathea passes, without any difficulty, from Judroa to L-eland ; and the kingdom of Babylon, the native country of the mother of Tristan de Leonois, is represented to have bordered upon Brit- tany. The countries within which the Korman Romance writers confined themselves, did not exist at the period when they wrote, and, at no time, resembled the picture which is there given. The gross chronological errors which they committed, prevent our referring their fables to any one period of history ; and the political state Avhich they describe, in all probability, never had any existence. In their fictions, the}' yet appear to have proceeded upon some fixed notions ; for the geography of their romances is not altogether so confused and fantastic as that of Ariosto. The wanderings of their heroes are not absolutely impossible, and might, perhaps, be traced upon the map ; unlike those of Orlando, of Rinaldo, :md of Astolpho. The political state and the independence of the little princes of Armorica, had some foundation in his- tory. A confused account is preserved of a league amongst the people of Ai-morica, for their common defence against the barbarians, at the period of the fall of the "Western Empire, which coincides with the reign of Arthur, and the expiring efforts of the Britons to repel the Saxons.* The scene in which these romances are always laid, appears to leave Httle doubt as to their Norman origin. It may, per- .haps, be asked why the Normans have always chosen foreigners for their heroes ? and v/hy, if they were the inventors of the romances of chivalry, they have not attached themselves to the real chivalric achievements of their own leaders ? "We have, however, seen that such an attempt was made, and that the Mou, or Raoul, of the Normans, was written at the same * The league of Armorica, or the maritime countries situated between the mouth of the Seine and of the Loire, was entered into, in the disas- trous reign of Honorius, about 420, and continued until the subjection .of those provinces by Clovis, posterior to the year 497. The long con- tests between the Anglo-Saxons and the Britons, for the possession of England, lasted from 455 to 582. Arthur, Prince of the Silures, who was elected king by the British, appears to have succeeded Yortimer and Yortigern, who long led the British armies to victory. His reign jmust therefore be placed about the end of the fifth century ; and, if he ever lived at all, he must have been the contemporary of Clovis. OF THE TKOUYERES. 203 .period as the romance oiSnitus, with the intention of exalt- ing the fume of the founder of the Duchy of Normandy, and of his ancestors and companions in arms. We may conclude that this romance did not display much talent. It made little impression, and the attempt was never imitated. But, when the romances of Saint Greaal, of Merlin, of Tristan de Leonois, and of Lancelot of the Lake, appeared, they furnished models for all subsequent writers. The characters were ready formed to their hands, and all that remained for them to do, was to vary the adventures. It is possible, too, that the Normans, who were enemies of the conquered Saxons, regarded them- selves as the avengers of the vanquished Britons, whose glory they thus wished to re-establish. In the second class of chivalric romances,, we find the Amadises ; but whether these romances belong to French literature has been reasonably disputed. The scene is placed nearly in the same countries as in the romances of the Round Table ; in Scotland, England, Brittany, and France. But the exact spots are less decidedly marked, and there is a want of locality about them ; while the names are generally borrowed from prior romances. The times are absolutely fabulous. The reigns of Perion, king of France, of Languines, king of Scotland, and of Lisvard, king of Brittany, correspond with no period of history ; nor do the adventures of the Amadises refer to any revolution, or gi'eat public event. Amadis of Gaul, the first of these I'omances, and the model of all the rest, is claimed, by the people to the south of the Pyrenees, as the work of Vasco Lobeira, a Portuguese, who lived between 1290 and 1325. If, indeed, this be the production of a Portuguese, it is remarkable that he has laid the scene in France, precisely in the same country wliich the romances of the Pound Table have selected ; that he has never led his hero into Spain, nor introduced any adventures with the Moors, the contests with whom possessed the highest interest for every Spaniard ; and, lastly, that he should only differ from his predecessors in his superior delicacy and tenderness, and in a somewhat greater mysticism upon the topic of love. If, on the contrary, as the French contend, Amadis of Gaul was only worked up, by Lobeira, from a French romance of still higher antiquity, it is strange that the latter should have had no connexion with the romances of the Round Table, and N 2 204 OS THE LITEUATDRE that it slionltl disiilay a new set of characters, and a totally different fable.* No doubt exists with regard to the continuations, and the numerous imitations of the Amadis of Gaul. All these romances, as the Araadis of Greece, and the others of that name, Florismart of Hircania, Galaor, Florestan, and Es- plandian, are incontestably of Spanish origin, the character of which they bear. Oriental ornaments supersede the ancient simplicity of style ; the imagination is extravagant, and yet weak ; love is refined away ; valour is changed into rhodo- montade ; religion assumes a more conspicuous place, and the persecuting spirit of fanaticism begins to display itself. These works were in their highest repute, at the time Avhen Cervantes produced his inimitable Don Quixote ; and, when we arrive at that epoch of Spanish literature, we shall again refer to them. The third class of chivalric romances is entirely French, although their celebrity is chiefly due to the renowned Italian poet, Avho availed himself of their fictions. The court of Charlemagne and his Paladins are the subjects of these romances. The history of that monarch, the most brilliant of all during the middle ages, excited the astonishment and ad- miration of subsequent times. Plis long reign, his prodigious activity, his splendid victories, his wars with the Saracens, the Saxons, and the Lombards, his influence in Germany, Italy, and Spain, and the re-establishment of the empire of the West, rendered his name popular throughout Europe, long after the achievements, by which he had signalized him- self, were forgotten. He was a brilliant star in that dark firmament ; the true hero of chivalry, to whom a thousand fantastic adventures might be ascribed. It is diflicult to fix the precise period of these fables. The most ancient monument of the marvellous history of Charle- magne, is the pseudonymous Chronicle of Turpin, or Tilpin, Archbishop of Rheims. It is universally admitted, that the * I have merely looked at the Spanish Amadis, printed at Seville, in 1547, in folio, and the French Amadis, translated by Nicholas do Her- heray from the Spanish, folio, 1540. We must look amongst the Ma- nuscripts, both for the original of this romance in French verse, and for the genuine work of Vaseo Lobeira, which we scarcely recognise in the Spanish editions of the sixteenth century. OF THE TRO UTERES. 205 name of this prelate, avIio is supposed to be contemporary with Charlemagne, is fictitious ; and some writers have dated this imposture as far back as the tenth century.* As the Chronicle is written in Latin, the greater or less purity of the language does not enable us to distinguish the period of its composition. The most ancient manuscripts, preserved in the Royal and Vatican libraries, appear to be of the eleventh or twelfth centuries. The translations, imitations, and con- tinuations, commenced only in the reign of Philip Augustus, whom liis courtiers wished to flatter, by comparing him to Charlemagne. But, it is by internal evidence, that we must endeavour to ascertain the age of this fabulous chronicle, which bears, no doubt, the impress of the times in which it was written. The most striking characteristic of this romance, and indeed of all the others to which it has given birth, is the enthusiastic feeling which it displays with regard to the holy wars, of which we observe no traces in the romances of the Round Table. But, what is scarcely less remarkable, is the frequent mention of the wars and the Moors of Spain, and of every thing Spanish, which is not at all in accordance with the spirit of the first crusade, and which has given rise to con- jectures that this work was the production of a monk of Bar- celona. The Chronicle of Archbishop Turpin contains only the history of Charlemagne's last expedition into Spain, whither he was miraculously invited by St. James, bishop of Galicia ; his victories over the Moorish king, Argoland ; the single combats of Orlando and Ferragus ; the death of Orlando at Roncevalles, and the revenge of Charlemagne. Almost all the heroes, who afterwards made so splendid a * I have some doubts ■with regard to this. In the introduction, Turpin says, that his friend Leoprand, to whom his book is addressed, Tras unable to find all the details he wanted, i-especting Charlemagne, in tlie Chronicle of St. Denis. The book is, therefore, posterior to that ■work, -which is thought to have been commenced in the reign of Louis VII. In the ISth chapter it is said, that Charlemagne gave Portugal to the Danes and Flemish; terrevi Portugallorum Danis et Flandins. But that name is only of equal date with the monarchy, in the twelfth century. The Chronicle of Turpin is divided into thirty- two chapters, and only occupies twenty-five folio pages, in the edition of Echardt. Germanicarum rerum celebriorcs vetuatioresque Clirono- Qraphi, 1 vol. fol. Francf. 1566. 206' ON THE LITERATUnD figure in Ariosto, arc named and described in this romance ;• from which subsequent writers have borrowed the outline of their fables. If it be true that manuscripts of the Chronicle of Turpin are in existence, written in the eleventh century, I should confidently refer its composition to the time when Alfonso VI. king of Castile and Leon, conquered Toledo and New Castile, in 1085. He was accompanied on this expedition by numbers of Fi'ench knights, who passed the Pyrenees for the sake of combating the infidels, under the banners of so great a king, and of beholding the Cid, the hero of the age. The war against the Moors of Spain originated in a very different sort of religious zeal, from that which, twelve years later, lighted up the flame of the first crusade. The object of the former was, to succour Christian brethren and neighbours, who adored the same God and avenged common injuries, of which the author seems to be unwilling that the remembrance should perish. But the design of the crusade was to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, to recover the inheritance of the Messiah, and to succour God rather than man ; as a Troubadour, whom we have already cited, expresses himself. This zeal for the Holy Sepulchre, and this enthusiastic devotion directed to the East, are not to be found in the Chronicle of Archbishop Turpin, which is, nevertheless, full of ardent fanaticism, and loaded with miracles. If this Chronicle, to Avhich Ariosto is so fond of alluding, and which has received from him its poetical celebrity, be anterior to the first romances of the Round Table, yet the romances of the court of Charlemagne, which are imitations of the former, are decidedly of a later date. The Chronicle of Turpin, however fabulous it may be, can scarcely be con- sidered as a romance. ■ We are presented, alternately, with incredible martial achievements, the fruits of monkish cre- dulity ; and with miracles, the result of monkish superstition. We are, also, entertained with enchantments. The sword of Orlando, Durandal, or Durindana cannot strike without wounding ; the body of Ferragus is rendered invulnerable by enchantments ; and the terrible horn of Orlando, with which he blew a blast, at Roncevalles, for succour, is heard as far as Saint- Jean-Pied-de-Port, where Charlemagne lies with his, army ; but the traitor Ganelon prevents the monarch fi'oiD- OF THE TROUVERES* 207 repairing to the as'sistance of liis nephew. Orlando, aban- doning all hope, attempts to break his sword, to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy, and being stained with Christian blood. He strikes it against trees and rocks, but nothing can resist the enchanted blade, when wielded by so powerful an arm. The trees are cut down and the rocks fly into splinters, but Durandal still remains unbroken. At last, Orlando drives it up to the hilt in a hard rock, and bending it violently, it breaks in his hand. He again sounds his horn, not in hope of succour, but to announce to the Christians that their hour is come ; and he blows so violent a blast, that his veins burst, and he expires, weltering in his blood. This is extremely poetical, and indicates a brilliant imagi- nation ; but to make it into a chivalric romance, it would be necessary to introduce women and love ; subjects which are entirely excluded. The author of the Chronicle of Turpin had no intention of laying claim to the fame of a creative genius, or of amusing the idle, by tales obviously fictitious. He presented to the French all the wonderful facts, which he related, as purely historical ; and the reader of such fabulous legends was accustomed to give credit to still more marvellous narratives. Many of these fixbles, were, therefore, again brought forward in the ancient Chronicle of Saint Denis, the compilation of which was commenced by the command of the Abbe Suger, minister to Louis the young (1137 — 1180,) although the work was written without any idea of imposing fictions upon the world, and as an authentic history of the times. Thus we find that it contains, in an abridged form, the same account as in Turpin, of Orlando, and his duel with Ferragus ; of the twelve peers of France ; the battle of Koncevalles, and the wars of Charlemagne against the Saracens. The portrait of the monarch is borrowed, almost word for word, from the Chronicle of Turpin. — " He was a man of strong heart and great stature, but not too great ; seven feet, of the measure of his own foot, was he in height ; his head was round ; his eyes large, and so clear, that, when he was angry, they sparkled like carbuncles. He had a large straight nose, rising a little in the middle ; his hair was brown, and his face fresh- coloui'ed, pleasant, and cheerful. He was so strong that he could easily straighten three horseshoes at once, and raise an 208 ox THE LITKRATDRE armed knight on tlie palm of his hand from the earth. Juy- eiisp, his sword, coukl cut an armt'd knight in two," &c.* But all these marvcll(jus narratives, which then passed for history,t furnished materials for the romances at the conclu- sion of the crusades, which had introduced a knowledge of the East, at the end of the thirteenth century, and during the reign of riiilip the Bold (1270-1285). Adene/, the king- at-arms of this monarch, wrote the romances of Bertha-au- grand-pied, the mother of Charlemagne, Ogier the Dane, and Cleomndis, in verse ; and Iluon de Villeneuve, the ro- mance of Renaud de Montauban. Tlie four sons of Aymon, Iluon de Bordeaux, Uoolin de Mayence, Morgante the Giant, Maugis the Christian Enchanter, and many other heroes of this illustrious court, have found, either at that or a subse- quent period, chroniclers, who have celebrated the characters and the events of that glorious age, which has been conse- crated by the divine poem of Ariosto. The invention of this brilliant system of romantic chivalry was, however, perfected as early as the conclusion of the * " Homs flit de cors fort, et de grant estature, et ne mie de trop grant ; sept piez avoit de long a la mesure de ses piez ; le chief avoit roont, Ics yeux grans et gros, et si clers que quant il etoit courroucies, ils resplendissoient ainsi comme escarbouclcs ; le nez avoit grant et droit, ct un petit hault au milieu, brune chevelure, la face vermeille, lie ct lialigre ; de si grant force estoit, que il estendoit trois fers de chevaux tous ensemble Itgierement, et levoit un chevalier anne sur sa paume de terrc jusques amont. De joyeuse, s'epee, coupoit un chevalier tout arme," &c. i" AVhen the ancient romance writers touch upon the subject of the court of Charlemagne, they assume a more elevated tone. They are not then repeating fables, but celebrating their national historj', and the glory of their ancestors ; and they claim the right of being heard ■with respect. The romance of Gerard de Vienne, one of the Paladins of Charlemagne, thus commences : {Manuscript in the Royal Library, 749S.3.) Une chanson plait nos, que je vos die Delhaut estoire, et de grand baronie ; Meillor ne pent etre dite ne oie. Cette n'est pas d'orgueil et de follie, De trahison ou de losengerie, Mais du Bar'nage que Jesus b^nie, Del plus tri>s tier qui oncques fut en vie. A Saint Denys a la maitre abbayie Dedans un livre de grant anciennerie Trovons cerit, etc. OF THE TROUVKRES. 209 tliirteenth century ; and all its characteristics are to be found in the romances ot" Adenez. The knights no longer wan- dered, like the cavaliers of the Round Table, through the dark ibrests of a semi-barbarous country, covered with mists and white with frosts. The whole universe was exposed to their eyes. The Holy Land, indeed, was tlie grand object ■of their pilgrimages ; but, by that means, they established an intercourse with the extensive and wealtliy kingdoms of the East. Their geography, like all their information, was much confused. Their voyages from Spain to Carthage, and froni Denmark to Tunis, were accomplished with a facility and rapidity, even more surprising than the enchantments of Maugis or Morgana. These fantastic voyages furnished the Romance writers with opportunities of adorning their nar- rative with the most splendid descriptions. All the luxury and perfumes of the most highly-favoured countries were at their command. The pomp and magnificence of Damascus, of Bagdad, and of Constantinople, swelled the triumph of their heroes. But the most precious of all their acquisitions, was the imagination of the people of the South and the East ; that brilliant and playful faculty, so well calculated to give animation to the sombre mythology of the North. The J'a;/. a Mais je croy qu'en Tuniversel sathan. N'en y a point encore ung tel ; Haro, tu me fais enrager Qui que I'ait en terre con9u, Quand il faut que tels mots escoute. Je ne sjay d'oil 11 est issu, berhh. Et pourquoi ? OF THE TROUViRES. 237 SATAN. Because I fear He ■will make my kingdom less. Leave him in the wilderness, And let us return to Hell To Lucifer our tale to tell. And to ask his sound advice. BERITH. The imps are ready in a trice ; Better escort cannot be. LUCIFEK. Is it Satan that I see. And Berith, coming in a passion ] ASTAROTir. Master ! let me laj- the lash on. Here's the thing to do the deed. LUCIFER. Please to moderate your speed. To lash behind and lash before ye. Ere you hear them tell their ston'. Whether shame they bring or glory. As soon as the devils have given an account to their sove- reign, ot" their observations and their vain efforts to tempt Jesus, Astaroth throws himself upon them with his imps, and lashes them back to earth from the infernal regions. The example which was set by the author of the Mystery of the Passion, was soon followed by a crowd of imitators, whose names, for the most part, have been lost. The Mys- tery of the Conception, and the Nativity of our Lord, and of the Resurrection, are amongst the most ancient of these. The legends of the saints were, in their turn, dramatized and pre- pared for the theatre : and, in short, the whole of the Old Testament was brought upon the stage. In the same mys- SATHAlf. LUCIFER. ' J'aper50V Sathan et Berith, Pour ce que je double Qui reviennent moult empSches, Quen la fin j'en sole desert. LaissonS'le ici en ce de'^ert AbxAROTH. Et nous en courons en enfer ^' ^'°"s ^^^^^^ ^^'^^^ ^oi^^* torches, JS'ous conseiller a Lucifer, ^ '^^i' ^^^ mstrumens tous prfits. Sur lea cas que je lui veuLx dire. lucifer. BERITH. JTe te ha,te pas de si prSs, A frapper derritre et devant ; Les dyablcs vous veulent conduire, Ouir faut leur rapport avant. Sans avoir meillcur sauf conduit. S9avoir s'il nous porte dommage. 238 ON TUE LITERATURE tery, the characters were often introduced at various stages of life, as infants, youths, and old men, represented by differ- ent actors ; and in the margin of some of the mysteries we find, Here enter the second, or the third, Israel or Jacob. When the mystery was founded on historical facts not gene- rally known, the poets exercised their own invention more freely, and did not hesitate to mingle comic scenes in very serious pieces. Thus, when they exhibited the saints tri- umphing over temptation, and their contempt for the allure- ments of the flesh, they often introduced language and scenes quite at variance with the serious nature of these sacred dramas. The theatre, on which the mysteries were represented, was always composed of an elevated scaffold, divided into three parts ; heaven, hell, and the earth between them. It was in this central portion that Jerusalem was sometimes represented, or occasionally the native country of some saint or patriarch, whither angels descended or devils ascended, as their interfe- rence in mundane affairs was caUed for. In the higher and the lower parts of the theatre, the proceedings of the Deity and Lucifer might be discerned. The pomp of these repre- sentations continued increasing for the space of two centuries; and, as great value Avas set on the length of the piece, some mysteries could not be represented in less than forty days. The Clercs de la Bazoche, or Clerks of the Revels, who were an incorporated society at Paris, and whose duty it was to regulate the public festivities, at length resolved to amuse the people with some dramatic representations themselves. But, as the fraternity of the Passion had obtained, in 1402, a royal licence to represent mysteries, the clerks were com- pelled to abstain from that kind of exhibition, and they, there- fore, invented a new one, which differed in name, rather than in substance, from the former. These were the 3IoralitieSy which were also borrowed from the historical parts, or the parables of the Bible, as that of the Prodigal Son. Sometimes they were purely allegorical compositions, in which God and the devil were introduced, accompanied by the virtues or vices; In a morality entitled Le Men advise et le mal advise, almost forty allegorical characters appear, and, amongst others, the different tenses of the verb to reign — a.?, Regno, Megnavi, and Megnabo. In the course of this work, we shall OF THE TROUVilRES. 239 have occasion to notice, in speaking of the Spanish drama, even dui-ing the times of Lope de Vega and Calderon, the Autos sacramentales, which were allegorical pieces, evidently of the same nature as the ancient MoraUties. It is to the Clerks de la Bazoche, likewise, that we owe the invention of comedy. Whilst the fraternity of the Passion conceived themselves bound only to present edifying pieces to the public, the Clerks de la Bazoche, who did not consider themselves as ecclesiastics, mingled with their moralities, farces, of which the sole object was to excite the laughter of the spectators. All the gaiety and vivacity of the French character was displayed, in the ludicrous representations of such real adventures as had perhaps been the conversation of the town. The versification was managed with great care, and one of these farces, the Avocat Pathelin, which was represented for the first time in 1480, and has been attributed to an ecclesiastic of the name of Pierre Blanchet de Poitiers, may still be considered as a model of French gaiety and comic powers. None of these farces were more successful than this, and none have so well maintained their celebrity. It was translated into Latin, in 1512, by Alexander Connibert, and was imitated by the famous Reuchlin. Brueys remo- delled it, and it was again brought forward in 1706, and is represented to the present day. In the reign of Charles VI., likewise, and at the com- mencement of the fifteenth century, a third comic company was established, the En fans sans souci, who, under the command of the chief, le Prince des sots, undertook to make the French laugh at their own follies, and introduced per- sonal, and even political satire upon the stage. Thus, every species of dramatic representation was revived by the French. This was the result of that talent for imita- tion, which seems peculiar to the French people, assisted by a pliancy of thought, which enables them to conceive new characters, and a correctness of intellect, which always car- ries them directly to the object at which they aim, or to the effect which they wish to produce. All these discoveries, which led in other countries to the establishment of the Ro- mantic drama, were known in France more than a century beibre the rise of the Spanish or Italian theatre, or even before the classical authors were first studied and imitated. 210 THE TR0UVERE3. At tlie end of the sixteenth century, these new pursuits acquired a more immediate influence over the literature of France. They wrought a change in its spirit and its rules ; but without altering the national character and taste, which had been manifested in the earliest productions of the Trou- veres. It is here that the history of the literature of France has its commencement ; and, at the same period, we shall abandon it. But, in examining the literature of the South, which, from the Romance languages, has been called the liomantlc, it was necessary to bestow some attention upon one of the most celebrated of the romance dialects, and one, too, which boasts of poets who display so superior a fertility of invention. If it should be thought deficient in sensibility, in enthusiasm, in ardour, or in depth and truth of thought, it has yet surpassed all other languages in its inventive genius. "We are now about to proceed to the History of Italian Poetry, fi-om its rise, to the present times. Yet, even there, we shall recognise the spirit of the Trouveres in the majestic allegories of Dante, who, although he has infinitely surpassed it, has yet taken the Romance of the Rose for his model. "We shall, likewise, trace the same spirit in the tales of Boccaccio, which are frequently nothing more than the ancient fabliaux. In the poems of Ariosto, also, and in all those chivalric epics, for which the romances of Adenez and his contemporaries prepared the way, the Trouveres will meet us. In the Spanish school, as late as the seventeenth century, we shall discover imitations of the ancient mysteries of the Trouveres : and Lope de Vega, and Calderon, wull remind us of the fra- ternity of the Passion. Even amongst the Portuguese, Vasco Lobeira, the author of Amadis, seems to have been educated in this early French school. It is not, therefore, without sufiicient reason, that, in a View of the Literature of the South, we have thought ourselves compelled to bestow some attention on the language, the spirit, and the poetry of our ancestoi*s. CHAPTER IX. ON THE ITALIAN LANGUAGE — DASTE. The language of Provence had attained its highest degree of cultivation ; Spain and Portugal had already produced more than one poet ; and the Lamjue iV Oil, in the north of France, was receiving considerable attention, while the Italian was not yet enumerated amongst the languages of Europe, and the richness and harmony of its idiom, gradually and obscurely formed amongst the populace, were not as yet appreciated. But a great poet, in the thirteenth century, arose to immortalize this hitherto neglected tongue, and, aided by his single genius, it soon advanced with a rapidity which left all competition at a distance. The Lombardian Uuchy of Benevento, comprising the greater part of the modern kingdom of Naples, had preserved, under independent princes, and surrounded by the Greeks and the Saracens, a degree of civilization, which, in the earlier part of the middle ages, was unexampled throughout the rest of Italy. Many of the fine arts, and some branches of science, were cultivated there with success. The schools of Salerno communicated to the AVest the medical skill of the Arabs, and the commerce of Amalfi, introduced into those fertile pro- vinces, not only wealth, but knowledge. From the eighth to the tenth century, various historical works, written, it is true, in Latin, but distinguished for their fidelity, their spirit, and their fire, proceeded from the pen of several men of talent, natives of that district, some of whom clothed their compo- sitions in hexameter verses, which, compared with others of the same period, display superior facility and fancy. The influx of foreigners consequent upon the invasion of the Isorraan adventurers, who founded a sovereignty in Apulia, was not sufiiciently great to effect a change in the language ; and, under their government, the Italian or Sicilian tongue 242 ON THE LITERATURE first assumed a settled form. The court of Palermo, early in the twelfth century, abounded in riches, and consequently indulged in luxurious habits ; and there the first accents of the Sicilian muse were heard. There, too, at the same period, the Arabs acquired a degree of influence and credit which they have never possessed in any other christian court. The palace of William the First, like those of the monarchs of the East, was guarded by Mahometan eunuchs. From them he selected his favourites, his friends, and some- times even his ministers. To attach themselves to the arts and to the various avocations which contribute to the pleasures of life, was the peculiar province of the Saracens, by whom half of the island was still occupied. When Frederick the Second, at the end of the twelfth century, succeeded to the throne of the Norman monarchs, he transported numerous colonies of Saracens into Apulia and the Principality, but he did not banish them from either his service or his court. Of them his army was composed : and the governors of his pro- vinces, whom he denominated Justiciaries, were chosen almost exclusively from their number. Thus was it the destiny of the Arabians, in the East as well as in the West of Europe, to communicate to the Latin nations their arts, their science, and their poetry. From the history of Sicily, we may deduce the effects pro- duced by Arabian influence on the Italian, or as it was then considered, the Sicilian poetry, with no less certainty than that with which we trace its connexion, in the county of Bar- celona, and in the kingdom of Castile, with the first efforts of the Provencal and Spanish poets. William the First, an effeminate and voluptuous prince, forgot, in his palace of Palermo, amidst his Moorish eunuchs, in the song and the feast, those commotions which agitated his realms. The regency of the kingdom devolved, at his decease, upon his wadow, who intrusted the government to Gayto Petro, the .chief of the eunuchs, connected with the Saracens of Africa. All the commerce of Palermo was monopolized by the infidels. They were the professors of every art, and the inventors of every variety of luxury. The nation accommodated itself to their customs ; and in their public festivals, it was usual for Christian and Moorish women to sing in concert, to the music of their slaves. We may safely conclude that on these occa- OF THE ITALIANS. 243 sions each party adopted their mother tongue ; and that the Italian females who responded, in melancholy cadence, to the tambours of their Moorish attendants, would, in all proba- bility, adapt Sicilian words to African airs and measures.* A complete separation had now taken place between the ordinary language of the country and the Latin tongue. Of tlie latter, the women were ignorant. The general adoption of the language to which their delicacy gave new graces, and in wliich alone they were accessible to the gallantry of their admirers, was a necessary result. It was now submitted to rules, and enlivened by that sensibility of expression, of which a dead and pedantic language ceases to be susceptible. For a century and a half, in fact, it would seem that the Sicilians con- fined themselves to the composition of love-songs alone. These primitive specimens of Italian poetry have been studiously preserved, and they have been analyzed by M. Ginguene, with equal talent and learning. To his work, such of our readers as may wish to obtain a more particular knowledge of these relics, will have satisfaction in referring ; nor can they apply to a better source of information, for more complete and profound details, on the subject of Italian poetry, than can possibly find a place in a condensed history of the gene- ral literature of the South. The merit of amatory poetry consists, almost entirely, in its expression. Its warmth and tenderness of sentiment is injured by any exertion of mere ingenuity and fancy, in the pursuit of which the poet, or the lover, seems to lose sight of his proper object. Little more is required from him than to represent with sensibility and with truth, the feelings which are common to all who love. The harmony of language is the best means of expressing that of the heart. But this principle seems almost entirely to have escaped the notice of the first Sicilian and Italian writers. The example of the Arabs and of the Provencals induced them to prefer ostentation to simplicity, and to exercise a false and affected taste in the * On the f^'^ath of William the First of Sicily, says Hugo Falcandus, a celebrated contemporary historian, " Per totum autem hoc triduum mulieres, nobilesque matronae, maxime -S'arrtcew Dido, A noi vencndo per V acre maligno ; Si forte fu r aflettuoso grido. animal grazioso e benigno, Che visitando vai per F acre perso Noi, che tignemmo 1 niondo di sanguigno, Se fosse amicD il Re dell' universo, Noi pregheremmo lui per la tua pace, Da ch' hai pieta, del nostra mal perverso. Di quel ch' udire e che parlar ti place, Noi udircmo, e parleremo a vui. Mentre che 1' aura, come fa, si face. * Inferno. f lb. canto vii. J Jb. canto viii. § lb. canto ix. \\ lb. csjito x. v. 23. Q2 252 O* TUE LITEUATURE the Ghibelines were about to sacrifice, to secure their own safety. Farinata was one of those great characters, of which antiquity, or the middle ages, alone, afford us any example. Controlling, with tlie hand of a master, the course of events, as well as the minds of men, destiny itself seems to submit to his will, and the very torments of hell are insufficient to dis- turb the haughty tranquillity of his spirit. He is admirably portrayed in the conversation which Dante has assigned to him. Every passion is concentrated in his attachment to his country and his party; and the exile of the Ghibelines inflicts upon him far greater torments than the burning couch upon which he is reposing. On descending into the seventh circle, Dante perceives a vast pool of blood, into which tyrants and homicides are plunged. Centaurs, armed with darts, traverse its margin, and compel the wretches, who raise their heads above the surface, to hide them again in the bloody stream. Proceeding farther, he finds those who have committed suicide, suffering transformation into the shape of trees, and retaining nothing of their human character but the power of speech, and the sense of pain. As a punishment for having once turned their hands against themselves, they are deprived of all capacity of action. On a plain of scorching sand, and exposed to showers of fire, the poet finds a company of shades, whose disgraceful vices had incurred this penalty; but who, in many respects, were entitled to his affection and respect. Amongst these, he distinguishes Brunette Latino, his instructor in eloquence and poetry; Guido Guerra, Jacopo Rusticucci, and Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, the most virtuous and disinterested republicans of Florence, in the preceding century. Dante observes : If from the fire I had been sheltered, doivii amidst them straight I then had cast me ; nor my guide, I deem, Would hare restrain'd my going : but that fear Of the dire burning vanquish"d the desire, Which made me eager of their 'wish.'d embrace. I then began : " I am a countrj-man of yours, Trho still Affectionate have utter'd, and have heard. Your deeds and names renown'd."* * Inferno, canto xvi. v. 47. OP THE ITALIANS. 253 He proceeds to give them some intelligence of the affairs of Florence, in whose prosperity these victims of eternal tor- ture still continue to take the deepest interest. It is not our design to follow the steps of the poet from circle to circle, from gulf to " lower gulf," To render the description of these terrible scenes at all supportable, we must call to our aid the magical powers of style, and of verse ; that vehement and picturesque genius, which places distinctly before our eyes the new world, summoned into being at the will of the poet. Above all, we cannot dispense with that interest in the personages introduced upon the scene, of which Dante availed himself, when, in anticipation of the Divine judgments, he described individuals well known to his fellow-citizens by their vices, and by the recent conse- quences of their crimes, as inhabiting the various mansions of hell, recognizing the Florentine bard, and losing, for a mo- ment, the sense of their own agonies, in the remembrance of their country and their friends. As this great work does not possess any regular action, and derives no support from the enthusiasm of human passion, it is impossible to take any lively interest in the hero of the story; if, indeed, Dante is not to be considered rather as the mere spectator of the pictures conjured up by his imagination, than as the hero of his own tale. It cannot, however, be said that the poem is altogether divested of dramatic interest. Unassisted and alone, we see Dante advance into the midst of demons and condemned souls. The Divine will has, it is true, opened to him the gates of Hell ; and Virgil, who bears the mandate of Omnipotence, attends his steps. But the de- mons are not the less active in opposing, with their utmost malignity, the superior decrees of fate. At one time, they violently close the gates of Hell upon him ; at another, they rush towards him, with the design of tearing him in pieces. Tliey deceive him with false information, and endeavour to lead him astray in the infernal labyrinth. We are sufficiently absorbed in his narrative, to feel interested in the dangers to which he is perpetually exposed ; and the truth of his descrip- tions, added to the deep horror inspired by the objects which he depicts, seldom fails to make a strong and painful impres- sion on the mind. Thus, in the twenty-fifth canto, we shudder at the tortures, which he supposes to be inflicted 254 ox THE LITEEATURE upon robbefs. These miserable offenders inhabit a valley, filled with horrible serpents. Before the very face of Dante, one of these monsters springs upon Agnolo Brunelleschi, envelopes him in its folds, and pours its poisonous foam over his features. The two bodies soon appear to blend into one ; the distinction of colours disappears ; the limbs undergo a gradual change ; and when they are disengaged, Brunelleschi is tranformed into a snake, and Cianfa, who had attacked him, recovers the human shape. Immediately after, Buoso de' Abbati is Avounded by another serpent, which relinquishes its hold, and stretches itself out at his feet. Buoso fixes his eyes upon it, but cannot utter a word. He staggers and gasps, as if overpowered by lethargy or fever. The eyes of the man and of the reptile are steadfastly fixed on each other. From the wound of the former and the mouth of the latter, thick volumes of smoke proceed, and as soon as these unite, the nature of the two beings is changed. Arms are seen to issue from the body of the serpent, Avhile the limbs of the man contract and disappear under the scaly figure of his adversary. While one erects himself, the other grovels upon the earth ; and the two accursed souls, who have interchanged their punishments, separate with mutual execrations. The general conception of this unknown world, which Dante has revealed, to our eyes, is, considered in itself, full of grandeur and sublimity. The existence of the three king- doms of the dead, in which the sufferings, at least, were all of a physical nature, and to which the language of scripture and of the fathers was always literally applied, was a point of faith which, at the time when the poet flourished, admitted of no dispute. The creed of the church had not, however, fixed, with exact precision, the different abodes of departed spirits, and it was difficult to form an idea of the separation as well gs of the degree of rewards and punishments. The future state described by the poets of antiquity is confused, and almost incomprehensible. That of Dante, on the contrary, strikes the imagination by the order, regularity, and gx-andeur with which it is depicted. It is impossible, when- once impressed with his conceptions, to figure his scenes to our fancy in any other form. A horrible abyss occupies the interior of our earth. The declivity is not uniform, but broken, as it were, into steps, and terminates in the OF THE ITALIAXS. 255 centre of the globe. This is the kingly str.tiou of Lucifer, the despotic ruler of these realms of pain, \vha waves his six gigantic wings over a frozen ocean, in which he is half sub- merged, and is at once the servant and the victim of Almighty vengeance. Like him, the other spirits of darkness who espoused his cause, are incessantly employed in exercising 4:heir diabolical malignity on the reprobate souls, whose agonies they inflict and partake. From the centre of the earth, a long cavern reconducts the poet to the light of day. It opens at the base of a mountain, situated on the opposite hemisphere. In figure, this mountain is the exact reverse of the infernal regions. It forms an immense cone, divided into distinct departments, in which are distributed those souls who are undergoing the judgments of purgatory. Its avenues are guarded by angels ; and whenever they permit a purified soul to ascend into heaven, tlie whole mountain rings Avith the joyous thanksgivings of its remaining inhabitants. On its summit, is situated the terrestrial Paradise, which forms the communicating link between heaven and earth. The celestial regions constitute the third portion of this universe, ascend- ing in spiral rings, from sphere to sphere, to the throne of Almighty power. The same unity of design is thus visible in the conception of the diiferent worlds ; upon which the genius of Dante has conferred a diversifled symmetry, com- bining, at once, perfect consistency with pei'petual novelty, and approaching to that which characterizes the works of the creation. The Divine Comedy is divided into a hundred cantos, each containing from one hundred and thirty, to one hundred and forty verses. The first canto is intended as a kind of intro- duction to the whole work. Thirty-three cantos are then devoted to each of the three topics of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. Proceeding with our rapid sketch, we shall not at present particularize the terrific punishments which the poet contemplates in the ocean of ice, swept by the wings of Lucifer. Dante issues from the abyss by placing himself upon the body of the fiend, and at the same time revolving round the centre of the earth, towards which all matter gra- vitates. His position is then changed, and he ascends by the path which appeared to him to be a declivity. Emerging to ihe light of day, in the opposite hemisphere, he discovers a 256 ON THE LITERATURE vast ocean, in the midst of which is placed the steep mountain to which we have already alluded. After pui'ifying himself from the infernal stains, Dante proceeds to attempt the spiral ascent, under the guidance of Virgil, who never forsakes his side. As he passes along, he sees the souls of the elect chastened by long and severe sufferings. But in the midst of their agonies, they are filled with holy raptures, having exchanged faith for certainty, and having always before their eyes those heavenly rewards, which they are destined at last- to attain. The angels who guard the various districts of the mountain, or who visit it, in their robes of light, as messengers of the Supreme will, continually remind the sufferers that their temporary chastisement will be succeeded by the joys and the splendours of Paradise. In this portion of the work, however, the interest is not equally supported. All apprehension of danger to the person of the hero is at an end. He walks in safety with the guardian angels of the place. There is little novelty in the punishments ; and, such as they are, they do not strike the imagination, after those which we have already witnessed. Our sympathy, too, for the persons introduced to our notice, begins to languish. Their present state of existence is rendered indifferent to them by the vivacity of their hopes ; their recollections of the past are absorbed in the future; and, experiencing no vehement emotions themselves, they have little power to excite them in us. Nor did this defec*-. escape the observation of the poet. He endeavours to repair it, by entering into philosophical and theological dis- cussions, and by detailing all the learning of the schools on the most subtle questions of metaphysics. But his style of argument, which was respected as profound at the period when he wrote, produces a very different effect upon minds which do not allow the authority of the doctors to supersede that of reason. These disquisitions, moreover, are always at variance with true poetry, and weary the reader, by inter- rupting the progress of the action. Some interest is, however, occasionally excited by those •whom Dante here encounters. Thus, on his first entrance into Purgatory, we are affected by the tender friendship of the musician, Casella, who endeavours to throw himself into the poet's arms. A striking incident occurs, also, in the third OP THE ITALIANS. 257 canto, where he is accosted by Manfred, the natural son of Frederick, and the greatest prince who lias filled the throne of the Two Sicilies. He enjoins Dante to seek his daughter Constance, wife of Peter the Third of Aragon, and mother of Frederick, the avenger of the Sicilians, for the purpose of satisfying her as to his doom, and dissipating tlie painful doubts which the Pope and the priesthood had excited. Not contented with persecuting him during his life, with defaming his character, and precipitating him from his throne, they took upon themselves to pronounce the sentence of his eternal damnation. His body was torn from the grave, and exposed on the banks of a river, as that of a rebellious and excom- municated son of the Church. Yet the Divinity, whose mercy is not as the mei'cy of man, had accepted him, pardoned him, and given him promise of an eternity of bliss ; neither the maledictions of the priests, nor the imposing forms of excommunication, possessing power to deprive sinners of the benefits of infinite love. It was thus, that this singular poem might be said to convey tidings from parents to their children, and to afford grounds for hope, by giving, as it were, an authentic description of the state of the soul after dis- solution. In his sixth canto, Dante introduces us to the spirit of Sordello, the Troubadour of Mantua, of whom we have spoken in the fourth chapter. We behold him solitary, haughty, and contemptuous. He is recognized by Virgil, and the conference which ensues between them gives occasion to a fine invective against Italy, one of the most eloquent passages in the Purgatory. To enter, however, fully into the feelings of the poet, we must bear in mind the political storms by which Italy was, at that time, devastated ; the long anarchy of the Empire, which, in the middle of the thirteenth century, had broken all the bonds by which its component states had before been united ; the ambition of the Popes, who were only eager to aggrandize themselves at the expense of the ancient temporal sovereigns of the state ; and the turbu- lent passions of the citizens, who continually sacrificed the liberty of their country to the indulgence of their private revenge. To all these sources of indignation, we must add the personal situation of Dante, then exiled from Florence by the triumphant faction of his enemies, and compelled to fly 2S9 ON THE LITERATURE for succour to the Emperors, who were then beginning to re-establish their authority in Germany, but were unable to direct their attention, in any considerable degree, to the attairs of Italy. Tiie poet thus fervently apostrophizes his country : Ah, slavish Italy ! thou inn of grief ! Vessel, without u pilot, in loud storm ! Lady no longer of fair provinces, But brothel liousc impure I tliis {jrentle Fpirit, Ev'n from tLe pleasant sound of his dear laud, Was prompt to greet a fellow-citizen With such glad cheer : while now thy living ones In t lice abide not without war ; and one Malicious gnaws another ; ay ! of those AVhom the same wall and the same moat contains. Seek, wretched one I around thy Hea-coa^ts wide ; Then homeward to thy bosom turn ; and mark, If any part of thee sweet peace enjoy. AVhat boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand Refitted, if thy saddle be unprcss'd ? Kought doth he now but aggravate thj* shame. O German Albert ! who abaudon'st her That is grown savage and unmanageable, When thou should'st clasp her flanks with forked heels. Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood ; And be it strange and manifest to all ; Such as may strike thy successor with di'ead ; Tor that thy sire and thou have suffer' who makes us will alone What we possess, and nought beyond desire : If we should wish to be exalted more, Then must our wishes jar with the high will Of him who sets us here."* This may be very true ; but the state of indifference, in which these souls exist, throws an air of coldness on the remainder of the poem ; the interest of which is still farther impaired by frequent theological disquisitions. All the doubts of Dante, on the union of the body and the soul, on the nature of vows, on free will, and on other intricate points, are readily solved by Beatrice ; but it is not so easy to satisfy the minds of his readers on these obscure topics. The most philosophical pi'ose is not always successful on these subjects ; and we cannot, therefore, be surprised, if the poetical form of Dante's arguments, and the authority of Beatrice, to whose divine mission we are not always disposed to give implicit faith, throw still greater obscurity over questions, which are beyond all human comprehension. We find very few descriptions in the Paradise of Dante. The great artist, whose sketches of the infernal realms pos- sess such appalling sublimity, has not attempted to delineate the scenery of the skies. We leave the heaven of the Moon, with a very imperfect knowledge of its nature ; and our visit to that of Mercury is no less unsatisfactory. In each suc- * Parad. canto iii. v. 70. OF THE ITALIA^^S. 263' cessive kingdom, however, the poet excites our curiosity, by assigning a prominent station to some character of" distin- guished celebrity. In the sixth canto, and in the second heaven, he is accosted by the Emperor Justinian, wlio is represented in a light as favourable as that in which the civilians have always delighted to view the great father of their science, and very ditferent from that in which he is exhibited, with all his frailties and his vices, in the Secret History of Procopius. In the third heaven, which is that of the planet Venus, Dante meets with Cunissa, the sister of Azzolino da Romano, wlio forewarns him of the revolutions of the Marca Trivi- giana. Saint Thomas Aquinas and Saint Bonaventura are found . in the fourth heaven, which is placed in the Sun ; and they narrate the glorified actions of Saint Dominick and Saint Francis. The souls of those who have combated for the true faith, are rewarded in the heaven of Mars. Amongst these, he observes his ancestor, Cacciaguida de' Elisei, who perished in the crusades ; and from whom he receives an account of the early greatness of his own family. Cacciaguida proceeds to describe the ancient severity of manners maintained in Florence, in the time of Conrad the Third, and gives a catalogue, with a few characteristic remarks, of the noble houses which then flourished ; of those which had, in later times, fallen into decay, and of those which had more recently risen to distinction. He then predicts to Dante his approach- ing exile ; " Thou slialt leave eacli thing Belov'd most dearly : this is the first shaft Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove How salt the savour is of others' bread ; How hard the passage, to descend and climb By others' stairs. But that shall gall thee most, Will be the worthless and vile company. With whom thou must be thrown into these straits."* Cacciaguida then encourages Dante to disclose to the world all that he has witnessed in the realm of shadows, and to elevate his mind above the unworthy apprehension of giving offence to those, who might deem themselves disgraced by bis narrations. * Parad. canto xvii. v. 55. 2G4 ON THK LITERATURE The sixth heaven is that of Jupiter, ia wliich those who Lave administered justice with inipartiaUty, receive their reward. Tlie seventh is in Saturn, and contains such as de- voted themselves to a lite of contemplation or seclusion. In the eighth heaven, Dante beholds the triumph of Christ, which is attended by a host of beatified souls and by the Virgin Mary herself. He is then examined by Saint Peter in point of faith, by Saint James in hope, and by Saint Joha in charity, from all of whom he obtains honourable testi- monials of their approbation. Adam, also, here informs him ■what language was spoken in the terrestrial Paradise. The poet then ascends into the ninth sphere, where he is favoured with a manifestation of the Divine Essence, which is, however, veiled by three hierarchies of surrounding angels. The Virgin 3Iary, and the Saints of the Old and !New Testament, are also visible to him in the tenth heaven. All his doubts are finally resolved by the saints or by the Deity himself; and this great work concludes with a con- templation of the union of the two natures in the Divine Being. The measure in which this poem is written, and of which Dante was, in all probability, the original inventor, has received the name of terza rima. It has since been espe- cially appi'opriated to philosophical poetry, to satires, and to epistolary and allegorical compositions. But it is applicable, with no less success, to epic poetry. The position of the recurring rhymes keeps the attennon alive, and admits of a regular flow of the narrative ; an advantage, to which the ottava rvna, or stanza of the later Italian writers, and even the quatrains of French poetry, cannot lay claim. The terza rima consists of three verses, disposed in such a manner, that the middle line of each couplet rhymes with the first and third verses of the succeeding. From the way in which the lines are thus perpetually interwoven, the memory derives very material assistance. "Whatever couplet we may select from the poem, will afford us, by two of its rhymes, a clue to the preceding passage, and by one of them, to the following couplet. The verses, thus interlinked, are all endecasyllables, which are exclusively used in the epic poetry of Italy ; and they are divided, or supposed so to be, into five iambics, of which the last is followed by a short syllable. OF THE ITALIANS. 265 As a specimen of the terza rhna, I have attempted to trans- late into French verse the celebrated Episode of Ugolino from the thirty-third canto of the Inferno. In this I have found very great difficulty. Tlie French language, compared with the Italian, is very poor in rhymes, which are not easily ibund for three verses, placed at a regular and invariable dis- tance. The rule v.hich compels the French writer not to employ two feminine rhymes in succession, and which is not observed in Italian composition, presents an additional ob- stacle. It may, perhaps, also be said, that the French lan- guage has a natural tendency, in its versification, to the use of the couplet, and that a continued union of rhyme is as repugnant to its genius as tlie running of one line into another. If not absolutely insurmountable, the constraint imposed by these various ditficulties, is, at least, such, as almost to destroy the magnificent spirit of the celebrated passage in question. In the last circle of the infernal world, Dante beholds those who have betrayed their native land, entombed in everlasting ice. Two heads, not far distant from each other, raise them- selves above the frozen surface. One of these is that of Count Ugolino della Gherardesca, who, by a series of treasons, had made himself absolute master of Pisa. The other head is that of Ruggeiri de' Ubaldini, archbishop of that state, who, b}' means not less criminal, had effected the ruin of the count, and having seized him, with his four children, or grand- children, had left them to perish, by famine, in prison. Dante does not at first recognize them, and shudders when he sees Ugolino gnawing the skull of his murderer, which lies before him. He inquires into the motive of this savage enmity, and with the count's reply the thirty-third canto commences.* * Injurno, Canto xxxiii. v. 1. [As the object of M. Sismondi is to shew the peculiarities of the le.rza rima, and to try how far its adoption is practicable in French versification, it ha^ been thought expedient to present the reader with his version below ; the perusal of which will probably convince him, that the objections stated by that gentleman are not overcharged. Without detracting from the spirit and ingenuity with which he has executed his laborious task, it is not too much to Bay, that the admirer of the unequalled original will turn with pleasure, heiglitened by the contrast, to the excellent tianslation of this episode by Mr. Carj-. Disclaiming any intention of entering into competition with either of these versions, the editor has ventured to attempt an original transla- tion, in which he has preserved, in the English, the form of the Italian VOL. I. R 266 ON. THE LITERATUEE His mouth upraising from his hideous feaf.t, And brushing, with his victim's locks, the spray Of gore from his foul lips, that sinner ceas'd : Then thus : " Will'st thou that I renew the sway Of hopeless grief, which weighs upon my heart In tliought> ere yet my tongue that thought betraj- 1 But, should my words prove seeds from which may start Eipe fruits of scorn for him, whose traitor head I gnaw, then words and tears, at once, shall part. tcrza rima, and has adhered as literally as possible, and line for line, to the original. This species of verse is certainly difiicult in our own language, to which, however, it is much more congenial than to the Prench. It has been employed with considerable success by Lord Byron, in his Prophecy of Dante, where the reader will be enabled fully to estimate aU that it is capable of effecting in our language. Tr.] Ce pecheur, soulevant une bouche alteree, Essuya le sang noir dont il etait trempe, A la tete de mort qu'il avait devoree. Si je dois raconter le sort qui m'a frappe, TJne horrible douleur occupe ma pensee, Dit-il, mais ton espoir ne sera point trompe. Qu'importe ma douleur, si ma langue glacee, Du traitre que tu vols comble le deshonneur, Ma langue se ranime, a, sa honte empressee. Je ne te connais point, je ne sais quel bonheur Te conduit tout vivant jusqu'au fond de I'abime ; N'es-tu pas Florentin '] vols, et fremis d'horreur ! Mon nom est Ugolin, Roger est ma victime ; Dieu livre a mes fureurs le prclat des Pisans ; Sans doute tu connais et mon sort et son crime : Je mourns par son ordre avec tons mes enfans ; Dej§, la renommee aura pu t'en instmire ; Mais elle n'a point dit quels furent mes tourmens. Ecoute, et tu verras si Eoger sut me nuire. Dans la tour de la Faim, oii je fus enferme, Ou maint infortune doit encor se detmire, Le flambeau de la nuit plusieurs fois rallume, M'avait dc plusieurs mois fait mesurer I'espace, Quand d'un songe cruel mon coeur fut alarme. Yieux tyran des forets, on me force a la chasse ; Cet homme, avec Gualande et Sismonde, et Lanfranc, Changes en chiens cruels, se pressaient sur ma trace, Je fuyais vers les monts I'ennemi de mon sang ; Mes jeunes louvetaux ne pouvaient plus me suivre, Et ces chiens devorans leur dechiraient le flanc. De cc songe un reveil plus affreux me deli^TC ; Mes fils dans leur sommeil me demandaient du pain, Un noir prcssentiment paraissait les poursui^TC. Et toi, si, prcvoyant mon funeste destin, Tu* . OF THE ITALIANS. 267 I know thee not ; nor by Avhat fortune led Thou wanderest here ; but thou, if trae the claim Of native speech, wert in fair Florence bred. KnoTV, then. Count Ugolino is my name, And this the Pisan prelate at my side, Ruggier. — Hear, now, my cause of grief — Lis shame. That by his arts he Y>"on me to confide In his smooth words, that I was bound in chain.?, Small need is, now, to tell, nor that I died. Tu t'abstiens, etranger, de repandre des larmes, Aurais-tu dans ton coeur quelque chose d'humain 1 Mes fils ne dormaient plus ; mais de sombres alarmes Avaient glace leurs sens ; le geOlier attendu !N'apportait point ce pain que nous trempions de larmes. Tout a coup des verroux le bruit est entendu, Notre fatale tour est pour jamais fermee : Je regarde mes fils, et demeure eperdu. Sur mes l&vres la voix meurt a demi formee ; Je ne pouvais pleurer : ils pleuraient, mes enfans ! Quelle haine par eux n'etlt ete desarmee 1 Anselme, me serrant dans ses bras caressans, S'ecriait : que crains-tu, qu'as-tu done, 6 mon p&re ! Je ne te connais plus sous tes traits palissans. Cependant aucuns pleurs ne mouillaient ma paupi^re, Je na repondais point ; je me tus tout un jour. Quand un nouveau soleil eclaira I'hemisph&re, Quand son pille rayon penetra dans la tour, Je lus tons mes tourmens sur ces quatre visages, Et je rongeai mes poings, sans espoir de secour. Mes fils, trompes sans doute a ces gestes sauvages, D'une feroce faim me crurent consume. ;Mon pSre, dirent-ils, suspendez ces outrages ! Par vous, de votre sang notre corps fut forme, II est a vous, prenez, prolongez votre vie ; Puisse-t-il vous nourrir, 6 pfere bien aime ! Je me tus, notre force etait aneantie ! Ce jour ni le suivant nous ne pftmes parler : Que ne t'abimais-tu, terre notre ennemie 1 Dej^ nous avions ■vti quatre soleils briller, Lorsque Gaddo tomba renverse sur la terre. Mon pfere, cria-t-il, ne peux-tu me sauver ! 11 y mourut. Ainsi que tu vols ma misfere, Je les vis tons mourii", I'un sur I'autre entasses, Et je demeurai seul, maudissant lalumi^re. Trois jours, entre mes bras leurs coi-ps furens presses ; Aveugle de douleur, les appelant encore, Trois jours je rechaufFai ces cadavres glaces, Puis la faim triompha du deuil qui me devore. K 2 263^ OV THE LITERATURE But what is yet untold, unheard, remains, And thou shalt hear it — by wiiat fearful fate I pcrish'd. Judge, if he deserves his pains. AViien, in those dungeon-walls cmmew'd, whose gate Shall close on future victimp, called the Tower Of Famine, from my pangs, the narrow grate Had shewn me several moons, in evil hour I slept and drcara'd, and our impending grief "Was all unveil'd l)y that dread vision's power. This wretch, methought, I saw, as lord and chief, JIunting the wolf and cubs, upon that hill AVliich makes the I'isan's view towards Lucea brief. AVith high-bred hounds, and lean, and keen to kill, Gualandi, with Sismondi, in the race Of death, were foremost, with Lanfranchi, still. Weary and spent appeard, after short chace. The sire and sons, and soon, it scem'd, were rent AVith sharpest fangs, their sides. IJefore the trace Of dawn, I woke, and heard my sons lament, (For they Averc with me), mourning in their sleep, And craving bread. Eight cruel is thy bent, If, hearing this, no horror o"er thee creep ; If, guessing what I now began to dread. Thou weep'st not, w'hereforc art thou wont to weep I !K'ow were they all awake. The hour, when bread AVas wont to be bestow'd, had now drawn near. And dismal doubts, in each, his dream had bred. Then loek'd, below, the portals did we hear Of that most horrible Tower. I fix'd my eye, "Without one word, upon my children dear : Harden'd like rock within, I heav'd no sigh. They wept ; and then I heard my Anselm say, ' Thou look'st so, Sire ! what ails thee ]' No reply I utter'd yet, nor wept I, all that day, !Nor the succeeding night, till on the gloom Another sun had issued. "When his ray Had scantily illum'd our prison-room, And in four haggard visages I saw My o\vn shrunk aspect, and our common doom. Both hands, for verj' anguish, did I gnaw. They, thinking that I tore them through desire Of food, rose sudden from their dungeon-straw. And spoke : ' Less grief it were, of us, Sire ! If thou would'st eat — These limbs, thou, by our birth. Didst clothe — Despoil them now, if need require.' Kot to increase their pangs of grief and dearth, I calm'd me. Two days more, all mute we stood : "Wherefore didst thou not open, pitiless Earth ! If ow, when our fourth sad morning was renewed, Gaddo fell at my feet, outstretch'd and cold, Crying, * "Wilt thou not, father ! give me food V OF THE ITALIANS. 269 There did he die ; and as thine eyes behold ;Me now, so saw 1 three, fall one by one. On the fifth day and sixth : whence, in that hold, I, now grown blind, over each lifeless son, Stretch'd forth mine arms. Three days, I call'd their names Then Fast achiev'd what Grief not yet had done." CHAPTER X. ON THE INFLUENCE OP DANTE OVER HIS AGE. PETRARCU. TuE power of the human mind was never more forcibly demonstrated, in its most exquisite masterpieces, than in the poem of Dante. Witliout a prototype in any existing lan- guage, equally novel in its various parts, and in the combina- tion of tlie whole, it stands alone, as the first monument of modern genius, the first great work wdiich appeared in the reviving literature of Europe. In its composition, it is strictly conformable to the essential and invariable jirinciples of the poetical art. It possesses unity of design and of execution ; and bears the visible impress of a mighty genius, capable of embracing, at once, the parts and the whole of its scheme; of employing, with facility, the most stupendous materials, and of observing all tlie required niceties of proportion, without experiencing any difficulty from the constraint. In all other respects, the poem of Dante is not witliin the jurisdiction of established rules. It cannot with propriety be referred to any particular class of composition, and its author is only to be judged by those laws whicli he thought fit to impose upon liimself. His modesty induced him to give his work the title of a Comedy, in oi'der to place it in a rank inferior to the Epic, to which he conceived that Virgil had exclusive claims. Dante had not the slightest acquaintance with the dramatic art, of which he had, in all probability, never met with a single specimen ; and from this ignorance proceeded that use of the word, which now ap[)ears to us to be so extraordi- nary.* In his native- country, tlie title which he gave to his * [Mr. Gary observes, in his preface, " Dante himself, I believe, termed it simply The Comedy, in the first place, because the. style was of the ■middle kind ; and in the next, because the story (if story it may be «alled) ends happily." — Trl] 270 ON THE LITERATURE work was always preserved, and it is still known as The Divine Comedy. A name so totally different from every other, seems to be happily bestowed upon a production which stands without a rival. The glory which Dante acquired, which commenced during his lifetime, and which raised him, in a little time, above the greatest names of Italy, contributed but little to his liap- piness. lie was born in Florence, in 126o, of the noble and distinguished family of the Alighieri, which was attached, in politics, to the party of the Guelph-s. Whilst yet very young, he formed a strong attachment to Beatrice, the daughter of Folco de' Portinari, whom he lost at the age of twenty-five years. Throughout his future life, he preserved a faithful recollection of the passion, which, during fifteen years, had essentially contributed to the happy developement of his feel- ings, and which was thus associated with all his noblest senti- ments and his most elevated thoughts. It was, probably, about ten years after the death of Beatrice, when Dante com- menced his great work, which occupied him during the ■remainder of his life, and in which he assigned the most con- spicuous station to the woman whom he had so tenderly loved. In this object of his adoration, he found a common point of union for images both human and divine ; and the Beatrice of his Paradise appears to us sometimes in the character of the most beloved of her sex, and sometimes as an abstract emblem of celestial wisdom. Far from considering the passion of love in the same light as the ancients, the father of modern poetry recognizes it as a pure, elevated, and sacred senti- ment, calculated to ennoble and to sanctify the soul ; and he has never been surpassed, by any who have succeeded him, in his entire and afiecting devotion to the object of his attachment. Dante was, however, induced by considerations of family convenience, to enter into a new engagement. In 1291, a year after the death of Beatrice, he married Gemma de' Donati, whose obstinate and violent disposition embittered his domestic life. It is remarkable that, in the whole course of his work, into which he introduces the whole universe, he makes no personal allusion to his wife ; and he was actuated, no doubt, by motives of delicacy towards her and her family, when he passed over, in similar silence, Corso Donati, the leader of the faction of his enemies, and his own most for- OF THE ITALIANS; 271 midable adversary. In the battle of Campaldino, in 128d, Donte bore arms for his country against the Aretini, and, al>o, against the Pisans, in the campaign of 1290 ; the year subsequent to that in which the catastrophe of Count Ugolino occurred. He subsequently assumed the magisterial func- tions, at the period so fatal to the happiness of his country, when the civil wars, between the Bianchi and the Neri, broke out. He was accused of a criminal partiality to the interest of the former faction, during the time when he was a member of the Supreme Council ; and when Charles de Valois, the father of Philip the Sixth, proceeded to Florence, to appease the dissensions of the two parties, Dante was sentenced, in the year 1302, to the payment of an oppressive fine and to exile. By the subsequent sentence of a revolutionary tri- bunal, he was condemned, during his absence, to be burned alive, with all his partizans. From that period, Dante was compelled to seek an asylum at such of the Italian courts as were attached to the Ghibeline interest, and were not un- willing to extend their protection to their ancient enemies. To that party, wliieh he liad opposed in the outset of his career, his p'-rpetual exile and his misfortunes compelled him, ultimately, to become a convert. He resided, for a consider- able time, with the Marquis Malaspina, in the Lunigiana, with the Count Busone da Gubbio, and with the two brothers, Delia Scala, Lords of Verona. But, in every quarter, the haughty obstinacy of his character, which became more in- flexible in proportion to the difficulties with which he was surrounded, and the bitterness of his wit, which frequently broke out into caustic sarcasms, raised up against him new enemies. His attempts to re-enter Florence with his party, by force of arms, were successively foiled; his petitions to the people were rejected; and his last hope, in the Emperor Henry the Seventh, vanished on the death of that monarch. His decease took place at Ravenna, on the 14th of September, 1321, whilst he was enjoying the hospitable protection of Guido Novello da Polenta, the lord of that city, who had always treated him rather as a friend than as a dependant, and who, a short time before, had bestowed upon him an honourable mark of liis confidence, by charging him with an embassy to the Republic of Venice. On the death of her great poet, all Italy appeared to go 272 ON THE LITERATURE into mourning. On every side, copies of his work were mul- tiplied, and enriched witli numerous commentaries.* In the year 13o0, Giovanni Visconti, Archbishop and Prince of Milan, engaged a number of learned men in the laborious task of illustrating and explaining the obscure passages of the Divlna Comedia. Six distinguished scholars, two theolo- gians, two men of science, and two Florentine antiquaries, united their talents in this undertaking. Two professorships Avere instituted for the purpose of expounding the works of Dante. One of these, founded at Florence, in the year 1373, was filled by the celebrated Boccaccio. The duties of the other, at Bologna, were no less worthily discharged by Ben- venuto d'lmola, a scholar of eminence. It is questionable whether any other man ever exercised so undisputed an authority, and so direct an influence, over the age immediately succeeding his own. An additional proof of the superiority of this great genius, may be drawn iVom tiie commentaries upon his works. AVe are there surprised to see his most enthusiastic admirers in- capable of appreciating his real grandeur. Dante himself, in his Latin treatise, entitled De Vubjari Eloquentid, appears to be quite unconscious of the extent of his services to the literature of his country. Like his commentators, he princi- pally values himself upon the purity and correctness of his style. Yet he is neither pure nor correct ; but, what is far superior to either, he had the powers of creative invention. For the sake of the rhyme, we find him employing a great number of bax'barous words, which do not occur a second time in his verses. But, when he is himself atTected, and * A man of singular genius (Fgo Foscolo), who published a netv edition of the Di^-ine Comedy, attempted to prove that Dante did not make public his poem during his lifetime, and had no intention of doing so. There can be no doubt that he continued to retouch it up to the close of his existence, and to introduce alterations and additions, and that he kept back those passages calculated to exasperate his enemies ; but the productions of a great man are half known even when he has not finally promulgated them ; and, previous to the invention of print- ing, there could be no such thing as complete publicity. "We are not aware what portions of his poem Dante may have recited to his different hosts, what copies or what fragments of copy he may have given to them. "We see in Voltaire's correspondence what an effect was produced, long previous to its publication, by a poem which it was his object to conceal ; why should Dante have obsen^ed greater mystery about his 1 OP THE ITALIAJfS. 27ft wishes to communicate his emotions, th« Italian language of the thirteenth century, in his powerful hand^. displays a rich- ness of expression, a purity, and an el^-gance, which he was the first to elicit, and by which it has fver since been distin- guished. The personages whom he introduces, are moving and breathing beings; liis pictures are nature itself; his lan- guage speaks at once to the imagination and to the judgment ; and it would be difficult to point out a passage in his poeui, wliich would not forma subject for the pencil. The admira- tion of his commentators has, also, been abundantly bestowed upon the profound learning of Dante ; who, it must be allowed, appears to have been master of all tlie knowledge and accomplishments of the age in which he lived. Of these various attainments, his poem is the faithful depository, from wliich we may infer, with great precision, tlie progress which science had, at that time, made, and the advances whicli were yet necessary, to aiford full satisfaction to the mind. It would here become our duty to take a summary view of the poets, who flourished contemporaneously witli Dante, and who either adopted him as their model, or pursued the path already opened by the Provencal writers. In this object, however, we have been antici})ated by M. Ginguene, in his excellent History of Italian Literature. In speaking of the great prototypes of literature, with which I am myself ac- quainted, and which I have studied Avith entluisiasm, I express tlie opinions which are the result of my own ideas and senti- ments. In every individual, opinions, thus formed, will pos- sess a certain degree of novelty and peculiarity ; and so far, the field lies as open to one critic as to another. But in treating of those authors who hold only a secondary rank, of whom I have only a very partial knowledge, and that know- ledge, in some instances, acquired from M. Ginguene himself, I cannot, for a moment, hesitate in referring tlie reader, for complete information on this head, to the labours of that dis- tinguished writer, who has devoted his whole life to the study of Italian literature, and whose correct and elegant taste, added to his learning, as extensive as it is accurate, have de- servedly given to his work universal circulation and applause. From this source, then, the reader will derive more ample information respecting Jacopone di Todi ; of whom we shall only here observe, that he was a monk, who was induced, by 274 ON THE LITERATUKE motives oi humility, to assume the outward appearances of insanity. He was fond of being insulted by children, and follov/ed in the streets. During many years, he was perse- cuted by his superiors, and languished in confinement ; where, however, amidst all his miseries, he composed religious hymns, which are not deficient in transports of entliusiasm, but wliich are frequently rendered quite unintelligible by the subtleties of mystical sentiment. To the same period, belongs Francesco di Barberino, the disciple, like Dante, of Brunetto Latini, and author of a treatise, in verse, on moral philosophy, which, in conformity with the affected spirit of the times, he entitled I Documenti cVAviore. Cecco d'Ascoli was also the contemporary of Dante, and his personal enemy. His poem, in five books, called I! Acerha, or rather, according to M. Ginguene, IdAcerva, the heap, is a collection of all the sciences of his age, including astronomy, philosophy, and re*- ligion. It is much less remarkable lor its intrinsic merit, than for the lamentable catastrophe of its autlior, who was burned alive, in Florence, as a sorcerer, in 1327, at the age of seventy years, after having long held the professorship of judicial astrology in the University of Bologna. Cino da Pistoia, of the house of the Sinibaldi, was the friend of Dante, and was equally distinguished by the brilliancy of his talents in two different departments : as a lawyer, by his com- mentary on the nine first books of the Code, and, as a poet, by his verses addressed to the beautiful Selvaggia de' Vergio- lesi, of whom he was deprived by death, about the year 1307, As a lawyer, he was the preceptor of the celebrated Bartolo, who, if he has surpassed liis master, yet owed much to his lessons. As a poet, he was the model which Petrarch loved to imitate ; and, in this view, he, perhaps, did his imitator as much injury by his refinement and affectation, as he benefited him by the example of his pure and harmonious style. Fazio de' Uberti, grandson of the great Farinata, and who, in conse^ ■quence of the hatred which the Florentines entertained fot his ancestor, lived and died in exile, raised himself to equal celebrity, at this period, by his sonnets and other verses. At a much later time of life, he composed a poem, of the descrip^ tive kind, entitled Dettamondo, in whicli he proposed to imitate Dante, and to display the real world, as that poet had portrayed the world of spirits. But it need hardly be said, OF THE ITALIANS. 275 that the distance between the original and the imitation is great indeed. In some respects, all these poets, and many others, whose names are yet more obscure, have common points of re- semblance. We find, in all, the same subtlety of idea, the same incoherent images, and the same perplexed sentiments. The spirit of the times was perverted by an affected refine- ment ; and it is a subject of just surprise, that, in the very outset of a nation, simplicity and natural feeliiTg should have been superseded by conceit and bombast. It is, however, to be considered, that this nation did not form her own taste, but adopted that of a foreign country, before she was qualified, by her own improved knowledge, to make a proper choice. The verses of the Troubadours of Provence were circulated from one end of Italy to the other. They were diligently perused and committed to memory by every poet who aspired to public notice, some of whom exercised themselves in com- positions in the same language ; and although the Italians, if we except the Sicilians, had never any direct intercourse with the Arabians, yet they derived much information from them by this circuitous route. The almost unintelligible subtleties with which they treated of love, passed for refine- ment of sentiment ; while the perpetual rivalry which was maintained between the heart and the head, between reason and passion, was looked upon as an ingenious application of philosophy to a literary subject. The causeless griefs, the languors, the dying complaints of a lover, became a consti- tuent portion of the consecrated language in which he ad- dressed his mistress, and from which he could not, without impropriety, depart. Conventional feelings in poetry, thus usurped the place of those native and simple sentiments which are the offspring of the heart. But, instead of dwelling upon these defects in the less celebrated poets, we shall attempt to exhibit the general spirit of the fourteenth century, as dis- played in the works of the greatest man whom Italy, in that age, produced, whose reputation has been most widely spread, ;;uJ whose influence has been most extensively felt, not only in Italy, but in France, in Spain, and in Portugal. The reader will easily imagine that it is Petrarch, the lover of Laura, to whom we here allude. Petrarch was the son of a Florentine, who like Dante, had 276 ox TIIK LITEKATURE been exiled from his native city. He was born at Arezzo, on the night of the nineteenth of July, 1304, and he died at Arqua, near Padua, on the eighteenth of July, 1374. During the century, of ivhich his life occupied the greater portion, he was the centre of Italian literature. Passionately attached to letter.'^, and more especially to history and to poetiy, and an enthusiastic admirer of antiquity, he imparted to his contemporaries, by his discourses, his writings, and his example, that^aste for the recovery and study of Latin manu- scripts, which so eminently distinguished the fourteenth century ; which preserved the masterpieces of the classical authors, at the very moment when they were about to be lost fe"* ever ; and gave a new impulse, by the imitation of those admirable models, to the progress of the human in- tellect. Petrarch, tortured by the passion which has contri- buted so greatly to his celebrity, endeavoured, by travelling, during a considerable portion of his life, to escape from liimself and to change the current of his thoughts. He traversed France, Germany, and every part of Italy ; he visited Spain ; and, with incessant activity, directed his attention to the examination of the remains of antiquity. He became intimate with ail the scholars, poets, and philoso- phers, from one end of Europe to the other, whom he in- spired with his own spirit. While he imparted to them the object of his own labours, he directed their studies ; and his correspondence became a sort of magical bond, which, for the first time, united the whole literary republic of Europe. At the age in which he lived, that continent was divided into petty states, and sovereigns had not yet attempted to establish any of those colossal empires, so dreaded by other nations. On the contrary, each country was divided into smaller sovereignties. The authority of many a prince did not extend above thirty leagues from the little town over which he ruled ; while at the distance of a hundred, his name was unknown. In proportion, however, as political importance was confined, literary glory was extended ; and Petrarch, the friend of Azzo di Corregio, Prince of PiU'ma, of Luchino, and of Galeazzo Yisconti, Princes of Milan, and of Francesco di Carrara, Prince of Padua, was better known and more respected, throughout Europe, than any of those j)etty sovereigns. This universal reputation, to which his OF THE ITALIANS. 277 Ligh acquirements entitled him, and of which he frequently made use, in forwarding the interests of literature, he occa- sionally turned to account, for political purposes. No man of letters, no poet, was, doubtless, ever charged with so many embassies to great potentates ; to the Emperor, the Pope, the King of France, the senate of Venice, and all tim Princes of Italy. It is very remai'kable that Petrarch did not fulfil these duties merely as a subject of the state which had committed its interests to his hands, but that he acted for the benefit of all Europe, lie was entrusted with such missions, on account of his reputation ; and when he treated with the different princes, it was, as it were, in the character of an arbitrator, Avhose suffrage every one was eager to ob- tain, that he might stand high in the opinion of posterity. The prodigious labours of Petrarch to promote the study of ancient literature, are, after all, his noblest title to glory. Such was the view in which they were regarded by the age in which he lived, and such also was his own opinion. His celebrity, notwithstanding, at the present day, depends much more on his Italian lyrical poems, than on his voluminous Latin compositions. These lyrical pieces, which were imitated from tiie Proven(;als, from Cino da Pistoia, and from the other poets who flourished at the commencement of that cenimy, have served, in their turn, ^s models to all the distinguished poets of the South. I would gladly make my readers acquainted with some of these poems, if, in my trans- lations, any of those beauties which so essentially depend upon the harmony and colouring of their most musical and picturesque language, could possibly be preserved. The lyrical style of poetry is the first which is cultivated in every language, on the revival of its literature ; for it is that which is most essentially poetical, and in which the poet can abandon himself most freely to his vivid impressions. In an epic poem, the author never ceases to think of his readers. His object is to give a faithful narrative, and to present to their eyes events, in which he can have no per- sonal interest. In the drama, he absolutely loses his identity, and transforms himself into the various persons whom he creates. In the pastoral, it is true, he has an opportunity for the expression of sentiment, but it is not his own ; and he is forced to accommodate himself to conventional notions. 278 ON THE LITERATURE and to an ideal mode of life. The lyrical poet, on the con- trary, is ever himself ; he expresses, in his own person, his own peculiar emotions ; he sings because he is affected, be- cause he is inspired. Poetry, whicli is addressed to others, and the object of which is persuasion, should borrow its ornaments from eloquence ; but, when it is an effusion of the heart, an overflow of sentiment, its true embellishment is harmony. The ordinary measure of verse is insufficient for the heart which would j)our out its feelings, and delight in comtemplating them. The verses must be accompanied by music, or by the regular return of the stanza, the natural liarmony of language. Verses, which follow one another Avithout being musically disposed, do not seem sufficiently poetical to express the feelings of the writer ; and he dis- covers, by the ear alone, new rules, the observation of which may render the harmonious pleasure more complete. The ode, in the form in which it existed amongst the ancients, and as it is to be found in the works of many of the poets of Germany, Italy, Spain, and Portugal, is the most perfect model of the lyrical style. The French have retained the same form. Their stanza is sufficiently musical ; and the indeterminate length of the poem, and the regularity of each stanza, admit of that mixture of freedom and constraint which the expression of sentiment requires. The short French verse, which is not generally suspected to consist of regular feet, is always composed of long and short syllables, distributed in an harmonious order, and, at least in the hands of ingenious poets, has a good effect upon the ear. Inspiration, however, is wanting to it. Instead of their feelings, our poets have given us their reflections, and philo- sophy has gained possession of a style of poetry to which it did not seem to have the smallest title. The Italians have not remained entirely faithful to the genuine style of lyrical composition, but their wanderings have been fewer than ours. It is singular that Petrarch, who was nurtured by the study of the ancients, and who was so much attached to the Roman poets, should never have attempted to introduce the ode into the Italian language. Neglecting the models which Horace has left, and with the value of which he was so well acquainted, Petrarch has clothed all his lyrical inspirations in two measures, both of which are far more OF THE ITALIANS. 279 Strict and fettered ; the sonnet, borrowed from tlie Sicilians, and the canzone of the Proven9als. These two forms of ver- sification, which have been consecrated by him, and which, down to the present day, are much used in Italy, confined even his genius in their bonds, and gave a less natural air even to his inspiration. The sonnet, more especially, seems to have had a fatal influence on the poetry of Italy. The in- spiration of a lyric poet, however it may be confined as to form, should surely have no limitation as to its length. But this bed of Procrustes, as an Italian has ingeniously called it, confines the poet's thoughts within the stated space of fourteen verses. If the thought should be too short for this extent, it is necessaiy to draw it out, till it fills the common measure ; if, on the contrary, it be too long, it must be barbarously cur- tailed, in order to introduce it. Above all, it is necessary to set off so short a poem, with brilliant ornaments ; and, as warm and passionate sentiments demand a considerable space in which to display themselves, ingenious conceits have usurped, in a composition so essentially lyrical as this, the place of feeling. Wit, and frequently false wit, is all that we meet with. The sonnet is composed of two quatrains and two tercets, and has generally four, and never more than five rhymes. Its admirers discover the most harmonious grace in the regularity of the measure ; in the two quatrains, which, with their cor- responding rhymes, open the subject and prepare the mind of the reader ; and in the two tercets, which, moving more rapidly, fulfil the expectation which has been excited, complete the image, and satisfy the poetical feeling. The sonnet is essentially musical, and essentially founded on the harmony of sound, from which its name is derived. It acts upon the mind rather through the woi'ds than by the thoughts. The richness and fulness of the rhymes constitute a portion of its grace. The return of the same sounds makes a powerful im- pression, in proportion to their repetition and completeness ; and we are astonished when we thus find ourselves affected, almost without the power of being able to ascertain the cause of our emotion. To find a sufficient number of words which will rhymo together, is a much more laborious task in French than in Italian. In the latter language, almost all the syllables are 280 ON THE LITERATURE simple, and formed from a lew letters, so that the words pre- sent a great number of similar terminations. But the in- variable regularity of the sonnet, in its length and in its measures, i)ro(luce3 an indescribable monotony in these com- positions. The iirst division of the sonnet is generally filled with some brilliant images, while the latter contains an epigram, an unexpected turn, or a striking antithesis, to ex- cite the mind to momentary admiration. It is to these poems that the Italians owe their concetti, which proceed from an attectation of wit, employed upon Avords rather than things. Of these, Petrarch, amongst other authors, aifords us many examples. On the other hand, the brevity of the sonnet, has, no doubt, been the cause of much labour and care being bestowed on that kind of composition. In a long poem, the portions which connect the more important parts, are often necessarily devoid of interest. The poet, in all probability, calculating upon the inattention of his readers, is negligent in this part of his task ; an indulgence which is frequently fatal to the language and to the poetical spirit of the piece. When Petrarch, however, gave to the world a short poem of four- teen lines, in this isolated form, which was to be appreciated by its own merits, he bestowed the utmost care upon it, nor suffered it to appear, unless he deemed it worthy of his fame. Thus, the Italian language made a most rapid progress between the times of Dante and Petrarch. More exact rules were introduced ; a crowd of barbarous words were rejected ; the nobler were separated from the more vulgar expressions ; and the latter were excluded for ever from the language of verse. Poetry became more elegant, more melodious, and more pleasing to the ear of taste ; but it lost, at least according to my apprehension, much of the expression f truth and nature. Petrarch, who founded all his hopes of glory on his Latin compositions, did not place much value upon his Italian verses. The first sennet which we meet with in his Can- zonlere is not merely modest, but expresses a singular senti- ment of shame for that which, in fact, constitutes his ce- lebrity. OF THE ITALIANS. 281 SONNET I. * All ye who list, in wildly warbled strain, Those sighs with which my youthful heart was fed , Erewhile fond passion's maze I wont to tread, Erewhile I lived estrang'd to manlier pain ; For all those vain desires, and griefs a.s vain. Those tears, those plaints, by am'rous fancy bred. If ye by love's strong power have e'er b,en led. Pity, nay, haply pardon, I may gain. Oft on my cheek the conscious crimson glow.'^. And sad reflection tells — ungrateful thought ! — How jeering crowds have mock'd my lovelorn woes : But folly's fruits are penitence and shame, With this just maxim, I've too dearly bought. That man's applause is but a transient dream.+ It is evident that this sonnet was written at a period, when the poet, already on the threshold of ajje, had given himself up to remorse and religious terrors. He, doubtless, reproached himself with fostering a passion, which had exerted so powerful an influence over his life, which he had nourished, with unsubdued constancy, for one and twenty years, and which still remained sacred to his heart, so long after the loss of its object. This remorse was groundless. Never did passion burn more purely than in the love of Petrarch for Laura. Of all the Erotic poets, he alone never expresses a single hope, offensive to the purity of a heart which had been pledged to another. "When Petrarch lirst beheld her, on the sixth of April, 1327, Laura was in the * Voi ch' ascoltate in rime sparse 11 suono Di quel sospiri, ond' io nodriva il core In sul mio primo giovcnile crrore, Quand' era in parte altr' huom da quel ch' i sono ; Del vario stile in ch' io piango e ragiono, Fra le vane speranze, e '1 van dolore, Ove sia chi per prova intenda amore, * Spero trovar picta, non che perdono. JIa ben vcggi' hor, si come al popol tutto Favola fui gran tempo ; onde sovente Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno : E del mio vancggiar vergogua h' 1 frutto E '1 pentirsi, e' 1 conoscer chiaramente Che quanto place aJ mondo e breve sogno. + [The translation of this sonnet is taken from a small volume, published in 1777, under the title of " Sonnets, and Odes, translated from the Italian of Petrarch." For the remaining versions, from this poet, the editor onlj' is responsible. — Tr.] VOL. I. S 282 ON THE LITERATUIIE church of Avignon. She was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, and wife of Hugues de Sade, both of Avignon. "When she died of the plague, on the sixth of April, 1348, she had been the mother of eleven children. Petrarch has celebrated, in upwards of three hundred sonnets, all the little circumstances of this attachment ; those precious favours which, after an acquaintance of fifteen or twenty years, con- sisted at most of a kind word, a glance not altogether severe, a momentary expression of regret or tenderness at his departure, or a deeper paleness at the idea of losing her beloved and constant friend. Yet even these marks of an attachment so pure and unobtrusive, and which he had so often struggled to subdue, were repressed by the coldness of Laura, who, to preserve her lover, cautiously abstained from giving the least encouragement to his love. She avoided his' presence, except at church, in the brilliant levees of the papal court, or in the country, where, surrounded by her friends, she is described by Petrarch as exhibiting the sem- blance of a queen, pre-eminent amongst them all in the grace of her figure, and the brilliancy of her beauty. It does not appear that, in the whole course of these twenty years, the poet ever addressed her, unless in the presence of witnesses. An interview with her alone would surely have been cele- brated in a thousand verses ; and, as he has left us four sonnets on the good fortune he enjoyed, in having an oppor- tunity of picking up her glove,* we may fairly presume, that he would not have passed over in silence so haj^py a circum- stance as a private interview. There is no poet, in any language, so perfectly pure as Petrarch, so completelj'' above all reproach of levity and immorality ; and this merit, which is due equally to the poet and to his Laura, is still more remarkable, when we consider that the models which he followed were by no means entitled to the same praise. The verses of the Troubadours and of the Trouveres were very licentious. The court of Avignon, at which Laura lived, the Babylon of the West, as the poet himself often terms it, was filled with the most shameful corruption ; and even the Popes, more especially Clement V. and Clement VL had afforded examples of great depravity. Indeed, Petrarch ^ Sonnets 166 to 169. " OP THE Italians. ^83 LImself, in his intercourse with other ladies, was by no means so reserved. 1 or Laura, he had conceived a sort of reh'gious and enthusiastic passion ; such as mystics imagine they feel towards the Deity, and such as Plato supposes to be the bond of union between elevated minds. The poets, who have succeeded Petrarch, have amused themselves with giving representations of a similar passion, of which, in fact, they had little or no experience. In order to appreciate the full beauty of Petrarch's sonnets, it would be necessary to write the history of his attachment, as M. Ginguene has so ably done ; and thus to assign to every sonnet, the place to which its particular sen- timent destines it. But it would be even more necessary, that I should myself be sensible of the excellence of these poems, and that I should feel that charm which has enchanted every nation and every age. To this, I must acknowledge, that I am a stranger. I could have wished, in order to com- pi'ehend and to become interested in the passion of PetrarCh, that there should have been a somewhat better understanding between the lovers ; that they should have had a more inti- mate knowledge of each other ; and that, by this means, we might ourselves have been better acquainted with both. I could have wished to have seen some impression made upon the sehsibility of this loving and long-loved lady ; to have seen her heart, as well as her iflind, enlarging itself and yielding to the constancy and the purity of true friendship, since virtue denied a more tender return. It is tiresome to find the same veil, always shading not only the figure, but the intellect and the heart of the woman who is celebrated in these monotonous verses. If the poet had allowed us a fairer view of her, he would have been less likely to fall inta exaggerations, into which ray imagination, at least, is unable to follow him. How desirable would it be, that he should have recalled her to our minds by thought, by feeling, and by passion, rather than by a perpetual play upon the words Laura (the laurel), and Vaura (the air). The first of these conceits, more especially, is incessantly repeated, nor merely in the poems alone. Throughout Petrarch's whole life, we are in doubt whether it is of Laura, or of the laurel, that he is enamoured ; so great is the emotion which he expresses, whenever he beholds the latter ; so passionately does he S 2 284 ON THE LlTERATUEE mention it ; and so frequently has he celebrated it in IwS verses. Nor is that pcrsonitled heart, to which Petrarch perpetually addresses hiinsellj less fatiguing. It speaks, it answers, it argues, it is ever upon his lips, in his eyes, and yet ever at a distance. He is always absent, and we cannot avoid wishing that during his banishment, he would for once cease to speak of it. Judging from these concetti, and from the continual personification of beings which have no personal attributes, it has always appeared to me that Petrarch is by no means so great a poet as Dante, because he is less of a painter. There is scarcely one of his sonnets, in which the leading idea is not completely at variance with the principles of painting, and which does not, therefore, escape from the imagination. Poetry may be cdled a happy union of two of the fine arts. It has borrowed its harmonies from music, and its images from painting. But, to confound the two objects which poetry has thus in view, is to be equally in error; whether we attempt, by an image, to represent a coincidence in sound, as when the laurel is put for Laura ; or whether we wish to call up an image by sounds, as when, neglecting the rules of harmony, we produce a dis- cordance suited to the object we design to paint, and make the serpents of which we are speaking, hiss in our verses. Waiving, however, as far as depends upon myself, my pre- judice against Petrarch, o#which I feel somewhat distrustful, because it is in oppposition to the general taste, I shall translate a few of his sonnets ; not for the purpose of criti- cising them, but in order to lead those, who are but imper- fectly acquainted with the Italian language, to a more complete knowledge of them, so that they may read them without fatigue, and may comprehend the sense, while they enjoy the harmony of the sound ; and, in short, that they may form their own judgment upon the masterpieces of one of the most celebrated men of modern times. SOKXET XIV. Witli hoarj head and locks of reverend grey. The old man leaves his youth's sweet dwelling-place. And grief is mark'd on each familiar face, ■Which watches him, as forth he takes his way : And he departs, though from his latest day Xot distant far, and with an old man's pace. With right good will, he enters on the race. Though travel-tired and broken with decay : OF THE ITALIANS. 285 And noTv, accomplishing his last desires, ^ In Rome, he sees the image of that One, Whom to behold in Heaven his soul aspires ; Even so have I, sweet lady ! ever gone Searching, in others' features, for some trace Approaching thy long-lost peculiar grace.* SONXET xvir. Creatures there be, of sight so keen and high, That even on the sun they bend their gaze ; Others, who, dazzled by too fierce a blase Issue not forth till evening veils the sky ; Others, who, with insane desire, would try The bliss which dwells within the fire's bright rays, But, in their sport, find that its fervour slays ; Alas ! of this last heedless band am I : Since strength I boast not, to support the light Of that fair form, nor, in obscure sojourn. Am skill'd to fence me, nor enshrouding night ; Wherefore, with eyes which ever weep and mourn. My fate compels me still to court her sight, Conscious I follow flames which shine to bum. f * Movesi '1 vecchiarel canuto e bianco Dal dolce loco ov' ha sua eti fomita, E dalla famigliuola sbigottita Che vede il caro padre venir manco ; Indi traeudo poi 1' antico tianco Per r estreme giornate di sua vita, Quanto piil puo, col buon voler s' aita, Kotto dagli anni, e dal cammino stance : E viene a Koma seguendo '1 desio, Per mirar la sembianza di colui Ch' ancor lassu nel ciel vedere spera : Cosi lasso talor vo cercand' io Donna, quant' h possibile, in altrui La dcsiata vostra forma vera. + Son animali al mondo di si altera Vista, che 'ncontr' al sol pur si difende ; Altri, pero che '1 gran lume gli oflende, Non cscon fuor se non verso la sera ; Ed altri col desio foUe, che spera Gioir forse nel foco, perche splende, Provan 1' altra virtil, quella che 'ncende ; Lasso, il mio loco e 'n questa ultima schiera ; Ch' i non son forte ad aspettar la luce Di questa donna, e non so fare schenni Di luoghi tenebrosi, 6 d'ore tarde. Pero con gli occhi lagrimosi e 'nfermi Mio destino a vedcrla mi conduce : E so ben ch' io v6 dietro a quel che m' arde. 286. ox TUE LITERATURE The succeeding sonnet was written at a time, when the beauties of Laura began to fade. Wg are astonished at the constancy which Petrarch displays, towards one who could no longer chanu the eye of tlie beholder. SOXNEI LXIX. Waved to the winds were those long locks of gold. Which in a thousand buruish'd ringlets flow'd. And the rwveet light, beyond all measure, glow'd, Of those fair eyes, which 1 no more behold ; Nor (so it seemd) that face, aught harsh or cold To me (if true or false, I know not) shew'd : Me, in whose breast the amorous lure abode. If flames consumed, what marvel to unfold ? That step of hers was of no mortal guise, But of angelic nature, and her tongue Had other utterance than of human sounds : . A living sun, a spirit of the skies, I saw her — Now, perhaps, not so — But wounds Heal not, for that the bow is since unstrung.* In the second part of Petrarch's poems, we find those which were written after the death of Laura, who, as we have already mentioned, died in 1548, at the age of forty-one, having been, for twenty-one years, the object of Petrarch's attachment. The poet was, at the time of that event, at Verona ; and some of the poems, which were occasioned by this loss, are distinguished by more natural feelings, and excite in the reader a more lively sympathy. Still, there is, perhaps, too much ingenuity and invention displayed, to be compatible with great grief. * Erano i capei d'oro a I'aura sparsi, Che 'n mille dolci nodi gli avolgea : E 1 vago lume oltra misura ardea Di quei begli occhi, ch' or ne son si scarsi • E 1 viso di pietosi color farsi, Non so se vero 5 falso, mi parea : I' che r esca amorosa al petto avea, Qual maraviglia, se di subit', arsi \ Non era 1' andar suo cosa mortale. Ma dangelica forma, e le parole Sonavan altro che pur voce bumana. Uno spirto celeste, un vivo sole Fil quel ch' i vidi : e se non fosse or tale, Piaga per allentar d'arco non sana. . OF THE ITALIANS. 287 SONXET CCLI. Those eyes, my bright and glowing theme crewhile That arm, those hands, that lovely foot, that face, Whose view wa.s wont my fancy to beguile. And raise me high o'er all of human race ; Those golden locks that flow'd in liquid grace, And the sweet lightning of that angel smile, "Which made a Paradise of cverj- place, , AVhat are they J dust, insensible and vile ! And yet I live ! oh grief ! oh rage ! oh shame ! Reft of the guiding star I loved so long, A shipwreck'd bark, which storms of woes assail. Be this the limit of my amorous song : Quench'd in my bosom is the sacred flame, And my harp murmurs its expiring wail.* On his return to Vaucluse, where he was never again to behold his Laura, Petrarch wrote the fuUowing sonnet. SONliTET CCLXXIX. I feel the ■well-kno^^'n breeze, and the sweet hill Again appears, where rose that beauteous light AVhich (while Heaven will'd it) met my eyes, then bright With gladness, but now dimm'd with manj' an ill. A'ain hopes ! weak thoughts ! Now, turbid is the rill ; The flowers have droop'd ; and she hath ta'cn her flight From the cold nest, which once, in proud delight. Living and dying, I had hoped to fill : I hoped, in these retreats, and in the blaze Of her fair eyes, which have consumed my heart, To taste the sweet reward of troubled daj's. Thou, whom I sen-e, how hard and proud thou art ! Erewhile, thy flame consumed me ; now, I mourn Over the ashes which have ceased to burn.* • Gli occhi, di ch'io parlai si caldamente, E le braccia et le mani, e i piedi, e 1 viso, Che m' havean si da me stesso diviso, E fatto singular da I'altra gcnte ; Le crcspe chiome d'or puro lucente, E '1 lampeggiar de langelico riso, Che solean far in terra un paradiso, Poca polvere son die nulla sente. Ed io pur vivo : onde mi doglio c sdegno, Rimaso senza '1 lume, ch' amai tanto. In gran fortune, e'n disarmato legno. Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto : Secca e la vena de I'usato ingegno, E la cetera mia rivolta in pianto. * Sento I'aura mia antica, e i dolci colli Veggio apparir, onde 'I bel lume nacque Che tenne gli occhi miei, mentr' al cicl piacque, IJraDiOdi e lieti ; or li tien tristi e molli. 288 ON THE LITERATURE "Were I to give more numerous extract?, they would not render the style and the spirit of Petrarch's sonnets better known to those who do not reud Italian ; and, as examples merely, what are given are sufficient. The other form of his lyrical compositions, tlie canzone, is not unknown to us, although we liave no express word for it, in the French ; that of chanson, derived from it, signifying a poem of a totally different kind. AVe have seen that, amongst tlie Troubadour^ and the Trouveres, the chansons were odes divided into regular stanzas, longer than those of the odes of antiquity. The verses, which had the variety both of measure and rhyme, were disposed according to the rule of harmony which the poet established in the first stanza, and which was scru- pulously observed in all the subsequent ones. The Italian canzone diftered from the Proven(;al, in not being limited to five stanzas and an envoy, and in the more rare use of those very short lines, which sometimes give such vivacity to the Provencal poetry. There are some of Petrarch's canzoni, in which we find stanzas of twenty lines. This extraordinary length, which perhaps renders the harmony less perceptible to the ear, has given a peculiar character to the canzoni, and distinguishes the romantic from the classical ode. Modern poets, instead of pursuing the rapid and passionate inspiration of their feelings, dwell upon the same thought ; not precisely for the purpose of filling up the stanza, for, to this mechanical process, the true poet will never submit, but of preserving the regular and corresponding advance of the stanza and the sentiment. They bestowed more attention upon that reflec- tive spirit, which is occupied with its own contemplations ; upon that analytical power, which subjects every thing to its scrutiny; and upon that forcible imagination, which places its object before us ; but their enthusiasm vanished. The translation of a canzone of Petrarch could never be confounded caduche speranze, o pensier folli ! Vcdove I'herbe e torbide son I'acque ; E voto, e freddo 1 nido in ch' ella giacque, Xel qual io vivo e morto giacer volli ; Sperando al fin da le soavi piante E da' begli occhi suoi, che'l cor m'han arso, Eiposo alcun da le fatiche tante. Ho servito a signor cnidele e scarso : Ch' arsi quanto '1 mio foco hebbe davant€ ; Or vO piangendo il suo cenere sparso. OP THE ITALIANS, 289 with the translation of an ode of Horace. We are obliged to class them both under the head of lyrical poems ; but we immediately perceive that such a division includes very different kinds of compositions. I feel myself called upon to give, at least, a small specimen of those poems which have contributed so greatly to the renown of Petrarch ; and I shall select a few stanzas from the fifth canzone, in which he exhorts the Bishop of Lombez to take up the cross, for the delivery of the Holy Land. This is, in my opinion, one of his most brilliant and enthu- siastic poems, and one which approaches nearest to the ancient ode. And all who dwull between the salt main-seas And Rhone, and llhine, and all between thy wave, Garonne ! and the high hills, that Christian train Shall join. And if there be who love the brave, Within that circle which the P\Tenees Hold in horizon, Aragon and Spain Shall be left desert. England, with the isles Sea-girt, between the constellated Bear And the great-pillar'd streight ; Yea, ever}- land, where yet The sainted lore of Helicon has charms, Diverse in language, in attire, in arms. This deed, for charity's sweet sake, shall dare. What love so faithful, or what tender age Of child, or charms of maiden, may compare With the stern duties of this holy rage ! A region of the world there is afar, Whelm'd under drifted snows, and bound with frost. Where, wide remote from the sun's bright career. In clouds and mist, the day is briefly lost ; There dwell a race, by nature prone to war, And, even in death itself, disdaining fear. Let these, more pious than they yet appear. Join, with tlieir hardy bands, the German host ! Thenceforth, I deem, not long The Turk and Arab throng. With the Chaldee, along the Red Sea coast. Their own vain force, or their false gods shall boast • A people naked, timorous, slow. To grasp the steel, nor skill'd, nor strong. But wasting on the wind their aimless blow ! * * Chiunque alberga tra Garona e '1 monte, E tra '1 Rodano e '1 Reno e I'onde salse, L' ensegne Christianissime accompagna ; Et a cui mai di vcro pregio calse Dal 290 ON THE LITERATURE We sliall not enter into so minute an examination of tho8« allegorical poems, to which Petrarch has given the name of Triumphs. JXot because they display any paucity of imagin- ation, or any want of that pictorial art, by which the poet places tlie object of his verse before the eyes of his reader ; but because those compositions are evidently formed on the model of Dante. There is tlie same metre ; the same division into cantos, or chapters, not exceeding a hundred and fifty lines ; and there are similar kinds of visions, in which the poet is partly the spectator and partly the actor. He is present, successively, at the Triumph of Love, of Chastity, of Death, of Renown, of Time, and of the Divinity. But the great vision of Dante, occupying a long poem, approaches almost to a second nature. "We are struck with the action ; we are in- terested for the characters ; and we forget- the allegory. Petrarch, on the contrary, never loses sight of his object, or the moral precept which he designs to inculcate. Two things alone are perpetually before our eyes ; the advice intended for the reader, and the vanity of the poet ; and we feel Dal Pireneo a ultimo orizonte, Con Aragon lascera vota Ispagna ; Inghilterra, con I'lsole che bagna L'Oceano, intra'l carro e le colonne, Infin la, dove sona Dottrina del santissimo Helicona, Yarie di lingue, e d'arme, e de le gonne, A I'alta impresa caritate sprona, Deh ! qual amor si licito, o si degno, Qjuai figli mai, qiiai donne 1 uron materia a si giusto disdegno 1 Una parte del mondo ^ clie si giace Mai sempre in ghiaccio ed in gelate nevi, Tutta lontana dal cammiu del sole. Lii, sotto giomi nubilosi e brevi, Nemica naturalmente di pace, Xasce una gente a cui '1 morir non dole. Questa, se pii devota che non sole ■ Col Tedesco furor la spada eigne, Turchi Arabi e Chaldei Con tutti quel che speran ne gli Dei Di qua dal mar che fi Tonde sanguigne, Quanto sian da prezzar, conoscer dei : Popolo ignudo, paventoso e lento, Che ferro mai non strigne, Ma tutti i colpi suoi commette al venio. OF THE ITALIANS. 291 as little inclined to gratify the latter as to profit by the former. The Latin compositions, upon which Petrarch rested his fame, and which are twelve or fifteen times as voluminous as his Italian writings, are now only read by the learned. The long poem entitled Africa, which he composed on the vic- tories of the elder Scipio, and which \va3 considered, in his own age, as a masterpiece worthy of rivalling the iEncid, is very fatiguing to the ear. The style is inflated, and the sub- ject so devoid of interest, and so exceedingly dull, as abso- lutely to prevent the perusal of the work. His numerous epistles in verse, instead of giving interest to the historical events to which they allude, acquire it from that circum- stance. The imitation of the ancients, and tlic fidelity of the copy, which in Petrarch's eyes constituted their chief merit, deprive these productions of every appearance of truth. The invectives against the bai-barians who had subjugated Italy, are so cold, so bombastic, and so utterly destitute of all colouring suited to the time and place, that we might believe them to be written by some rlietorician, who had never seen Italy ; and we might confound them with those which a poetic fury dictated to Petrarch himself, against the Gauls who besieged the capital. His philosophical works, amongst which may be mentioned a treatise on Solitary Life, and another on Good and Bad Fortune, are scarcely less bombastic. The senti- ments display neither truth nor depth of thought. They are merely a show of words, on some given subject. The author pre-determines his view of the question, and never examines the arguments for the purpose of discovering the truth, but of vanquishing the difficulties which oppose him, and of making every thing agree with his own system. His letters, of which a voluminous collection has been published, which is, however, far from being complete, are, perhaps, more read than any other of his works, as they throw much light upon a period which is well worthy of being known. We do not, however, discover in them either the familiarity of intimate friendship, or the complete openness of an amiable character. They display great caution, and studied propriety, with aa attention to effect, which is not always successful. An Italian would never have written Latin letters to his friends, if he had wished only to unfold the secrets of his heart ; but 292 ON TUE LITERATURE the letters of Cicero were in Latin, and with them PetrarcU wished to have his own compared. lie was, evidently, alwaya thinking more of the public than of liis correspondent ; and, in fact, the public were often in possession of the letter be« fore his friend. The bearer of an elegantly-written epistle, well knew that he should flatter the vanity of the writer by communicating it ; and he therefore often openly read it, and even gave copies of it, before it reached its destination. AVe find, in his correspondence, that several letters were lost in consequence of their too great fame. It is difficult to say, wliether the extended reputation which Petrarch enjoyed, during the course of a long life, is more glorious to himself, or to his age. We have elsewhere men- tioned the fiiults of this celebrated man ; that subtlety of intellect which fi-equently led him to neglect true feeling, and to abandon himself to a false taste ; and that vanity which too often induced him to call himself the friend of cruel and con- temptible princes, because they flattered him. But, before we part with him, let us once more take a view of those great qualities which rendered him the first man of his age ; that ai'dent love for science, to which he consecrated his life, his powers, and his faculties ; and that glorious enthusiasm for all that is high and noble in the poetry, the eloquence, the laws, and the manners of antiquity. This enthusiasm is the mark of a superior mind. To such a mind, the hero becomes greater by being contemplated ; while a narrow and sterile intellect reduces the greatest men to its own level, and mea- sures them by its own standard. Tiiis enthusiasm was felt by Petrarch, not only for distinguished men, but for every thing that is great in nature, for religion, for philosophy, for patriotism, and for freedom. He was the friend and patron of the unfortunate Eienzi, who, in the fourteenth century, awakened for a moment the ancient spirit and fortunes of Rome. He appreciated the fine arts as well as poetry ; and he contributed to make the Romans acquainted with the rich monuments of antiquity, as well as with the manuscripts, which they possessed. His passions were tinctured with a sense of religion which induced him to worship all the glorious works of the Deity, with which the earth abounds ; and he believed, that in the woman w^iom he loved, he saw the mes- senger of that Heaven, which thus revealed to him its beauty. OF THE ITALLAJN'S. 293 H3 enabled his contemporaries to estimate the fuUvahie of the purity of a passion, so modest and so religious as his own ; while, to his countrymen, he gave a language worthy of rival- ling those of Greece and of Rome, with which, by his means, they had become familiar. Softening and ornamenting liis own language by the adoption of proper rules, he suited it to the expression of every feeling, and changed, in some degree, its essence. He inspired his age with that enthusiastic love for the beauty, and that veneration for the ttudy of antiquity, which gave it a new character, and which determined tliat of succeeding times. It was, it may be said, in the name of grateful Europe, that Petrarch, on the eighth of April, 1341, was crowned by the senator of Rome, in the Capitol ; and this triumph, the most glorious which was ever decreed to man, was not disproportioned to the authority which this great poet was destined to maintain over future ages. CHAPTER XI. BOCCACCIO. — ITALUN LITERATURE, AT THE CLOSE OF THE FOURTEENTH, AND DUIU.NQ THE FIFTEESTH CENTURY. The fourteenth century forms a brilliant a;ra in Italian literature, highly honourable to the human intellect, and is distinguished, beyond any other period, for the creative powers of genius which it exhibited. The germ of literature also existed in other countries. The poetry of this epoch which has survived to us, possesses a charm, derived from the dawn of civilization, in its novelty, vigour, and freshness of imagination ; but it belongs rather to the age which gave it birth than to any individual. The songs of the South of France, the chivalrous tales of the North of Europe, the romances of Spain, and the pastorals of Portugal, bear a national character, which pleasingly reminds us of the spirit and manners of the time ; but they do not strike us as the work of a powerful genius, nor awake in us an attachment to any individual poet. It was not thus with Italy. The cul- ture of the mind was, at least, as far advanced there, as in France and Spain ; but in the midst of their numerous con- temporaries, three writers, who, each in his own sphere, gavo 294 ON TUE LITERATDEi: a new impulse to their native tongue, were especially remark- able. These men aft'urdod models which were ardently fol- lowed in other countries, and raised to themselves mcmoriab which the most distant posterity will regard with delight. At tlie opening of this century, Dante gave to Europe his great poem ; the first which, since the dawn of letters, could bear a comparison with the ancient epic. The lyric muse again strung her lyre at the call of Petrarch ; and Boccaccio ■was the creator of a style of prose, harmonious, flexible, and engaging, and alike suitable to the most elevated and to the most playful subjects. The last mentioned member of this illustrious triumvirate cannot, indeed, be ranked so high as his two contemporaries, since the prose style, of which he was the author, is not of so elevated a class as the efforts of the muse, and the formation of the language of common life seems less to require the higher powers of genius. His chief work,, moreover, is sullied by immorality ; and the eloquence of his expression is too frequently allied to an improper levity. Yet that energy of mind which enabled him to give birth to a style of prose at once so pure, so elegant, and so harmonious, when no model for it existed either in the Italian, or in any other language of the age, is not less deserving of admiration, than those inspirations of genius which awoke and gave rules to the higher strains of poetry. Giovanni Boccaccio was born at Paris, in 1313, and was the natural son of a merchant of Florence, himself born at Certaldo, a castle in the Val d' Elsa, in the Florentine terri- tory. His father had intended him for a commercial life, but before devoting him to it, indulged him with a literary edu- cation. From his earliest years, Boccaccio evinced a decided predilection for letters. He wrote verses, and manifested an extreme aversion to trade. He revolted equally at the pro- spect of a commercial life, and the study of the canon law, •which his father was desirous of his undertaking. To oblige his father, however, he made several journeys of business ; but he brought back with him, instead of a love for his em- ployment, a more extended information, and an increased passion for study. He at length obtained permission to de- rote himself wholly to literature, and fixed on Naples as his place of residence, where letters then flourished under the powerful protection of Eobert, the reigning monarch. He OF THE ITALIAN'S. ' 295 was quickly initiated in all the sciences at that time taiij^ht. He acquired also the rudiments of the Greek tongue, which, though then spoken in Calabria, was an abstruse study with the early scholars. In 1341, he assisted at the celebrated examination of Petrarch, which preceded his coronation at Rome ; and, from that time, a friendship arose between him and the poet, whicli terminated only with their lives. At this perioJ, Boccaccio, distinguished no less for the elegance of his person than for the brilliancy of his wit, and devoted to pleasure, formed an attachment to a natural daughter of Kin^- Robert, named Maria, who for several years had beea the wife of a Neapolitan gentleman. This lady he has cele- brated in his writings, under the name of Fiammctta. la the attachment of Boccaccio, we must not look for that purity or delicacy which distinguished Petrarch in his love for Laura. This princess had been brought up in the most corrupt court of Italy ; she herself partook of its spirit, and it is to her depraved taste that the exceptionable parts of the Decameron, a work undertaken by Boccaccio in compliance with her request, and for her amusement, are to be attributed. On his side, Boccaccio probably loved her as much from vanity as from real passion ; for, although distinguished for her beauty, her grace, and her wit, as much as for her rank, she does not seem to have exercised any extraordinary influ- ence on his life ; and neither the conduct nor the writings of Boccaccio afford evidence of a sincere or profound attachment. Boccaccio quitted Naples in 1342, to return to Florence. He came back again in 1344, and returned for the last time in 13"0. From that year, he fixed himself in his native coun- try, where his reputation had already assigned him a distin- guished rank. His life was thenceforth occupied by his public employments in several embassies; by the duties which his increasing friendship to Petrarch imposed on him ; and by the constant and indefatigable labours to which he devoted liimself for the advancement of letters, the discovery of ancient manuscripts, the elucidation of subjects of antiquit}--, the introduction of the Greek language into Italy, and the composition of his numerous works. Afcer taking the eccle- siastical habit, in 1361, he died at Certaldo, in the mansion of his ancestors, on the twenty-first of December, 137o, at the age of sixty-two. 296 ON THE LITERATURE The Decameron, tbe work to which Boccaccio is at the present day indebted for his highest celebrity, is a collection of one hundred Novels or Tales. He has ingeniously united them, under the supposition of a party formed in the dreadful pestilence of 1348, composed of a number of cavaliers, and young, intelligent, and accomplished women, retired to a delightful part of the country, to escape the contagion. It was there agreed that each person, during the space of ten days, should narrate, daily, a fresh story. The company con- sisted of ten persons, and thus the number of stories amounted to one hundred. The description of the enchanting country in the neighbourhood of Florence, where these gay recluses had established themselves ; the record of their walks, their numerous fetes, and their repasts, atForded Boccaccio an op- portunity of displaying all the treasures of his powerful and easy pen. These stories, which are varied with infinite art, as well in subject as in style, from the most pathetic and tender to the most sportive, and, unfortunately, the most licentious, exhibit a wonderful power of narration ; and his description of the plague in Florence, which serves as an introduction to them, may be ranked with the most celebrated historical descriptions which have descended to us. The perfect truth of colouring ; the exquisite choice of circum- stances, calculated to produce the deepest impression, and which place before our eyes the most repulsive scenes, with- out exciting disgust ; and the emotion of the writer, which insensibly pervades every part, give to this picture that true eloquence of history which, in Thucydides, animates the relation of the plague in Athens. Boccaccio had, doubtless, this model before his eyes ; but the events, to which he was a witness, had vividly impressed his mind, and it was the faith- ful delineation of what he had seen, rather than the classical imitation, which served to develope his talent. One cannot but pause in astonishment, at the choice of so gloomy an introduction to effusions of so gay a nature. We are amazed at such an intoxicated enjoyment of Ufe, under the threatened approach of death; at such irrepressible desire in the bosom of man to divert the mind from sorrow; and at the torrent of mirth which inundates the heart, in the midst of horrors which should seem to wither it up. As long as we feel delight in nourishinsr feelincrs that are in unison with OP THE ITALIANS. 297 n melancholy temperament, we have not yet felt the over- •whelming weight of real sorrow. When experience has, at length, taught us the substantial griefs of life, we then first learn the necessity of resisting them ; and, calling the imagi- nation to our aid, to turn aside the shafts of calamity, we struggle with our sorrow, and treat it as an invalid, from whom we withdraw every object which may remind him of the cause of his malady. With regard to the stories them- selves, it would be difficult to convey an idea of them by ex- tracts, and impossible to preserve, in a translation, the merits of their style. The praise of Boccaccio consists in the perfect purity of his language, in his elegance, his grace, and, above all, in that naivete, which is the chief merit of narration, and the peculiar charm of the Italian tongue. Unfortunately, Boc- caccio did not prescribe to himself the same purity in his images as in his phraseology. The character of his work is light and sportive. He has inserted in it a great number of tales of gallantry; he has exhausted his powers of ridicule on the duped husband, on the depraved and depraving monks, and on subjects, in morals and religious worship, which he himself regarded as sacred ; and his reputation is thus little in harmony with the real tenor of his conduct. The Deca- meron was published towards the- middle of the fourteenth century (in 1352 or 1353), when Boccaccio was at least thirty-nine years of age ; and from the first discovery of printing, was freely circulated in Italy, until the Council of Trent proscribed it, in the middle of the sixteenth century. At the solicitation of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and after two remarkable negotiations between this Prince and Pope Pius V. and Sixtus V., the Decameron was again published, in 1573 and 1582, purified and coiTCcted. Many of the tales of Boccaccio appear to be borrowed from popular recitation, or from real occurrences. We trace the originals of several, in the ancient French fabliaux ; of some, in the Italian collection of the Ccnti Novelli ; and of others, again, in an Indian romance, which passed through all the languages of the East, and of which a Latin translation ap- peared as early as the twelfth century, under the name of Dolopathos, or the King and the Seven Wise Men. Inven- tion, in this class of writing, is not less rare than in every other ; and the same tales, probably, which Boccaccio had VOL. I. T 298 ON TUE LITERATUKE collected in the gay courts of princes, or in the squares of the cities of Italy, have "been repeated to us anew in all the various languages of Europe. They have been versified by the early poets of France and England, and have afforded reputation to three or four imitators of Boccaccio. But, if Boccaccio cannot boast of being the inventor of these tales, he may still claim the creation of this class of letters. Before his time, tales were only subjects of social mirth. He was the first to transport them into the world of letters ; and, by the elegance of his diction, the just harmony of all the parts of his subject, and the charm of his narration, he superadded the more refined gratifications of language and of art, to the simpler delight afforded by the old narrators. A romance of Boccaccio, called the Fiammetta, is, after the Tales, the most celebrated of his works. Boccaccio may be considered as the inventor of the love romances. This species of composition was wholly unknown to antiquity. The Byzantine Greeks, indeed, possessed some romances, which have since reached us ; but there is no reason to believe that Boccaccio had ever seen them, nor, if he had been acquainted with them, is it probable that he would have imitated works of imagination, invented so long after the decline of literature. The chivalric romances of the French, of which "we have spoken, had, it is true, a connexion with that class of which Boccaccio may be considered the creator. But instead of having recourse to marvellous incidents, which might engage the imagination, he has drawn his resources from the human heart and passions. Fiammetta is a noble lady of Naples, who relates her passion and her sufferings. She speaks in her own person, and the author himself never appears. The inci- dents are little varied, and they fall off, instead of increasing in interest, towards the conclusion. But the passion is ex- pressed with a fervour and a voluptuousness, beyond that of any other Italian writer. We feel that Fiammetta is con- sumed by the flame which she divulges ; and although not in any way allied to Phoedra, that character recurs to our recol- lection. In the one, as well as in the other, " Cest Venus tout entiSre a sa prole attachee." Boccaccio was accustomed to represent, under the name of Fiammetta, the Princess Maria, the object of his love. The OF THE ITALIANS. 29D scene, which is laid at Naples, the rank of the latlj, and njany other circumstances, would lead us to believe, that, in this romance, Boccaccio has in some measure related his own ad- ventures. But, in this case, it is remarkable, that he should assign the chief part to the lady; that he sliould paint tht; pas- sionate love of Fiammetta, and the infidelity of Panfilo, in a work dedicated to his mistress ; and that he should reveal to the public, adventures on which his honour and his life might depend. The conversations in the Fiammetta may, perhaps, be con- sidered tedious ; and we are fatigued by the scholastic mode of reasoning of the interlocutors, who are never disposed to relinquish an argument. The style is in reality dull ; but this was a necessary consequence of the education and pe- dantry in repute at the time of its composition. Another, and a more singular defect in this romance, arises from the incon- gruous mixture of the ancient mythology with the Christian religion. Fiammetta, who had seen Panhlo for the first time at mass, in a Catholic church, is determined, by Venus ap- pearing to her, to listen to his passion; and, during the whole recital, the manners and belief of the ancients and moderns are continually intermixed. "We remark this incongruity in the romances a.ndfabUaux of the middle ages, on all occasions when the Trouveres have attempted the manners of antiquity. As these ignorant authors could not form an idea of any other mode of manners than that of their own age, they have given an air of Christianity to all which they have borrowed from ancient mythology. But the scholars who restored the study of the classics, with Boccaccio at their head, treated the sub- ject differently. It was to the gods of antiquity that they attributed life, power, and energy. Accustomed to confine their admiration to the ancient classics, they always recurred to the object of their studies, and to the images and machinery to which they were habituated, even in works which were founded on the warmest feelings of the heart. Boccaccio was the author, also, of another romance, longer than the Fiammetta, and more generally known, intitled Filocopo. In this, are narrated the adventures of Florio and Biancafiore, the heroes of an ancient chivalric romance, which Boccaccio has merely remodelled. Tlie mixture of the ancient mythology with Christianity seems, tliere, to be 1 2 300 ON THE LITERATURE effected in a more systematic manner than in the Fiammetta* Boccaccio speaks always of the religion of the moderns in the terms of the ancients. In alluding to the war between Manfred of Sicily and Charles of Anjou, he represents the Pope as high priest of Juno, and imagines him to be insti- gated by that goddess, who thus revenges herself on the last descendants of the emperors, for the ancient wrong which Dido suffered. He afterwards speaks of the incarnation of the son of Jupiter, and of his descending to the earth to re- form and redeem it. He even addresses a prayer to Jupiter, and, in short, seems determined to confound the two reli- gions, and to prove that they are, in fact, the same worship, under different names. It may be doubted, whether fasti- diousness might lead Boccaccio to believe that he ought not to employ, in a work of taste, names which were unknown to the writers of the Augustan age ; or whether, on the con- trary,' a religious scruple, still more eccentric, forbade him to mingle the name of the Deity, with the tales of his own in- vention. In either case, this system of poetical religion is not less extraordinary than profane. There are, in the Filocopo, man}' more adventures, and a greater variety of in- cident, but less passion than in the Fiammetta. The perusal is sometimes rendered fatiguing, by the pains which Boc- caccio has taken to make the style harmonious, and to round his periods ; and this measured prose betrays a laboured and sometimes an affected style." Boccaccio has also left two heroic poems, La Theseide and F'dostrato, neither of which has obtained any great reputa- tion, and both are, at the present day, nearly forgotten. They deserve, however, to be mentioned, as being the first attempts at the ancient epic, since the fall of the Eoman empire. Petrarch, it is true, had, in his Latin poem of Africa, attempted to rival Virgil ; but he did little more than clothe an historical narration in frigid hexameters, nor has he invested his subject with any other poetic charm than that which arises from the regularity of the verse. Boc- caccio, on the contrary, was sensible that a powerful imagi- nation and feeling were essential to the epic. But he over- I'eached his mark, and composed romances rather than poems; although, even here, he opened to his successors the route which they were to follow. OF THE II A.LIAXS, 301 • These two poems of Boccaccio, in another point of view, form an cera in the history of epic poetry. They are both composed in ottava rima, or in that kind of stanza of eight lines, which has since been employed by all the epic poets of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Of this, Boccaccio was the in- ventor. He found that the terza rima, employed by Dante, imposed too great a constraint on the poet, and, by its close texture, held the attention of the reader too long suspended. All the other forms of versification were appropriated to the lyric muse ; and any verses which were not submitted to a regular structure, did not seem sufficiently poetical to the re- fined ears of the Italians, The stanza which Boccaccio in- vented, is composed of six lines, which rhyme interchange- ably with each other, and are followed by a couplet. There exist instances of the octave verse before his time, but under a different form.* * We find, in the earlier poetry of the Sicilians, stanzas of eight verses, with only two rhj-mcs, alternatclj' employed. As early as the thirteenth century, the Castilian Avriters made use of the octave stanza, with three rhymes ; and a remarkable work of Alfonso the Tenth, King of Castile, to which we shall have occasion again to refer, is written in this metre. These stanzas of eight lines are composed of two distinct stanzas of four lines each, and the distribution of the rhymes may he thus denoted : 1, 2, 2, 1 ; 1, 3, 3, 1. The stanza invented by Boccaccio, and which was adopted even in Castile, runs thus: 1, 2; 1, 2; 1, 2; 3, 3. As a specimen of this sort of verse, and of the style of Boccaccio, tixc commencement oi La Theseide is subjoined. Sorelle Castalie, che nel monte Elacona contente dimorate, D'intorno al saggio Gorgoneo fonte, Sotto csso I'ombra delle frondi amatc Da Febo, dalle quali ancor la fronte Spero d' ornarmi, sol ehe '1 concediate, Le sante orecchie a miei prcghi porgete, E quelli udite come voi dovete. E' m' e venuta voglia, con pietosa Eima, di scrivere una storia antica, Tanto negli anni riposta e nascosa Che latin autor non par che ne dica, Per quel ch'io senta, al libbro alcuna cosa. Duuque si fate, ehe la mia fatica Sia gratiosa a chi ne fia lettore, O in altra maniera ascoltatore. Siate presenti, o Marte ruhicondo ! Nelle tue armi rigido e feroce, E tu, madre d' amor, col tuo giocondo £ Ueto aspetto, e '1 tuo figUol veloce, Co 302 ox THE LITERATURE The Latin compositions of Boccaccio nre voluminous, and matei'ially contributed, at the time they were written, to the advancement of letters. The most celebrated of these works, are two Treatises ; the one on tlie Genealogy of the Gods, and the other on mountains, forests, and rivers. In the first lie gave an exposition of the ancient mythology ; and in the second, rectified many errors in geography. These two works have fallen into neglect, since the discovery of manu- scripts then unknown, and in consequence of the facilities which the art of printing, by opening new sources, has afforded to the study of antiquity. In the age in which they Co dardi sol posseute a tutto '1 mondo ; E sostenete la mano o la voce Di me, ch' entendo e vostri affctti dire, Con poco bene e pien d'assai martire. And you, sweet sisters ! who delight to dwell Amid the quiet haunts of Castaly, Playing beside the brink of that famed well, And by the fount where springs the sacred tree Belov'd by you, and him, the god, whose shell Eesounds its praise ; whose honoured leaves shall be. So let me dream ! a poet's meed : hear His ardent prayer, if prayers to you be dear. For Love's sake, would I tell the piteous pain, j The sad turns of a wild and ancient story, Long hidden 'neath the veil of time, in vain Sought for in Eoman lore, or records hoary Of far-off years. help my feeble strain, That so it breathe some spark of love's own glory, And crown my ardent toils with pleasant rest, And solace to each listener's troubled breast. Nor let the martial god be distant far, In his stern panoply of proof divine ! Thou, Yenus ! beaming like thy fav'rite star, "With joyous looks, and eyes that warmly shine. And thou, her son, victor in amorous war ! Strengthen my hand in this my high design. And swell the voice that pours young passion's sighs. And bitterest tears, with too few extacies ! La Tlieseide was imitated by Chaucer, the father of English poetry. "When the lapse of time had rendered his work almost unintelligible to the generality of readers, Diyden reproduced it in his poem of PaJamon and Arcite, which was well received. It must be confessed, however, that the exaggerated passions, improbable incidents, and long tiresome descriptions of this fable, render the perusal of the original, and of the imitations, equally difficult. OF THE ITALIANS. 303 were composed, they were, however, equally remarkable for their extensive information and for the clearness of their arrangement ; but the style is by no means so pure and ele- gant as that of Petrarch. But, while the claim to celebrity, in these great men, is restricted to the Italian poetry of Petrarch and to the novels of Boccaccio, our gratitude to them is founded on stronger grounds. They felt more sensibly than any other men, that enthusiasm for the beauties of antiquity, without which we in vain strive to appreciate its treasures ; and they each de- voted a long and laborious life to the discovery and the study of ancient manuscripts. The most valued works of the ancients were at that time buried among the archives of convents, scattered at great distances, incorrect and incom- plete, without tables of contents or marginal ijotes. Nor did those resources then exist, which printing supplies, for the peru>al of works with which we are not familiar ; and the facilities which are afforded by previous study, or the colla- tion of the originals with each other, were equally wanting. It must have required a powerful intellect to discover, in a manuscript of Cicero, for example, without title or com- mencement, the full meaning of the author, the period at which he wrote, and other circumstances, which are connected with his subject ; to correct the numerous errors of the copy ists ; to supply the chasms, which, frequently occurring at the beginning and the end, left neither title nor divisions nor conclusions, nor any tiling that might serve as a clue for the perusal ; in short, to determine how one manuscript, dis- covered at Heidelberg, should perfect another, discovered at Naples. It was, in fact, by long and painful journies, that the scholars of those days accomplished themselves for this task. The copying a manuscript, with the necessary degree of accuracy, was a work of great labour and expense. A collection of three or four hundred volumes Avas, at that time, considered an extensive library ; and a scholar was frequently compelled to seek, at a great distance, the completion of a work, commenced under his own roof. Petrarch and Boccaccio, in their frequent travels, obtained copies of such classics as they found in their route. Among other objects, Petrarch proposed to himself to collect a'l the Works of Cicero ; in which he succeeded, after a lapse of 304 OK THE LITERATUUE many years. Ijoccaccio, with a true love of letters, intro- duced the study of the Greek to the Italians, not only with the view of securing the interests of commerce or of science, but of enricliing their minds, and extending their re5earches to the otiier half of the ancient world of letters, whicli had, till then, remained hidden from his contemporaries. He founded, in Florence, a chair for the teaching of the Greek language ; and he himself invited thither, and installed as professor, Leontius Pilatus, one of the most learned Greeks of Constan- tinople. He received him into his own house, although he was a man of a morose and disagreeable temper ; placed him at his table, as long as this professor could be induced to remain at Florence ; inscribed himself among the lirst of his scholars, and procured at his own expence, from Greece, the manuscripts, which were thus distributed in Florence, and which served as subjects for the lectui-es of Leontius Pilatus. For the instruction of those days consisted in the public delivery of lectures with commentaries ; and a book, of which there, perhaps, existed only a single copy, sufficed for some thousand scholars. There is an infinite space between the three great men whose works we have just enumerated, and even the most esteemed of their contemporaries ; and, though these latter have preserved, until the present day, a considerable reputa- tion, yet we shall only pause to notice their existence, and the epoch to which they belong. Perhaps the most remarka- ble are the three Florentine historians of the name of Villani. Giovanni, the eldest, who died in the first plague, in 1348 ; Matteo, his brother, who died in the second plague, in 1361 ; and Filippo, the son of Matteo, who continued the work of his father to the year 1364, and who wrote a history of the literature of Florence, the first attempt of this kind, in modern times. But it is in another work that I have rendered homage to these three celebrated men, who were, for more than a century, my faithful guides in the history of Italy, and who, by their candour, patriotism, and ancient frankness, by their attachment to the cause of virtue and of freedom, and to all that is ennobling in man, have inspired me with so much personal affection, that in taking leave of them to pro- secute, without their further aid, my dangerous voyage, I felt as if bidding adieu to my own friends. Two poets of this OF THE ITALIANS. 205 age, shared with Petrarch the honours of a poetic coronation : Zanobi di Strada, whom tlie Emperor Charles IV. crowned at Pisa, in 1355, with great pomp, but whose verses have not reached us ; and Coluccio .Salutati, secretary of the Florentine republic, one of the purest Latinists, and most eloquent statesmen whom Italy in that age produced. The latter, indeed, did not live to enjoy the honour which had been accorded him by the Emperor, at the request of the Flo- rentines. Coluccio died in 1406, at the age of seventy-six, before the day appointed for liis coronation, and the symbol of glory was deposited on his tomb ; as, at a subsequent period, a far more illustrious crown was placed on the tomb of Tasso. Of the prose writers of Tuscany, Francho Sacchetti, born at Florence about the year 1335, and who died before the end of tlie century, after fdling some of the first offices in the republic, approaches the nearest to Boccaccio. He imitated Boccaccio in his novels, and Petrarch in his lyric poems ; but the latter were never printed, while of his tales there have been several editions. Whatever praise be due to the purity and eloquence of his style, we find his pages more valuable, as a history of the manners of the age, than attractive for their powers of amusement, even when the author thinks him- self most successful. His two hundred and fifty-eight tales consist, almost entirely, of the incidents of his own time, and of his own neighbourhood ; domestic anecdotes, which in general contain little humour ; tricks, exhibiting little skill, and jests of.little point ; and wo are often surprised to find a professed jester vanquished by the smart reply of a child or a clown, which scarcely deserves our attention. After reading these tales, we cannot help concluding that the art of conver- sation had not made, in the fourteenth century, an equal progress with the other arts ; and that the great men, to wliora we owe so many excellent works, were not so enter- taining in the social intercourse of life, as many persons greatly their inferiors in merit. Two poets of this time, of some celebrity, chose Dante for their model, and composed after him, in terza rima, long allegories, partly descriptive, partly scientific. Fazio de' Uberti in his Dettaynondo, undertook the description of the universe, of which the different parts, personified in turns, 306 ON THE LITERATURE relate tlieir history. Federigo Frezzi, Bishop of FoHgno, who died in 1416, at the council of Constance, has, in his Quadri- regio, described the four empires of love, satan, virtue, and vice. In both of these poets we meet, occasionally, with lines not unworthy of Dante ; but they formed a very false estimate of the works of genius, when they regarded the D'tvbia Conimedia not as an individual poem, but as a species of poetry which any one might attempt. The passionate study of the ancients, of which Petrarch and Boccaccio had given an example, suspended, in an extra- ordinary manner, the progress of Italian literature, and retarded the perfection of that tongue. Italy, after having produced her three leading classics, sunk, for a century, into inaction. In this period, indeed, erudition made wonderful progress ; and knowledge became much more general, but sterile in its effects. The mind had preserved all its activity, and literary fame all its splendour ; but the unintermitted study of the ancients had precluded all originality in the authors. Instead of perfecting a new language, and enriching it with works in unison with modern manners and ideas, they confined themselves to a servile copy of the ancients. A too scrupulous imitation thus destroyed the spirit of invention ; and the most eminent scholars m/iy be said to have produced, in their eloquent writings, little more than college themes. In proportion as a man was qualified by his rank, or by his talents, to acquire a name in literature, he blushed to cultivate his mother tongue. He almost, indeed, forced himself to forget it, to avoid the danger of corrupting his Latin style v and the common people thus remained the only depositories of a language, which had exhibited so brilliant a dawn, and ■which had now again almost relapsed into barbarism. The fifteenth century, so barren in Italian literature, was, nevertheless, a highly literary period. In no other age, perhaps, was the love of study so universal. Letters were powerfully supported by princes and by their subjects. All, who attached themselves to literature, were assured of fame ; and the monuments of the ancient tongues, multiplied by the recently discovered press, exercised a great and lasting influ- ence on the human mind. The sovereigns of Europe, at this bi-ill:ant period, rested their glory on the protection afforded to letters, on the classical education they had themselves OF THE ITALtAJs'S. 307 received, and on their intimate knowledge of the Greek and Latin tongues. The popes, who, in the preceding times, had turned the whole weight of superstition against study, became, in the fifteenth century, the most zealous friends and protec- tors, and the most munificent patrons of men of letters. Two of them were themselves scholars of the first distinction. Thomas di Sarzana, who was afterwards Nicholas V., (1447 to 1455), and ^neas Sylvius, who assumed the name of Pius II., (1458 to 1464), after having rendered themselves celebrated, in the world of letters, for their extraordinary en- dowments, were, in consequence of their literary merit, raised to the chair of St. Peter. The dukes of Milan, the same men whom history represents to us as the disturbers and tyrants of Lombardy, Filippo Maria, the last of the Visconti, and Fran- cesco Sforza, the founder of a military monarchy, surrounded themselves, in their capital, with the most illustrious men in science and in letters, and accorded to them the most generous remunerations, and employs of the first confidence. The dis- covery of an ancient manuscript was to them, as well as to their subjects, a cause of rejoicing; and they interested them- selves in questions of antiquity, and in philological disputes, as well as in affairs of state. Two sovereign princes of less powerful families, the Mar- quis Gonzaga, of INIantua, and the Marquis D'Este, of Ferrara, endeavoured to supply what was wanting to them in power, by their active zeal and by the constant protection which they afforded to literature. They sought for and collected together men of letters from every part of Italy, and seemed to rival each other in lavishing upon them the richest gifts and the most flattering distinctions. To them, they entrusted exclusively the education of their children ; and we should probably, in the present day, search in vain, in our most learned academies, for men who wrote Greek verse with so much elegance and purity as many of the princes of Mantua and Ferrara. At Florence, a wealthy merchant, Cosmo de' Medici, had acquired a degree of power which shook the con- f^itution of the state ; and his descendants were destined to oubstitute, in that city, the will of an individual for that of the people. In the midst of his vast projects of ambition, master of the monied credit of Europe, and almost the equal of the kings with whom he negotiated, Cosmo accorded, in . 308 ox THE LITERATURE liis house, an asylum to all the men of learning and artists of the age, converted his gardens into an academy, and pro- duced a revolution in philosophy, by substituting the autho- rity of Plato for that of Aristotle. His banks, which were extended over all Europe, and to the Mahomedan states, were devoted to literature as well as to commerce. His agents, at the same time, collected manuscripts and sold spices ; and the vessels, which ari"ived on his account from Constantinople, Alexandria, aid Smyrna, in the several ports of Italy, were often laden with rich collections of Greek, Syrian, and Chal- dean manuscripts. At the same time, Cosmo opened public libraries at Venice and at Florence. In the south of Italy, Alfonso v., a monarch of the race of Aragon, contended with the sovereigns of the nortliern states, of Italian descent, in his love of science. His secretaries, friends, and counsellors, consisted of men, Avhose names will always remain illustrious in the republic of letters ; and his reign is intimately con- nected with the literary history of Italy. The universities, which, two centuries before, had flourished so highly, were, it is true, paralyzed by persisting in their ancient methods and errors, and in a scholastic philosophy, which dazzled the mind, but perverted the judgment. But all men, who had then acquired a name in literature, were accustomed to open a school, which was often for them the path to fame, fortune, and office. The sovereigns of that age often chose for their ambassadors, or chancellors, the same individuals who edu- cated youth, or illustrated the ancients ; and the public functions of these learned men interfered, only for a short space of time, with the equally noble objects of instruction. The passion for obtaining books for the purpose of forming libraries, and the prodigious price attached to a fine copy of a manuscript, awoke a spirit of invention to multiply them. The art of printing was discovered at a moment, of all others, when it was most wanted ; and to that necessity its invention may, in fact, be attributed. At any other epoch, even in the days of the greatest prosperity of Greece and of Eome, so great and urgent a necessity for multiplying the copies of books was never experienced. At no time, had the world possessed so considerable a number of manuscripts, which it was desirable to save from the destruction witli which they seemed menaced. In no other time, could the invention of OF THE ITALIAN'S. - 309 printing have been rewarded with more munificence, and been more rapidly extended. John Guttemberg, of Mentz, who was the first to employ moveable characters, from 1450 to 1455, wished to hide the secret of his discovery, in order to insure to himself a greater profit. But, in 1465, it was in- troduced into Italy, and in 1469 into Paris ; and, in a short time, those precious works, which were only attainable by infinite labour and expense, were multiplied by thousands, and placed witliin the reach of the public. The men who flourished at this period, and to whom we owe the revival of Greek and Latin literature, the pre- servation and correction of all the monuments of antiquity, the knowledge of its la\vs, manners, and customs, of its religion and its language, do not properly belong to Italian literature : and we shall not make a point of describing their writings, their persons, or their lives, which were continually agitated by disputes. It will be sufl[icient to impress a few names on the memory of the reader, in gratitude for the eminent services which they have rendered to Europe, and in recollection of a species of glory which has passed away. John of Ravenna, who, in his youth, had been a pupil of Petrarch, already then in years, and who had received many benefits at his hands, insufiicient, however, to triumph over his fickleness of temper ; and Emanuel Chrysoloras, a learned Greek, who came as ambassador into Italy, to implore succour against the Turks, and who was eventually detained in that country by the zeal with which his lectures were attended, were the two teachers who, at the close of the fourteenth and beginning of the fifteenth century, communicated to Italy a passion for the study of Greek letters, and who almost alone gave rise to that constellation of learned men which illumi- nated the fifteenth century. Among these may be mentioned Guarino Veronese (1370-1460,) ancestor of the author of the Pastor Fido, and the progenitor of a race wholly devoted to letters. He commenced his study of Greek at Constantinople, and brought from thence on his return two cases of Greek manu- scripts, the fruit of his indefatigable researches. One of these was lost at sea, on the shipwreck of the vessel : and the chagrin at losing such a literary treasure, acquired by so much labour, had the eflfect of. turning the hair of Guarino grey, in one night. He was tutor to Lionel, Marquis of Este, 310 ON THE LITERATURE tlie most beloved and the most liberal of the sovereigns of Ferrara. He was also interpreter for the Greeks, at the Councils of Ferrara and Florence : but these distinguished occupations did not divert him from his task of instruction, and he continued his lectures, at Ferrara, to the age of ninety. His principal works consist of translations from the Greek, and commentaries on the writings of the ancients. Giovanni Aurispa, a Sicilian, born in 1369, and who died in 1460, followed the same career as Guarino, thi'ough the course of an equally long life, and with the same success. Like him, he commenced his studies in Greece, and brought back with him to Venice two hundred and thirty manuscripts, containing the works of many distinguished writers of anti- quity, which would have been otherwise lost. For a long time, he gave lectures in Florence, Ferrara, and Rome, where he was apostolic secretary, and, again, at Ferrara, Avhere he died. There remain of him, some translations in Greek and Latin, some letters, and some Italian poetry ; but it was to his instructions, more particularly, and to his zeal for study, that he owed the great influence which he obtained over his age, and ihe celebrity deservedly attached to his name. Ambrogio Traversari (1386-1439,) a monk, who afterwards became the head of the order of the Camaldoli, was one of the most illustrious pupils of Emanuel Chrysoloras, a friend of Cosmo de' Medici, and one of the founders of the school of belles lettres and philosophy in Florence. He was connected with all the distinguished men of his age, and we derive much information respecting them from his letters. He travelled from convent to convent, and took a leading share in the political events of the age, for the interests of the order of which he was the chief. But the cause of letters gained both by his journeys and by his correspondence ; whilst he laboured to preserve or establish the peace of the church, and of society in general, by his conciliatory spirit. The mild- Tiess and benignity of his character were particularly valuable, at a time when the generality of scholars put no restraint on their violent tempers, and abandoned themselves to vindictive and outrageous quarrels. The celebrated Lionardo Bruno d'Arezzo, better known under the name of Lionardo Aretino (1369-1444), was also a' OF THE ITALIANS. 311 scliolar of Emanuel Chrysoloras. He was apostolic secretary to four popes, aud ultimately chancellor of the Florentine republic ; and was not only one of the most learned, but also one of the most amiable, men of the fifteenth century, equally dignified and respectable in morals and in manners. He has left, besides a number of translations in Greek and Latin, some letters and Latin poems, and a History of Florence to the year 1404, written with correct judgment, and in an elegant and pure style, but with too evident an imitation of Livy. In consequence of this unreasonable fondness for relating the events of modern times in the style of antiquity, the historians of the fifteenth century deprived their works of all nature and originality. Poggio Bracciolini (1380-14o9)*was the friend of Lionardo, and continued his history. He also was a pupil of John of Ravenna, and of Emanuel Chrysoloras. From the year 1402, and during more than fifty years, he was writer of the apostolic letters ; an employ which brought him little fortune, but which did not require his residence in Rome. Poggio was thus enabled to travel frequently, not only in Italy, but in Germany, in France, and in England. In his journeys, he discovered a great number of manuscripts, in danger of perishing in the hands of the monks, who were insensible to their value, and who had banished them to the damp and obscure recesses of their convents. In this manner, he x'e- deemed for posterity the works of Quintilian, Valerius Flaccus, Vitruvius, and others. He was tenderly attached to Cosmo de' Medici ; and, when that illustrious citizen was recalled to Florence, he fixed his own residence there, in the year 1435. Florence, indeed, was his native place, but, until that period, he had always lived absent from it. He was appointed, in 1453, chancellor of the republic. Shortly afterwards, he •was elected into the number of the Priori delle arti, or pre- sidents of the trading companies ; and he died, loaded with honours, in his native city, on the thirtieth of October, 1459. A monument was erected to his memory in the church of Santa Croce, near those of other great men, who form the boast of Florence. Poggio was one of the most voluminous writers of his age, and united a profound genius, philosophy, fervour of imagina- tion, and eloquence, to the most extensive attainments. Next 312 ON THE LITERATURE to his History of Florence, which extends from 1350 to 145b, and which is, perhaps, his best work, may be ranked many of his philosophical dialogues and letters, in which the most noble and elevated sentiments prevail. His memory, indeed, derives less honour from his too celebrated Book of FaccticB, which he published in his seventieth year ; and iu which, with a sarcastic gaiety, he outrages, without restraint, all good manners and decorum. Nor are the numerous in- vectives, which, in his literary quarrels, he addressed to Francesco Filelfo, to Lorenzo Valla, to George of Trebizond, and to many others, less exceptionable. In an age when literature was confined to scholastic erudition, taste exercised on it little influence. Society could not repress the malignant passions, nor could respect for the other sex inspire a sense of propriety. We are astonished and disgusted at the odious accusations, with Avhich these scholastic champions attnck each other ; reproaching their opponents with theft and fraud, poisonings and perjury, in the most opprobrious language. In order to justify an insolent and gross expression, they did not consider whether it were consistent with a due observance of decorum, but merely whether it were authorized by its pure Latinity ; and, in these calumnious aspersions', they were much less solicitous about the truth or probability of their charges, than about the classical propriety of their vitupera- tive epithets. The man, whose life was most agitated by these furious literary quarrels, was Francesco Filelfo (1398-1481), the rival in reputation, and the declared enemy, of Poggio Brac- ciolini. Born at Tolentino, in 1398, he early distinguished himself by his erudition, and, at the age of eighteen, was ap- pointed professor of eloquence at Padua. He relinquished tliat situation to go to Constantinople, to perfect himself in the Greek language. He repaired thither, in 1420, with a diplo- matic mission from the Venetians, and was afterwards em- ployed on others, to Amurath II., and the Emperor Sigismund. Having married a daughter of John Chrysoloras, who was allied to the Imperial family of the Palseologi, this noble alliance intoxicated the mind of a man already too vain of hi3 knowledge, and who considered himself to be the first genius, not only of his own, but of every age. On his return to Italy, his ostentatious disposition exposed him to numerous distresses, OF THE ITALIANS. 313 notwithstanding the liberality with which, in many cities, he v/as rewarded for his instructions. At the same time, the violence and asperity of his character procured him many bitter enemies. Not content with literary altercations, he interfered also in political disputes, although, in these, he was not actu- ated by any noble feelings. He pretended that Cosmo de' Medici had twice intended his assassination, and he, in his turn, attempted the life of Cosmo. He published his invec- tives in all the cities of Italy, loading, with the heaviest accu- sations, the enemies whom he had drawn on himself. After the death of his first wife, he married a second, and subse- quentl}' a third at Milan, -where he resided a considerable time, at the court of the Sforza family. He died on the thirty-first of July, 1481, on his return to Florence, to which place he was recalled by Lorenzo de' Medici. In the midst of these continual disquiets, Filelfo, however, laboured -with indefatigable activity for the advancement of literature. He left behind him a prodigious number of translations, dissert- ations, and philosophical writings and letters ; but he contri- buted still more to the progress of study by his lectures, and by the treasures of his knowledge, which he displayed before four or five hundred scholars at a time, to whom he gave in- struction on various subjectSj four or five times repeated in the course of one day. Lorenzo Valla is the last of these celebrated philologists whom we shall here notice. Born at Rome, at the close of the fourteenth century, he there completed his eai'ly studies. He was afterwards professor of eloquence at Pavia, until about the year 1431, when he attached himself to Alfonso V. He opened, at Naples, a school of Greek and Roman eloquence ; but, not less irascible than Filelfo and Poggio, he engaged with them and others in violent disputes, of which the written invectives left us by these scholars form a lamentable proof. He composed many works, on history, criticism, dialectics, and moral pliilosophy. His two most celebrated productions are, a History of Ferdinand, King of Aragon, father of Alfonso, and the Elegantice LingucB Latinai. He died at Naples, in 1457. The attention of the literary men of the fifteenth century Was wholly engrossed by the study of the dead languages, and of manners, customs, and religious systems,- equally extinct. VOL. I. U 314 ox THE LITERATURE The charm of reality was, of course, wanting to works wliich- were the result of so much research and labour. All these men whom we have noticed, and to whom we owe the dis- covery and preservation of so many valuable works, present to our observation, boundless erudition,ajustspirit of criticism, and nice sensibility to the beauties and defects of the great autliors of antiquity. But we look in vain for that true elo- quence, which is more the fruit of an intercouse with the world, than of a knowledge of books ; and these philologists professed too blind a veneration for every thing belonging to antiquity, to point out what was worthy of admiration, or to select what was deserving of imitation. They were still more unsuccessful in poetry, in which their attempts, all in Latin, are few in number ; and their verses are harsh and heavy, without originality or vigour. It was not until the period when Italian poetry began to be again cultivated, that Latin verse acquired any of the characteristics of genuine inspiration. The tirst man to whom may, perhaps, be attributed the restoration of Italian poetry, was, at the same time, one of the greatest men of his own and succeeding ages. This was Lorenzo de' Medici, chief of the Florentine republic, and arbiter of the whole political state of Italy (1448-1492). Lorenzo the Magnificent had written his first poems, before he was twenty years of age. A whole century had elapsed since Petrarch and Boccaccio, renouncing subjects of love, had ceased to cultivate Italian verse ; and, during this long- interval, no poet w^orthy of commemoration had appeared. Lorenzo attempted to restore the poetry of his country, to the state in which Petrarch had left it ; but this man, so superior by the greatness of his character, and by the univei-sality of his genius, did not possess the talent of versification in the same degree as Petrarch. In his love verses, his sonnets, and canzoni, we find less sweetness and harmony. Their poetical colouring is less striking; and it is remarkable, that they dis- play a ruder expression, more nearly allied to the infancy of the language. On the other hand, his ideas are more natural, and are often accompanied by a great charm of imagination. We are presented with a succession of the most delightful Tural pictures, and are surprised to find the statesman so con- versant with country life. His works consist of one hundred and forty sonnets, and about twenty canzoni. almost all com--' OF THE ITALIANS, 31^ posed in honour ofLucretia de' Donati. He lias not, however, named her ; and he seems to have chosen her only as the object of a poetical passion, and as the subject of his verse. He has celebrated her with a purity not unworthy of Petrarch, and with a delicacy which was not ahvays observed in his other attachments. But Lorenzo did not confine himself to lyric poetry. He attempted all kinds, and manifested in all, the versatility of his talents and the exuberance of his ima- gination. His poem of Ambra, intended to celebrate the delicious gardens, which he had planted in an island of the Ombrone, and which were destroyed by an inundation of that river, is written in beautiful octave verse. In his Nencia da Barherino, composed in the rustic dialect of Tuscany, he cele- brates, in stanzas full of natural simplicity, gaiety, and grace, the charms of a peasant girl. His Altercazione is a philoso- phical and moral poem, in which the most sublime truths of the Platonic philosophy are displayed with equal clearness and sublimity. Lorenzo has also left, in his Beoni, an ingenious and lively satire against drunkenness ; and in his Cai'nival songs, couplets of extreme gaiety, that accompanied the tri- umphal feasts which he gave to, and shared with, the people. In his Canzoni a hallo, we have other verses, which he sung himself, when he took a part in the dances exhibited in public ; and in his Orazioni we find sacred hymns, which belong to the highest order of lyric poetry. Such was the brilliant imagination, and such the grace and versatility of talent, of a man to whom poetry was but an amusement, scarcely noticed in his splendid political career ; who, concentrating in himself all the powers of the republic, never allowed the people to perceive that they had relinquished their sovereignty ; who, by the superiority of his character and of his talents, governed all Italy as he governed Florence, preserving it in peace, and averting, as long as he lived, those calamities with which, two years after his death, it was overwhelmed ; who was, at the same time, the patron of the Platonic philosophy, the promoter of literature, the fellow- student of the learned, the friend of philosophers and poets, and the protector of artists ; and who kindled and fanned the flame of genius in the breast of Michael Anfrelo. u2 316 ON THE LITERATURE CHAPTER XII. POLITIANO, PCLCI, BOIARDO, AND ARIOSTO. The century which, after the death of Petrarch, had been devoted, by the Italians, to the study of antiquity, during which literature experienced no advance, and the Italian language seemed to retrograde, was not, however, lost to the powers of imagination. Poetry, on its first revival, had not received sufficient nourishment. The fund of knowledge, of ideas, and of images, which she called to her aid, was too restricted. The three great men of the fourteenth century, whom we first presented to the attention of the reader, had. by the sole force of their genius, attained a degree of erudition, and a sublimity of thought, far beyond the spirit of their age. These qualities were entirely personal ; and the rest of the Italian bards, like the Provencal poets, were reduced, by the poverty of their ideas, to have recourse to those continual attempts at wit, and to that mixture of unintelligible ideas and incoherent images, which render the perusal of them so fatiguing. The whole of the fifteenth century was employed in extending, in every sense, the knowledge and resources of the friends of the muses. Antiquity was unveiled to them in all its elevated characters, its severe laws, its energetic virtues, and its beautiful and engaging mythology ; in its subtle and profound philosophy, its overpowering eloquence, and its delightful poetry. Another age was required to knead afresh the clay for the formation of a nobler race. At the close of the century, a divine breath animated the finished statue, and it started into life. It was in the society of Lorenzo de' Medici, in the midst of his friends and of the objects of his protection, that several of those men of genius appeared, who shed so brilliant a glory on Italy, in the sixteenth century. Amongst these, the most distinguished rank may be assigned to Politiano, who opened, to the Italian poets, the career of epic and h-ric fame. Angelo Politiano was born on the twenty-fourth of July, 1454, at Monte Pulciano (Mons Politianus), a castle, of which he adopted the name, instead of that of Ambrogiui, OF THE ITALIANS, 317 borne by bis father. He applied himself witb ardour to those scholastic studies which engaged the genei-al mind, in the fifteenth century. Some Latin and Greek epigrams, Avhicli he wrote between the age of thirteen and seventeen, surprised his teachers, and the companions of his studies. But the work which introduced him to Lorenzo de' Medici, and which had the greatest influence on his age, was a poem on a tourna- ment, in which Julian de' Medici was the victor, in 1468. From that time, Lorenzo received Politiano into his palace ; made him the constant companion of his labours and his stu- dies ; provided for all his necessities, and soon afterwards confided to him the education of his children. Politiano, after this invitation, attached himself to the more serious stu- dies of the Platonic philosophy, of antiquity, and of law ; but his poem in honour of the tournament of Julian de' Medici, remains a monument of the distinguished taste of the fifteenth century. This celebrated fragment commences like a large work. In fact, if Politiano had merely intended to celebrate the tournament in which Julian was victor, he would have found it ver}'- difficult to finish his poem ; since, in one hundred and fifty stanzas, forming a book and a half, he only arrives at the first preparations for the tournament. But I willingly suppose that his design was of a more extended nature, and more worthy of the epic muse. He probably intended, after the death of Julian, to which he alludes in the second book, to combine, in a chivalrous description, all that could be found interesting in the character of this young prince, whose loves he was recording. Politiano, indeed, must soon have discovered that he had not made choice of a hero, who could excite either his own admiration or that of his reader. Evients and actions were wanting ; and this was, doubtless, his reason for abandoning his work, almost at its commencement. But this mere opening of a long poem will not sufler from com- parison with those of the greatest writers ; and neither Tasso nor Ariosto exceed Politiano in his management of the octave stanza, in the spirit of his narration, in the grace and vivacity of his colouring, and in his union of an enchanting harmony with tlie richest and most varied description. The poet represents Jillian in the flower of his youth, devoted to the brilliant career of manly exercises, aspiring after glor}^, and 318 ON THE LITERATURE contemning the shafts of love.* He allures the young com- panions of his games and exercises, from a weakness which, he despises ; he conducts them to the chace ; and, himself, the most agile, the most ardent, and the bravest of all, he traverses the forest, and slays the liercest of its inhabitants. But love, indignant to see his empire thus contemned, draws him off from the pursuit, by the means of a beautiful white hind, which separates him I'rom his comrades, and leads him, by various windings, into a flowery mead, where Simonetta presents herself to his view, while the enchanted liind vanishes in air.f * Nel vago tempo di sua verde etate, Spargendo ancor pe '1 volto il primo fiore, Ne avendo il bel Giulio ancor provate Le dolci acerbe cure che da amore, Viveasi lieto iu pace, in libertate, Talor frcnando un gentil corridore Che gloria lu de' Ciciliani armenti ; Con esse a correr coutendea co' venti. Ora a guisa saltar di leopardo. Or deatro fea rotarlo in brieve giro ; Or fea ronzar per 1' aer un lento dardo, Dando sovcnte a fere agro martiro ; Cotal viveasi 1 giovane gagliardo, Ne pensando al suo fato acerbo e diro, Ne ceilo ancor de' suoi futuri pianti, Solea gabbarsi de gli afflitti amauti. All ! quante ninfe per lui sospiroruo ! Ma fii si altero senipre il giovinetto Che mai le ninfe amanti lo piegorno, Mai potb riscaldarsi '1 freddo petto. Facea sovente pe' bosclii soggiorno : IncuUo seinpre e rigido in aspetto, 11 volto difeudca dal solar raggio, Con ghirlanda di pino, o verdc faggio. Lib. 1. Stanz. 8. + Candida Ji ella, c Candida la vesta, Ma pur di rose c tior dipinta c d' erba ; JjO inanncllato criu de 1 aurea testa Scende in la fronte uuiilmente supcrba. Eidele attorno tutta la foresta, E quanto pud sue cure disacerba, Ne I'atto I'egalmente ii uiausucta, E pur col ciglio le tempeste acqucta. Eolgoran gli occlii d'un dolcc serene, Ove sue faei tien Ciipido ascose : L' aer d' intorno si fa tutto ameno Ovunquc gira le luci aniorosc : OF THE ITALIAJ^S. 319 Julian now sees only the fair Ligurian ; forgets the chace, and foregoes his resolves against the power of Love. Cupid, in the mean time, proud of his conquest, flies to the palace of his mother, in the Isle of Cyprus, and boasts of his success ; and the description of this enchanted palace has served as a model to Ariosto and to Tasso, for the enchanted domes of Alcina and of Armida."* This description may, perhaps, be too far extended, as the action of the poem is not accelerated by it, and the poet indulges himself too far in his pictures of mythology. In the second book, Simonetta, arrayed in the armour of Pallas, appears to Julian in a dream. She reminds him, that it is only by valour that a hero should Di celeste letizia il volto ha pieno, Dolce dipinto di ligTistri e rose. Ogni aura tace al suo parlar divine, E canta ogni augelletto in suo latino. Lib.l.Stanz.43. * Yaglieggia Cipri un dilettoso monte Che del gran Nile i sotte comi vede, Al primo rosseggiar de Torizzontc, Ove poggiar non lice a mortal picde. Nel giogo un verde colle alza la fronte, Sott' esso aprico un lieto pratel siede ; U' scherzando tra fior, lascive aurette Fan dolcemente tremolar I'erbette. Corona un mure d' or 1' cstreme sponde Con valle umbrosa di schietti arboscclli, Ove in sil rami, fra novelle fronde. Cantan gli loro amor soavi augelli, Sentcsi un grato mormorio de 1' onde Che fan duo freschi e lucidi ruscelli, A'ersando dolce con amar liquore, Ove arma 1' oro de suoi strali amore. Ne mai le chiome del giardino cterno Tenera brina o fresca neve imbianca : Ivi non osa entrar ghiacciato verno ; Xon vento 1' erba o gli arboscelli stanca. Ivi non volgon gli anni il lor quademo ; Ma lieta primavera mai non mauca, Che i suoi crin biondi e crespi a 1' aura spiega E mille fiori in ghirlandetta lega. [For a translation of the above stanzas, and of some others, the reader 15 referred to the note at the conclusion of the present chapter.— Tr.] 320 ON THE LITERATUKE think of obtaining her heart. Julian awakes, amidst the aspii'ations of glory and of love.* But here Politiano has relinquished his work, and leaves us to regret, either that a subject, of a more noble nature, and more exempt from flattery, had not animated his genius, or that too severe a taste caused him to abandon that which he had already chosen. Politiano had the honour of reviving, on the modern stage, the tragedies of the ancients ; or rather, he created a new kind of pastoral tragedy, a description of poetry on which Tasso did not disdain to employ his genius. The fable of Orpheus, Favola di Orfeo, of Politiano, was performed at the court of Mantua, in 1483, on occasion of the return of the Cardinal Gonzaga. It was composed in two days. It is not without regret that we contemplate the fine genius of Politiano. Before the age of nineteen, without a model or a predecessor, he had successfully attempted the epic and tragic * Cosi dicea Cupido, e gia la gloria Scendea giil, folgorando ardentc vampo, Coil cssa pocsia, con essa istoria Volavaa tuttc accesc del suo lampo. Costei parea cbe ad acquistar vittovia Rapisse Giulio orribilmentc ia canipo, E che r arme di Palla alia sua donna Spogliasse, e lei lascinsse in Lianca gonna. Poi Giulio di sue spoglie annava tutto, E tutto fiammcggiar lo facea d'auro, Quando era al fin del guercggiar condutto Al capo gl' intreeciava oliva e lauro. Ivi tornar parea sua gioia in lutto, Vcdeasi tolto il suo dolcc tesauro, Vedea sua ninfc, in trista nul)e avvolta, Dagli ocelli crudelniente csscrgli tolta. L'aria tutta parea divenir Lruna, E trcinar lutto de l' abisso il ibndo ; I'area sanguigna in ciel farsi la luua E cader giii le stclle nel proibndo; I'oi vedea lieta in forma di fortuna, Horger sua ninfa, c rabbeliirsi il mondo ; E prcndcr lei di sua vita governo E lui con seco far per fama ctcrno. Sotto cotali anil)agi al giovanctto Fil mostro do' suoi fati il leggier corso, Tropi)o fclice, se nel suo dilclto Nou metlca morte accrba il erudel morso, etc. OF THE IZALUlSS. 321 walks of poetry, and has left us poems which, though little more than fragments, exact our high admiration. To what height of fame might he not have aspired, if he had not abandoned the Italian muse for Latin verse and for philoso- phical v.^orks, which are nov/ no longer perused ! The universal homage paid to Virgil had a decided influ- ence on the rising drama. The scholars were persuaded that this cherished poet combined in himself all the difierent kinds of excellence ; and, as they created a drama before they possessed a theatre, they imagined that dialogue, rather than action, was the essence of the dramatic art. The Bucolics appeared to them a species of comedies or tragedies, less animated, .it is true, but m.ore poetical than the dramas of Terence and of Seneca, or, perhaps, of the Greeks. They attempted, indeed, to unite these two kinds ; ta give interest, by action, to the tranquil reveries of the shepherds, and to preserve a pastoral charm in the more violent expression of passion. The Orpheus, though divided into five acts, though mingled with chorus, and terminating with a tragic incident, is still rather an eclogue than a drama. The love of Ari- stJEUs for Eurydice ; the flight and death of the latter, who is deplored by the dryads ; the lamentation of Orpheus ; his descent into hell ; and his punishment at the hands of the Bacchantes, form the subject of the five acts, or rather of the five little sketches lightly strung together. Each act con- tains little more than from fifty to one hundred verses. A short dialogue explains the incidents between the acts ; and he thus pi'esents us witli an ode, or a song, an elegy, or a lyric poem, which appears to have been the principal object of the author, and the essence of his poetry. He makes use of various metres, tlie te?'za rbna, the octave stanza, and even the more involved couplets of the canzonl, for the dialogue ; and the lyric pieces are almost all supported by a burden. Nothing, indeed, can less resemble our present tragedy, or that of the ancients. The Orpheus of Politiano, nevertheless, produced a revolution in poetry. The charm of the decorations, united to the beauty of the verse, and the music attached to the words, exciting interest at the same time that it gratified the mind, combined to lead the way to the most sublime enjoyment Avhich the Muse can bestow, and gave birth to the dramatic art. At the same time, the 322 ON THE LITERATUKE. scrupulous imitation of antiquity,' prepared, in another manner, the revival of the theatre. After the year 1470, the academy of learned men and poets of Rome undertook, for the better revival of the ancients, to represent, in Latin, some of the comedies of Plautus. This example, and that of Politiano, were soon followed. The taste for theatrical per- formances was renewed with greater eagerness, as it was re- garded as an essential part of classical antiquitj'. It was not yet supported by the contributions of the spectators, but formed, as in Rome and in Greece, a part of the public, and often of the religious ceremonies. The sovereigns, who at this epoch placed all their glory in the protection of letters and of the arts, endeavoured to surpass each other, in erecting, on occasions of solemnity, a theatre, for the purpose of a single representation. The scholars and the court disputed for the honour of the parts, in the performance of the piece, which was sometimes translated from the Greek or Latin, and at other times was the composition of some modern poet, in imitation of the ancients. Italy boasted of exhibiting, annually, two theatrical representations : the one at Ferrara or at Milan, the other at Rome or at Naples. All the neighbouring princes, within reach, repaired thither, with their courts and retinue. The magnificence of the spectacle, the enormous cost, and the gratitude for an unbought pleasure, disarmed the severe judgment of the public. The records of the Italian cities, in presenting to us the recollec- tion of these representations, speak of them always in terms of unqualified admiration. Thus, it was less the applause of the public than the restoration of the classics, which the poets had in view in their compositions. They confined themselves to the most faithful copy of the ancients ; and the imitation of Seneca being equally classical with that of Sophocles, many of the first dramatic attempts of the poets of the fifteenth century, contain tumid declamations, without either action or interest, and all the faults of the Roman tragedies. About the same time, that style of poetry which was des- tined to form the glory of Ariosto, began to be cultivated. Luigi Pulci, a Florentine, the youngest of three brothers, all poets, composed and read, at the table of Lorenzi de' Medici, his Jlorgante Mayrjiorc ; and INIatteo Maria Boiardo, Count -OF THE ITALIAJCS 323 of Scandia, wrote his Orlando Innamorato. Botli these poems are chivalrous romances in verse, or rather in stanzas of eight verses, of the form which became peculiar to the epic poetry of Italy ; but neither the one nor the other can merit the name of an epic poem. The chivalrous romances, com- posed for the most part in French, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, were early circulated in Italy, and we learn from Dante, that they were already very much read in his day. In their origin, they accorded with the vivacity of the prevailing religious sentiment, with the violence of the passions, and with the taste for adventures, which animated the Christians of the first crusades. The general ignorance of the times favoured the powers of imagination. The vulgar looked rather to some supernatural agency, than to nature, for the explication of events, and admitted the marvellous, as a part of the system to which their daily terrors and hopes had habituated them. At the close of the fifteenth century, when the poets possessed themselves of all the old romances of chivalry, in order to give a variety to the adventures of their heroes, and to versify these legends, the belief in the marvellous was much diminished ; and the warriors, who still bore the names and the armour of knights, were far from calling to recollection the loyalty, the true love, and the valour of the ancient Paladins. Thus, the adventures which the ancient romancers recounted with an invincible gravity, could not be repeated by the Italians, without a mixture of mockery ; and the spirit of the age did not admit, in the Italian language, a subject entirely serious. He who made pretensions to fame, was compelled to write in Latin. The choice of the vulgar tongue was the indication of a humorous subject; and the Italian language had, in fact, adopted, since the time of Boccaccio, a character of naivete mingled with satire, which still remains, and which is particularly remark- able in Ariosto. It was not all at once that the romantic poets of Italy arrived at a just measure, in the mixture of humour with fabulous narrative. Luigi Pulci (1431-1487) in his Mor- gan te Maggiore, which first appeared in 1485, is alternately vulgar and burlesque, serious and insipid, or religious. The principal characters of his romance are the same which first appeared in the fabulous chronicle of Turpin, and in the 324 ON THE LITERATCRS romances of Adenez, in the thirteentli century. His real hero is Oi'lando, rather than Morgante. He takes up the Paladiu of Charlemagne, at the moment when the intrigues of Ganelon de Mayence compel him to fly from the court. One of the first adventures of Orlando is a combat with three giants, who lay siege to an abbey. Two of these he kills, and makes the third, Morgante, prisoner : converts and bap- tizes him ; and thenceforth selects him as his brother in arms, and tlie partaker in all his adventures. Although this romance consists entirely of warlike encounters, we do not find in it that enthusiasm of valour which captivates in Ariosto, and in the old romancers. Orlando and Rinaldo are not vanquished, but they do not inspire us with a confidence in their invincibility. Morgante alone, armed with the hammer of a huge bell, crushes all that he encounters ; but his supernatural strength less exalts his bravery than his brutality. On the other hand, throughout the poem, a secondary part is assigned to the women. We do not find it imbued -with that gallantry and devotion, which we are accus- tomed to consider as the characteristic trait of chivalry; and in this we have, perhaps, nothing to regret, as the habitual coarseness of the language of Pulci was little suited to the delineation of tender sentiments. The critics of Italy extol him for the purity of his style ; but it consists only in his fidelity to the Tuscan dialect, of which he adopted the proverbs, and all the vulgar expressions.* This poem of * Pulci commences all bis cantos by a sacred invocation, and the interests of religion are constantly intermingled with the adventures of his story, in a manner capricious and little instructive. We know not how to reconcile this monkish spirit with the semi-pagan character of society under Lorenzo de' Medici, nor whether we ought to accuse Pulci of gross bigotiy or of profane derision. This mi.xture of religion, of affected sublimity, of solemn insipidity, and of vulgar expression, will sufficiently appear from the opening of the ninth canto : Felice alma d' ogni grazia plena, Fida colonna, e speme graziosa, Vergine sacra, umile e Nazzarena, Perche tu se' di Dio nel cielo sposa. Con la tua mano infino al fin mi mena, Che di mia fantasia truovi ogni chiosa Per la tua sol benignita ch' fc molta, Accio chc '1 mio contar piacoems, which are now almost forgotten. He thus describes the process of engrafting. Ma chc direm de 1' ingcgnoso inserto, Che in si gran maraviglia al mondo mostra Quel OF THE ITALIANS. 351 Alaraanni was also the author of an epic poem, called Ij Avarchide ; a fanciful travesty of the Iliad of Homer, in romantic verse. The scene is transferred to Bruges, the ancient Avarcum; the besiegers are knights of King Arthur; and the events are similar to those of the Iliad, and are related, book by book, in the same oyder. Bernardo Tasso, who commenced writing Lis Amadis about the year 1545, and published it in 1559, forty years after the appearance of the Orlando Furioso, was a gentleman of Bergamo, attached, from the year 1531, to the service of Ferdinando San Severino, prince of Salerno, and established by him at Sorrento, where he remained until the year 1547. At that epoch, San Severino, Avho had opposed himself to the introduction of the Inquisition into Naples, was driven into revolt, and compelled to embrace the party of France. Ber- nardo Tasso shared his misfortunes, and lost, through his fidelity, the situation which he had held at Naples. He then attached himself to the court of Urbino, and afterwards to Quel che val 1' arte che a natura segua ? Questo, vedendo una ben nata piauta D' agresti abitator' talvolta preda^ Gli ancide e spegne, e di dolcezza ornata ITuova e bella colonia in essa adduce : N^ si sdegna ella, ma guardando in giro, Si bella scorge 1' adottiva prole, . Che, i veri figli suoi posti in obblio, Lieta e piena d' amor gli altrui nutrisce. L' arte e 1' ingegno qui mille maniere Maravigliosamente ha poste in pruova. Quando fe piil dolce il ciel, chi prende in alto Le somme cime piil novelle e verdi Del miglior frutto, e risecando il ramo Jy un altro, per se allor aspro e selvaggio, Jla giovine e robusto, o '1 tronco istesso, Adatta in modo le due scorze iusieme, Che r uno e 1' altro umor, che d' e.ssi saglia, Wischiando le virtil, faccia indivisi II sapor e 1' odor, le frondi e i pomi. Chi la gemma svegliendo, a 1' aitra p'anta Fa simil piaga, e per soave impiastrr, Ben congiuuta ed egual 1' inchiude ii essa, Chi de la scorza intera spoglia un ramo, In guisa di pastor eh' al nuovo lemj o, Faccia zampogne a risonar le valli, E ne riveste un altro in forma tale Che qual gonna nativa il cinga e copra, 352 ON THE LITEKATURE that of Mantua, at which latter city he died, on the fourth of September, 1569. It was during his residence at Sorrento, that his son, the illustrious Tasso, was born, on the eleventh of March, 1544 ; of whom we shall shortly speak, and whom the Neapolitans claim as their countryman, although his father was of Bergamo. Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto, had transplanted into Italian poetry, the chivalrous romances of the court of Charlemagne, which we have before placed in the third class. Alamanni had versified those of the first, or of the court of King Arthur. Bernardo Tasso devoted himself to the second, and composed a poem of one hundred cantos, on the Amadis of Gaul, a romance equally claimed by the Spaniai'ds and by the French. This romance is distinguished from others by a loftier enthu- siasm of love, by richer imagination, and by a greater exalta- tion of all the chivalrous virtues ; although it is somewhat less engaging, and exhibits less of the marvellous in valour and exploits. It is from the expression of the warmer feelings of the South, rather than from historic proof, that we can con- firm the claims of the Spaniards to the first invention of the Amadis ; and it was probable, therefore, that it would appear to more advantage in a language of the South, than in the romances of the French. The first loves of the Damoisel de la Mer, yet a stranger to his origin, and of the tender and timid Oriana ; the constant favour of the good fairy Urganda, extended to all distressed lovers ; and the noble qualities of Amadis, who, without knowing Perion, king of the Gauls, delivers him from a thousand dangers, and appears on all occasions, in forests and in castles, as the redresser of wrongs, and the avenger of injuries, might furnish for a poem, a subject full of charm, interest, and action. In such a poem, imagination should have less sway than sensibility ; and the poet should not permit himself to trifle with the interest of the narrative, which ought to exer- cise dominion over the heart. But Bernardo Tasso was far from possessing, in the same degree as his son, or even as the original author whose narrative he translated, a meditative and poetic character. He does not, it is true, like Ariosto, sport with his subject and his readers. He is grave and serious ; nor is any sally of wit or pleasantry permitted in his recital. But we are displeased to find that, like Ariosto, he OF THE ITALIAlfS. 353 interrupts his narrative a hundred times, and abandons his heroes at the most critical moment, whenever he has excited our interest in their favour. We feel, in reading him, tliat he has prescribed these interruptions to himself, in the way of art. They occur more frequently than in Ariosto ; and in this manner he entirely destroys the interest which could alone give success to his work. The style is agreeable, but not engaging, and in general more ornamented than poetic. The author, at regular distances, has placed similes and metaphors, or other figures of speech, with which we are sure to meet again, after a certain number of verses, and which appear at stated intervals, as boundaries to mark his poetic route. The dramatic part is neglected, and the speeches have not the native charm of the original Amadis. All these faults render so long a work fatiguing to the reader ; and Bernardo Tasso would probably have been for- gotten, if the fame of his son had not preserved his memory.* If we find a spirit of pedantry introducing itself into the * One of the most brilliant specimens of the poetry of Bernardo Tasso is, perliaps, the description given by the fairy Urganda to Oriana, of the birth and early adv^entures of her Amadis. Canto vi. Stanza 33, &c. She relates how Perion, King of the Gauls, wandering unknown, far from his kingdom, to render himself famous for bravery and A'irtue, won the love of the King of Brittany's daughter ; how, being compelled to pursue his adventure, he left her when about to become a mother ; and how this princess, with the aid of her friend Darioletta, fearful of detection, exposed her oiispriug to the waves, in a little bark floating on the river near the palace ; and how, finally, the Naiads received him, ITscir le Dive, e dal liquido regno Uscendo a gara, di rose e di fieri Spogliando i prati lor, cinsero il legno, Come si suol le chiome a vincitori. Mostrar le sponde d' allegrezza segno, E i vaghi augei, con garruli rumori, Facean, battendo 1' ali, compagnia Al fanciul chc felice se ne gia. Xon fur si tosto al mar, ch' alto e sonante Prima era, che torno piano e quieto, Come ora che Nettuno trionfante Va per lo regno suo tranquillo e lieto ; Corsero tutti i Dei, corsero quante Ninfe quel fondo avea cupo e segreto ; E presa la casetta, accommiataro I Dei del fiume che 1' accompagnaro. Non 354 ON THE LITERATURE poetry of Romance, we may naturally suppose, that those poets, who formed themselves on the classic model, would be equally pedantic. Giovanni Giorgio Trissino, born at Vicenza, on the eighth of July, 1478, was ambitious of giving to his country an epic poem, where no other imitation should be perceptible than such as was dei-ived from an ardent study of the ancients. He devoted twenty years to this work, which he began to publish in the year 1547. He chose for his subject, the deliverance of Italy from the Goths, and Belisarius for his hero. It was impossible to have entered on so great a task, with a higher reputation than Trissino possessed. His extensive knowledge, and his poetic genius, were respected by pontiffs and by princes. The sub- ject was noble, and of national interest ; the names already illustrious and popular ; and the choice which he had made of blank verse, afforded him more freedom of thought, and an indulgence in a more elevated style. But these circum- stances served only to render his failure more remark- able. The versi scioltl are admirably adapted to tragedy, where the language differs only from prose in being more dignified and more harmonious ; but they are far removed from the ease and majesty of the Latin hexameter, and become tedious and prosaic in a narrative, already, in its subject, too closely approximating to history. Trissino had not the art of elevating himself by dignity of expression, or by harmony of language, and, still less, by the majesty of the subject ; for, by an ill-conceived imitation of the ancients, he brings before his readers the most trite and trivial circum- stances. Homer, indeed, follows his heroes through all the details of life. But these details possess always, in their sim- plicity, a dignity peculiar to the heroic age ; whilst the court of Byzantium presents only the contrast of the insignificance of the men, and the solemnity of the ceremonials. Trissino describes to us the toilet of Justinian. He relates how the Non fil alcuna di lor clie non porgesse L'umida mano a sostenere il legno ; Non ih alcuna di lor clie nol cingesse Delle ricchezze del suo salso regno ; Non fil alcuna di lor clie non avesse Gioia e pieta del fanciulletto degno ; Cosi per 1' onda allor placida e pura Lo'conducea con ogni studio e cura. OF THE ITALIAN'S. 355 emperor puts on a succession of pompous robes, with which the raonarchs of the East are loaded ; but, in overwhelming us with a torrent of words, he does not even succeed in this idle description of ceremony. He never forgets the hour of repast; and his heroes deliberate, with solemn dulness, whether they should resume their duties before or after dinner. Notwithstanding all this labour, he does not even describe the military feasts, or the manners of the age, with any degree of interest.* In the second book, he details, with fat-guing erudition, in the first place, the geography and statistics of the empire, and, afterwards, the formation of the legions. But all is in the style of a gazette, without relieving the multitude of verses by the least interest or poetry, and without even affording instruction in the room of pleasure. We constantly perceive, that, amidst all his display of knowledge, he confounds both time and manners. In his mythology, fantastically composed of paganism and christi- * Cosi quel ch' eran stati entr' al consiglio Einchiusi alquanto, lieti se n' andaro A prender cibo ne i diletti alberghi. L' ordinator delle cittS, del mondo Come fa dentro all' onorata stanza, Spogliossi il ricco manto, e chiamar fece II buon Narsete, e I'buon conte d'Isaura ; E disse ad ambi lor queste parole : Cari e prudenti miei mastri di guerra, Non vi sia grave andare insieme al campo, Ed ordinar le genti in quella piaggia Grande che va della marina al vallo : Che dopo pranzo to' venirvi anch' io Per dar principio alia futura impresa. TJdito questo i dui baroni eletti Si dipartiro, e scesi entr' al cortile, Disse Narsete al buon conte d'Isaura : Che vogliam fare, il mio onorato padre 1 Volemo andare al nostro alloggiamento A prender cibo, e poi dopo 1 mangiare Girsene al campo ad ordinar le schiere ] A cui rispose il vecchio Paulo e disse : buon fig-liuol del generoso Araspol II tempo ch' insta h si fugace e corto Ch' a noi non ci bisogna perdem' oncia : Andiamo al campo, che sarem sul fatto ; E quivi eseguirem questi negozi, E poscia ciberensi, benche e megl Senza cibo restar che senza onore 356 ON THE LITERATURE anity, in wliich he invokes Apollo and the Muses to interest themselves in the triumph of the faith, we find the attributes of the Deity in conversation with each other. The poverty of his style, which his gravity makes still more repulsive, the bad taste in which his characters discourse, and the extreme tediousness of the principal action, render this work, so long anxiously expected, so celebrated before its birth, and so dis- tinguished by name even at the present day, one of the worst poems that has ever appeared in any language. But, whilst men of the first reputation in Italy failed in the gigantic enterprise of producing an epic poem, a young man, of twenty-one years of age, scarcely known by a ro- mantic poem called R'maldo, commenced writing, at the court of Ferrara, whither he had been lately invited, that Jerusalem delivered, which has placed its author by the side of Homer and of Virgil, and has elevated him, perhaps, above all modern poets. Torquato Tasso, whose misfortunes equalled his glory, devoted sixteen years to the composition of this poem, of which seven editions appeared in the same year, 1581, almost all without the concurrence of the author. The merit of Tasso consists in having chosen the most en- gaging subject that could have inspired a modern poet. History presents us with the remarkable fact of a mighty contest between the people who were destined to exalt the human race to its highest pitch of civilization, and those who would have reduced it to the most degrading barbarism. This was the struggle between the Christians and Saracens, during the wars of the crusades. It is not to be denied that, at the time the Latins first commenced these wars, the Sara- cens were greatly superior in letters, in arts, and in manners, to the Christians who attacked them. But they had already passed the meridian of their glory ; and the defects of their religion and their government, and the barbarism of the Turks, were rapidly drawing them to the degrading state, in which we behold them at the present day. At the same time, the crusaders, in spite of their ferocity, ignorance, and superstition, possessed the germs of civilization. Their force of thought and sentiment was about to develope that improve- ment wliich began with the Latins in the eleventh century, and whicli has rendei-ed Eux'ope so far superior to the rest of OF THE ITALLINS. 357 the world. If the crusaders had succeeded in tlieir san- guinary contest with the people of the East, Asia would have received our laws, our manner?, and our customs ; and would have been at this day a flourishing country, inhabited by a free and noble race. The arts, for which she is formed by nature, would there have attained that perfection which was known to the Greeks, and which was found in the brilliant and favoured cities of Seleucia and Antioch. The borders of the Jordan would now have been cultivated by a happy people ; and the lofty walls of Jerusalem would not have stood isolated, in the midst of desert sands and rocks barren of verdure. The fruitful plains of Syria, and the delicious valleys of Lebanon, would have been the abode of peace and enjoyment, or the theatre of the most brilliant actions. The overbearing Turk, the ferocious Druse, or the savage Be- douin, would not have oppressed the wretched descendants of the most ancient people of the earth. If the Mahomedans, on the contrary, had accomplished their projects of conquest ; if the invasion of Europe, commenced at the same time in the East, in the "U^est, and in the South, had succeeded, the energies of the human mind would have been extinguished by despotism, and none of the qualities, which characterize the European, would have developed themselves. He would have been cowardly, ignorant, and perfidious, like the Greek, the Syrian, and the Fellah of Egypt ; and his country, less favoured by nature, would have been buried amidst dark forests, or inundated by marshy waters, like the deserted districts of Romagna. The contest was terminated, without victory declaring for either power. The Mahomedans and the Franks still exist, the subjects of mutual comparison ; and the latter may acknowledge, after the lapse of seven centuries, their debt of gratitude to the valour of their ruder ancestors. These two races of men, when they combated, seven cen- turies ago, could not foresee the important consequences which Providence attached to their eftbrts. But a motive, not less noble, not less disinterested, and still more poetical, directed their arms. A religious faith connected their salvation with their valour. The Saracens considered them- selves called on to subjugate the earth to the faith of Mahomet ; the Christians, to enfranchise the sacred spot 358 ON THE LITERATURE where their divine founder suffered death and the mysteries of redemption were accomplished. We are not bound theo- logically to inquire whether the crusades were conformable to the spirit of Christianity. AVere a Council of Clermont held in the present day, the voice of the combatants would not invocate God alone, but, honour, their country, and hu- manity. But the religion of that age was wholly warlike ; and it was a profound, disinterested, and enthusiastic senti- ment which led our ancestors to bid adieu to their wives and children, to traverse unknown seas, and to brave a thousand deaths in a foreign land. This sentiment was highly poe- tical. Self-devotion and confidence in heaven, form heroes ; and accordingly we never, at any period, beheld so brilliant a display of valour. Superstition arose out of the very cir- cumstances of the times. Those who wholly devoted them- selves to the service of God, might expect that God would interfere in their favour, and on this interference they re- posed. — " Eh ! quel temps fut jamais plus fertile en miracles V The whole history of the crusades, indeed, abounds with miracles. The assistance of God was invoked before battle, Ms arm was visible in their deliverance, his rod chastised them in defeat ; and marvels were so very prevalent, that the supernatural seemed to usurp the laws of nature and the common course of events. The Mahomedans, on their side, relied also on Divine protection. They invoked, in their mosques, with no less confidence, the great defender of their faith ; and they attributed to his favour, or to his anger, their victories and their disasters. The prodigies which each party boasted to have seen perfoi'med in their behalf, were not denied by their enemies ; but, as each believed them- selves worshippers of the true God, so each attributed to the power of evil spirits the occasional success of their opponents. The faith against which the crusaders fought, appeared to them the worship of the powers of hell. They easily be- lieved that a contest might exist between invisible beings, as between different nations on earth ; and, when Tasso armed the dark powers of enchantment against the Christian knights, he only developed and embellished a popular idea, for the adoption of which our education, our prejudices, and all our ancient traditions have prepared us. OP THE ITALIANS. 359 The scene of the Jerusalem delivered, so rich in recollections, and so brilliant from its associations with aU our religious feelings, is one in which nature displays her richest treasures, and where descriptions in their turn the most lovely and the most austere, attract the pen of the poet. The enchanting gardens of Eden, and the sands of the Desert, are approxi- mated. All the animals which man has brought under his dominion, and all those that wage war against him ; all the plants which adorn his domains, and all that are found in the wilderness, belong to the varied soil of Asia, to that poetical land, where every object seems created to form a picture. On the other hand, the nations of Christendom send forth their warriors to the army of the Cross. The whole world is here the patrimony of the poet. He even calls on the remote Iceland, separated from the rest of the world. La dlvisa dal mondo xdtima Islanda: on Norway, who sends her King Gernando, and on Greece, who furnishes only two hundred knights, for a war in which her own existence is at stake. At the same time, all the people of Asia and Africa, united by a common cause, contribute to the defence of Jerusalem, forces differing in manners, in dress, and in lan- guage. "We may confidently assert, that however high an interest the taking of Troy might possess for the Greeks, the first result of their combined efforts, and the first victory which they had gained over the people of Asia ; and what- ever interest the vanity of the Romans had attached to the adventures of -S^neas, whom their poetic fables led the Romans to adopt as their progenitor ; neither the Eiad nor the -32neid possess the dignity of subject, the interest, at the same time, divine and human, and the varied and dramatic action, which are peculiar to the Jerusalem delivered. On the first opening of the poem of Tasso, we are struck with the magnificence of the subject. He lays it all before our eyes in the first stanza : Th' illustrioug Chief wlio warred for Heaven, I sing, And drove from Jesus' tomb th' insulting King. Great were the deeds his arms, his wisdom wi'ought ; With many a toil the glorious prize he bought : In vain did hell in hateful league combine With rebel man, to thwart the great design ; In vain the harnessed youth from Afric's coasts, Join'd their proud arms with Asia's warlike hosts ; 360 ox THE LITERATURE Heav'n smiled ; ' and bade the wand'ring bands obey The sacred ensigns of his lofty sway.* The whole course of the poem is truly epic. It is entire, simple, and grand ; and ends, as it commenced, with dignity. Tasso does not undertake the whole history of the first crusade, but enters on his action when the war had already begun. His whole poem is comprised in the campaign of 1099, and in a space of time which, according to history, consists of no more than forty days. This was the fifth year after the preaching of the crusades, which began in 1095, and the third after the Latins passed into Asia, which happened in the month of May, 1097. In that year, they liad taken Nicea, and commenced the siege of Antioch. That city, which had resisted their arms for nine months, surrendered only in July, 1098. The Christians, exhausted by their struggles against the countless armies of their enemies, by a long famine, followed by a pestilence, and discouraged and enfeebled still more by dissensions, had retired into their cantonments. But in the spring of the following year, they assembled afresh in the plains of Tortosa. They commenced their march to Jerusalem, and arriving before that city, at the beginning of July, took it after a siege of eight days, on the fifteenth of July, 1099, They defended it against the Sultan of Egypt, whom they defeated at Ascalon, on the fourteenth of August following, and thus founded the kingdom of Jerusalem, where Godfrey of Boulogne ruled only for a year. The poem of Tasso opens in the plain of Tortosa. The Deity himself calls the crusaders to arms. One of his angels appears to the pious Godfrey of Boulogne, reproaches the Christians with supineness, promises him victory, and an- nounces to him the decrees of God, who has elected him leader of the sacred host. Godfrey instantly assembles his com- panions in arms. By his eloquence, he imparts to them the divine enthusiasm which animates his own breast, and a sudden inspiration determines the other warriors to choose him for their leader. He orders the array to prepare to march for Jerusalem, and is desirous of seeing it re-united on the field. This review, which acquaints us with the most important * [The extracts are taken from Mr. Hunt's spirited translation. — Tj:] I OP THE ITALIANS. 361 persons of the poem, is a homage rendered to all the nations of the AVest, who flocked to this great enterprise, and a poetical monument raised to the fame of those heroes, whose glory is still reflected on their latest descendants. Tasso seizes the opportunity of exhibiting, in the Christian array, the ancestors of the princes whose protection he had ex- perienced ; but, above aU, Guelfo IV. Duke of Bavaria, son of the Marquis d'Este, Alberto Azzo II., who died in Cyprus, on his return from the Holy Land, and Rinaldo, an imaginary hero, from whom Tasso has derived the family of Este, Dukes of Ferrara and Modena, in whose court h.e lived. We al-so meet with the generous Tancred, cousin of the celebrated Kobert Guiscard, who had just achieved the conquest of the Two Sicilies ; Raymond de Saint Gilles, Count of Toulouse, the Nestor of the army ; and a crowd of chiefs, whom the poet has invested with great interest of character. On the other side, the Emir, lieutenant of the Sultan of Egypt, Avhom Tasso has named Aladin, King of Jerusalem, prepares himself for defence. He is aided by the sorcex'er Ismeno, who in order to frustrate the attack of the Christians, v/ished to employ, in his profane art, a miraculous image of the Virgin, which was preserved in the temple. This image disappeared in the night. A priest of the temple, or, perhaps, a celestial power, had saved it from profanation. Sophronia, a young Christian of Jerusalem, accuses herself of having stolen the image from the Saracens, in order to divert the anger of the king from her people. The love of Olindo for Sophronia, who wishes, in his turn, to sacrifice himself for her ; the cruelty of Aladiu, who condemns them both to death; and the generosity of Clorinda, who saves them from the stake, form one of the most touching episodes of the Jeru- salem deUcered. This episode was translated by J. J. Rousseau, and is, from that circumstance, better known to the French nation, than any other parts of the poem. This is a happy mode of introducing Clorinda, the heroine of the infidel army, to the reader. Her generosity is, thus, with great judgment, made known to us before her valour ; otherwise, this fierce Amazon, whom we always find in the midst of blood and combats, might have revolted our feelings. Tasso, in his character of Clorinda, has imitated Ariosto. He has borrowed from his Bradamante or his Marfisa; but heroines VOL. J z 362 ON THE LITERATURE assimilate better with the chivalrous romance than with the epic, where probability is a more necessary quality. This character is, in fact, misplaced, in describing the manners of the East, where a woman was never known to appear in arms or in the field. "We more than once feel in reading Tasso, tliat he has drawn his ideas of chivalry too frequently from Ariosto, and from the celebrated romances of his time. Hence arises, sometimes, a mixture of the two styles. Tasso ought not to have attempted to rival Ariosto, in the indul- gence of a brilliant and romantic fancy, since his success here would have been a fault. But, however improbable his Clorinda appears, it is in her character that his greatest beauties are displayed. In the same canto, Argante, the bravest of the infidel heroes, appears also for the first time. He is sent on an embassy to the Christian camp, and he there manifests the fierce, impetuous, and ungovernable character which he is destined to support throughout the poem. At the opening of the third canto, as soon as morning dawns on the warriors, they commence their march with ardour, in the hopes of reaching the end of their pilgrimage. The eager bands, unconscious of their speed, With winged feet, and winged hearts, proceed. But when the Sun, now high advancing, hurld His noon-tide flood of radiance o'er the world, Lo ! on their sight Jerusalem arose ! The sacred towers each pointing finger shows ; Jerusalem was heard from ev'ry tongue, Jerusalem a thousand voices rung. Thus, some hold mariners, a hardy band, Whose venturous search explores a distant land, And braving dubious seas, and unknown skies, The faithless winds and treacherous billows tries ; When first the wished-for shore salutes their eye. Bursts from their lips at once the joyful cry ; Each shows the welcome soil, and pleased at last. Forgets his weary way, and dangers past.* * Ali ha ciascuno al core, ed ali al piede, Ne del suo ratto andar pero s' accorge ; Ma quando il sol gli aridi campi fiede Con raggi assai ferventi, e in alto sorge, Ecco ! apparir Gierusalem si vede Ecco ! additar Gierusalem si scorge, Ecco ! da mille voci unitamente Gierusalemme salutar si sente. Cosx OF THE ITALIAXS. 363 To this first transport of joy, a deep contrition soon succeeds, which is naturally excited in the devout pilgrims, by the sight of a city which their God chose for his residence; where he died, and was buried, and rose from the dead. With naked feet they pressed the rugged road ; Their glorious Chief the meek example show'd ; All pomp of dress, each vesture's gaudy fold, With silken drapery gay, or rich with gold, Quick they strip off, and ev'ry helm divest Of painted plumage, and of nodding crest ; Alike they quit their heart's proud guise, and pour Of penitential tears a pious shower. As soon as Aladin discovers the approach of the Chris- tians, he sends out the flower of his army to prevent their nearer approach to Jerusalem. He himself ascends a tower, which commands an extensive view of the country, to see the armies defile. He is accompanied by Erminia, daughter of the Sultan of Antioch, whose father and whose brother had perished the preceding year by the Christian sword ; but who, notwithstanding, knew not how to steel her heart against the bravest and the noblest of the Crusaders. Aladin interrogates her as to the names and the country of the knights whom he observes to distinguish themselves most highly by their valour. Tancred is the first; and in recog- nizing him, a sigh escapes from the bosom of Erminia, and her eyes are bathed in tears. Tancred himself, insensible to the love of Erminia, which he has not even remarked, is enamoured of Clorinda, with whom he unknowingly combats With a blow of his spear, he sti'ikes off" her helmet. The thongs that braced her helm, asunder flew ; With naked head, she stood exposed to view ; Loose to the wind her golden tresses stream'd ; And 'mid the storm of war the Sun of beauty beam'd. Flash'd her bright eyes with anger, stern and wild. Yet lovely still ; how lovely had she smiled ! Cosi di naviganti audace stuolo Che mova a ricercar estranio lido ; E in mar dubbioso, e sotto ignoto polo, Provi r onde fallaci e '1 vento infido, S' al fin discopre il disiato suolo, Lo saluta da lunge in lieto grido : E r uuo a r altro '1 mostra, e in tanto obblia La noia e '1 mal de la passata via. Canto iii. st. 3, 4. z 2 364 01* THE LITERATURE Tancred, thenceforth defends himself no longer against the fair Amazon. Whilst she presses on him with her sword, he urges his suit ; but a crowd of routed Saracens separate them from each other. From the commencement of the poem, the most tender sentiments are thus combined with the action ; and in the Jerusalem delivered, a nobler part has been assigned to love, than has been given to it in any other epic poem. This part is conformable to what is required from the epic romance, which is more elevated in its nature, more religious, and, con- sequently, more in unison Avith the softer passion. Love, enthusiastic, respectful, and full of homage, was an essential character of chivalry. It was the source of the noblest actions, and gave inspiration to all the poetry of the age. If Achilles had been represented in the Iliad as enamoured, he could not have forgotten his power, and the woman whom he loved must liave submitted to his authority. This prejudice of ancient Greece must have given to his passion a character of barbarism, which instead of exalting, abases, the hero. But Tancred's flame is ennobled by the religion which he professes, and he becomes more amiable, without any sacrifice of his valour. With the heroes of the classical epic, love is a weakness ; with the Christian knights, a devotion. The character of Tasso, who was himself possessed of an enthu- siastic imagination, and of a heart open to all romantic Impressions, led him to the natural expression of a tender and delicate sentiment. The powers of darkness could not behold without grief, th-e approaching triumph of the Christian arms. In the fourth canto of his poem, Tasso introduces us to their councils, Satan, wishing to resist the conquests of the Crusaders, assembles his sable bands. Th' infernal trump, that loud and hoari?ely braj "d, Convened the inmates of th' eternal shade : Hell's gloomy caverns shook at every pore ; The murky air return'd the sullen roar : Not half so loud, from upper regions driven, Bursts on th' affrighted world the bolt of Heaven ; Nor such the shock, when from Earth's womb profound, Exploding vapours rive the solid ground.* * This stanza has been universally admired, as much for the effect of its imitative harmony, as for the beauty of its images. Chiama OP THE ITALL4>fS. 365 The employment of the infernal spirits in combating the decrees of Heaven, presented many difficulties to Tasso. Superstition, by whose hand they were drawn, had given to them a semblance mean and ridiculous. Although Satan had resisted an all-powerful Being, we do not find him invested with grandeur or majesty. It is difficult to represent him, without exciting distaste or ridicule ; and, in spite of the character which some Christian poets have drawn of him, Satan is seldom considered as a dignified being. Tasso has combated this difficulty ; and his portrait of the savage ruler of Hell, whom he calls Pluto, inspires terror rather than disgust. On his fierce brow majestic terror rode, That swell'd with conscious pride th' infernal God : His reddening eye, whence streaming poison ran, Glared like a comet, threatening woe to man. Thick matted folds his ample beard display'd, And veil'd his bosom in its mightj' shade. His mouth was like the whirlpool of the flood, Dark, yawning, deep, and foul with grumous blood.* Chiama gli abitator dell' ombre eterne 1\ rauco suon della Tartarea tromba ; Treman le spaziose atre caverne, E r aer cieco a quel romor rimbomba. N& si stridendo mai, dalle superne Eegioni del cielo il folgor piomba, X^ si scossa giammai trema la terra, Quando i vapori in sen gravida serra. Canto iv. st. 3. * Orrida maesta ncl fero aspetto Terrore accresce, e piil superbo il rende, Eosseggian gli occhi, e di veneno infetto Come infausta cometa il guardo splende ; Gl' involve il mento, e sH 1' irsuto petto Hispida e folta la gran barba scende ; E in guisa di voragine profonda S'apre la bocca, d'atro sangue immonda. Quali i fumi sulfurei ed infiammati Escon di ilongibello, e il puzzo, e '1 tuono ; Tal della fiera bocca i negri fiati. Tale il fetore e le favelle sono. Mentre ei parlava, Cerbero i latrati Ripresse, e 1' Idra si fiJ muta al suono : Rests Cocito, e ne tremar gli abissi, E in questi detti il gran rimbombo udissi. Canto iv. si. 7, 8. 366 ON THE LITERATURE But we soon perceive that this powerful picture is almost revolting to us ; and still more so, when we find, in the next stanza, that he appeals to another sense, that of the smell, an allusion to which is not permitted in poetry. The speech which Satan addresses to the infernal spirits, is the prototype of that sombre eloquence assigned to him by Milton. The hatred which fires him, and which permits him, in his fall, to consider only the means of revenge, is sufficiently exalted, to ennoble his character. The demons, obedient to his voice, immediately separate, and take their flight to different regions of the earth, air, and water, to imite against the Christian army all the power which they exercise over the elements, and all which they have acquired over the men who devote themselves to their worship. The sultan of Damascus, the most renowned among the magicians of the East, at the instigation of his evil genius, undertakes to seduce the Christian knights, by the charms of his niece, the sorceress, Armida. The East had conceded to her the palm of beauty. In artifice, address, and the most subtle intrigues of a woman or a sorceress, she was equally skilled. Armida, confident in her charms, repairs alone to the camp of the Christians. She hopes to draw into the snares of love, the most valiant of the foes of her country ; and, perhaps, the illustrious Godfrey himself. It is in this portrait of Armida, in the description of all that is lovely, tender, and voluptuous, that Tasso has surpassed himself and is inimitable. The poets of antiquity appear not to have felt so intensely the power of beauty ; nor, like Tasso, have they ever expressed the intoxication of love.* Armida, amidst a crowd of knights, desires to be conducted to the pious commander. She throws herself at his feet, and claims his protection ; she relates that her uncle had despoiled her of her inheritance ; she feigns that he had attempted to poison her ; she represents herself as a fugitive and an outlaw ; and invests herself with imaginary dangers, in order to excite the sympathy of Godfrey and of the knights who surround him. She concludes by imploring him to grant her a small band of Christian soldiers to reconduct her to Damas- cus, of which place, her partisans had promised to open to her, one of the gates. Godfrey's constancy is at first shaken ; but, after hesitating, he courteously declines diverting the * Canto iv. st. 28 to 32. OF THE ITALIANS. 367 army from the service of God, for an object of human interest. The knights, whom the tears of Armida had softened, and who are smitten by her beauty, condemn the cold prudence of their chief. Eustace, the brother of God- frey, and the most ardent admirer of Armida, speaks, in the name of all the others, with that courage and chivalrous frankness, which render the period of the Crusades an epoch, more favourable than any other, for poetry. He reminds them of the obligation of all true knights to protect the feeble and the oppressed, and above all, the weaker sex. " Heavens ! be it ne'er in France's land surmised, Nor any land ^ here courtesy is prized. That in so fair a cause aloof we stood, Shrunk from fatigue, or feafd to risk our blood. For me, henceforth I cast with shame aside My glittering corslet, and my helmet's pride. For ever I ungird my trusty brand ; No more shall arms be wielded by this hand ; Farewell, my steed, our proud career is o'er ; And thou, fair knighthood, be usurp'd no more." * Godfrey, moved by the entreaties of his brother, and carried away by the wishes of the whole army, consents, at length, that ten knights shall accompany Armida, to restore her to the throne of her ancestors. The sorceress, after having obtained her suit, attempts to increase the number of her devotees, by seducing, in her return, more than Godfrey had conceded to her ; and the intrigues of her art are described with a delicacy and a grace which we should, perhaps, look for in vain in the erotic poets, and, at the same time, with a dignity which renders this picture worthy of the epic muse. We have now analyzed the first four cantos of the Jeru- salem delivered. The action is already commenced ; the most important personages have been introduced ; the resources of the enemy are developed ; the designs of the infernal powers * Ah non sia ver per Dio, che si ridica In Francia, o dove in pregio h cortesia, Che si fugga da noi rischio o fatica Per cagion cosi giusta e cosi pia ; lo per me qui depongo elmo e lorica. Qui mi scingo la spada, e piil non fia Ch' adopri indegnamente arme e destriero, '1 nome usurpi mai de cavaliero. Canto iv. st.il. 368 ON THE LITERATUKE are announced ; and we perceive the obstacles to the progress of the Christians. Yet the poet has not paused in his flight, in order to acquaint us with preceding events. The action advances ; and the occurrences, anterior to the opening of the poem, are recalled incidentally, and as occasion presents itself, without suspending for them the course of the narrative. A long recital sets forth anterior occurrences in the Odyssey, and in the -ZEneid ; but the Iliad, which has evidently served for a model to Tasso, is marked by an uninterrupted progress, like the Jerusalevi delivered, without reference to past events. Almost all the other epic poets have imitated Virgil, either in order to render the developement more easy, or to give, by a long discourse, a more dramatic form to the narrative. Vasco de Gama, Adam, Telemachus, and Henry IV., have each an important recital assigned to them, which occupies the second and third books of the Lusiad, of Paradise Lost, of the Telemachus, and the Henriade. Several of the Italian critics have made it a cause of serious reproach to Tasso, that he has not conformed to the model of the great masters ; but they ought rather to have felt the difference between mere imitation, and the observance of particular rules. These rules prescribe nothing. They interdict only what is contrary to the general effect, to emotion, and to the sentiment of the beautiful. This feeling is checked, and the mind of the reader remains in doubt, if the persons, for whom we wish to interest him, are unknown to him ; and if he be unacquainted with the time and the events, into the midst of which we wish to transport him. But the manner of accomplishing this is not governed by the laws of poetry. On the contrary, we ought to feel in- debted to the poet, if he effects it in a novel mode, and if, disdaining the example of his predecessors, he does not model his poem, like a work of manufacture, by a common pattern. But, in Tasso, we find no difficulty in comprehending this rule, or in following it. He does not require from his readers an acquaintance with the events preceding those of his poem. He is complete and satisfactory, and supports himself unaided. This merit he owes, in great part, to the extreme care which he took to instruct himself in the truth of the incidents, and to ascertain, in all their details, the true situation of the places where the scene of his poem is laid. When M. de Chateau- briand read this poem, before the walls of Jerusalem, he was OF THE ITALIANS. S69 struck with the fidelity of the description, which seems reserved for ocular demonstration. The description of the city of Jerusalem is drawn, he assures us, with the most scrupulous accuracy.* The forest, situated six miles distant from the camp, on the side of Arabia, and in which Ismeno pre- pares his dark enchantments, still remains. It is the only one found in the neighbourhood of the city, and it was from thence that the Crusaders procured all the materials for their engines of war. We even remark the tower, where Aladin is repre- sented as sitting with Erminia ; and we reti*ace the paths by which Armida arrived, Erminia fled, and Clorinda advanced to the combat. This scrupulous accuracy gives a new value to the poem of Tasso. It connects, more intimately, history and fiction ; and the first Crusade is inseparably united wutli the name of the poet who has celebrated it. In his review of the army of the Crusaders, Tasso has fixed our attention on a band of adventurers, the flower of the Christian chivalry. The chief of this band, Dudone di Consa, had been slain by Argante, in the first action, under the walls of Jerusalem. It was, consequently, requisite to appoint a new leader to this band of knights, the hope of the army. Eustace, w^io wished to prevent Rinaldo from fol- lowing Armida, points him out as the most deserving of this distinction, and endeavours to rouse his ambition. Gernando, son of the King of Norway, lays claim to it, and is enraged to find a competitor. He spreads injurious reports against Rinaldo. Rinaldo hears and resents them. The two knights rush on each other, in spite of the crowd of warriors who en- deavour to separate them, and Gernando is killed in the combat. The manners and the laws of knighthood required, that an impeachment of a soldier's honour should be avenged by the sword. But, on the other hand, all dissensions amongst the Crusaders ought to have been suspended ; and he who had dedicated his sword to God, ought no longer to have employed it in his own cause. Rinaldo, therefore, in order to avoid a militai'y trial, was compelled to quit the Christian camp. During these occurrences, Armida carries with her, not only the ten knights conceded to her by Godfrey, but many others besides, who, in the first night after her departure, had Canto ill. st. 55. 57. 370 ON THE LITERATURE deserted the camp to follow her ; and, whilst the army is en- feebled by the absence of so many warriors, it is thrown into alarm by the loss of its convoys, and by the approach of the Egyptian fleet. The sixth canto opens with two extraordinary combats, to which the Circassian, Argante, challenges the Christians iu presence of the whole army. The one is with Otho, who remains his prisoner ; the other, with Tancred. Night alone interrupts the second combat. The two warriors ai-e alike wounded ; and Erminia, called on to give to Argante those attentions which, in the chivalrous ages, the females bestowed on the wounded, whose only physicians they were, regrets not having sooner succoured the hero whom she loves, to whom she is bound in gratitude, and who stands in need of her healing hand. She resolves, at length, to join him in the Christian camp. United in strict friendship with Clorinda, she avails herself of her intimacy to array herself in her armour, and passes through the city gates in her name. The whole passage, where her delicate form is represented as with difiiculty supporting the weight of her armour, is written with an inexpressible charm. With the n;de steel's ungrateful load she prest Her golden hair, soft neck, and swelling breast ; Her arm, unequal to a task so great, Gives way beneath the buckler's massy weight ; Glittering in burnish'd steel the damsel stood, Her sex, her nature, and herself subdued. Love stood delighted by ; the wanton child Eyed the mask'd Beauty, and in mischief smiled ; 'Twas thus he smiled, when Hercules of yore Eesigned his manhood, and the distaft' bore. Scarce can her limbs the unequal weight sustain ; Her feet move slowlj-, and she steps with pain ; She leans, confiding, on her faithful maid. Who walks before, and lends her useful aid : But from inspiring hope new spirits rise. And love fresh vigour to her limbs supplies. She urges on ; the spot they reach with speed Where waits the Squire ; they mount the ready steed.* * Col durissimo acciar preme ed ofTende II delicato collo e 1' aurea chioma : E la tenera man lo scudo prende Pur troppo grave e insopportabil soma : Cosi tutta di ferro intomo splende, E in atto militar se stessa doma ; Gode OF THE ITALIANS. 371 As soon as she has escaped from the city, she despatches her knight to inform Tancred, and ask for her, a protection to the Latin camp. During this interval, and to calm her impatience, she advances to a neighbouring height, whence she views the tents so endeared to her. Still Night, in star-embroider'd rest array'd, Cast o'er the slumb'ring world her silent shade , No fleeting cloud disturb'd her tranquil reign ; The moon, slow rising through the azure plain. O'er lawn and hill her silver lustre threw. And chang'd to living pearls the orbed dew. In passion's mazes lost, th' enamour'd Dame Gave pensive utt'rance to her ill-starr'd flame, Bade the mute plains her secret sorrows know. And call'd on silence to attest her woe. Then gazing on the distant Camp, she cries : " Ye Latin tents, fair are ye in my eyes ! The passing gales that from ye blow, impart A transient comfort to my bleeding heart ! So may relenting Heaven resen-e for me, Mild in its wrath, a kinder destiny. As 'tis in you alone my woes must cease ; As in the midst of arms I look for peace. Eeceive me then ! and grant me there to prove The pity, promised by assuring Love ; That soothing pity which I found before, A captive, from the hero I adore. Nor one vain wish I cherish, to regain My kingly honours and my rich domain ; All earthly glories freely I resign ; Far other wish, far other hopes are mine ! Though stripp'd of these, abundant bliss 'twould give Within your loved abode, a slave to live ! " Ah ! little, while she spake, the Fair divined Th' unkindly lot her fro^vning fates designd ! As on the height she stood, with quiv'ring play, Danced on her polish'd arms the lunar ray ; Gode amor eh' fe presente, e tra se ride Come all 'hor gia che awolse in gonna Alcide. con quanta fatica ella sostiene L' inegual peso, e move lenti i passi, Ed a la fide compagnia, s' attiene Che per appoggio andar dinanzi fassi ; Ma rinforzan gli spirti amore e spene, E ministran vigore ai membri lassi : Si che giungono al loco ove la aspetta Lo scudiero, e in arcion sagliono in fretta. Canto vi. st. 92, 93. 372 ON THE LITERATURE The steel, the snowy vest that deck'd her frame. Wide o'er the fields reflect the silv'ry flame ; The bitrnish'd tiger, blazing on her crest, Clorinda's self, in pomp of war confest.* Not tar from thence is posted an advanced guard of the Christians, commanded by two brothers, Alcandro and Poly- pherno. The last, imagining he sees Clorinda, rushes for- ward, to attack her. The supposed warrior flies ; and Tancred, informed tliat Clorinda has been seen in the camp, flatters himself that the message he has received comes from her, and, wounded as he is, follows in the pursuit, to watch over her safety. Erminia, after flying the whole day, reaches a solitary valley, watered by the Jordan, which the noise of arms had never reached. She is there received by an aged shepherd, who, with his three sons, tends his flock, in the bosom of peace and innocence. It is impossible to draw a more en- chanting and touching picture of pastoral life, than this, in which Erminia resolves to wait for happier days.f Tancred, on his part, misled by the pursuit, arrives at the castle of Armida, where, by treachery, he is made prisoner. He does not appear, on the day appointed, to renew with Argante the combat which night had interrupted ; and the flower of the array have forsaken the camp, in the train of Armida. In the mean time, the venerable Raymond, Count of Toulouse, supplies the place of Tancred ; and Tasso gives interest to this part of the poem, in confronting an aged soldier with the most renowned and most ferocious of the Saracens, and in giving him the advantage, by means of celestial aid. This single combat is terminated, as in the Iliad, by an arrow despatched from the Asiatic camp against the Christian war- rior. In the engagement which follows, the Latins are defeated. The eighth canto represents them in still greater peril. The arms of Rinaldo, stained with blood, are brought to the Christian camp, and many circumstances lead to the belief that he has been assassinated by his comrades. Alecto directs the suspicions against Godfrey himself. The Italians, long jealous of the French, seize their arms to avenge their hero. A dreadful sedition spreads through the camp, and seems to threaten a civil commotion. This sci ::e, as well as * Canto vi. st. 104, &c. t <^««'o ™- ■^^- 1 to 22. OF THE ITALIANS. 373 the dignified calmness of Godfrey, who recalls the revolted troops to their duty, is painted with the hand of a master. The situation of the Christians now becomes every day more critical. Soliman, Sultan of Nicea, having been driven from his kingdom by the arms of the Christians, at the commencement of the war, had fled to the Sultan of Cairo, and had been commissioned by him to call to arms the Arabs of the desert. He arrives, in the ninth canto, on the night after the tumult. An innumerable host of Bedouins follows him. Under the cover of night, they attack the camp of the Crusaders, and spread dismay and confusion ; whilst Argante and Clorinda make a sortie, and attack the camp on the other aide. The Saracens are led on by all the rebellious spirits of hell ; but God does not permit these malignant powers to bestow victory on his enemies. He despatches the archangel Michael to discomfit them, and, after the supernatural powers have retired from the field of battle, the Christians recover the day by their own valour. Soliman is compelled to fly. The sorcerer Ismeno stops him on his route. By means of liis magic art, he conducts him back to Jerusalem, concealed from the eyes of his enemies ; and, at the same time, pre- dicts to him the future conquests of the Mahomedans, and the glory of Saladin, whom he represents as descending from Soliman. He inti-oduces him to the councils of Aladin, at the moment when the chiefs are preparing to capitulate ; and Soliman, by his presence, restores the courage of the dispirited warriors. On the other part, the knights whom Armida had seduced, return to the camp during the battle. They relate to Godfrey the manner in which they had been made prisoners by that sorceress ; how they had experienced the power of her enchantments ; and how she had en- deavoured to send them prisoners to the King of Egypt, when Rinaldo, whom they met by the way, delivered them, and Tancred amongst them. Thus the alarm which had spread through the Christian camp, for the safety of Rinaldo, is dis- sipated, and Petei', the holy hermit, reveals the high destinies which Heaven reserves for his descendants. The eleventh canto opens with the religious pomp and litanies, with which the Christians invoke the aid of Heaven, during their procession to the Mount of Olives. It is thus that they prepare themselves to assault the city on the fol- 374 ON THE LITERATURE lowing day. The opening of this great day is announced with all that military enthusiasm, which the Italian poets so well know how to represent. The assault and the manner of combat are here described with great truth of costume ; and, although Tasso, like all other poets, gives much more consequence to the personal valour of the chiefs, and less to the services of the soldiers than is really due, his description is, yet, that of a real action, and not of a combat of knights- errant. In the midst of the assault, Godfrey of Boulogne, Guelfo of Bavaria, and Raymond of Toulouse, are wounded ; and their retreat discourages their soldiers. Argante and Soliman make a furious sortie from the gates of Jerusalem, disperse the Christians, and attempt to fire the wooden tower, on which the warriors were placed for the assault. Tancred and Godfrey, whose wounds had been dressed, resist them, and night separates the combatants. Clorinda, meanwhile, who had not taken an active part in the battle, wishes to distinguish herself, in the night, by another exploit. She meditates a sortie, in order to burn the wooden tower, which still remained at some distance from the walls. Argante begs to accompany her. The he- roine, to avoid being recognised, clothes herself in black armour. The aged slave who accompanies her, and who had known her from her infancy, reveals to her secrets, respect- ing her birth, before unknown to her. He informs her that she is the daughter of the Queen of Ethiopia ; that she is under the protection of Saint George, and that this sainted •warrior had often reproached him, in dreams, for not having baptized her. Clorinda, although troubled herself by similar dreams, still persists in her design. The two valiant cham- pions penetrate the Christian lines, and fire the tower ; but, as they retire, overwhelmed by numbers, Argante enters Jerusalem by the golden gate, while Clorinda is led off in pursuit of an assailant, and finds on her return the barriers closed against her. She then seeks to escape from the field, in the obscurity of night. Tancred pursues her, and, when they have reached a solitary spot, he challenges the unknown warrior to single combat, deeming him not unworthy of his sword. This combat between two lovers, who do not recog- nise each other under the shades of night, is the masterpiece of Tasso. The combat itself is painted with matchless force OF THE ITALIANS. 375 of colouring.* But, when Clorinda is mortally wounded by her lover, the pathetic attains its greatest height, and poetry has nothing to offer more affecting. But lo ! the fated moment now was come, The moment, charter 'd with Clorinda's doom : Great Tancred's sword her beauteous bosom tore; Deep lodg'd the greedy blade, and drank her virgin gore : Her robe, of golden tissue, that represt Th' ambitious hearings of her snowy breast. With the warm stream was fill'd ; cold death assail'd Her bloodless frame ; her languid footsteps fail'd : Taucred with threats the falling fair pursues, His conquest urges, and his blow renews. She raises, as she falls,'lier voice of woe, ' And from her lips life's latest accents flow, Th' infusion of the Spirit from on high, Spirit of Faith, of Hope, of Charity ! New virtue, by th' Almighty Father given ; For, if in life she spum'd the laws of Heaven, He will'd at least, that in her dying hour. Her contrite soul should own her Saviour's power. " Friend, I am conquer'd ; thou hast pardon free ; And pardon I demand in death from thee ; Not on this frame, Avhich no base fear can know, But on my parting spirit mercj' show : 'Tis for my sinful soul I bid thee pray ; Let rites baptismal wash my guilt away."+ * Canto xii. st. 53 to 63. f 51a ecco omai 1' ora fatale h guinta Che 1 viver di Clorinda al suo fin deve ; Spinge egli il ferro nel bel sen di punta, Che vi s' immerge, e '1 sangue avido beve. E la vesta che d' or vago trapunta Le mammelle stringea tenera e leve, L' empie d' un caldo fiunie ; ella gi^ sente Morirsi, e 1 piS le manca egro e languente. Quel segue la vittoria, e la trafitta Yergine minacciando incalza e preme. Ella, mentre cadea, la voce afllitta Movendo, disse le parole estreme. Parole ch' a lei novo un spirto ditta, Spirto di ffe, di carita, di speme : Yirtii, ch' or Dio le infonde, e se rubella In vita fil, la vuole in morte ancella. Amico, hai vinto, io ti perdon, perdona Tu ancora, al corpo no, che nulla pave, A r alma si. Deh, per lei prega, e dona Battesmo a me, ch' ogni mia colpa lave. In 376 ON THE LITERATURE From licr pale lips these languid words that fell. Such sweetness breathed, divine, ineffable, As to the hero's heart resistless crept ; His enmity was hush'd, his anger slept. And straight, compelled by some mysterious force, Unbidden tears gush'd copious from their source. Emerging from the hill, a scanty brook, Not far remote, its murm'ring progress took : Thither the soul-struck warrior ran, to fill His hollow helmet at the limpid rill. Then hasten'd to perform the sad demand ; Some conscious instinct shook his trembling hand. As from her face, till now iinkno\vn, he drew The helm that cover'd it ; he saw, he knew : — All power of speech, of motion, then was gone ; Ah ! cruel sight ! ah ! knowledge, best unknoATn ! Nor yet he died ; in that momentous hour, Collecting all the remnant of his power. Deep in his soul his sorrows he supprest. And for the solemn office arm'd his breast, That she, whom late his murd'rous steel had slain, By water's saving power might live again. As, from his tongue, Salvation's accents came. New joy transform'd the virgin's dying frame, A smile of gladness o'er her features past. And sweetly tranquil, as she breathed her last. She seem'd to say, " Earth's vain delusions cease ; " Heaven opens on my eyes ; I part in peace." In queste voci languide, risuona Un non so chh di flebile e soave. Oh' al cor gli serpe, ed ogni sdegno ammorza, E gli ocelli a lagi'imar gli invoglia e sforza. Poco quindi lontan, nel sen del monte Scaturia monnorando un picciol rio ; Egli v' accorse, e 1' elmo empie nel fonte E torno mesto al grande ufiizio e pio. Tremar senti la man, mentre la fronte Non conosciuta ancor sciolse e scoprio. La vidde, e la conobbe, e restci senza E voce e moto. Ahi vista ! ahi conoscenza ! Non mori gia, clie sue virtuti accolse Tntte in quel punto, e in guardia al cor le mise ; E premendo il suo affanno, a darsi volse Vita, con 1' acqua, a chi col ferro uccise. Mentre cgli il suon de sacri detti sciolse, Colei di gioia trasmutossi e rise, E in atto di morir lieto e vivace Dir parea : S' apre il cielo ; io vado in pace. D'lm " OF THE ITALIANS. 377 O'er her fair face death's livid hue arose ; So, lU'x'd ■with violets, the lily shows. Slie fix'd her eyes on Heaven ; the sun, the sky, Scera'd to look down in pity from on high : She waved her hand, and since her lips denied All power of speech, the pledge of peace supplied. So pass'd from earthly scenes the maid forgiven ; So her pure spirit fled, redeem'd, to Heaven ; Kot death's rude hand her features fair impress'd. But the calm slumber of unclouded rest. The despair of Tancred is such as must be excited by so dreadful an incident. But Tasso, true to the sensibility of his nation, which never prolongs excessive grief, and faithful perhaps to the genuine rules of poetry, which ought never to convert into real suffering the pleasures of the imagina- tion, does not allow the reader to dwell on this melancholy catastrophe ; and before quitting Tancred, administers to him consolation, by a dream. CHAPTER XIV. KEMARKS ON TASSO CONCLUDED. Syivipatht is, perhaps, the origin of all the pleasures of the mind, and if critics have prescribed other laws and rules of art for appreciating and judging the beautiful, the rest of the world are, nevertheless, governed by their own feelings. A passage which excites a deep interest or awakens our curiosity, which circulates our blood more rapidly, and checks our respiration, which takes possession of our whole heart, and whose fictions wear the semblance of reality, has fully D'un be! pallor ha il bianco volto asperso. Come a gigli sarian miste viole, E gli occhi al cielo affisa, e in lei couverso Sembra per la pietate il cielo e '1 sole. E la man fredda e nuda alzando verso II cavaliero, in vece di parole Gli da, pegno di pace. In questa forma Passa la bella doima e par chc dorma. Canto xii. st. 64 to 69. VOL. I. A A 378 ON THE LITERATURE attained the object of its author, and has accomplished the highest effort of art. If, too, the writer of such a fiction has succeeded in exciting so lively an emotion, without giving pain to the reader, without having recoui-se to pictures of suffering, rather than to moral sentiments, the recollection of such a work is as delightful and as pure as the first impres- sion is. powerful. The poetic invention is a subject of admi- ration to us, after the emotion is calmed ; and we return with pleasure, to indulge a second and a third time, a feeling of the mind which is vehement without being painful. This merit, which gives a charm to romance, and constitutes the excellence of tragedy, is frequently wanting in the epic. We admire the most celebrated poems ; but our admiration is not accompanied by any powerful emotion, by an ardent curiosity to pursue the course of events, or by a very lively interest for the actors. The epic is, therefore, amongst the noble fictions of poetry, that which draws the fewest tears. Tasso, in this respect, has shown himself superior to all his rivals. The romantic interest of Tancred and Clorinda is carried quite as far as in the love romances, whose only object was to awaken the softer feelings of the heart. In the character of Tancred, the bravest, the most generous, and the most loyal of knights, we trace a vein of modesty and melancholy which wins all hearts. Clorinda, in spite of the contrast between her invincible and savage valour, and the mild virtues of the female character, attracts us by her generosity. The catastrophe is the most affecting that any writer of romance has ever invented, or any tragic author has brought on the stage. Although Tasso deprives the generous Tancred, almost in the middle of the poem, of all hope and all object in life, he does not yet destroy the inte- rest of what ensues. The shade of Clorinda seems to attach itself henceforth to this unhappy hero, who never again ap- pears on the scene, without exciting the deepest sympathy in the reader. The moving tower, with which the Christians had attacked the walls, had been burnt by the united efforts of Clorinda and Argante. Ismeno, to prevent the Christians construct- ing a new one, by means of his horrid enchantments, places tinder the guard of demons, the only forest where they could find wood proper for machines of wax. The terrors which OF THE ITALIAXS. 379 these dreaded places inspire are thus commutiicated to the reader Then burst upon their ears a sudden sound ; As when an earthquake rocks the groaning ground ; As when the south winds murmur, loud and deep ; As when amid the rocks the billows weep ; The serpent's hiss was there, the wolf's dread howl. The lion's roar, the bear's terrific growl. The trumpet's blast, with crushing thunder joined ; Such mingled sounds in one the hideous din combined.* The most valiant warriors, in vain, successively endeavour to penetrate into this forest, which is surrounded by walls of fire. Tancred alone succeeds ; but this hero, a stranger to fear, is overcome by compassion. The tree which he attempts to hew down with his sword, pours forth blood from the wounds which he has inflicted. The voice of Clorinda is heard, and reproaches him with violating the last repose of the dead. She informs him, that the souls of the warriors, who have fallen before Jerusalem, are attached to the trees of this forest, as to a new body, for a certain number of years. Tancred, scarcely trusting his senses, suspects that w^hat he hears is the voice of a sorcerer, and not that of Clorinda. But the uncertainty alone disarms him, and he relents and departs. The burning days of the dog-star now appear; the sun pours his scorching rays on the sands of the desert ; and the army, deprived of water, and choaked with the heat and the dust, faint under the drought. The picture of this dreadful scourge is drawn with a fidelity which no other poet has equalled. Whene'er the Sun begins his matin race. Vapours of bloody hue distain his face And his bright orb surround, a sure presage Of coming day's intolerable rage. " Esce allor della selva un suou repentc, Che par rimbombo di terren che treme ; E '1 mormorar degli Austri in lui si sente, E '1 pianto d' onda che fra scogli geme. Come rugge il leon, fischia il serpente. Come urla il lupo, e come 1' orso freme V odi, e v' odi le trombe, e v' odi il tuono ; Tanti e si fatti suoni esprime un suono. Canto xiii. st. 21. aa2 380 ON THB LITERATURE Spotted with red, Ms parting disk be sho\v3. Unerring tolcen of to-morrow's i\'oes, And witli the future mischief he portends, To past distress a sting more poignant lends. While thus he reigns, the despot of the skies, "Where'er unhappy man directs his eyes. He sees the flow'rs all droop, the leaves grow pale. The Tcrdure wither, and the herbage fail. Cleft is the ground ; the streams, absorbed, are dry; All nature's works confess th' inclement sky. The barren clouds, through air's wide regions spread, Part into flaky streaks, and flare with red. The Heavens above like one vast furnace glow, !ts or aught relieves the eye of man below. Within their caves the silent ZephjTS slept • The stagnant air unbroken stillness kept ; No wind was there, or 'twas the burning blast That o'er parch'd Afric's glowing sands had past. And with a dull and hea\'y heat oppress'd The fever'd cheek, dry throat, and lab'ring breast.*" The entire passage is too long for translation, but tliere is not a single verse in these eleven stanzas, which is not admir- able, which does not contribute to the heightening of the * Non esce 11 sol giamai oh' asperso e cinto Di sanguigni vapori entro ed intorno, Non mostri ne la fronte assai distinto Mesto presagio d' infelice giorno ; Non parte mai, che 'n rosse macchie tinto, Non minacci egual noia al suo ritorno ; E non inaspri i gia solFerti danni Con certa tema di futuri afllmni. Mentre gli raggi poi d' alto diffonde, Quanto d' intorno occhio mortal si gira, Seccarsi i fiori, e impallidir le fronde, Assetate languir 1' erbe rimira, E fendersi la terra, e scemar 1' onde, Ogni cosa del ciel soggetta a 1' ira ; E le sterili nubi in aria sparse. In sembiauza di fiamme altnii mostrarse. Sembra il ciel ne I'aspetto atra fornace, ISTii cosa appar clie gli occhi almen ristaure ; Ne le ?pelonchc sue zefiro tacc, E 'n tutto b fermo il vancggiar de 1' aure ; . Solo vi sofiia (e par vampa di face) Venlo, che move da 1' arene maure, Che gravoso e spiacente, e seno e gote Co' densi fiati ad or ad or percotc. Canto xiii. st. 54. OF THE ITALIANS. 381 picture, and afford a proof of that profound knowledge of nature, without which a great poet cannot be formed ; foj-, without it, the enchantments of imagination lose their proba- bility. The prayers of Godfrey obtain at length, from heaven, the rain so ardently desired by the army, which restores health and life to man and to the animal and vege- table cx'eations. But the enchantments of the forest can be destroyed only by Rinaldo. It is he whom God has chosen as the champion destined to conquer Jerusalem ; and Pleaven inclines the heart of Godfrey to pardon him, and that of Guelfo to demand his forgiveness. The importance given by Tasso to the enchantments of the forest, to the power of Ismeno, to that of the Christian magician, and, in general, to all the marvellous and super- natural part of the Jerusalem delivered, are treated by Vol- taire, in his Essay on Epic Poetry, with a mixture of bitter irony and contempt. But Voltaire, who, in this essay, has proved that genius is independent of the idle rules of the critics, and that the varying taste of nations gives birth to original beauties, to be rightly appreciated only by them- selves, ceases to be just and impartial, as soon as superstition is mentioned. He is then no longer a poet or a critic, but the champion only of the philosophy of his age. He drags to the tribunal of reason, or tries by his sceptic prejudices, every belief which he has not himself adopted ; as if it were a question of the abstract truth of poetry, and not of its truth in relation to the hero, the poet, and his readers. En- chantments and incantations are true, with respect to the period of the crusades, when they formed the universal be- lief. Indeed, the miracles of the monks, and the illusions of demons, are presented to us as historic facts. Although a philosopher might smile at a knight of the twelfth century yielding belief to spirits and magicians, yet an historian would with more reason be ridiculed, who should describe the same knight as professing the opinions of a modern sceptic. We cannot, without depriving history of all in- terest, disjoin these facts from the belief of the age. Much less, in poetry, can we revive past times, and give them the sentiments of our own days ; and, if the opinions which were peculiar to them, are so repugnant to our own, that even our imagination cannot lend itself to the contemplation of them. 382 ON THE LITERATURE the times when such opinions were prevalent, are out of the bounds of poetry, and cannot be represented to us in aa attractive manner. Thus, it may be doubted whether an European poem could please us, founded on the mythologies of the Hindoos, the Chinese, or the Peruvians. But, at the same time, the original poetry of these nations might highly interest us. In fact, in order to render a fiction poetically true, it is, above all things, requisite, that he who relates it should appear persuaded of its truth, and that they who listen to him should possess the grounds of a similar belief, although their reason may reject it. Thus, a Christian poet, who should sing the divinities of India, could never excite our sympathy, since he would not appear to believe what he sang. Thus, the allegory which Voltaire himself substitutes lor the marvellous, freezes, instead of warming, the imagination ; since it is neither the belief of the poet, nor of the actors, nor of the readers. But, if the marvellous is so closely allied to our prejudices ; if it holds a place in our general opinions ; if we have even felt it at some period of our lives, and known it felt by others, our imagination, eager for enjoyment, lends itself to the deception, as long as the poet requires. The classical mythology is so familiar to us from our education, that, even at this day, a poet who adopts it without inter- mixture, may hope to awaken feelings correspondent to the times of antiquity. But the superstition of the middle ages is familiar to us in another manner. It is the malady of our times ; it is by an effort that we are freed from it ; and we naturally fall into it again, as soon as we allow our reason to slumber. Voltaire, in wishing to banish the supernatural from poetry, has forgotten that belief is a great enjoyment. It is a want and a desire ; dangerous, without doubt ; and the theologian, the philosopher, the historian, and the statesman, ought to be on their guard against that avidity, with which, without ex- amination, we seize and adopt the marvellous. But poetry is not required to be jealous of our enjoyments. That is not her province. She does not pretend to instruct. Her only aim is to flatter the imagination ; and so far from resisting this soft illusion, her great art is exercised in inducing it. It is an easy thing for Voltaire, or for any man who reasons. to shew that these tales of enchantments, of sorcerers, and of OF THE ITALIANS, 383 (lemons, are idle popular stories ; but no other supernatural belief would have taken such strong hold of our imagination, since no other would have been so familiar to us. No other mythology or allegory could excite in us such lively emotions for Tancred, for Kinaldo, and for the heroes who courageously defy these superhuman powers, since no other could find in us so ready a motive for their adoption. Two knights are despatched to rescue Rinaldo from the enchantments of Armida. Near Ascalon, they meet a Christian magician, who informs them of the snares which Armida had laid for Rinaldo, and that she had led him to an enchanted island, in the river Orontes, where the sirens sought to seduce him by their songs, and to awaken the love of pleasure in his heart. lie had already abandoned himself to fatal repose. Ai'mida approaches to revenge her wrongs, but is herself made captive by the charms of his person ; and she who had abused the power of love, in rendeiing him the slave of her artifice, now becomes captive in her turn. Armida had then placed Rinaldo on her enchanted car, and had trans- ported him to one of the Fortunate Islands, assured that she should there find neither rivals nor witnesses of her passion. But the power of the Christian magician is superior to that of the enchantress, and the two knights embark in a magic boat, which is swiftly wafted across the Mediterranean. The maritime cities of Syria, Egypt, and Lybia, pass in swift succession before their eyes, and the poet characterizes each in a few words. It is here that we find the celebrated stanza on Carthage : Great Carthage prostrate lies ; and scarce a trace Of all her mighty ruins, marks the place AVhere once she stood : thus Desolation waits On loftiest cities, and on proudest states ; Huge heaps of sand, and waving herbage hide The pomp of power, the monuments of pride ; And yet does man, poor child of earth, presume To mourn vain arrogance ! his mortal doom !* * Giace 1 alta Cartago, appena i segni De r alte sue mine il lido serba ; Muoiono Ic citta, muoiono i regui, Copre i fasti e le pompe arena ed erba ; E r uom d' esscr mortal par che si sdegni 1 nostra mente cupida e superba ! Canto XV. st. 20. 884 ON THE LITERATURE In some of the succeeding stanzas are foretold tlie dis- coveries of Columbus, and those adventurous voyages whicli have attached the name of an Italian to one of the quarters of the globe.* Tiie two knights, at length, arrive at the en- chanted gardens of Arniida, which the poet has placed on a mountain in tlie Islands of the Blest. The description of these beautiful grounds inspires voluptuousness and delight, and the verses themselves have that softness and harmony which dispose to the joys of love which breathe around Armida. In the midst of the feathered choir, the Phoenix sings with human voice.f The warriors discover the two lovers together. They wait, until Armida has wandered from Rinaldo, to shew him, in an enchanted mirror, his effeminate dress, and the image of his soul. But the sight, alone, of their armour is sufficient to excite in the breast of Rinaldo, his former ardour for the field. The exhortations of Ubaldo awaken the blushes of shame; and he departs with the two Avarriors, in spite of the supplications of Armida, who endeavours to detain him by the most tender and persuasive entreaties, or at least to obtain pei'mission to accompany him. He replies as one whose passion is subservient to his duty, and who awakes from the illusions of love, without renouncing its tenderness. He departs, and leaves her on the shore, where she faints through grief, when she finds that she has not the power to retain him. At length, recovering from her swoon, she destroys the gardens and the enchanted palace, and returns to Gaza, to join the army of the sultan of Egypt. The Sultan reviews his army, and Tasso describes the soldiers, and the various countries from whence they come, with that fulness of information which can alone give life and truth to the picture. 1: Armida, in the midst of these warriors, oifers herself and her kingdom as a reward to him who shall avenge her on Einaldo ; whilst Rinaldo himself, on his return from the coast of Syria, receives from the hands of the Christian enchanter a present of arms, on which are engraved the glorious deeds of the supposed ancestors of the house of Este, from the fall of the Roman empire to the time of the Crusades. The enchanter then speaks of Riualdo's * Canto XT. St. 30 to 32. t Canto xvi. st. 14 and 15. X Canto xvii. st. 4 to 32. OF THE ITALIAN'S. 385 descendants, and, amongst others, announces a hero, whom he extravagantly eulogizes. This is Alfonso II., the last Duke of Ferrara, Avhom posterity is far from regarding with such favourable eyes, and whose pride and rigour Tasso him- self lived to experience.* Rinaldo, arriving at the camp, and repenting of his errors, which he confesses to Peter the Hermit, is despatched to the enchanted forest. It does not present to him, as to the other warriors, monsters and objects of terror, but all the charms of an earthly paradise, and all the allurements of love.f It is by the image of Armida, that the demons, defenders of this forest, hope to seduce him. She suddenly appears out of one of the trees, and supplicating him to spare her favourite myrtle, throws herself between it and the sword of Rinaldo. But the warrior, convinced that the image before hiiu is nothing more than an empty phantom, redoubles his attack ; nor does he cease, though the frightful demons surround and menace him, until the tree falls beneath his sword. The enchantment is thus destroyed, and the forest returns to its natural state. With the trees which are here found, the Christians prepare new machines of war, more ingenious than those whiclx were employed in the first assault, but such as were often constructed in the middle ages. Godfrey disposes every thing for an attack. During the combat. Heaven manifests its assistance in many miraculous ways. The fires of the Saracens are driven back upon themselves; and a rock, falls on Ismeno, and crushes him at the moment he is pre- paring new enchantments. All the host of Heaven, and the souls of all the warriors who had fallen under the walls of Jerusalem, assemble in the air, to share the honour of this last victory. Of the mortal combatants, it is to Rinaldo that Tasso assigns the glory of success. At length, the Christian banner is planted on the rampart.J Tancred, in this last battle, encounters Argante. who, in disputing the ground with him, reproaches him with having failed to meet him as he had promised. They both then retire from the fight, and leave the city, to assuage their ancient hatred by single combat. But tlie fierce Argante, turning his eyes on the ancient * Canto xy'ii. st. 90 to 94. f Canto xviii. J Canto xviii. st. 100. 386 ON THE LITERATURE capital of Judea, about to fall beneath the hands of hej enemies, feels his soul subdued at the sight : Argantcs turning, as their steps they stay'd, With thoughtful eye the conqucr'd town survey'd. Then, marking that the Pagan's shield was gone, The gen'rous Tancred cast away his own, And cried : " What sudden thought.s across thee come { Shrinks then thy heart, presentient of its doom 1 If now prophetic fears thy soul o'crpower, Thy weakness visits thee in evil hour." " On yon fair town," the Infidel replied, " Judaea's scepter'd Queen, and Asia's pride. That bows her vanquish'd head, I think with pain, While I, to stay her downfall, strive in vain ; And insufficient shall th' atonement be, Though Ucaven adjudge thy forfeit head to me."* Whilst the two chiefs are thus engaged in deadly combat, Tancred, having obtained the advantage, twice offers to the savage Circassian his life and his liberty. Twice, Argante rejects his mercy and renews the contest. He then falls, and dies, as he had lived, a stranger to fear. But Tancred, ex- hausted by the blood he had lost in the combat, has not strength left to join his comrades, and swoons at a little dis- tance from his adversary. The Christians, on entering Jerusalem, make a dreadful massacre of all they meet. Aladin alone, with some warriors, and under the protection of Soliman, retires into the tower of David, the last hope of the Saracens. They flatter themselves * Qui si fermano entrambi, e pur sospeso Volgeasi Argante a la cittade afflitta. Yede Tancredi che 1 pagan difeso Non ^ di scudo, e '1 suo lontano ei gitta. Poscia lui dice ; Or qual pensier t' a preso 1 Pensi ch' h giunta 1' ora a te prescritta \ S' antivedendo cid timido stai, E 1 tuo timore intempestivo omai. Penso (risponde) a la citta del regno Di Giudea antichissima regina, Che vinta or cade, e in vano esser sostegno 10 procurai de la fatal ruina. E ch' fe poca vendetta al mio disdegno 11 capo tuo che '1 cielo or mi destina, Tacque, e incontra si van con gran risguardo, Che ben conosce I' un 1' altro gagliardo. Canto xix. st. 9 and 10. OF THE ITALIANS. 387 that the army from Egypt may arrive in time for their deli- verance. In fact, this army was on its march ; and Godfrey had despatched an esquire of Tancred, named Vafrino, who understood all the languages of the East, to watch its move- ments. Vafrino is recognized in the Saracen camp by Ermi- nia, and the princess, in love with Tancred, resolves to accompany his esquire back to the Latin camp. As they return together, and approach Jerusalem, they traverse the field of battle, where Argante and Tancred were lying motion- less. Erminia, at first sight, believes that Tancred is dead ; but, whilst she presses him in her arms, he betrays signs of life. She closes his wounds and dries them with her tresses ; and meeting some Christian warriors, they, at her request, instead of bearing him to his tent, convey him to Jerusalem. This was the ardent wish of the chief, who, if he were des- tined to die of his wounds, was desirous of accomplishing his vow, and expiring at the sepulchre of his Redeemer. The Egyptian army at length ari-ives in sight of Jerusalem ; and, at sunrise on the ensuing morning, the Christians leave the city to meet it, and offer battle.* All epic poets have painted battles ; all have exhausted on this favourite subject their most brilliant poetry; and none, perliaps, have succeeded in giving real pleasure to their readers. In the midst of liis combats and his victories, Rinaldo meets the car of Armida ; but, after having dispersed the band of her lovers, who had conspired against him, he avoids meeting her. In the mean time, Soliman and Aladin view the contest from the tower of David, and descend, with the remainder of the troops, to join in the battle. Aladin encounters Raymond of Toulouse, and the king falls beneath the sword of the aged warrior. Soliman, on the other side, meets Odoardo, a noble chief, and Gildippe, his valiant spouse, whom no danger had ever separated. Both perish by the arm of the Sultan of Nicea.f But this is the last of his victories. Rinaldo rushes to revenge their deaths, and attacks Soliman, who is slain by the Christian chief. Rinaldo then engages Tisaphernes, the last defender of Armida. This princess, surviving all the warriors who had sworn to avenge her, and overpowered by shame and love, attempts to put an end to her life ; but Rinaldo arrests * Canto IX. + Canlo xx. st. 94 to 100. 388 ON THE LITERATURE her band, reminds her of his former love, and declares himself her knight. lie supplicates her pardon, and succeeds in as- suaging her grief. Godfrey now gathers the last laurels of the day. llimedon and Emireno die by his hand, and Alta- moro surrenders himself a prisoner. Thus Godfrey conquer'd ; nor the sinking Sun As yet his full diurnal race had run ; But, ere his heams retired, the victor-train The rescued Town, the sacred Temple gain : And thither too, ere yet his Idood-staiu'd vest He laid aside, th' impatient Chieftain prest. There hung his arms, there pour'd his votive prayer, Kiss'd his loved Saviour's tomb, and bow'd adoring there.* Of all descriptions of poetry, of all productions of the human mind, the epic poem justly claims the first rank. It is the noblest of all harmonious creations. It is the greatest possible extension given to those laws of symmetry, which, directing all parts to one object, produce, in each, the pleasure and perfection of the whole ; which combine unity with variety, and in some sort initiate us into the secrets of crea- tion, by discovering to us the single idea which rules the most dissimilar actions and the most opposite interests. The ode derives its charm from the regular expression of the varied sympathies of the soul. It is the essence of tragedy to com- bine in one action all subordinate events, and thus to excite our admiration for the unity of the design in a subject which commences in variety. But in the epic, the history of the universe, and that of the terrestrial and celestial powers, is submitted to the same principle of symmetry, and the pleasure which the poet gives is so much the greater as it proceeds from more extensive combinations. Thus the Cathedral of St. Peter's, and the Coliseum, become sublime from their im- mensity. We seem to behold mountains, which, yielding to a superior power, display the perfection of art in their whole, and in their parts. This unity in combination is the essence of epic poetry. It alone excites our admiration ; and without it, we have only a romance in verse, which a truth of detail, a fertility of imagination, and a vivacity of colouring, may invest with chai-ms, but which does not convey a sublime idea of the creative power which gives it birth. * Canto XX. st, lH. OF THE ITALIA_NS. 389 The rivalship which it has been attempted to institute be- tween Ariosto and Tasso, and which has for a long time divided Italy on the merits of these two great men, will afford us an opportunity of comparing the romantic with the classical style ; not with a view of assigning its poet to each class, but to show how far Tasso is indebted to each. These two kinds of poetry, so opposite in their nature, have re- ceived their names from the critics of Germany, who have declared themselves strongly in flivour of the romantic, and have considered as the result of system, what was formerly regarded as an excursion of the imagination, and as the violation of acknowledged rules. We must, however, adopt their classification ; since, the poetry of almost all the modern nations being of the romantic class, it would be unjust and absurd to judge of it, by other rules than those by which the writers were themselves governed. The appellation of the Romantic was taken from the Romance language, which OAVcd its birth to the mixture of Latin with the ancient German. In a similar way the manners of Romance were formed from the habits of the people of the North, and the remnants of Roman customs. The civilization of the ancients had not, like ours, a double origin. All was there single and simple. The Germans explain the difference between the ancients or classics, and the moderns or romantic authors, by the difference of religion. They assert that the first, with a material religion, addressed all their poetry to the senses ; Avhile the second, whose re- ligion is wholly spiritual, place all their poetry in the emo- tions of the soul. We may, however, raise many objections to this origin of the two classes of poetry. We may, above all, remark, that, at the epoch which gave birth to the Ro- mantic poetry, in the ages of ignorance and superstition, Catholicism was so nearly allied to paganism, that it could not have a directly contrary influence on the poetry which it produced. Whatever we may think of their origin, we must, notwithstanding, acknowledge that the poets of the two epochs had different objects in view. Those of antiquity, aimed at exciting admiration by beauty and by symmetry. Those of modern times, wish to produce emotion by the feelings of the heart, or by the unexpected issue of events. The first placed a high value on a combined whole ; the latter, 390 ON THE LITERATURE on the effect of particular details. But Tasso has shewn how a man of powerful genius, uniting the two kinds, might -4?e, at once, classical in the plan, and romantic in the painting of manners and situation. His poem was conceived in the spirit of antiquity, and executed in the spirit of the middle ages. Our customs, our education, the most touching pas- sages in our histories, and, perhaps, even the tales of our nursery, always carry us back to the times and manners of chivalry. Every thing connected with that age awakens our sensibility. Every thing, on the contrary, that is derived from the mythological times of antiquity acts only on our memory. The two epochs of civilization were each preceded by their heroic ages. The Greeks ascended to the companions of Hercules, and we look back to the Paladins of Charle- magne. These two races of heroes are, perhaps, alike the creation of the imagination in a later age ; but it is exactly this which renders their relation the more true to the age that has created them. The heroic ages form the ideal of succeeding times. We seek in them the model of perfection ■which is most in unison with our opinions, our prejudices, our domestic sentiments, politics, and religion. It is, conse- quently, by a reference to this heroism, that poetry is enabled to exercise her power more strongly over the mind or the heart. Poetry, at least that of the first class, has the same object as every other branch of art. It transports us from the real into an ideal world. All the fine arts seek to re- trace those primitive forms of beauty which are not found in the visible world, but the impression of which is fixed in our minds, as the model by which to regulate our judgment. It is not a correct opinion, that the Venus of Apelles was only a combination of all that the painter found most perfect in the most beautiful women. Her image existed in the mind of the artist before this combination. It was after this image that he selected subjects for the various parts. This original image could alone harmonize the various models whicli he consulted ; and this assistance, purely mechanical, to retrace the most beautiful forms, served only to develope bis own conception, the idea of beauty, as it is conceived by the mind, and as it can never be identified in any indi- vidual form. In the same manner, we find an ideal image of the beauty OF THE ITALIANS. 391 of character, of conduct, of passion, and, I Lad almost said, of crime, which has not been combined from different indi- viduals ; which is not the fruit of observation or of com- parison ; but which previously subsists in our own mind, and may be considered as the base of our poetic principles. Observation shews us that this idea is not the same in all nations. It is modified by general, and often by unknown causes, which seem to arise almost as much from diversity of origin as from education. The French knight possesses, in our imagination, a different character from that of the knight of Italy, Spain, England, or Germany ; and all these cham- pions of modern times differ still more from the heroes of antiquity, and bear the marks of the Romantic race, formed from the mixture of Germans and Latins. We easily pour- tray, to our own minds, the modern hero, whose characteristics are universally recognized by all European nations ; but we cannot form a just conception of the hero of antiquity, and are obliged to delineate his character from memory and classical recollections, and not from our individual feelings. It is this circumstance, which gives so cold an air to the classical poems of modern times. In the romantic species, the appeal is made directly to our own hearts ; in the clas- eical, it seems requisite to consult our books, and to have every feeling and idea justified by a quotation from an ancient author. We have admired, in Tasso, the antique cast of his poem, and that beauty which results from the unity and regularity of design, and from the harmony of all its parts. But this merit, the principal one, perhaps, in our eyes, is not that which has rendered his work so popular. It is its romantic form, which harmonizes with the sentiments, the passions, and the recollections of Europeans. It is because he cele- brates heroes whose type exists in their hearts, that he is celebrated in his turn by the gondoliers of Venice ; that a whole people cherish his memory ; and that, in the nights of summer, the mariners interchange the sorrows of Erminia and the death of Clorinda. The genius who gave to Italy the rare honour of possessing an epic poem, and who had rendered illustrious his country and the prince under Avhom he lived, might justly have looked for that regard and kindness which axe not refused to 392 ON THE LITERATURE even tlie most slender talents. No poet, however, seems to have been more severely disappointed, or exposed to mox-e lasting misfortunes. We have already observed that he was born at Sorrento, near Naples, on the eleventh of March, 1544, and was the son of Bernardo Tasso, a gentleman of Bergamo, who had himself enjoyed a poetical reputation. This was eleven years after the death of Ariosto. Tasso received the rudiments of his education in the college of Jesuits at Naples, and, from the age of eight years, had been remarkable for his talent for poetry. The misfortunes of the Prince of San Severino, in which his father was involved, drove him, soon afterwards, from the kingdom of Naples. After some stay at Rome, he was sent to Bergamo, where he perfected himself iu the ancient languages. During the year 1561, he studied the law at Padua. His father was desirous that he should follow that profession rather than the study of poetry, which had not assured to himself either independ- ence or happiness. But the genius of Tasso was invincible. His reputation, as a poet, was already spread abroad, and was the early cause of one of his first vexations. During a visit which he made to Bologna, being accused of having written some satirical sonnets which had given oifence to the govern- ment, its officers visited his chamber, and seized his papers. Tasso, whose temper was always irascible, regarded it as a stain upon his honour. He retired to Padua, and it was there that he finished, at the age of nineteen, his Rinaldo, a poem in twelve cantos. This poem celebrates the loves of Rinaldo of Montalbano, and the fair Clarice, during the early youth of this hero. It is a romance of knight errantry, and is treated in the manner of Ariosto. It was published in 1562, and dedicated to the Cardinal Lviigi d'Este, brother of Alfonso II., the then reigning duke of Ferrara. This vain and ostentatious prince, who was sovereign of Ferrara and Modena, from 1559 to 1597, exhausted his estates by his extravagance. He was ambitious of holding the first rank among the princes of Italy, which he endeavoured to do by assuring to himself the protection of the house of Austria, to which lie was allied. He welcomed, with ardour, the poet, who became the ornament of his court, but whom he after- wards treated witli so much cruelty. Tasso was invited to Ferrara in 1565. He was lodged in the castle, and a revenue OF THE ITALIANS. 393 was assigned to him, without imposing on him any duties. From that period he commenced his Jerusalem delivered, the fame of which preceded the publication, and which, known only by detached parts, was expected with impatience. In 1571, he accompanied the Cardinal d'Este to Paris, where he was honourably received. Soon after his return, his Aviyntas, which he had composed without interrupting his other great work, was represented at the court of Ferrara, with universal applause. He now expressed his hope of rivalling Ariosto ; but in a style more elevated than that of the Homer of Fer- rara. In a dialogue entitled Gonzaga, he had endeavoured to prove that unity ought to prevail in the plan of the epic, and that chivalry, which he really admired and loved, ought to be seriously treated, whilst all the other Italian poets had subjected it to burlesque. His sonnets, of which he wrote more than a thousand, and his other lyric poems, in which he appears to rival Petrarch, and almost to equal him in har- mony, sensibility, and delicacy of sentiment, manifest with how pure a flame the passion of love possessed his heart, and hov/ devoted was his soul to all that is great, noble, and ele- vated. Yet the courtiers amongst whom he lived, reproached him with his enthusiastic devotion to women, and with the day-dreams of love and chivalry, in which he consumed his life. Tasso, admitted to familiarity with the court, thought himself sufficiently on an equality there, to entertain and declare a passion, the indulgence of which was a source of constant misery to him. We learn from his poems that he was enamoured of a lady of the name of Eleonora ; but he is thought to have been alternately in love with Leonora d'Este, sister of Alfonso ; Leonora di San-Vitale, wife of Giulio di Tiena ; and Lucretia Bendidio, one of the maids of honour to the princess. It appears that he disguised, under the name of the second, the too presumptuous attentions which he had dared to address to the first. Irritable to an excess, imprudent in his discourses, and hurried away by passion, he exhibited, in the moment of danger, a degree of valour worthy of the heroic ages ; but his mind was troubled when he afterwards reflected on his rashness, and on the propriety which he considered that he had violated. A courtier, in whom he had implicitly confided, maliciously betrayed him. VOL. I. B B 394 ON THE LITEUATDKE Tasso attacked him with his sword, in the palace of the Duke. His adversary, with his three brothers, who had all at the same moment drawn their swords on the poet, was banished. On another occasion, Tasso aimed a blow at a domestic with his knife, in the apartments of the Duchess of Urbino, the sister of Alfonso, and was in consequence put under arrest. This was in the year 1577. He was then thirty-three years of age. Scarcely had liis anger subsided, when he abandoned himself to terror on the consequences of his imprudence, to which the imagination of a poet not a little contributed. His reason became disturbed, and he found means to escape, and fled as far as Sorrento. He afterwards returned, and travelled over all Italy in a state of increasing agitation. Without money, without a passport, without attendants, he presented himself at the gates of Turin, where he was for some time refused admittance. Scarcely was he welcomed, when he fled from the court of the Duke of Savoy, where he imagined he was about to be betrayed. His love-attachment then led him back to Ferrara, where his friends interceded for his pardon, and the Duke, who thought his honour compromised by the most celebrated poet of Italy preferring his complaints, at every court, against the house of Este, showed himself strongly disposed to grant him a kind reception. The poet returned to Ferrara in 1579, at the time of the celebration of the marriage of Alfonso II. with Margaret of Gonzaga. Neglected by the sovereign, in the midst of these festivities, he thought he perceived, in the courtiers and domestics, traces of distrust and contempt, and he abandoned himself to his resentment with his usual violence. It has also been related of him, that one day, at court, when the Duke and the Princess Eleonora were present, he was so smitten with the beauty of the Princess, that, in a transport of passion, he approached her and embraced her befoi'e all the assembly. The Duke, gravely turning to his courtiers, expressed his regret that so great a man should have been thus suddenly bereft of his reason ; and made this circumstance a pretext for shutting him up in the hospital of St. Anne, an asylum for lunatics, in Ferrara. This anecdote is in itself highly doubtful ; and, even if the confinement in the first instance had been justifiable, the severity with which it was continued arose more from the policy than from the anger of the Duke. OF THE ITALIANS. 395 His pride 'would not permit a man of so. much celebrity, whom he had offended, to wander through Italy ; and who, after having shed lustre on his own court, might depreciate it, and confer similar glory on another. He wished him to be considered mad, in order to justify his own severity ; and, indeed, in the eyes of a selfish and unfeeling prince, accus- tomed only to the forms of etiquette, insensible to any other motive of action than interest and vanity, Tasso, at all times enthusiastic, impetuous, irritable as a child, and as suddenly soothed, did not widely differ from a deranged jjerson. This imprisonment of the poet was the cause of an entire aberration of mind. He, in turns, imagined that he had held disrespect- ful language against his prince, had too strongly manifested his love, and had even given cause to suspect his allegiance. He addressed himself to all his fi'iends, to all the princes of Italy, to Bergamo, his paternal city, to the Emperor, and to the Holy Inquisition, imploring from them his liberation. His body became enfeebled by the agitation of his mind. At one time, he thought himself poisoned ; at another time, the victim of magic and enchantments ; and terrifying appa- ritions haunted his couch in the sleepless hours of night. To add to his misfortunes, his poem had been printed without his permission, and from an imperfect copy. Edi- tions were multiplied, without his consent, during the very time of his confinement ; and the surprise and enthusiasm of the ItaUan public gave rise to the most violent literary dis- putes respecting his Jerusalem delivered. The admirers of Ariosto saw, with alarm, a new poet set up as a rival to their idol, and were exasperated by the enthusiastic devotion which some of the friends of Tasso rendered to the poet. Camillo Pelegrini, in 1584, endeavoured to shew how greatly Tasso had excelled Ariosto. This was the signal for a general con- test ; and the detractors of Tasso used the more violence in the attack, as they considered he had been elevated to an unjust height. Tasso, in the midst of his sufferings and cap- tivity, still preserved all that vigour of mind which had ren- dered him a poet. He defended himself with warmth, some- times with wit, often with subtlety. He appealed to the authority of Aristotle, whom his opponents pretended to set up as an arbiter between Ariosto and himself. But he con- sidered himself humiliated by the decision of the Academy iiu2 396 ON THE LITERATURE della Crusca of Florence, which declared itself against him, and which was then heginning to acquire that authority over the language, which it has since exercised in Italy. From that period, he probably projected, and, in 1588, commenced, ■with a broken spirit, the laborious and irksome task of remodelling his poem. It was thus that he composed his Genisalemme conqxiistatn, Avhich he lengthened by four cantos. He suppressed the touching incident of Olindo and Sophronia, which, it was objected, served to divert the interest before the action was commenced. He changed the name of Rinaldo to Ricardo. He represented this hero as one of the Norman conquerors of the kingdom of Naples, and deprived him of all relationship with the house of Este, which he no longer chose to flatter. He corrected words and phrases on ■which grammatical criticisms had been made ; but, at the same time, he deprived his poem of all life and inspiration. Nearly all the stanzas are changed, and almost always for the worse. I have seen, in the Library of Vienna, the manu- script of Tasso, with its numerous alterations. It is a melan- choly monument of a noble genius, robbed of its energy and depressed by calamity. Tasso was confined, seven years, in the hospital ; and tlie voluminous writings which came from his pen during this time failed to convince Alfonso that he was in possession of his reason. The princes of Italy interposed for Tasso with the Duke, whose self-love was interested in resisting all their entreaties ; and the more so, because his rivals in glory, the Medici, interfered, with more particular earnestness, to procure the liberation of the poet. Tasso, at length, obtained his freedom, on the fifth of July, 1586, at the instance of Vincenzio Gonzaga, prince of Mantua, on the occasion of his marriage with the sister of Alfonso. After spending some time in Mantua, he proceeded to the kingdom of Naples ; but, on his Avay, he was obliged to write at Loretto, to the Duke of Guastalla, to ask for the loan of a small sum of money, without which he could not proceed on his journey. His affairs, indeed, were at all times deranged, and he always experienced the want of money. There is still preserved a will under his hand, of the year 1573, by which it is seen that his wardrobe was in pledge to the Jews ; and he directs, that, after selling his clothes, and discharging OF THE ITALLLNS. 397 what was owing on them, the rest should be employed in placing a stone, with an inscription, on his father's grave. If the money arising from his effects should not be sufficient, he flatters himself that the Princess Eleonora, through her regard to him, would have the kindness to make up the deficiency. He survived nine years, residing occasionally at Rome and Naples, chiefly in the houses of illustrious and generous friends, who had always difficulty in saving him from the persecutions of fortune.* His last letters are filled with details of his pecuniary embarrassments. At length, the Cardinal Cintio Aldobraudini received him into his house, and had pre- pared a festival for the occasion, in which it was intended to crown him in the Capitol ; but death deprived him of this honour. The poet, whose mind now always dwelt on his health, and who was constantly administering to himself new and powerful medicines, died at Rome, on the twenty-fifth of April, 1595, aged fifty-one. Although the fame of Tasso rests on his Jerusalem delivered, another of his works, the Amyntas, has attained a just cele- brity. The imitation of the ancients had, at an early period, given a pastoral poetry to the Italians. Virgil had composed eclogues, and the moderns thought themselves obliged to do the like. The imitation of this description of poetiy may be considered as less servile, since the ideal of country life is nearly the same with the ancients and with ourselves. The eclogues of Virgil paint neither what is, nor what should be, but rather the dreams of happiness, inspired by the sight of the country, and the simplicity, peace, and innocence, which we love to contrast with real life. The Italian tongue seemed better adapted than any other, by its simplicity and grace, to express the language of people, whom we figure to ourselves as perfectly infantine in their manners. The beauty of the climate, the charms of contemplation and indolence in these happy countries, seem to dispose us to the dreams of rural life ; and the manners of the Italian peasants approach nearer to the pastoral character than those of any other people. The poet was not obliged to turn his steps to Ai'cadia. The hills of Sorrento, where Tasso was born, the borders of the Sebeto, or some silent and retired valley in the kingdom of Naples, * Tasso, edit. Veneta, t. x. p. 63. 398 ON TUE LITERATURE might, with equal propriety, become the scene for his ideal shepherds, without renouncing tlie manners and customs of liis times. It is thus that Tasso, in his Jerusalem delivered, has described as a modern shepherd, though at the same time with much ideal and poetic effect, tlic old man who afforded an asylum to Erminia. The numerous Italian poets who have also composed Bucolics, had adopted another system. Sanazzaro, tlie most celebrated amongst them, of whom we shall speak in tiie next chapter, proposed to himself a close imitation of Virgil. He took his shepherds from the fabulous ages of Greece, and adopted the Grecian mythology. The French pastoral poets, and Gessner among the Germans, followed in the same path, and were, in my opinion, all in error. The heart and the imagination do not easily receive impressions, to which they are such entire strangers. We willingly adopt many ideas which are beyond the range of our knowledge ; but it is with repugnance that we receive, as the foundation of our poetical belief, what we know to be false. Apollo, fauns, nymphs, and satyrs, never make their appearance in modern poetry without a chilling effect. Their names alone lead us to compare and to judge, and this circumstance is directly op- posed to all excitement, sensibility, and enthusiasm. Agostino Beccari, a poet of Ferrara, (1510 — 1590), gave a new character to Bucolic poetry, and was the creator of the genuine pastoral drama. His piece entitled II Safjrijizioy was represented in 1554, in the palace of Hercules II. then duke of Ferrara, and was printed in the following year. Beccari, like Sanazzaro, places his shepherds in Arcadia, and adopts the manners and mythology of antiquity ; but he con- nects their conversations by the action, or rather by an union of dramatic actions. During the annual festival of Pan, which is celebrated between the mountains of Menalus and Erimanthus, three couple of rustic lovers, separated by various chances, are re-united by the means of two aged shepherds, and become happy, in spite of the snares which a satyr spreads for the shepherdesses, and the jealousy with which Diana in- culcates a cold indifference in her nymphs. A chorus and songs are intermixed with this piece, the music of which had some celebrity; but the five long acts of which it is composed are frigid and dull. The personages unceasingly discourse. OF THE ITALIANS. 399 but never act. Their languishing conversations create in us a distaste for Arcadian love ; and a satyr and a drunken hind, who were intended to entertain the spectators, revolt us by their rude attempts at gaiety and wit. Eighteen years afterwards, in 1572, Tasso produced his Aviyntas, the idea of which he owed in part to the Sagrijizio of Beccari. This piece, also, belongs to the infancy of the dramatic art. However far removed these pastorals might be from the mysteries by which the theatre had been renewed, it is doubtful whether they were at all superior to them ; for life and action and interest are, at least, as necessary to the drama as a strict observance of rules, and a regard to the unities. The Amyntas, like the Sagrifizio, and the Orfeo of Politiano, is nothing more than a tissue of ill-connected eclogues. But the talents evinced in the details, the charms of the style, and the colouring of the poetry, atone for all defects ; and the illustrious bard has succeeded even in this ill-chosen description of poetry, in erecting a monument worthy of his genius. The plot of the Amyntas is simple. Amyntas is enamoured of Sylvia, who disdains his love. He delivers her from the hands of a satyr, who had carried her off; but obtains, for his services, no token of gratitude. She joins the other nymphs in the chace, and after having wounded a wolf, she flies from him, with the loss of her veil, which is found torn and stained 'with blood. The shepherds inform Amyntas, that Sylvia has fallen a prey to the wolves which she had attacked. He resolves to die, and precipitates himself from the summit of a rock. A shepherd comes to announce his death on the stage, at the moment when Sylvia is relating how she had escaped from the jaws of the wolf, to which, it was supposed, she had fallen a prey. Insensible until this moment, she is now moved with pity, on hearing that Amyn- tas has died for her. She goes in search of his body, to give it burial, and resolves to follow him to the tomb ; when it is announced that Amyntas is only bruised by his fall, and they are thenceforth happy in each other's love. The whole of this action, very improbable, and ill connected, passes behind the scenes. Each act, of which there are five, commences by the recital of an unexpected catastrophe. But the success of the Amyntas was owing less to the interest of the dramatic 400 ON THE LITEUATURE part, than to the sweetness of the poetry, and to the volup- tuousness and passion that breathe in every line. All other thouglits, all other feelings, seemed banished from Arcadia. The shepherds speak incessantly of dying, and still their griefs have in them nothing sombre or rude. They are the milder sorrows of love, which inspire a sort of illusory enjoyment. TJiis impression, however, is sometimes weakened by the concetti, or affected contrast of words and ideas, which began to be introduced about this period, for the second time, into Italian poetry ; and which, inviting imitation by an appear- ance of wit and ingenious invention, subjected it, in the succeeding age, to the empire of bad taste. Thus love is made to say, in the prologue : But this she knpii\'s not ; she is blind ; not I, "Whom blind the vulgar blind have lulscly called.* In another place. Daphne is made to say : Ungraceful was my grace, and to myself Unpleasing, all that others pleased in me.f This play on words, of which Tasso affords a lamentable precedent, often injures his style, ai:d chills our feelings in his Jerusalem deUrered. It occurs frequently in his sonnets ; and was more easily imitated than his beauties. In other points of view, his Amyntas was, for some time, a model which all authors thought themselves bound to copy. At the close of the sixteenth century, twelve or fifteen Italian poets pub- lished pastoral dramas. Several ladies, a sovereign Prince of Guastalla, and a Jew, named Leon, attempted the same description of poetry. Others, ambitious of passing for original poets, whilst they were nothing more than copyists, transferred the scene to the borders of the sea, and gave to the public piscatory dramas, as before we had piscatory and marine eclogues. The most celebrated of these compositions is the Alcceus of Antonio Ongara, which, for beauty of versi- fication, will bear comparison with the works of the first * Cio non conosce ; e cieca ella, e non io Cui cieco, a torto, il cieco volgo appella. + Em' era Malgrata la mia gratia, e dispiacente Quanto di me piaceva altrui. OF THE ITALIANS. 401 poets. But the author followed so closely the footsteps of Tasso in the weaving of his plot, and in the incidents, ditJer- ing only in the scene, which is transferred to the abodes of fisiiermen, that his Alcceus may with propriety be termed a marine Amyntas. Tasso, and the writers of dramatic pastorals who have succeeded him, have used in their dialogues a versification which served as a model to Metastasio, and which, after hav- ing been admitted as the language of the lyric drama, is found to be equally well adapted to tragedy. This is the iambic without rhyme, verso sciolio, intermixed, whenever a more lively expression is requisite, with verses of six syllables. When the language becomes more ornamented, and the imagination takes a wider range, it is relieved by rhymes. The higher blank verse of five iambics, which possesses both dignity and ease, and which holds a place between eloquence and poetry, is not, perhaps, in all the movements of tender- ness and passion, sufficiently harmonious ; and the interven- tion of a short verse relieves it, and gives it a musical and ])!easing expression. In the same manner, a mixture of rliyrae, regular lines, and even strophes in the chorus, carries us easily, and almost imperceptibly, from the elevated language of conversation to the highest order of lyric poetry. "VVe seem to feel all the musical charm of the language which Tasso has employed, in the following verses of the first act, where Amyntas recounts his first falling in love : While yet a boy, scarce tall enough to gather The lowest hanging fruit, I became intimate With the most lovely and beloved girl That ever gave to the winds her locks of gold. Thou know"st the daughter of Cydippe and Montano, who has such a store of herds, Sylvia, the forest's honour, the soul's firerl* * E.-«end' io fiinciulletto, si che a pena Giunger potea, con la man pargoletta, A corre i frutti da i piegati rami Degli arboscelli, intrinseco divcnni De la pill vaga e cara verginella Che mai spiegasse al vento chioma d'oro. La figliuola conosci di Cidippc E di Montan, ricchissimo d' armcnti, Silvia, honor do le solve, ardor de 1" almc ; Di 402 ON THE LITERATURE Of her I speak. Alas ! I lived, one time. So fastened to her side, Uiat never turtle Was closer to his mate, nor ever will be. Our homes were close together, closer still Our hearts; our age conformable, our thoughts Still more conformed. With her, I tended nets For birds and fish ; with her, followed the stag. And the fleet hind ; our joy and our success Were common : but in making prey of animals, I fell, I know not how, myself a prey. Tasso composed a prodigious number of works. The com- plete collection of them forms twelve volumes in quarto ; but all that he has left is not equally worthy of his genius. Two entire volumes are filled with prose : almost the whole of which consists of polemic criticism, and is wanting in ease and elevation of style. The poet was accustomed to study harmony and dignity only in his verse. He wrote a comedy called Gli Intri(jlii (V Amove. This was a description of writing in which, from the original bent of his mind, and his melan- choly temperament, he was little quahfied to succeed : yet the dialogue possesses both facility and grace. Towards the close of his life, he undertook a poem on the creation, Le sette giornate del Mondo creato ; but his mind was exhausted by sufferings, and his poem is remarkable only for the eloquence of the style, and the beauty of some of the descriptive parts. A tragedy which he wrote, II Torrismondo, obtained a higher degree of reputation. He composed it, during his confine- ment in the hospital, and published it in 1587, with a dedi- cation to the Prince Gonzaga, to whom he owed his libe- ration. The subject is, probably, entirely his own invention. A king of the Ostrogoths marries his own sister, mistaking Di questa parlo : ahi lasso, vissi 5. questa Cosi unite alcun tempo, che frSi due Tortorelle piil fida compagnia Non sara mai ne fue ; Congiunti cran gli alberghi. Ma piil congiunti i cori : Conforme era 1' etate Ma '1 pensier piil conforme. Seco tendeva insidie con le reti Ai pesci ed agli augelli, e seguitava I cervi seco, e le veloci dame ; E '1 diletto e la preda era commune. Ma mentre io fea rapina d' animali ■ Fui, non so come, a me stesso rapito. OF TUE ITALIAXS. 403 her for a foreign princess. But, agreeably to the false idea which the Italians at that time possessed of the dramatic art, there is no real action in this piece. It is composed of reci- tals of what passes off the stage, and of conversations which prepare new incidents. There is, at the close of each act, a chorus of persons who sing odes or canzoni, on the incon- stancy of all sublunary things. Some scenes are beautifully developed, but an ill-judged imitation of the ancients has deprived the poet of the vigour of his genius. The verses, versl sciolti, possess dignity, and sometimes eloquence ; but the piece is, on the whole, cold and uninteresting. The chorus alone, at the conclusion, touches our hearts ; for the poet, in writing it, applied it to himself and his misfortunes, and to those illusions of glory, which now seemed to fade before his eyes. As torrents, rushing from their Alpine height. As forked lightnings fi>' Athwart the summer sky, As \dnd, as vapour, as the arrow's flight. Our glories fade in night ; The honour of our name is sped, Like a pale flower that droops its languid head. The flattering forms of Hope no more prevail ; The palm and laurel fade ; AVhilc, in the gathering shade, Come sad lament, and grief, and sorrow pale ; Nor Love may aught avail, If or friendship's hand can bring relief, To check our flowing tears, or still our lonely grief.* E come alpcstree rapido torrente. Come acceso baleno In notturno sereno, Come aura, o fumo, o come stral repente, Volan le nostre fame ; ed ogni onorc Sembra languido fiore. Che pill si spera, o che s' attende omai ? Dopo trionfo e palma, * Sol qui restano all' alma Lutto e lamenti, e lagrimosi lai. Che piil giova amicizia o giova amore ? Ahi lagrime ! ahi dolore ! CHAPTER XV. STATE OF LITEHATURK IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTPRT. — TRISSIKO, RUCELLAI, SAXAZZARO, BERNI, MACHIAVELLI, PIETRO ARETIXO, &C. Our three last chapters were devoted to two illustrious poets, who elevated themselves, in the sixteenth century, above all their rivals, and whose fame, passing beyond tlie bounds of Italy, had extended itself over all Europe. In tracing the history of the literature of Italy, it is important to distinguish the most remarkable of tliat body of orators, scholars, and poets, who flourished in the sixteenth century, and, more particularly, during the pontificate of Leo. X. ; and who gave to Europe an impulse in letters, the influence of which is felt to the present day. The study of the ancients, and the art of poetry, bad been universally encouraged during the fifteenth century. All the free cities, as well as the sovereigns of Italy, endeavoured to assume to themselves the glory of extending their protection, to literature. Pensions, honours, and confidential employs, were bestowed on men who had devoted themselves to the study of antiquity, and who best knew how to expound and to contribute to the restoration of its treasures. The chiefs of the republic of Florence, the Dukes of Milan, of Ferrara, and of Mantua, the Kings of Naples, and the Popes, w^ere not merely friends of science. Having themselves received classical educations, they were, almost all, better ac- quainted with the ancient languages, with the rules of Greek and Latin poetry, and with all relating to antiquity, than the greater part of our scholars of the present day. This uni- versal patronage of letters was not, however, of lasting duration. The rulers of states even pursued, in the sixteenth century, a contrary course ; but it was not sufficient to arrest the impression which, had been made, and to check the im- pulse already given. The first persecution, which letters experienced in Italy, dates from the middle of the fifteenth century. It was short- lived, but violent, and has left melancholy traces in the history of literature. The city of Rome was desirous, after LITEEATURE OF THE ITALIANS. 405 the examples of other capitals, of founding an academy, con- secrated to letters and to the study of antiquity. The learned popes, who had been elevated to the chair of St. Peter, in the tifteenth century, had beheld with satisfaction, and encouraged this literary zeal. A young man, an illegitimate son of the illustrious house of San Severino, but who, instead of assuming his family appellation, embraced the Roman name of Julius Pomponius Laitus, after having finished his studies under Lorenzo Valla, succeeded him, in 1457, in the chair of Roman eloquence. He assembled around him, at Rome, all those who possessed that passion for literature and for ancient philosophy, by which the age was characterized. Almost all were young men ; and, in their enthusiasm for antiquity, they gave them- selves Greek and Latin names, in imitation of their leaders. In thtir meetings, it is said, they declared their predilection for the manners, the laws, the philosophy, and even the reli- gion of antiquity, in opposition to those of their own age. Paul IL who was then Pope, was not, like many of his pre- decessors, indebted to a love of letters for his elevation to the pontificate. Suspicious, jealous, and cruel, he soon became alarmed at the spirit of research and enquiry which marked the new philosophers. He felt how greatly the rapid progress of knowledge might contribute to shake the authority of the Church, and he viewed the devotion of these scholars to an- tiquity, as a general conspiracy against the state and the holy faith. The academy, of which Pomponius Loetus was the chief, seemed particularly to merit his attention. In the midst of the Carnival, in 1468, wliilst the people of Rome were occupied with the festival, he arrested all the members of the academy who were then to be found in the capital. Pomponius Lostus alone was absent. He had retired to Venice, the year after the elevation of Paul II. to the pontifi- cate, and had resided there three years ; but, as he held a corre- spondence with the academicians at Rome, the Pope beheld in liim tlie chief of the conspiracy, and procured his apprehension, through the favour of the Venetian Senate. The academi- cians were then imprisoned and consigned to the most cruel tortures. One of the number, Agostino Campano, a young man of great expectations, expired under his sufferings. The others, among whom were Pomponius himself and Platina, the historian of the Popes, underwent the ordeal, without the 406 ON THE LITERATUEJE confession of any criminal motive being extorted from th^n. The Pope, exasperated at their obstinacy, repaired himself to the castle of St. Angelo, and ordered the interrogatories to be repeated under his own eyes ; not upon the supposed con- spiracy, but on subjects of faith, in order to detect the acade- micians in some heretical doctrines ; but in this he was disappointed. He declared, however, that any person who should name the academy, either seriously or in jest, should thenceforth be considered a heretic. He detained the unfor- tunate captives a year in prison ; and, when he at length released them, it was without acknowledging their innocence. The death of Paul II. put an end to this system of persecution. Sixtus IV. his successor, confided to the care of Platina, the libraiy of the Vatican, and he allowed Pomponius Laetus to re-commence his public lectures. The latter succeeded in re- assembling his dispersed academicians. He was esteemed for his probity, his simplicity, and his austerity of manners. He devoted his life to the study of the monuments of Rome ; and it is more particularly owing to him, that we have been en- abled to form a correct judgment on its antiquities. He died in 1498. His death was regarded as a public calamity, and no scholar had, for a long period, obtained such distinguished obsequies. The persecution of Paul II. was a direct attack upon literature. But the public calamities which succeeded, over- whelmed all Italy, and reached every class of society, at the same moment. They commenced in the year 1494, with the invasion of Italy, by Charles VIII. The sacking of cities, the rout of armies, and the misfortunes and death of a great number of distinguished men ; evils, always accompanying the scourge of war ; were not the only fatal consequences of this event. It was a death-blow to the independence of Italy ; and, from that period, the Spaniards and the Germans disputed the possession of her provinces. After a series of ruinous wars and numberless calamities, fortune declared herself in favour of Charles Y. and his son. The Milanese and the kingdom of Naples remained under the sovereignty of the house of Austria ; and all the other states, which yet preserved any independence, trembled at the Austrian power, and dared to refuse nothing to the wishes of the Imperial ministers. All feeling of national pride was destroyed. A OF THE ITALIANS. 407 sovereign prince could not afford an asylum, in his own states, to any of his unfortunate subjects, whom a viceroy might choose to denounce. The entire face of Italy was changed. Instead of princes, the friends of arts and letters, who had long reigned in INIilan and Naples, a Spanish go- vernor, distrustful and cruel, now ruled by the aid of spies and informers. The Gronzagas of Mantua plunged into pleasures and vice, to forget the dangers of their situation. Alfonso II., at Modena and Ferrara, attempted, by a vain ostentation, to maintain the appearance of tliat power which he had lost. In place of the republic of Florence, the Athens of the middle ages, the nurse of arts and sciences, and in the place of the early Medici, the enlightened re- storers of philosophy and letters, three tyrants, in the six- teenth century, succeeded each other in Tuscany : the fero- cious and voluptuous Alexander ; Cosmo I., founder of the second house of Medici, who rivalled his model and contem- porary, Philip II., in profound dissimulation and in cruelty ; and Francis I., his son, who, by his savage suspicion, cai-ried to its height the oppression of his states. Rome also, which, at the commencement of the century, had possessed, in Leo X., a magnanimous pontiff, a friend of letters, and a generous protector of the fine arts and of poetry, was now become jealous of the progress of the Reformation, and only occupied herself in resisting the dawning powers of the human intellect. Under the pontificates of Paul IV., Pius IV., and Pius V., (1555-1572), who were elevated by the interest of the Inquisition, the persecution against letters and the academies was renewed, in a systematic and unre- lenting manner. Such, notwithstanding, had been the excitement of the human mind in the preceding century, and so thickly were the germs of literature scattered from one end of Italy to the other, by an universal emulation, that no other country can be said to have raised itself to a higher pitch of literary glory. Among the numbers of men who had devoted them- selves to letters, Italy produced, at this glorious epoch, at least thirty poets, whom their contemporaries placed on a level with the first names of antiquity, and whose fame, it was thought, would be commensurate with the existence of the world. But even the names of these illustrious men 408 ox THE LITERATURE begin to be forgotten ; and their works, buried in the libraries of the learned, are, now, seldom read. The circumstance of their equality in merit, has, doubtless, been an obstacle to the duration of their reputation. Fame does not possess a strong memory. For a long ilight, she relieves herself from all unnecessary incumbrances. She re- jects, on her departure, and in her course, many who thought themselves accepted by her, and she comes down to late ages, with the lightest possible burthen. Unable to choose between Bembo, Sadoleti, Sanazzaro, Bernardo Accolti, and so many others, she relinquishes them all. Many other names Avill also escape her ; and we perceive the blindness of our presumption, when we compare the momentary repu- tations of our own day with the glory of the great men of antiquity. The latter, we behold conspicuous through a suc- cession of ages, like the loftiest summits of the Alps, ■wliich, the farther we recede from them, appear to rise the higher. But what most contributed to injure the fame of the illus- trious men of the sixteenth century, was the unbounded respect which they professed for antiquity, and the pedantic erudition which stifled their genius. Their custom, also, of writing always after models, which were not in harmony with their manners, their characters, and their political and reli- gious opinions ; and their efforts to revive the languages in which the great works which they admired were composed, materially tended to this result. It has long been said, that lie who only translates will never be translated ; and he who imitates, renounces at the same time the hope of being imitated. Still, the noble efforts of these studious men in the cause of letters, the recollections of their past glory, and the celebrity wdiich yet attaches to them, merit an enquiry, on our part, into the history of their most distinguished scholars. We have already spoken of Ti'issino, in mentioning his epic poem of Italia liberata, and we have seen how much this long expected work disappointed the general expectation. It is possible, however, to fail in writing an epic poem, and still to possess claims to distinction. Gian-Giorgio Trissino had, in fact, sufficient merit to justify that celebrity, which, dui'ing a whole century, placed his name in the first rank in OF THE ITALIANS. 409 Italy. Born at Vicenza, in 1478, of an illustrious family, he was equally qualified, by his education, for letters and for public business. He came to Rome when he was twenty- four years of age, and had resided there a considerable time, Avhen Pope Leo X., struck by his talents, sent hiui as his ambassador, to the Emperor Maximilian. Under the pon- tificate of Clement VII. he was also charged with embassies to Charles V. and to the Republic of Venice, and was deco- rated by the former with the order of the Golden Fleece.* In the midst of public affairs he cultivated, with ardour, poetry and the languages. He was rich ; and possessing a fine taste in architecture, he employed Palladio to erect a country-house, in the best style, at Criccoli. Domestic vexations, and more particularly a law-suit with his own son, embittered his latter days. He died in 1550, aged seventy-two. Tiie most just title to fame possessed by Trissino, is founded on his Sofonisba, which may be considered as the first regular tragedy since the revival of letters ; and which we may, with still greater justice, regard as the last of the tragedies of antiquit}', so exactly is it founded on the princi- ples of the Grecian dramas, and, above all, on those of Euri- pides. He wants, it is true, the genius which inspired the creators of the drama at Athens, and a more sustained dig- nity in the character of the principal personages ; but, to a scrupulous imitation of the ancients, Trissino had the art of uniting a pathetic feeling, and he succeeded in moving his audience to tears. Sophonisba, daughter of Asdrubal, and wife of Syphax, king of Numidia, after having been promised to his rival, Massinissa, learns in Cirtha, where she is shut up, the defeat and captivity of her husband. Soon afterwards, Massinissa himself enters the same city, at the head of his army, and finds the queen surrounded by a chorus of women of Cirtha. Sophonisba, supported by the chorus, implores Massinissa to spare her the humiliation of being delivered, a captive to the Romans. Massinissa, after having shewn how far he is himself dependent on that people, and how difficult it will be to grant this favour, pledges, at the same time, his word to * ft should seem that Charles V. permitted him only to add thia decoration to his arms, without enrolling him amongst the knights. C C 410 ON TIIK LITERATUUE the queen, that she shall not be delivered up alive. But soon after, at the same time that his former love for the queen revives, the dilRoulty of rescuing Sophonisba increases, in consequence of the Romans ( ntering the city in force ; and he dispatches a messenger to La?lius, to announce to him that he had married Sophonisba, in order that she might not be I'egarded as an enemy. Lrnlius warmly reproaches Massinissa with the marriage, as rendering him the ally of the greatest enemies of Korae. On the other part, Syphax, now a pri- soner, accuses Sophonisba of being tlie cause of his calamity ; and rejoices to lind that his enemy has married her, as he feels assured that she will drag him into the same abyss into which he had himself been precipitated by her. Massinissa resists, with firmness, the orders of Laslius and Cato, to re- linquish Sophonisba, as the captive of Rome ; but when Scipio, in his turn, presses him, employing alternately autho- rity, persuasion and friendship, Massinissa, unable farther to excuse himself, yields to his entreaties ; but demands per- mission to fulfil the promise he had given to Sophonisba, not to deliver her alive to the Romans. He then sends to her, by the hands of a messenger, a cup of silver, with poison, informing her, that as he could not keep the first part of his promise, he at all events assures her of the second, and de- siring her if the occasion should become urgent, to conduct herself in a manner worthy of her noble blood. Sophonisba, in fact, after having sacrificed to Proserpine, swallows the poison, and returns on the stage to die, in the arms of her sister and of the women who compose the chorus. Massi- nissa, who had not relinquished the hope of saving her, and who intended to rescue her in the night, and to transport her to Carthage, returns too late to execute his project ; but he places her son and her sister in safety." The piece is not divided into acts and scenes, because this division did not exist in the Grecian drama, and was subsequently invented ; but the chorus, who constantly occupy the stage, and mingle in the dialogue, sing, when left alone, odes, and l}Tic stanzas, which by dividing the action, give repose to the piece. It would, doubtless, be easy to multiply criticisms on this piece, written, as it was, in the infancy of the dramatic art, and without a knowledge of stage efiect. It is unnecessary to animadvert either on the narrative, in which Sophonisba OF THE ITALUJfS. 411 recounts to her sister the history of Carthage, from the rei,2:ii of Dido to the second Punic war ; on the improbability of a chorus of female singers always occupying the stage, even when tlie soldiers of the enemy enter the city as conquerors ; on the entire want of interest in the characters of Sypliax, Lielius, Cato, and Scipio himself ; on the weakness of So- phonisba, who, on the day that her liusband is made prisoner, marries his enemy ; or, in short, on the contemptible part assigned to Massinissa. It is easy to any one to urge these defects, and there is no fear of their being imitated. But it is to be regretted that the modern stage has not profited more by the Greek model which Trissiuo has given. His chorus, above all, is in the true spirit and cliaracter of an- tiquity. AVith the ancients, their whole lives were public ; their heroes lived in tiie midst of their fellow citizens, and their princesses amongst their women. The chorus, the friends and comforters of the uidiappy, transport us to tlie ancient times and ancient manners. We cannot, and ought not to introduce them into pieces, of which the subject is modern ; but, in excluding them from those dramas which are founded on the history and m3thology of the ancients, and substituting in their stead, the presence of modern con- fidants, we ascribe to the Greeks the customs and language of our own age and of our own courts. The poetry of Trissino is equally deserving of praise. He had remarked that the Greeks, in their best works, did not confine tragedy to the style of a dignified conversation ; but lavished on it the richness of their numerous metres, applying them to the various situations in which their actors were placed ; sometimes confining them to iambics, which contri- buted only to a somewhat lot\ier expression ; and sometimes raising them to the most harmonious lyric strophes. He saw also that they proportioned the flight of their imagination to the metre which tliey employed; speaking, by turns, as orators or poets, and rising, in their lyric strophes, to the boldest images. Trissino alone, among their modern imitators, has preserved this variety. The usual language of his heroes is in versi sciolti, blank verse : but, according to the passions whicli he wislies to express, he soars to the most varied forms of the ode, or canzone, and by this more poetical language he proves that the pleasure of the drama consists not wholly in c c2 412 ON' TIIK LITERATURE the imitation of nature, but also in the ideal beauty of that poetic world which the author substitutes for it. Trissino, like the Greeks, has not treated of a love-intrigue, but of a preat political revolution, the fall of an ancient king- dom, and the public misfortunes of a heroine, wlio, to the pride ofi'oyalty, united the sentiments and virtues of a citiz^m of Carthage. He has placed this action before tlie eyes of his audience, more strongly than those who have succeeded him. There are, it must be acknowledged, many recitals made by the messengers, and all are too long ; but we see Sophonisba expecting and receiving the intelligence of the defeat of Syphax, and of the loss of her kingdom ; we see her meet Massinissa, supplicate him, and obtain his promise of protec- tion ; we see the Numidian prisoners conducted before the Ivoman Prastor ; Massinissa, resisting Laelius and Cato, but yielding to Scipio ; and Sophonisba, expiring on the stage. It is from this last scene that I shall borrow a fragment, to show the powers of Trissino in the pathetic. Sophonisba, led on the stage, after having swallowed poison, commends her memory to the women of Cirtha, and implores Heaven that her death may contribute to their repose. She bids farewell to the beloved light of day, and to the smiling face of earth. Turning, then, to her sister Erminia, who requests to follow, and to die with her, she entrusts to her care her infant son, and obtains from Erminia a promise that she Avill live for his sake. Soph. That thou thy pity giv'st is to my heart Sweet solace, and to death I go resign'd ! Yet, from my hands, receive my darling son. Erm. Beloved gift, and from a hand beloved. Soph. Henceforth, let him in thee a mother find. Erit. AVillingly, since of thee he is deprived. Soph. son, sweet son, when of thy mother's breast Thou hast most need, I'm torn fn.m thee for over.* * SoF. Molto mi place che tu sia disposta Di compiacermi, or moriro contenta ; ila tu, sorella mia, primieramente Prendi '1 mio figliolin da la mia mano. Er3i. da che cara man, che caro dono ! SoF. Ora in vece di me gli sarai madre. Er.M. Cosi faro, poiche di vol fia privo. SoF. figlio, figlio, quando pii bisogno Hai de la vita mia, da te mi parte. Ebx. OF THE ITALI.VNS. 413 Erji. Alas ! such sorrow who can e'er survive ] Soph. Time is the assuager of all mortal grief. Ekh. Sister, I pray thee, let me follow thee ! Soph. Ah ! no, my cruel death may well suffice. Erji. Fortune, how swift thou robb'st me of all bliss. Soph. my dear mother, thou art far away ! that I might, at least, behold thy face Once more, once more embrace thee, ere I die ! Erm. Thrice happy she, whose lot is not to see This cruel stroke of fate ; for sorrow, when Narrated, carries not so keen a barb. Soph. my fond father, brothers, all beloved. Long is it since I saw you, and, alas ! 1 see you now no more. The gods befriend you !' Erm. Ah ! what a treasure they must this day lose ! Soph. My sweet Erminia, in this mournful hour Thou art my father, brother, sister, mother ! Erm. Thrice happy could I but for one suffice ! Soph. Ah me ! my strength forsakes me, and I feel Life ebb apace. I struggle, now, with death. Erm. Alas ! how heavy falls thy fate on me 1 Soph. But who are you ] whence come they 1 and whom seek they? Erm Ah ! wretched me ! what do thine eyes behold ] Soph. AVhat 1 seest thou not this arm that drags me down ] Erm. Oimb, come farO fra tanta doglia 1 SoF. II tempo suol far lieve ogni dolore. Erm. Deh, lasciatemi ancor venir con voi. SoF. Basta, ben basta de la morte mia. Erm. fortuna crudel, di che mi spogli ! SoF. madre mia, quanto lontana sicte ! Almcn poluto avessi una sol volta Vedeni cd abbracciar ne la mia morte. Erm. Felice lei, felice, che non vede Questo caso crudel : ch' assai men grave Ci pare il mal che solamente s' ode. SoF. caro padre, o dolc^ miei fratelli ! Quant' 6 ch' io non vi c'.di, ne piu mai V'aggio a vedere ! Iddio ^ I faccia lieti. Erm. O quanto, quanto ben perd^^rann' ora ! SoF. Erminia mia, tu sola a questo tempo Jli sei padre, fratcl, sorella, e madre. Erm. Lassa, valessi pur per un di loro. SoF. Or sento ben che la virtil mi manca A poco a poco, e tuttavia cammino. Erm. Quanto amaro ii per me questo viaggio ! SoF. Che veggio qui ! Che nuova gente h questa ] Erm. Oim?; infelice ? Che vedete voi ? SoF, Non vedete voi questo che mi tira 1 Che 414 ON TUE LITERATURE Ah ! whither wilt thou snatch me 1 Be not rade; I know ray late, and, willing, follow thee. Erm. boundless sorrow ! grief ineffable ! Sopu. Why weep ye ! Know ye not that all of oarth, AVhen born to life, are destined heirs of death ] Chor. Ah yes ! but tliou art all untimely snatch'd From life, and hast not rcach'd thy twentieth year. Sopn. A welcome boon never too soon arrives. Erm. Sad boon, that wlielms us all in utter woe. Soph. Sister, approach, support me ; for my brain Is dizzy, and night gathers o'er my eyes. Euxi. Kecline upon my bosom, sister dear ! Sopu. Sweet son ! few moments, and thou hast no more A mother. May the gods watch over thee ! Ekit. Ah ! me ! what direful words are these 1 hear Thee utter 1 — Stay, ah ! stay I — leave us not yet. Sopn. Vain wish ! death drags me on the darksome way. Ekm. Ah ! yet look up ! thy babe would kiss thy lips. CuoR. A single look. Sopn. All ! me, I can no more. CiioR. The gods receive thy soul ! Soph. 1 die — farewell ! Trissino also wrote a comedy, after tlie ancient model, with all the personages of the pieces of Terence, and even witii the chorus, which the Romans, in their improvements, had ex- Che fai ] dove mi meni 1 lo so ben dove ! La.sciami pur, ch" io me ne vengo teco. £p.M. che pietate, o che dolore estremo ! SoF. A che piangete ? Nou sapete ancora Che cid che nasce, a morte si destina ? CoRO. Aim^ che questa 4 pur troppo per tempo ; Ch' ancor non siete nel vigesim' anno. SoF. II ben, esser non puo troppo tempo. Erm. Che duro ben h quel che ci distnigge ! SoF. Accostatevi a me, voglio appoggiarmi, Ch'io mi sento mencare ; e gia la notte Tenebrosa ne vien ne gli ocehi miei. Erm. Appoggiatevi pur sopra '1 mio petto. SoF. liglio mio, tu non arai pin madre : Ella gia se ne vi ; statti con Dio. £rm. Oimii, che cosa dolorosa ascolto I Xon ci lasciate ancor, non ci lasciate ! SoF. I non posso far altro, e sono in via, Erm. Alzate il viso a questo che vi bascia. Coro. Eiguardatelo un poco. SoF. Aim&, non posso. CoRO. Dio vi raccolga in pace. SoF. Io vado, Addio. OF THE ITALIAJS'S. 415 eluded from the stage. It is called I Simillimi ; the everlast- ing twins, which appear in all theatres. He also left a number of sonnets and canzoni, written in imitation of Petrarch, but little deserving of our notice. A friend of Trissiuo, Giovanni Rucellai, laboured with not less zeal, and often with more taste, to render the modern Italian poetry entirely classical, and to introduce, into every class of it, a pure imitation of the ancients. Born at Florence, in 1475, and alhed to the house of Medici, he was employed in affairs of state. After the elevation of Leo X. to the ponti- ficate, he entered into orders, without, however, obtaining, either from him or from Clement Vll., a cardinal's hat, to which honour he aspired. He died in 1525, at the castle of St. Angelo, of which he was governor. His most celebrated production is a didactic poem on Bees, of about fifteen hundred lines, which receives a particular interest from the real fondness which Rucellai seems to have entertained for these creatures. There is something so sincere in his respect for their virgin purity, and in his admiration of the order of their government, that he inspires us with real interest for them. All his descriptions are full of life and truth.* • The description, which llucellai gives of the civil wars of the Becs> is extremely pleasing. He thus explains the readiest way of putting a stop to their battles : Delay not, instant seize a full-leaved branch, And through it pour a shower, in minute drops, Of honey mingled, or the grape's rich juice. Ere finished, you shall wondering behold The furious warfare suddenly appeased ; And the two warring bands joj'ful unite, And foe embracing foe ; each with its lips Licking the other's wings, feet, arms, and breast. Wherein the luscious mixture hath been shed. And all inebriate with delight. As when The Switzers, in sedition, sudden seize Their arms, and raise the war-cry ; if a man Of aspect grave, rising, with gentle voice Reproving, mitigates their savage rage. Then to them yields full vases of rich wine ; Each, in the foaming bowl, plunges his lips And bearded chin ; his fellow, with fond kiss, Embraces, making sudden league or truce ; And, with the bounty of the grape o'erpowcr'd. Drinking oblivion of their injuries. Xoa 416 ON THE LITERATURE His poem is written in blank verse, but with great har- mony and grace. The Boes thcmselve?, who, it is said, dread the neiglibourhood of an echo, forbade him the use of rliyme. He thus opens his poem : As bending o'er m\' lyre to sing your praise In lofty rhymes, chaste virgins, angels fair, That haunt the sparkling river's flowery marge. At the first dawn of day, a sudden sleep Surprised me, and in dreams I saw descend • A choir of your fair race, and from their tongues. Yet redolent of honied sweets, these words I heard. Friend, that honour'st thus our race, Shun, in thy dulcet verse, the barbarous rhjTiie ; For well thou know'st that image of the voice Which babbles forth from Echo s airy cave. Was ever to our realm a hated foe.* Kon iudugiar ; piglia un frondoso ramo, E prestamente sopra quelle spargi Minutissima pioggia, ove si truovi II mele infuso, o '1 dolcc umor de I'uva ; Che fatto questo, subito vedrai ]S'on sol quetarsi il cieco ardor de 1' ira, Ma insieme unirsi allegre ambe le parti, E r una abbracciar 1' altra, e con le labbra Leccarsi 1' ale, i piii, le braccia, il petto, Ove il dolce sapor sentono sparso, E tutte inebbriarsi di dolcezza. Come quando nei Suizzeri si muove Sedizione, e che si grida a l' arme ; Se qualche '".om grave allor si leva in piede E comincia a parlar con dolce lingua, Jlitiga i petti barbari e feroci : E intanto fa portare ondanti vasi Pieni di dolci ed odorati vini ; AUora ognun le labbra e "1 mento unmerge Ne le spumanti tazze, ognun con riso S'abbraccia e bacia, e fanno e pace e tregua Inebbriati da 1' umor de 1' uva Che fa obbliar tutti 1 passati oltraggi. * Jtentr era per cantar i vostri doni Con alte rime, o Yerginette caste, Yaghe angellette dell' erbose rive ; Preso dal sonno in sul spuntar dell' alba, M' apparve un coro della vostra gente ; E dalla lingua, onde s' accoglie il mele. Sciolsono in chiare voci queste parole : spirito amico fuggi I OF THE ITALIANS. 417 But it was as a tragic poet that Rucellai attempted to tread in the footsteps of his friend Trissino, although in this respect he appears to be much inferior to him. Two dramas of Ru- cellai remain, written in blank verse, with a chorus, and as much resembling the Grecian pieces in their distribution, as a learned Italian could make them, at an epoch when the study of antiquity was the first of sciences. One of these is entitled Mosmomla, and the other, Orestes. Rosmonda, the wife of Alboin, the first king of the Lombards, who, to avenge her father, destroyed her husband, was a new subject for the stage. Rucellai altered historical facts sufficiently happily, in order to connect events which a long space of time had in reality separated; to unite more intimately causes and effects; and to describe the former relation of his characters to each other. But Rosmonda is only the sketch of a tragedy. The situation is not marked by any developement ; time is not given for the exhibition of the passions ; nor are they at all communicated to the spectators. Conversations and long dialogues usurp the place which ought to be reserved for action ; and the atrocity of the characters and events, which are rather related than shewn, forbids all sympathy. The other tragedy of Rucellai is an imitation of Euripides, and is called Orestes, although the subject is that known under the name of Iphigenia in Tauris. But the example of the Greek poet has not availed Rucellai. Ilis piece is deficient in inte- rest, in probability, and, above all, in action. The Italian dramatists of the sixteenth century, seem to have aimed at copying the defects rather than the beauties of the Greeks. If there chance to be, in the dramas of the Greeks, any un- skilful exposition, or any recital of overwhelming tediousness, they never fail to take it for their model. It would almost appear to have been their intention that Sophocles and Eu- ripides should be received with hisses ; and they seem to wait, at the conclusion of the piece, to inform us that the part which has so wearied us is from the ancients. Euripides had the fault of multiplying moral precepts, and philosophical dis- sertations ; but one of his maxims is only like the text to a Fuggi le rime, e '1 rimbombar sonoro ; Tu sai pur chc 1' immagin de la voce, Che risponde dai sassi ovc Eeo alberga, Sempre ncmica fil del nostro Kcgno. 418 ON THE LITERATURE commentary in Rucelki. The chorus, which the ancient poet devoted to generalise the ideas and sentiments arising out of the action, became, in the hands of his Italian imitator, the depository of that trivial philosophy, to which sentiment is no less a stranger than poetry. Tlie recognition of Orestes and Iphigenia is retarded and embarrassed to a degree of tedious- ness. No character is perfectly drawn ; no situation is managed in a manner to render it touching ; and the catastro- phe, the circumstance of the flight of Iphigenia and tlie Greeks, has not only the defect of not having been premedi- tated and foreseen, but even excites our laughter, instead of engaging our sympathy; since Thoas, alarmed at the pre- dictions of the prophetess, and placed under lock and key, with all his guard, suffers himself to be duped like the tutor of a comedy. The early Italian drama comprises a considerable number of pieces. But the pedantry which gave them birth, deprived them, from their cradle, of all originality, and all real feeling. The action and the representation, of which the dramatic poet should never for an instant lose sight, are constantly neglected; and philosophy and erudition usurp the place of the emotion necessary to the scene. Alamanni, in his Antigone, possesses more truth and sensibility than Rucellai, in his Orestes ; but he has rather translated than imitated Sophocles. Sperone Speroni d'Alvarotti wrote a tragedy on the suljject of Canace. the daughter of -3^olus, Avhom her father cruelly punished for an incestuous passion ; but this is scarcely the outline of a tragedy, and nothing more than partial conversations on the most calamitous events. There is, perhaps, a greater degree of talent in the CEdipus of Giovanni Andrea dell' Anguillai'a; in the Jocasta and Markina of Lodovico Dolce ; and, above all, in the Orhecche of Giovanni Battista Giraldi Cintio, of Ferrara. This last piece, which was represented in the house of the author, in Ferrara, in 1541, excites and keeps alive our curiosity. In some scenes, it even awakes, in the minds of the spectators, alarm, terror, and pity. But Giraldi com- posed his tragedies from tales of his own invention, which possessed neither truth nor probability; and the Arrenojna is as absurd as the Orhecche is extravagant. The soliloquies are duU and frigid ; we have dialogues, instead of action ; and a chorus of nretended lyrics, which contain only common ideas OF THE ITALIANS. 419 clothed in rhyme, destroys aU sympathy as soon as it is heard. The inferiority of the Italians to the Spaniards, in dramatic invention, is remarkable ; and particularly at the epoch of their greatest literary glory. These pretended restorers of the theatre conformed, it is true, to all the precepts of Ari- stotle, from the time of the sixteenth century, and to the rules of classical poetry, even before their authority was proclaimed. But this avails little when they are wanting in life and interest. We cannot read these tragedies without insuffer- able fatigue ; and it is difficult to form an idea of the patience of the spectators, condemned to listen to these long declama- tions and tedious dialogues, usurping the place of the action, which ought to be brought before their eyes. The Spanish comedies, on the contrary, although extravagant in their plots, and irregular in their execution, always excite our attention, curiosity, and interest. It is with regret that we suspend the perusal of them in tlie closet, and they are not less adapted for the stage, where the dramatic interest is throughout maintained, and the spectator is always interested in the events passing before him. Even the names of the dramatic pieces of Italy, in the sixteenth centuiy, are scarcely preserved in the records of literature. But posterity seems to have paid a gi'eater respect to the memory of some of the lyric and pastoral poets. Many of these have retained great celebrity, even after their works have ceased to be read. Such, amongst others, was the case with Giacomo Sanazzaro, born at Naples on the twenty-eighth of July, 14.58 ; who died, in the same city, at the end of the year 1530 ; and whose tomb, very near to that of Virgil, may almost be said to partake of its celebrity. Although he belonged to a distinguished family, he did not inherit any fortune ; owing all that he enjoyed to the favour of the sovereigns of Naples. He was early remarkable for his proficiency in Greek and Roman literature ; but his love for a lady of the name of Carmosina Bonifacia, the rest of whose history is wholly unknown, engaged him to write in Italian. He celebrated this lady in his Arcadia, and in his sonnets ; and, when death deprived him of her, he renounced the Italian muses for Latin composition. From that time, he was devoted to reliiiious observances, which had before held 420 ox THE LITERATURE little place in his thoughts. The kings of Naples of the house of Aragon, Ferdinand I., Alfonso II., and Frederic, loaded him with favours. Tlie last of these princes presented him with the beautiful Villa MergoUna, where Sanazzaro delighted to realize liis dreams of happiness, in an Arcadia of his own. But the wars between the French and the Spaniards, in the kingdom of Naples, overwhelmed him in common ruin with his benefactors. Faithful to the house of Aragon, he sold almost all his possessions, in order to remit the proceeds to Frederic, when the dethroned king was sent as a hostage to France. Sanazzaro followed him thither, and shared his exile, from 1501 to 1505. He was destined to close the eyes of his royal benefactor ; and expressed his attachment for him, and his regret for his misfortunes, with a warmth of patriotism and courage, which do honour to his character. His jNIergolina, to which he had returned, was afterwards pillaged and Avasted by the army of the prince of Orange, in the service of Charles V. He passed the latter years of his life in a village of the Somma, one of the heights of Vesuvius. A Marchioness Cassandra, to whom he was attached, resided there also, but at the distance of a mile ; and Sanazzaro, a septuagenarian, never passed a day without visiting her. He died at the end of the year 1530, aged seventy-two. The Arcadia of Sanazzaro, on which his reputation prin- cipally depends, was begun by him in his early youth, and published in 1504, when he was forty-six years of age. A species of romantic pastoral, in prose and without action, serves to connect twelve romantic and pastoral scenes, and twelve eclogues of shepherds in Arcadia. Each part com- mences with a short recital in elegant prose, and ends with an eclogue in verse. In the seventh, Sanazzaro himself appears in Arcadia ; he recounts the exploits of his family, the honours they obtained at Naples, and how love had driven him into exile. Thus, the ancient Arcadia is, to Sanazzaro, nothing more than the poetical world of his own age. He awakes, in the twelfth eclogue, as from a dream. The plan of this piece may be subject to criticism, but the execution is elegant. Sanazzaro, inspired by a sentiment of tender passion, found, in his own mind, that reverie of enthu- siasm that belongs to pastoral poetry. The sentiments, as in OF THE ITALIANS. 421 all idyls, are sometimes trite and affected, though sometimes, also, breathing warmth and nature. The thoughts, the images, and the language, are always poetical, except that he lias too frequently introduced Latin words, which were not then naturalized into the Tuscan dialect. The stanzas, witli which each eclogue terminates, are generally under the lyric form of canzoni. The fifth, of which tlie three first stanzas are here translated, on the tomb of a young shepherd, may serve to compare the poetical feelings of the Italians, which are wholly derived from the imagination, with those of the North, in which the heart has the greater share. Ergasto thus speaks, over the tomb of his deceased friend : O brief as bright, too early blest. Pure spirit, freed from mortal care, Safe in the far-off mansions of the sky. There, with that angel take thy rest. Thy star on earth ; go, take thy guerdon there ; Together quaflF th' immortal joys, on high, Scorning our mortal destiny ; Display thy sainted beauty bright, 'Jlid those that walk the starry spheres, Through seasons of unchanging years ; By living fountains, and by fields of light. Leading thy blessed flocks above ; And teach thy shepherds here to guard their care with love. Thme, other hills, and other groves, And streams, and rivers never dn.-, On whose fresh banks thou pluck'st the amaranth flowers ; "While following other loves* * Alma beata e bella Che, da legami sciolta, Nuda salisti ne' superni chiostri, Ove con la tua stella Ti godi insieme accolta ; E lieta ivi, schemendo i pensier nostri, Quasi un bel sol ti mostri Tra li piil chiari spirti ; E CO i vestigi santi Calchi le stelle erranti ; £ tr3, pure fontane, e sacri mii'ti Pasci celesti greggi, E i tuoi cari pastori indi corrcggi. Altri monti, altri piani, Altri boscbetti e rivi, Vedi nel cielo, e piil novelli fieri ; 422 ON THE LITERATURE Through sunny glades, the Fauns glide by Surprising the fond N3'mphs in happier bowers. I'ressing the fragrant flowers, Androgeo, there, sings in the summer shade. By Daphnis' and by Melibceus' side, Filling the vaulted heavens wide AVith the sweet music made ; AVhile the glad choirs that round appear. Listen to his dear voice, we may no longer hear. As to the elm is his embracing vine. As their bold monarch to the herded kine, As golden cars to the glad sunny plain, Such wcrt thou to our shepherd youths, swain ! Eemorseless death ! if thus thy flames consume The best and loftiest of his race, Who may escape his doom 1 AVhat shepherd ever more shall grace The world like him, and with his magic strain Call forth the joyous leaves upon the woods, Or bid the wreathing boughs embower the summer floods 1 There have been more than sixty editions of the Arcadia. At the present day, it is little read, as nothing is more oppo- site to the spirit of our age, than the characteristic insipidity of pastorals. Sanazzaro, besides his Latin poems, which are Altri Fauni e Silvani Per luoghi dolci estivi, Seguir le Ninfe in piil felici amori ; Tal fra soavi odori Dolce cantando all' ombra, Tra Dafni e Melibeo, Siede il nostro Androgeo, E di rara dolcezza il cielo ingombra ; Temprando gli elementi Col suon de' nuovi inusitati accenti. Quale la vite all' olmo, Ed agli armenti il toro, E r ondeggianti biade a' lieti campi ; Tale la gloria e '1 colmo Fostil del nostro coro. Ahi cruda morte ! e chi fia che nt scami4, Se con tue fiamme a\-vampi Le pill elevate cime ? Chi vedra mai nel mondo Pastor tanto giocondo, Che, cantando fra noi si dolci rime, Sparga il bosco di fronde, E di bei rami induca ombra si I'onde ? OF THE ITALIANS. 423 highly celebrated, and which he published under his academi- cal name of Actius Syncerus, wrote many sonnets and canzoni. In order to afford, to those who do not read Italian, a speci- men of the thoughts and imagination of a celebrated poet, whose name is often repeated, and whose works are little read, a translation of one of his sonnets, which he puts into the mouth of his deceased mistress, to whom he had been tenderly attached, is here given. Beloved, well thou know'st how many a year I dwelt \vith thee on earth, in blissful love ; Now am I call'd to walk the realms above. And vain to me the world's cold shows appear. Enthroned in bliss, I know no mortal fear. And in my death with no sharp pangs 1 strove, Save when I thought that thou wert left to prove A joyless fate, and shed the bitter tear. But round thee plays a ray of heavenly light. And ah ! I hope, that ray shall lend its aid To guide thee through the dark abyss of night. Weep then no more, nor be thy heart dismay'd ; When close thy mortal days, in fond delight 3Iy soul sh.ill meet thee, in new love array'd.* Anew description of poetry arose in Italy, under Francesco Bemi, which has retained the name of the inventor. The Italians always attach the appellation of hernesque to that light and elegant mockery, of which he set the example, and which pervades all his writings. The gaiety with which he recounts serious events, without rendering them vulgar, is not confounded by his countrymen with the burlesque, to which it is so nearly allied. It is, above all, in the Orlando Inna' * Vissa teco son io molti e molt' anni. Con quale amor, tu "1 sai, fido consorte ; Poi recise il mio fil la giusta morte, E mi sottrasse alii mondani inganni. Se lieta io goda ne i beati scanni, Ti giuro che '1 morir non mi fii forte, Se non pensando alia tua cruda sorte, E che sol ti lasciava in tanti aflanni. ila la virtd che 'n te dal ciel riluce, Al passar questo abisso oscuro e cieco Spero che ti sara maestra e duce. Non pianger piil : ch' io sarO sempre teco ; E bella e viva al fin della tua luce Ycnir vedrai me, e rimenarten meco 424 ON THE LITERATURE morato of the' Count Boiardo, remodelled by Berni in a free and lively style, that we perceive the fulness of his genius. His other works, imbued, perha[)S, with more comic wit, trespass too frequently on tlie bounds of propriety. Fran- cesco Berni was born about 1490, at Laraporecchio, a castle between Florence and Pistoia. AV'e know little more of his biography than what he relates himself, in a jesting tone, in the sixty-seventh canto of his Orlando Innamorato. He was of a noble, but -not opulent family. At nineteen years of age, he went to Rome, full of confidence in the protection of Car- dinal Dovizio da Bibbiena, who, in fact, took little interest in his welfare. After the death of that prelate, being always embarrassed, he entered as secretary into the Apostolic Datary.* He there found the means of life, but was oppressed by an irksome employ, to which he w^as never reconciled. His labours increased, in proportion as he gave less satisfac- tion. He carried under his arms in his bosom, and in his pockets, whole packets of letters, to which he never found * A few stanzas have been selected, as displaying at the same time the style and the personal character of Berni. The author supposes that the pleasant Florentine companion, by whom he means to represent himself, meets the cavaliers in the castle of Mirth, in which Argant, the magician, wishes to retain Kugiero. Credeva il povcr' uom di saper fare Quelle csercizio, e non ne sapea straccio ; II padron non pote mai conteutare, E pur non usci mai di quelle impaccio ; Quanto peggio facea, piii avea da fare ; Aveva sempre in seno e sotto il braccio Dietro e innanzi, di lettere un fastello, E scriveva, e stillavasi il cervello. Quivi anche, o fusse la disgrazia, o '1 poco Merito suo, non ebbe troppo bene : Certi beneficioli aveva loco ~Se\ paesel, che gli eran brighe e pene : Or la tempesta, or I'acqua, ed or il foco Or il diavol 1' entrate gli ritiene ; E certe magre pensioui aveva Onde mai un quattrin non riscoteva. Era forte collerico e sdegnoso, Delia lingua e del cor libero e sciolto ; Non era avaro, non ambizioso, ■ Era fedele ed amorevol molto : Degli OF THE ITALIANS. ' 42o time to reply. His revenues were small, and when he came to collect them, he frequently found, according to his own ex- pressions, that storms, water, fire, or the devil, had swept them entirely away. His mirth, and the verses and tales which he recited, made him an acceptable member of society; but, whatever love he might have had for liberty, he remained always in a state of dependance. By his satires he made him- self many enemies, the most vindictive of whom was Pietro Ax'etino, whom he, in turn, did not spare. Berni, who informs us that his greatest pleasure was lying in bed and doing nothing, experienced, if we are to believe common rumour, a death more tragic than we should have been led to expect from his situation in life. He was the common friend of the Car- dinal Ippolito and the Duke Alessandro de' Medici, who were cousins-german, and was solicited by the latter of these to poison his relation. As he refused to participate in so black a crime, he was himself poisoned a few days afterwards, in the Degli amici amator miracoloso, Cosi anche chi in odio avea tolto Odiava a gucrra finita e mortale ; Ma pill pronto cr' a amar ch' a voler male. Di persona era grandc, magro e schietto, Lunghe c sottil le gambc forte aveva, E '1 naso grande, e 1 vise largo, e strctto Lo spazio che Ic ciglia divideva : Concavo 1' occhio avea azzurro e netto, La barba folta, quasi il naseondeva Se I'avesse portata, ma il padrone Aveva con le barbe aspra questione. Nessun di sei-vitil giammai si dolse K& pill ne fii uimico di costui, E pure a consumarlo il diavol tolse, Sempre il tenne fortuna hi forza alti-ui : Sempre che comandargli il padron volse, Di non sei-virlo venne voglia a lui, ' Voleva far da se, non comandato, , Com' un gli comandava era spacciato. Cacce, musiche, fcste, suoni e balli, Giochi, ncssuna sorte di piacere Troppo il movea, piacevangli i cavalli Assai, ma si pasceva del vedere, Che modo non avea da comperalli ; Ondc il suo sommo bene era in giacere Is'udo, lungo, disteso, e '1 suo diletto Era nou far mai nulla, c starsi in letto. VOL. I. D D 426 ON TUE LITEEATUUE year 1536. In the same year, the Cardinal Ippolito was, in fact, poisoncJ by his cousin. Berni had diligently studied the ancients, and wrote himself elegant Latin verse. He had purified his taste, and accus- tomed himself to correction. His style possesses so much nature and comic truth, that we can easily imagine the enthu- siasm with which it is to this day adopted as a model. But, under his hand, every thing was transformed into ridicule. His satire was almost always personal; and when he wished to excite laughter, ho was not to be restrained by any respect for morals or for decency. His Orlando Innamorato is ranked, by the Italians, among their classical poems. Berni, even more than Ariosto, treats chivalry with a degree of mockery. He has not, indeed, travestied the tale of Boiardo. It is the same tale sincerely narrated, but by a man who cannot resist indulging in laughter at the absurd suggestions of his own genius. The versiiication is carefully formed ; wit is thrown out with a lavish hand ; and the gaiety is more sportive than that of Ariosto ; but the two poems will not bear a comparison in respect to imagination, colouring, rich- ness, and real poetry. The other works of Berni are satirical sonnets, and CapitoU, in terza rima, among which the eulogy on the Plague, and that on Aristotle, are conspicuous. They were prohibited, and, indeed, not without very good reason. Few men were more admired and obtained a greater share of fame, in the sixteenth century, than Pietro Bembo, who was born, at Venice, of an illustrious family, on the twenty- sixth of May, 1470. Connected in friendship with all the men of letters and first poets of his age, he was a lover of the cele- brated Lucretia Borgia, daughter of Alexander YL, and wife of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara ; and was a favourite with the Popes Leo X. and Clement YIL, who loaded him with honours, pensions, and benefices. He enjoyed, from the year 1529, the title of Historiographer to the Republic of Venice ; and Paul III. finally created him a Cardinal in 1539. Wealth, fame, and the most honourabl-e employs seemed to pursue bim, and snatched him, in spite of himself, from a life of epicurean pleasure, which be did not renounce when he took the eccle- siastical habit. His death was occasioned by a fall from his horse, on the eighteenth day of January, 1547, in his seventy- seventh year. He was the admiration of his own age, which OF THE 1TALLA.XS. 427 placed him in the first rank of classic authors. His fame, however, has since materially declined. Benibo, -who had pro- fessedly studied the Latin and the Tuscan languages, and com- posed, in botli, with the utmost purity and elegance, Avas, all his life, too exclusively occupi(;d with words to support the brilliancy of his fame, after the Latir was no longer cultivated with ardour, and custom had introduced many alterations in the Tuscan, The style of Bembo, which was higlily extolled in his lifetime, appears, at the present day, atlected and greatly laboured. We are aware of his imitations in every line, and seek in vain for an expression of genuine sentiment. Neither is he distinguished by depth of thought, or by vivacity of imagination. He has aspired to rank himself with Cicero in Latin prose, and with Petrarch and Boccaccio in Italian poetry and prose ; but, however great the resemblance may be, we instinctively distinguish the original from the copy, and the voluminous writings of Bembo now find few readers. His History of Venice, in twelve books, liis letters, and his dialogues, in the Italian language, are among the best of his prose works. His Canzonicre may bear a comparison with that cf Petrarch, His conversations on love, which he en- titled Asolani, and which are interspersed with poetry, ap- proach to the style of the tales of Boccaccio. The singular purity of style, on which he prides himself, and which his con- temporai'ies acknowledged, has not, on all occasions, preserved him from concetti and atfectation,* Occasionally, however, we * "We may instance the following verses of Perottino, in the Asolani, B. i. p. 12. Quand' io pcnso al martire, Amor, che tu mi dai gravoso e forte, Corro per girne a morte, Cosi sperando i miei danni finire. Ma poi ch' io giungo al passo Ch' 5 porto in qucsto mar d' ogni tormeuto. Tan to piacer ne sen to Che r alma si rinforza cd io non passo. Cosi il viver m' ancide, Cosi la morte mi ritoma in vita ; miseria infinita Che r uno apporta e 1' altro non recidc. In another canzone, he bewails himself, as a victim to the two extremes of torture, in the flames of love which scorch him and in D D 2 428 ON THE LITERATUKE find ill him not only imagination, but real sensibility.* His Latin poems are in high esteem, and he was sufficiently master of the modern tongues to have also attempted Castilian verse, j The same age gave the name of Unico to Bernardo Accolti, of Arezzo, born before 1466, and who died after the year 1534. Whenever this celebrated poet announced his intention of reciting his verses, the shops were shut up, and the people flocked in crowds to hear him. He was .'-ur- rounded by prelates of the first eminence ; a body of Swiss troops accompanied him ; and the court was lighted by torches. But, as Mr. Roscoe has justly remarked, there wanted but one circumstance to crown his glory — that his the tears which inundate him; and he thus affectedly concludes the piece : Chi vidde raai tal sorte, Tenersi in vita uu uom, con doppia morte. * The following stanza, from a canzone of Bembo, may, it appears to me, be pointed out as comprising this two-fold merit. Asolani, B. L p. 21. Qualor due fierc, in solitaria piaggia, Girsen pascendo semplicette e snelle, Per r erba verde, seorgo di lontano, Piangendo lor comincio : lieta e saggia Vita d' amanti, a roi nemiche stelle Non fan vostro sperar fallace e vauo. Un bosco, un monte, un piano, Un placer, un desio, sempre vi tene. lo de la donna mia quanto son limge 1 Deh ! se pietil vi punge, Date udienza inseme a le mie pene, E "ntanto mi riscuoto, e veg.gio, espresso Che per cercar ahrui, perdo me stesso. + About the same time the example of the Italians produced a change in Spanish poetry. But Bembo, in his Castilian verses, of which he has left a considerable number, retained the old national rhythm, as, for instance, in the following Villancico : muerte que sueles ser De todos mal recebida. Agora puedes volver Mil angustias en plazer Con tu penosa venida. Y puesto que tu herida A sutil muerte condena. No es dolor tan sen medida El que da fin a la vida Como el que la tiene en pena. OF THE ITALIAKS. 429 works had perished with himself. Their style is hard and poor; his images are forced, and his taste is perverted by- affectation. He has left us a comedy, La V\r(jhna ; some octaves and terza rlma ; some lyric poetry ; and some stramhotti, or epigrams. It is not by the side of these evanescent poets that we must rank the illustrious secretary of the Florentine republic, the great Nicolo Machiavelli, whose name is in no danger of being buried in oblivion. This celebrity is his due, as a man of profound thought, and as the most eloquent historian, and most skilful politician that Italy has produced. But a dis- tinction less enviable, has attached his name to the infamous principles which he developed, though probably with good intentions, in his treatise, entitled II Principe ; and his name is, at the present day, alUed to every thing false and perJidious in politics. Machiavelli was born at Florence, on the third of May, 1469, of a family which had enjoyed the lirst offices in the Kepublic. We are not acquainted with the history of his youth ; but, at the age of thirty, he entered into public busi- ness, as chancellor of the state, and from that time he was constantly employed in public affiiirs, and particularly in em- bassies. He was sent four, times, by the Republic, to the court of France; twice to the Imperial court; and twice to that of Rome. Among his embassies to the smaller princes of Italy, the one of the longest duration was to Caisar Ijorgia, whom he narrowly observed at the very important period when this illustrious villain was elevating himself by his crimes, and whose diabolical policy he had thus an opportu- nity of studying at leisure. In the midst of these grave occupations, his satiric gaiety did not forsalie him ; and it was at this period that he composed his comedies, his novel of Belfagor, and some stanzas and sonnets which are not de- ficient in poetical merit. He had a considei'able share in directing the councils of the Republic, as to arming and forming its militia ; and he assumed more pride to himself from this advice, which liberated the state from the yoke of the Condottieri, than from the fame of his literary works. The influence to which he o^ved his elevation in the Floren- tine Republic, was tluit of the free party which contested the power of the Medici, and at that time held them in exile. 430 ON THE LITERATURE When the latter were recalled in 1512, Machiavelli was de- prived of" all his employs and banished. He then entered into a conspiracy against the usurpers, which was discovered, and ho was put to the torture, but without wresting from him, by extreme agonies, any confession which could impeach either himself or those who had confided in his honour. Leo X., on his elevation to the pontificate, restored him to liberty. Machiavelli has not, in any of his writings, testified his resentment of the cruel treatment he experienced. He seems to have concealed it at tlie bottom of his heart ; but we easily perceive that torture had not increased his love of princes, and that he took a pleasure in painting them as he had seen them, in a work in which he feigned to instruct them. It was, in fact, after having lost his employs, that he wrote on histoiy and politics, with that profound know- ledge of the human heart which he had acquired in public life, and with the habit of unweaving, in all its intricacies, the political perfidies which then prevailed in Italy. He de- dicated his treatise of the Principe, not to Lorenzo the Magnificent, as Boutterwek, by a strange anachronism, has stated, but to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, the proud usurper of the liberties of Florence, and of the estates of his bene- factor, the former Duke of Urbino, of the house of Rovere. Lorenzo thought himself profound when he was crafty, and energetic when he was cruel ; and Machiavelli, in shewing, in his treatise of the Principe, how an able usurper, who is not restrained by any moral principle, may consolidate his power, gave to the duke instructions conformable to his taste. The true object, however, of Machiavelli could not be to se- cure on his throne a tyrant whom he hated, and against whom he had conspired. Nor is it probable that he only pro- posed to himself, to expose to the people the maxims of tyranny, in order to render them odious ; for an universal experience had, at that time, made them known throughout all Italy, and that diabolical policy, which Machiavelli reduced to a system, was, in the sixteenth century, that of all the states. There is, in his manner of treating the subject, a general feeling of bitterness against mankind, and a contempt of the human race, which induces him to address it in lan- guage adapted to its despicable and depraved condition. • He applies himself to the interests, and selfish calculations of OF THE IT.VLiA.XS. 431 mankincl, since they do not deserve an appeal to tlieir enthu- siasm and moral sense. He establishes principles in theory, which he knows his readers will reduce to practice ; and he exhibits the play of the human passions with an energy and clearness which require no ornament. The Principe of Machiavelli is the best known of his political works, but it is neither the most profound, nor the most considerable. His three books of discourses on the first Decade of Livy, in which he investigates the first causes of thepower of the Eomans, and the obstacles which have im- peded other nations in a similar career, discover an extensive knowledge, a great perspicacity in judging of men, and a powei'ful talent of mind in abstracting and generalizing ideas. The most profound political observations, which have been written since this epoch, in any language, have been derived from these early meditations of Machiavelli. As in this Avork he goes much more directly to his object, and as he did not write either for a tyrant or for a free people, but for every honest mind which loves to reflect on the destinies of nations, this book is, in consequence, more moral in principle, though containing lessons not less profound ; nor has it incun-ed, on the part of the cliurch or of society, the same anathema which some time after the death of Macliiavelli was pronounced against his treatise of the Principe. It was also at this period of his life that Machiavelli wrote his History of Florence, dedicated to Pope Clement VII., and in which he instructed the Italians in the art of uniting the eloquence of history with depth of reflection. He has attached himself, much less than his predecessors in the same line, to the narration of military events. But his work, as a history of popular passions and tumults, is a masterpiece, and Machiavelli has completed, by this noble example of his theories, his analysis of the human heart. He was again em- ployed in public affairs by the Pope, to whom he dedicated his book, and was charged with the direction of the fortifica- tions, when death deprived his country of his farther services, on the twenty-second day of June, 1527, three years before the termination of the Florentine Republic. Machiavelli might have rendered himself illustrious as a comic writer, if he had not preferred political fame. He has left three comedies, which, by the novelty of the plot, by the 432 ON THE LITERATURE strength and vivacity of the dialogues, and by their admirable delineation of charactei', are far superior to all that Italy had then, or has, perhaps, since produced. We feel sensible, in perusing them, of the talent of the master who conceived them, of the elevation from which their author judges the beings whom he has depicted with so much truth, and of his profound contempt for all the duplicity and hypocrisy which he so faithfully exposes. Two monks in particular, a brother Timoteo, who appears in the two first, and a brother Alberico, protagonist of the third, are represented with a vivacity and accuracy which have left nothing to the invention of the author of the Tarlnfe. It is to be regretted, that public manners authorized, at that time, such an extreme license in theatrical representations, that it is im- possible to give even an analysis of these comedies. His tale of BeJfagor, or the devil, who takes refuge in hell to avoid a scold, has been translated into all languages, and remodelled in French by La Fontaine. His poems are more remarkable for vigour of thought, than for harmony of style, or grace of expression. Some are composed of historical facts versified, and others, of satirical or burlesque frag- ments. But the pleasantries of the author are generally mingled with gall, and when he indulges his humour, it is always in derision of the human race. It was thus that he wrote the Carnival Songs, to be recited by different troops of masks ; each dance having a song or an ode, appropriated to its character and to its disguise. In the streets of Florence there were successively seen, on the triumphant cars, despairing lovers, ladies, the spirits of the blest, hermits, fruit-sellers, and quacks. They were connected by a kind of dramatic action, but Machiavelli contrived that they should be preceded by a chorus of demons ; and we seem to recognize the writer of the Prbicqye in the morose manner in which he introduces this annual and popular feast. The following are the opening stanzas : Driven from the mansions of immortal biiss. Angels no more, the fate Of pride was ours. Yet claim we here, in this* * Gia fummo, or non siam piil, spirti heati, Ter la superhia nostra Dair OF THE ITALIAN'S. 433 Your rude and ravaged state. More torn with faction and fierce powers Of vengeance than our realms of hate, The rule we lost in Heaven, o'er man below. Famine, war, blood, fierce cold, and fiercer fire, Lo ! on your mortal heads. The vials pour our hands that never tire : And we, while the glad season spreads The feast and dance, are with you now. And must with you remain, To foster grief and pain. And plague you with fresh woes, and crimes that bring forth woe. Some similitude may, perhaps, be remarked between Macliiavelli and a man of this time, Pietro Aretino, Avhose name has acquired an infamous celebrity. Those who are not acquainted with the works of either the one or the other, regard them both witli equal horror ; the first, as the abettor of political crime, and the other, as having made a boast of his impiety, immorality, and profligacy. A comparison, however, cannot be admitted between them. Aretino was a man of infamous character ; Machiavelli was, at the worst, only a culpable wi-iter. Such, however, was the power of wit, and the favour shown to poets, in the sixteenth century, that Charles V., Francis I., and the greatest men of the age, loaded Aretino with honours, and admitted him to their inti- macy. An acknowledged friend of Leo X. and Clement VII., he was recommended to Paul III. by his son, the Duke of Parma, as deserving a cardinal's hat, and had nearly attained that distinction, on the death of Paul, from his suc- cessor Julius III. He composed, during a considerably long life, (1492 to 1557) a great number of works, which are scarcely read at the present day. ' Some of these owed their Dair alto e sommo ciel tutti scacciati ; E 'n questa terra vostra Abbiam preso '1 goveruo, Perche qui si dimostra Confusione e duol piil che 'n inferno. E fame e guerra, e sangue e ghiaccio e foco Sopra ciascun mortale Abbiam messo nel mondo a poco a poco ; E in questo carnovale Vegniamo a star con voi, Perche di ciascun male Stati siamo e sarem pi-incipio noi. 434 ON THE LITERATURE reputation to their extreme licentiousness; others, to the caustic satire witli wliich he attacked his powerful enemies ; many, which were purcliased at an extraordinary price by reigning sovereigns, are filled with the most base and de- grading flatteries ; and others, in no small number, are devotional pieces, which the author, an enemy to every religious faith and to all morals, wrote only because they brought him a larger sum of money. Notwithstanding this profligacy of mind and heart, Aretino received from his con- temporaries the epithet of II Divino. Possessed of assurance of every description, he adopted this title himself, repeated it on all occasions, and attached it to his signature as a person attaches a title to his name, or takes an addition to his arms. His life was sullied by every species of vice. His enemies, who found they could not wound the honour of a man who professed to have none, were obliged to have recourse to personal chastisement, which, in consequence, he frequently underwent. At other times, he drew on liimself more serious attacks. At Rome, a Bolognese gentleman struck him with his poniard, and lamed him for life. Pietro Strozzi, a mar- shal of France, against whom he had written some satirical pieces, threatened to have him assassinated in his bed ; and the unfortunate Aretino shut himself up in his house, in in- expressible terror, and thus led a prisoner's life, until Strozzi had quitted Italy. Tintoretto, whom he had attacked with his accustomed virulence, accidentally meeting him near his house, and feigning ignorance of what he had written, told him that he had long wished for an opportunity of painting his portrait. He led him into his house, placed him on a chair, and suddenly presenting a pistol, advanced against him in a menacing attitude. " How now, Giacomo!" cried the terrified poet. " I am only taking your measure," gravely answered the painter ; and added, in the same tone, '• I find you just four and a half pistol lengths." He then bade him instantly depart, an injunction which Aretino lost no time in obeying. It seemed, indeed, probable that he would have died either by the dagger or bodily chastisement, but he was reserved for a lighter death. He had some sisters at Venice, whose lives were as dissolute as his own. A person was one day recounting to him some of their amours, and he found them so comic, that he threw himself back with violence in OF THE ITALIANS. 43o his chair. The chair fell backwards, his head was struck against the marble floor, and he died instantaneously, at the age of sixty-five. The dramatic pieces of Aretino are the only works of his which can be said to have contributed to the advancement of letters in Italy ; and it must be allowed that they are some- times singularly attractive. In spite of all the disgust which the character of the author inspires ; in spite of the effrontery with which, even in these comedies, he by turns sets himself above all the laws of decency in speaking of others, and those of modesty in speaking of himself ; in spite of the gross faults in the conduct, and, almost always, of the want of interest in his characters, of perspicuity in the plot, and life in the action ; we still find in his comedies a genuine dramatic talent, an originality, and often a gaiety, rarely met with in the early dramatic writers of Italy. Aretino probably owed his merit in gi-eat part to the absence of all imitation. He had neither the Greek nor Latin models before his eyes ; he depicted human nature merely as he saw it, with all its vices and all its deformity, in a corrupted age ; and, inasmuch as, like Aristophanes, he confined himself to the manners of his own time, he bears a greater resemblance to the Athenian dramatist than they who have taken him for their immediate model. In his comedies, Aretino makes continual allusions to local circumstances ; he paints undisguisedly the vices of the great as well as those of the people ; and, at the same time that he mingles his satires with the lowest flattery, in order to procure for himself the protection of the great, or to remunerate them for the money he had obtained from them, he always preserves the picture of the general dissoluteness of manners, and the loose principles of the age, with singular truth and vivacity of colouring. From no other source can we obtain a more correct insight into that abandonment of all morals, honour, and virtue, which marked the sixteenth cen- tury. This age, so resplendent in literary glory, prepared at the same time the corruption of taste and of genius, of senti- ment and of imagination, in destroying all that Italy had hitherto preserved of her ancient laws. As we are compelled to pass over many illustrious authors, lest we sliould fatigue the reader by a barren enumeration of names, we shall conclude this list by a short notice of Teofilo 436 ON THE LITERATURE Folengi, better known by the name of Merlino Coccajo. He was the inventor of the macaronic poetry, a species not less below the burlesquCj than the Bernesque is above it. It is difficult to say whether these poems are Italian or Latin. The words and phrases are chosen from the most vulgar of the low Italian dialects ; but the terminations are Latin, as is also the measure of the verse ; and the wit consists in lending to a composition and to ideas already burlesque, the language and the blunders of an ignorant scholar. This ridiculous style, supported by great vivacity, but often by pleasantries of very bad taste, had a prodigious success. Mer- lino Coccajo had many imitators ; and macaronic verses have heQW written, formed of Latin and French, as his partook of Latin and Italian. The induction of the physician, in the Malade Tmaginaire, is in this macaronic language. Folengi was born in the state of Mantua, and was a Benedictine monk, but escaped from his convent to follow his mistress. After a lapse of eleven years, spent in an irregular life, Folengi returned to his convent in 1526, and sought pardon for his errors in the composition of religious poems ; in one of which, amongst others, in octave verse, on the life of Christ, we find considerable strength and elegance. There are also beauties in some passages of his macaronic verses, but it requires no small degree of courage to look for them. "We shall not speak at length of Baldassare Castiglione, the celebrated author of tlie Corteglano, who exhibits in his verses both grace and sensibility ; of Francesca Maria Molza of Modena, whose whole life Avas consecrated to love and the Muses, (1487 — 1544), and whom many critics have placed in the first rank of the lyric poets of the age ; of Giovanni Mauro, a burlesque poet, a friend and imitator of Berni ; nor of Nicolo Franco, who, after having been brought up in the school of Aretino, had a furious quarrel with him, but attacked at the same time, with not less effrontery than his rival, both the government and public morals, in such a manner that Pius v., to put an effectual stop to his pasquinades, caused him to be hanged in 1569. Nor shall we pause to notice the Latin poets of tliis period. Sadoleti, Fracastoro, Pontano, and Vida, all of whom, by the purity of their language, by the elegance of tlieir taste, and often by their classic genius, have approached the authors of antiquity whom they had OP THE ITALIANS- 437 taken for models. The greater part of these have written poems on didactic subjects. This kind of composition appears, in fact, to suit better than any other with authors who sub- mitted their genius to prescribed rules, and who, wishing to restore a nation and a literature which would not harmonize with their own age and manners, have in their poems studied more the form than the substance. Nor shall we further speak of several distinguished historians of this epoch, Giovio, Nardi, and Nerli ; nor of a man more celebrated and uni- versally read, Francesco Guicciardini, whose history is quoted, even at the present day, as a school of politics, and a model of judicious criticism. In works of this nature, the literaiy merit, that of expression, is only secondary. It is from their profoundness of thought, and their vivacity, that we assign a rank to historians ; and, in order to pass an opinion on Guicciardini, we should be obliged to go beyond the bounds which we have prescribed to ourselves, on a sub- ject already too extensive in itself. We shall conclude this review of Italian literature of the sixteenth century, by some remarks on the progress of the comic drama. This branch of the dramatic art, which arose at the beginning of the age, if it was not brought to perfec- tion, had at least rapidly advanced. The first pieces were little more than pedantic copies of the Latin comedy. They were represented at the expense of the Courts, before learned audiences. But at the end of a little time, although we do not know the precise period, troops of mercenary comedians possessed themselves of these dramas, and recited them be- fore the public, who paid for their seats. From that time, the taste of the public became a matter of greater importance to the actors and to the authors. It was no longer sufficient that a piece was made conformable to the rules which the critics pretended to have deduced from the ancients. It was also requisite that it should interest or amuse. Machiavelli and Pietro Aretino had shown how laughter might be ex- cited by the delineation of modern manners and vices. The example of Terence was gradually neglected, and a crowd of authors undertook, with less erudition, indeed, but with more vivacity, to entertain the public. The most remarkable amongst them was Anton Maria Grassini, of Florence, sur- named II Lasca, (the name of a fish), who endeavoured to 438 ON THE LITEEATURE give to his native drama manners and rules entirely national, and who overwhelmed with ridicule both the pedants and the Petrarchists. He ridiculed, in the first, the hard and starched imitation of the ancients ; in the second, their Platonic love, the devotion to their mistresses, and the tender mysticism ■which rendered all their lyric poetry equally insipid and affected. A great number of comic authors followed in the footsteps of Lasca; Giovanni Battista Gelli, Angelo Firen- zuola, Francesco Dambra, Salviati, Caro, and many others. Leontius Allacci, in his Dramaturgy, enumerates more than a thousand comedies composed in Italian in the sixteenth century ; and Riccoboni assures us, that between the periods of 1500 and 1736, more than five thousand were printed. But amidst this prodigious number of writers, Italy does not boast a single great comic genius. If the early authors of this class were justly reproached with pedantry, those who followed were equally chai'geable with ignorance and negli- gence. Content to draw laughter from the populace by their coarse and unpolished jests, they renounce the art of dispos- ing and unravelling the plot, and of giving a true delineation of character. These comedies, so numerous and so indifferent, almost all arose in the bosom of the academies, and were there repre- sented. Italy was thronged in this age with literary socie- ties, which took the title of Academies, and which assumed at the same time fanciful and absurd names. Among other exercises of the mind, the composition and recitation of comedies, with a view of restoring the drama of the ancients, was one of the earliest occupations of these literary societies. To this object their efforts were principally directed ; and, as the performance of a comedy was at the same time amus- ing and profitable, there was scarcely a small town where an academy was not found, with the sole view of giving theatri- cal performances to tlie public. It is in this manner that we must explain that singular and rapid multiplication of acade- mies, so remarkable in the history of Italy, and of which no one seems to have discovered the real object. Even to the present day, nearly all the theatres of Italy belong to acade- mies. The title and academical privileges pass from father to son, and are sometimes sold. Since the academicians have given up performing themselves, they hire out their theatres OP THE ITALIAN'S. 439 to strolling companies ; and we are surprised to find a literary title given to an association devoted to pleasure and to profit. Those wandering companies, who at the present day oc- cupy the theatres of Italy, also took their rise in the sixteenth century, but in an obscure manner, and in a way which lite- rature has not traced. This arose from the mountebanks and empirics attempting to represent, on their stages, farces of a greater length ; and what was at first only an extempore dialogue between a quack and his fellow, assumed, by degrees, the form of a comedy. The pieces were not written betbi-e-hand, out a certain character was assigned to each actor, as well as his country, and a provincial dialect. It was this which gave rise to the invention of the masks of Pantaloon, the Doctor, and Harlequin and Columbine, who, always preserving the same characters, found them more easy to support. We shall again refer to these extempore comedies, which were called Comedis delV Arte, and to the masks peculiar to the Italian theatre, when we arrive at the period when they exercised a greater influence on the national taste. Their first appear- ance in the literary world is marked by farces in the Paduan dialect, which Angelo Beolco Ruzzante, of Padua, published in 1530.* It is proper to notice, at least by a single word, the commencement of the existence of Pantaloon and Harle- quin, to whom three succeeding centuries have been indebted for a fund of inexhaustible bufibonery. * It may gratify the curiosity of tlie reader to present him ^ith a specimen of these old harlequinades, in their original dialect, -which is exceedingly grotesque. II Tasclio, A tto 1. SrroN. An frello stetu chi ? Daldtjea. Se a stesse chi, critu que andera via con a vago 1 Sit. 'So, a digo, se ti e chi, via ] Dald. a no son za oltra '1 mare, siando chi. Sit. Favella un puo con mi. Dald. Ste vuo que a favella mi, tasi ti. Sit. Haristu vezu un certo huomo, rizzo, griso, con una mala ciera, el nazo rebecco in sii, con le mascelle grande, color fumegaizzo, barba chiara, e guardaura scura ] Dald. E lo me sto apicco questu ] al pora sier vezu su una forca. Sit. El la mierita ben. Dald. El no passerae de chi via, que '1 no ghe va per sta via, noma chi se vti a insantare a Eoma. Sit. a ponto la se spazia la so mercandaria. Dald. Que elo mercadante da perdoni, o da giubilei questu 1 Six. a dighe de femene, e si ne mena via una. — &c. CHAPTER XVI. ox THE DECLINE OP ITALIAN LITERATURE IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTUK7 ; THE AGE OP THE SEICENTISTI.* It is sometimes found that events, which overthrow the fortunes of whole nations, are more rapid in their career than the lives of individuals, and that a whole people may be de- prived of their energy, their glory, and all that constituted their character, while the nobler principles, which they have forfeited, still continue to animate the breasts of many of the citizens. They, in whom the seeds of genius and talent, fostered by favourable circumstances, have early sprung up, will not be easily deterred from their cultivation, even by public calamities, which deprive their country of its inde- pendence, and extinguish the spirit of the people. Indeed, men have often attained to a high degree of literary eminence, at a period when the downfall of political institutions seemed to discourage the noblest views, and to repress the efforts of the human mind. Thus, notwithstanding the fatal revolutions which ushered in the close of the fifteenth century, the suc- ceeding age was distinguished by a greater number of cele- brated characters, in Italy, than, perhaps, had ever appeared in any other nation during an equal period of time. Had the calamities of that country ceased, and could Italy, after a war of half a century, have been restored to the situation which she held towards the close of the year fifteen hundred, these great characters would have maintained that national excel- lence, in all the fine arts and in every species of intellectual pursuits, which had been handed down to them by their illus- trious predecessors. Italy might again have arisen, with fresh vigour, from the grave ot" her renown, and we should not have witnessed the blank, which we discover, in the annals of the human mind. But the unfortunate events which occurred at the commencement of the sixteenth century, were hardly so fatal to the progress of letters as the death-like repose which followed. An universal and organized system of oppression * The seventeenih century is called by the Italians Mille Seicento, or Seicento ; and the writers, who flourished during that period, are generally termed Seicentlsti. THE ITALIANS. 441 succeeded to the calamities of war ; and enfeebled Italy pro- duced, during a century and a half, only a race of cold and contemptible imitators, tamely following in the paths of their predecessors ; or of false and aflfected originals, who mistook an. inflated style for grandeur of sentiment, antithesis for elo- quence, and witty conceits for a proof of brilliant powers. This was the reign of corrupted taste ; a taste which strove, by a profusion of ornament, to disguise the want of native talent, and which maintained its authority from the time of the imprisonment of Tasso, until the appearance of Metastasio in the zenith of his fame.* Although the reigns of Charles V. and of Philip 11. appear among the most brilliant in history, for the triumphs of the human mind, in the career both of letters and of art, we must not forget that it was also the fatal period when chains were forged to subdue the intellect of mankind, and when genius, arrested in its course, was compelled to retrace its steps. These monarchs, who reaped the advantage of the munificent labours of their predecessors, failed to scatter, in their turn, the seeds of cultivation ; and, as the harvest of the human mind requires half a century to bring it to perfection, every province subjected to their dominion was, after the expiration of that time, doomed to the general fate of sterility. It is almost impossible to convey an idea of the suspicious yet lethargic nature of the Spanish government under the three Philips, (Philip II., III., and IV.) over nearly one half of Italy; embracing the Milanese, Naples, Sicily, and Sardinia. It extended likewise, with scarcely less authority, over the territories of the Pope, and over the dukedoms of Italy, which had occasion to solicit its protection. Enormous duties, un- equally and absurdly exacted, destroyed commerce, and ex- hausted and depopulated the country ; while governors enriched themselves by cruel and overwhelming extortions, "which excited an universal feeling of hatred and contempt, against the blind infiituation and injustice of such a system. The course of interminable war, in which the court of Madrid persisted during the whole period that the house of Austria wielded the sceptre of Spain, had drained the finest provinces of their wealth and population, and left them open to the * From 1580 to 1730. VOL. I E E 442 ON THE LITERATURE nnnual depredations of the Turks, to the invasion of the French, to the masked wars of the Piedmontese, and to the residence of German and Spanish troops, even more to be dreaded than the enemy. All free inquiry was considered in the light of an attack upon the government ; while tha liberty of the press was rigidly prohibited to its subjects, as well as the least discussion relating to public affairs. Nor were such coercive measures confined to the circulation of obnoxious writings. All persons accused of having prohibited books in their possession were subjected to the severest civil and religious penalties. In order to render this oppressive system still more effectual, and to extend its sway over the mind, the Inquisition was resorted to, as a final means of per- petuating the despotism already established. Not that this tribunal was instituted with a view to the interests of religion, or of permitting, at least to the clergy, some portion of the liberty of which the people were deprived; for at no time had greater persecution been experienced than by the priests who adhered to the Council of Trent, at the hands of the Viceroys of Naples, towards the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century. The policy pursued by the court of Madrid was, to introduce the doctrines of the Council into other states, in order to enfeeble and distract them ; while, setting no bounds to its authority, it would never consent to recognize them in its own. Hence the perpetual inconsistency we every where observe between its professions and its con- duct; and thus pei'secution was rendered still more intolerable, because its object was misunderstood, and its limits could never be foreseen. Abuses only seemed to be respected ; civil liberty was openly invaded; and the popular rights in every point betrayed. Men, suspected of entertaining liberal views, no less than of overt actions, were subjected to cruel and atrocious punishments, which were inflicted rather out of tor- ture and revenge, than in the course of justice and the laws, which were, indeed, no longer administered. Churches and monasteries served as a safe asylum for guilt; while the vice- roys, governors of cities, and other agents of the government, took hired bandits into their service, remunerating their deeds of outrage and assassination, committed by their authority, with spoil and impunity. Even convents scrupled not to make use of the same weapons ; and, in the conspiracy of the monk OF THE ITALIANS. 443 Campanella, the people witnessed, not Vv'ithout astonishment, the priests of Calabria arming with their own hands many thousands of banditti,* who encamped in military order before the towns, so that it required a large escort to pass between Naples and Caserta, or Aversa. Such a state of anarchy, together with the universal hatred borne by the Italians towards the Spaniards, led to repeated eiForts to free them- selves from their yoke. The insurrections at Naples and at Messina in 1647, and the ensuing year, rescued nearly the whole of the Two SicUies from the sway of Spain ; nor were they again recovered, until recourse was had to treachery, where open force had failed. The Milanese, exposed to the continual passage of troops destined for the wars in France and Germany, did not dare openly to revolt ; but the public discontent, and the fixed determination of the people to shake off the ignominious yoke, were the foundations of the power of the house of Savoy, which secretly aggrandized itself at the expense of the Austrian government. The Republic of Genoa remained, during the whole of this age, in absolute subjection to the court of Spain. The Pope, whom the rehgious wars of Germany retained in the same interests and the same subjection, was punished for his rebel- lious conduct, whenever he attempted, as he had the temerity to do in a few instances, to lighten the weight of the burden imposed upon him by that grasping court. The Republic of Venice alone succeeded in preserving its liberty and neutra- lity, purchased at the price of the most scrupulous political silence and apathy. Nor did the Holy Inquisition more effectually repress all freedom of opinion in Spain, than the political inquisition, fearful of giving umbrage to its more powerful neighbours by any inconsiderate action of its citizens, * Fni Tomaso Campanella was the author of many eccentric produc- tions relating to philosophy and magic. He organized a conspiracy among the monks, with the authority of several bishops, for the pur- pose of establishing a republic in Calabria. Three hundred priests became a party to it, and fifteen hundred bandits were, in a short time, put under arms. The appearance of the Turkish fleet, commanded by Murat Keys, under whose auspices the new republic was placed, was fixed upon as the signal of revolt, when it should arrive otF Stilo, Cam- panella's native place. It came in sight on the fourteenth of September, 1599, but he had been arrested, by order of the Viceroy, fifteen days Defore, and his companions were put to death with almost eveiy variety of punishment, E E 2 444 ON THE LITERATURE effected the same object, in Venice. The Italian dukes endeavoured to compensate for the loss of their political im- portance, by all the pleasures and luxuries of a southern court. The princes of Tuscany alone preserved that respect for science and the arts, which had shed such lustre on the name of the Medici. They promoted the study of natural philo- sophy, of painting, and of sculpture ; pursuits which are least likely to awaken the suspicions of a jealous government. The academy of Cimento, and Cardinal Leopold's fine gallery, were the ornaments of Florence during the seventeenth cen- tury ; but from the time that Cosmo I. thought it necessary to appease the courts of Rome and of Madrid, by delivering up his confidential friend* to the Inquisition, freedom of opinion had been as effectually banished from Florence as from the rest of Italy. Since the close of the sixteenth century, the house of Este had been deprived of the duchy of Ferrara, reverting to the church, by the failure of the legitimate branch ; and though its illegitimate successors retained Modena and Reggio, they seemed to have lost, with their chief dominions, that enthusiasm for letters which had hitherto constituted their proudest fame. The house of Gonzaga, so cruelly punished by the pillage and massacre of Mantua, in the year 1630, for having been attached to the interests of France, sought to bury the remembrance of its calamities in a system of depravity, unpai'alleled, perhaps, in the history of royal houses, and which caused its downfall at the close of the same century. The Farnese family, raised to the sovereignty of Parma and Piacenza in the preceding age, produced only one great character, in the Prince Alessandro, the rival of Henry IV., who, however, never revisited his dominions, after leaving them to take the command of the armies of Philip II. In his successors, we enumerate only cruel and voluptuous tyrants, of weak and indolent capacities. As subjects of applause, however, are eagerly sought after to illustrate the lives of sovei'eigns, we find them commended for the en- couragement they afforded to the Italian Opera, which then first came into notice. The heroic character of the princes of Savoy, alone, distinguished above that of the other despi- * Pietro Camesecchi was beheaded, and his body afterwards burnt at Eome, on the third of October, 1567, on a charge of incUning towards tho reformed opinions of the times. OF THE ITALIANS. 445 cable potentates of Italy, confers lustre on the annals of the seventeenth century. The ruinous wars, however, in wliich they were constantly engaged, endangered their political ex- istence, and left them as little leisure as means for the pro- motion of literature and of the arts. Such was the state of Italy during the same period tliat the reigns of Louis XIII. and XIV. added so much to the power and reputation of France. But we ought not to be surprised to find the seventeentli century disgraced by uni- versal degeneracy in Italy, and the name of Selcentuti applied, even amongst the Italians themselves, in the way of oppro- brium. Under such a government, the corruption became general. It infected the principles and manners of the people, and added to the indolence and love of pleasures, so natural to the inhabitants of the South. We shall, however, briefly proceed to cite a few names of those, who, resisting the torrent of bad taste, sl'ill adhered to the excellent principles so long established, as well as of those who, by misapplying their talents, opened the way for a crowd of imitators in a false route, and gave that character of extravagance and bad tiiste to the seventeenth century, for which it is so peculiarly distinguished. The effects of this perverted taste were first perceived during the latter part of the sixteenth century ; the period closing with the observations contained in the preceding chapter. The poets, of whom we now proceed to give some account, may be said to belong equally to both ages, both in point of time and in style of composition. The first of these who attracts our notice is Battista Guarini, who has long been ranked as one of the Italian classics. He was born at Ferrara, in the year 1537, and sprang from tlie same family which in the fifteenth century, gave birth to two other distinguished writers. He attached himself to the court of Ferrara, about the same time with Tasso, who was seven years younger than Guarini. He was employed by Alfonso II. in several embassies ; and on the death of his royal patron, transferred himself to the court of Florence, and afterwards to that of Urbino. He died at Venice, in the year 1612. The poem of the Pastor Fido, on which his reputation now depends, was represented, for the first time, in 1585 ; when Tasso, whom he had imitated, was a prisoner in the hospital 446 ON THE LITERATURE of St. Anne. Its success far surpassed what had been wit- nessed at the representation of the Aviyntas, and this tribute to its superiority was not undeserved. A more spirited and dramatic composition was here brought before the public ; uniting all the sweetness of the idyl with the tenderness of erotic poetry ; while the pastoral charms, usually attributed to Arcadia, and the languishing repose of its amorous dreams, have a much greater portion of the fire and animation of real life. The action of this piece was also more complete and probable, of its kind, and more suited to theatrical exhibition; fnd the beauties of poetry and of language were at least as profusely scattered in it as in the Aviyntas. Guarini modelled this mixed dramatic pastoral on that mythological plan of the opera, afterwards so skilfully adopted by Metas- tasio, but which will not, however, bear a very strict ex- amination. Arcadia, supposed, for more than a century, to have fallen under the displeasure of Diana, is annually compelled to sacrifice a young virgin ; and, according to a mysterious oracle, the fatal penalty will be imposed " Till tAvo of race divine be join'd by Love ; And high devotion of a faithful swain Expiate one v/oman's long and fatal error."* Onl}^ two beings of celestial descent, however, Silvio and Amaryllis, are to be found in Arcadia, one of whom is sprung from Pan, the other from Hercules. The Arcadians are in hopes that their union may accomplish the meaning of the oracle, and they had been already betrothed to each other. But Silvio, insensible to love, delights only in the chase ; ridiculing the charms of Amaryllis, as well as of Dorinda, who is passionately attached to him. Mirtillo, another shepherd, poor and of obscure birth, loves Amaryllis, and his atfections are returned. Corisca, indulging a secret regard for Mirtillo, wishes, from a motive of jealousy, to betray Amaryllis, exposing her to the most injurious suspicions of having suf- fered herself to be seduced; and the shepherdesses of Arcadia * Che duo semi del ciel congiunga Amore ; E di donna infedel 1' antico errore L' alta pieta d' un Pastor Fido ammende. ActLsc.2. OF THE ITALIANS. 447 being subjected to vestal laws, she was consequently adjudged to die. Mirtillo, however, resolves to devote himself" for her ; and he is about to be sacrificed in her place. The sacrificial knife is raised ; but at that moment, his foster-father comes forward to prove that he is the officiating priest's own son, the brother of Silvio, and descended from the gods. The oracle is now fulfilled ; two hearts of celestial origin are thus united in love ; and the devotion of Mirtillo has merited the title of a faithful shepherd. By these nuptials, Arcadia is de- livered from its annual tribute of blood. Silvio is softened by the charms of Dorinda, whom he happens to have unintention- ally wounded in the chase ; even the repentant Corisca meets with pardon ; and the general happiness is complete. Such are the materials for a plot, extended by Guarini into more than six thousand lines ; and we can scarcely, at this period, conceive how so long a piece could have been represented. From the language of the dialogue, the trifling thoughts, and common places, and the flatness of the action, we easily gather that Guarini formed no idea of any impatience in the specta- tors, nor thought himself obliged to awaken their curiosity, and to rivet their attention to the story. Nor was he acquainted with the art, so important in the eyes of modern French critics, of connecting the different scenes, and of as- signing probable motives for the appearance and disappearance of the persons of the drama. Each scene is, for the most part, a separate act, with very little reference, either in action, or in time and place, to that which immediately precedes it ; and this want of consistency, as a whole, throws an air of singular coldness over the first act, consisting of five scenes, which unconneetedly follow each other in the manner of five different plots. The vei'sification of the Pastor Fido appears to me even more pleasing than that of Amyntas. Guarini gave exquisite grace and harmony to his verses ; j^assing, without effort or abruptness, from the vei^si sciolti to measures the most varied and complex. Indeed, no prose could have conveyed his sentiments more accurately ; while no species of lyric poetry, in the ode or in the canzone, display a happier combination of rhymes, or a greater variety of feet, both regular and free. The piece is, perhaps, more deficient in spirit than in poetry ; the sentiments are often trite ; and the author attempts to disguise his want of originality by frequent '448 ox THE LITERATURE affectation and conceit.* Its chief attraction, and which verj much contributed to its success, is tlie poetical exhibition of the passion of love, the source of the various incidents throughout the entire action of the piece, throwing its volup- tuous charm, equally over the poet, the actors, and tlie spec- tators. It has, indeed, more than once been criticized, and not without reason, on the ground of its moral tendency : but, if wc grant that such a scenic representation of the passion be admissible, developed in its most ardent and impetuous cha- racter, Guarini must then be allowed to have succeeded, almost inimitably, in communicating the feeling to his audience and to his readers. He presented the lyric and erotic poets of his country with an example, which long maintained its influence over tlieir taste. In his most moving situations, Guarini has often contrived to bestow upon his characters the language of truth and nature ; and Voltaire remarks, with justice, that he is among the first dramatic writers, who affected their audience to tears.| Guarini has left, also, some sonnets and madrigals, * We have a specimen of the Concetti, on the first appearance of Mirtillo on the scene, act I. sc. 2 ; but, excepting the two first lines, the remainder is very pleasing : Cnida AmariUl ! che col nome ancora J)'amare, ahi lasso ! amaramente insegni ; Amarillidel candido ligustro Pill Candida e piil bella, Ma. deir aspido sordo E piil sorda, e piil fera, e piil fugacc ; Poich^ col dir t' offendo, lo mi morro tacendo : JIa grideran per me le piaggie e i monti, E questa selva, a cui Si spesso il tuo bel nome Di risonare insegno ; Per me piangendo i fonti, E mormorando i venti, Diranno i miei lament! ; Parlera nel mio volto La pietate e '1 dolore : E se fia miita ogni altra cosa, al fine Parlen\ il mio morire, E ti dirS, la morte il mio martire. + Of this kind is the speech of AmarvUis, when, accused of being dishonoured, she is conducted to the temple. Act IV. sc. 5. Padre mio, caro padre, E tu ancor m' abbandoni ] Padre OF THE ITALIANS. 449 in wliich he has carried his false taste to a much greater ex- cess than in the Pastor Fido. Padre d' unica figlia, Cosi morir mi lasci, e non m' aiti ] Almen non mi negar gli ultimi baci. Ferira pur duo petti iin ferro solo : Versera pur la piaga Di tua figlia, il tuo sanguc. Padre, un tempo si dolce e caro nome, Ch' invocar non soleva indarno mai, Cosi le nozze fai Delia tua cara figlia? Sposa il mattino, e vittima la sera ] I shall, to this, add an example of a different style, as Lcautifal in its way. It is a chorus of hunters and shepherds, extolling the fame of Silvio for delivering the countrj- from the depredations of a terrific wild boar. Act I V. sc. 6. Pastori. O fanciul glorioso,. Che sprezzi per altrui la propria vita ! Questo & il vero cammino Di poggiarc a virtutc ; Perocch(5 innanzi a lei. La fatiea e il sudor poser gli Dei. Chi vuol godcr dcgli agi Soffra prima i disagi : N& da riposo infruttuoso e vile Ch' il faticar aborre, Ma da fatiea che virttl precorre -STasce il vero riposo. Cacciatori. O fanciul glorioso, Vera stirpe d'Alcide, Che fere gii si mostruose ancide ! Pastori. ; O fanciul glorioso. Per cui le ricche piaggie, Prive gia di cultura e di cultori, Han rico%-rati i lor fecondi onori ! Va pur sicuro, e prendi Omai, bifolco, il neghittoso aratro ; Spargi il gravido seme, E il caro frutto in sua stagione attend!. Fiero pi&, fiero dente, Non fia pid che tel tronchi o tel calpesti j N6 sarai per sostegno Delia vita, a tc grave, altrui noioso. 450 ON THE LITERATURE The long life of Gabriello Chiabrera distlnguislied tlie close of the sixteenth, and the first half of the following cen- tury. He was born at Savona, on the eighth day of June, 1552, and he died in the year 1637. His life, of which he has himself given us an account, does not abound with incidents. He spent his time partly at Rome, and partly at Savona, wholly immersed in the study of the ancient authors, and in the composition of his own voluminous works. It was his misfortune to be alternately banished from both these places, by affairs of honour quite of an Italian character, in which it appears that he assassinated both his adversaries. We leai-n from a notice of his life, written by himself, and prefixed to his woi-ks, that, it so happened that, without offer- ing the slightest provocation, he was insulted by a Roman gentleman ; for which affront having revenged himself, he was constrained to leave Rome, and unable to obtain a pardon, during ten years. Having had likewise another affair, in his native place, in which he was slightly wounded, he again revenged himself with his own hand, and was banished for many months. He married when he was fifty years of age, but had no children. He lived to the advanced age of eighty- six, and without ever having suffered any serious indisposition. Born in easy cii'cumstances, he was enabled to indulge his inclination for travel. Few writers have surpassed him in the extent of theu' productions. He left behind him five epic poems, in the manner of Ai'iosto ; innumerable dramatic pieces for musical accompaniments, the earliest specimens extant of the opera ; together with a number of treatises on the Passion of our Saviour, and many other religious produc- tions, in prose. But his lyi'ic pieces, by which he acquired so great a reputation, and which are printed separately from the rest, in three volumes, far exceed his other w^orks. In these, Chiabrera was the first who ventured beyond the pre- scribed forms and limits, dei-ived by the Italians from the Proven9als, respecting lyrical composition. Exonerating himself from the painful trammels of the measured sonnet and the canzone, he boldly aimed at catching the true scope and spirit of the Pindaric and the Anacreontic ode. Possess- ing a very exact ear, he quickly discovered the kind of harmony best adapted to Italian verse. By dividing the strophe into short lines, and by varying it according to the OF THE ITALIANS. 451 rules of prosody, although not with the same nice distinctions as the ancients, he was enabled to introduce into the versifi cation of his odes a very fine and agreeable variety. He gave them a flow of meti-e, which enabled him to drop the very frequent recurrence of rhyme ; and he also succeeded admir- ably in varying his versification, and adapting it to the opposite subjects of love, of pleasure, of flattery, and religion, on all of which he treated. Many of his odes were addressed to princes, who merited the poet's enthusiasm as little as they excite our own. The vigour, the vivacity, and the inspired character of his genius, certainly carried Italian poetry to a very high pitch of excellence. No writer, says Tiraboschi, better knew how to transfuse the graces of Anacreon, and the daring flights of Pindar, into Italian verse, than Chia- brera ; no one displayed more of the audacity of his art ; of that springy strength and inspired ardour, which breathed in the language of elder Greece, and in the absence of which there is, indeed, no true poetry. Though his expressions are not always the most elegant, and his metaphorical language is somewhat too bold, yet the elevation of the thoughts, the vivacity of the images, and a certain divine enthusiasm, the very soul of lyrical composition, leave us little inclination to dwell upon his faults. Contemporary with Chiabrera, flourished Giovanni Battista Marini, the celebrated innovator on classic Italian taste, and who first seduced the poets of the seventeenth century into that laboured and afi'ected style, which his own richness and vivacity of imagination were so well calculated to recommend. The most whimsical comparisons, pompous and overwrought descriptions, Avith a species of poetical punning and research, were soon esteemed, under his authority, as beauties of the very first order. Marini was born at Naples, in the year 1569. "When very young, he secretly withdrew from his father's house, in order to escape from the irksome study of the law, to which pro- fession he was brought up by his father, who was himself an advocate. But his singular talents for poetry were already known, and had procured for him patrons among the Nea- politan nobility. He found more at Rome, where he also met with Cardinal Cinzio Aldobrandini, who had placed, though late, the laurel crown upon the head of Tasso. He 452 ON TDE LITERATURE accompanied the Cardinal to the court of Turin, and upon being introduced by liis new patron, his productions appeared to make a more favourable and lively impression tluin they had before done. His poetry, abounding in lively imagery, and sparkling with concetti and antitheses, attracted the attention of all those writers who, in their research after novelty and effect, failed to observe the just limits, even where they had attained to superior excellence in poetical compo- sition. Marini's smoothness of style and versification, his force and vividness of description, and the voluptuous and striking display of the most delicate traits of passion, in which his genius was so inexhaustible, procured for hira a reputation which he has ever since continued to enjoy. He was shortly placed at the head of a poetical party. His followers tri- umphantly proclaimed his excellence, above all others, in the abundant stores of his imagination, and in the generous ardour ■with which he gave free scope to the impulses of his genius ; ■while his opponents attempted to maintain the purity of taste, characteristic of the preceding age, without exhibiting a single spark of its genius. These literary feuds were as keen as they ■VN'ere obstinate, and bitter in proportion to the impossibility of indulging in any more serious subjects of controversy. Some species of intellectual discussion was absolutely requisite to a people like the Italians, who had lost even the shadow of civil and religious freedom ; and the study of mythology was the only field left open to the enquiries of the human mind. Every nobler thought, every generous sentiment, was con- sidered incompatible with the safety of the sovereign and the state. We no longer wonder, then, that such a subject acquired so much importance in their eyes. In a commenda- tory sonnet, addressed to a contemporary poet, Marini, enumerating the labours of Hercules, had confounded the Nem^an lion with the hydra of Lerna ; and this was enough to excite the most violent outcry against him. One party of these literary gladiators attacked, while another defended him. Perhaps no question involving the dearest interests of mankind could have given birth to more discussion, and more voluminous works ; no quarrels, derived from the most tragic sources, could have produced so many violent and outrageous libels. Nor did the parties confine themselves to this. Satirical poetry was not the only weapon they launched OF THE ITALIANS. 453 against each other. Murtola, Marini's poetical rival, aimed a musquet-shot at the leader of the innovating sect, as he turned the corner of a street in Turin ; but, missing its object, the ball struck one of the prince's courtiers -walking at his side, v/ho immediately fell. We are told that Marini endeavoured to obtain Murtola's pardon from the prince, and that his adversary, instead of evincing his gratitude on the occasion, brought an accusation before Cliarles Emanuel against Marini, stating that the poet had reflected on the prince's character, in one of his satiric poems. Marini was thrown into prison, while the alleged charge underwent examination ; nor was he set at liberty, until he had satisfiic- torily proved that the obnoxious poem had been published at Naples, in his early youth, before he had had the honour of meeting with the Duke of Savoy, and that consequently he could not very well have drawn his portrait. On regaining his freedom, Marini went into France, where he obtained the patronage of Mary de' Medici, who conferred a considerable pension on him. There, he produced the most celebrated of his poems, entitled the Adonis. Its publication gave rise to a fresli literary contest in Italy. In his vindication, Marini retorted upon his adversaries with much rancour, and his followers were still more violent than himself. During the heat of the engagement, Marini made his last visit to Italy, where he was received with great applause. His entrance into Rome almost resembled a triumph. He thence pursued his journey to Naples, his native place, where he ended his days, in the year 1625. Marini was a very voluminous writer. He left a great number of sonnets, eclogues, and idyls ; canzoni, epithala- miums, panegyrics, and a series of epigrams intended for a gallery of portraits. I am only acquainted with his Adonis, and, I must confess, not very intimately so with the whole of it. The poem is written in twenty cantos, many of these consisting of no less than three hundred octave verses, and one of them of more tlian five hundred ; so that it exceeds in length the great work of Ai'iosto. A slight view will suffice to give an idea of the peculiar excellences and defects, which formerly procured for this poet such a distinguished reputation. The Adonis of Marini is of a mixed epic and romantic 454 ON THE LITERATURE character ; and the subject is taken from the loves of Venu3 and Adonis. It opens at the moment that Cupid, incensed against his mother, wounds her with one of his arrows, inspiring her with a passion for the youthful shepherd, whom he conveys from the deserts of Arabia into the isle of Cyprus. But the poet, as if delighting rather in picturesque description, than in recounting events, treats each separate canto as if it were a short poem, to which he gives an appro- priate title. Of tliis kind are Felicity, IVie Palace of Love, Lovers surprise, The Tale (of Cupid and Psyche, an episode composing the fourth canto), Tlie Tragedy, The Gay-den, &c. In his descriptions of the pleasures of love, Marini scatters the flowers of his poetry with a profuse hand, over all imaginable situations and incidents. lie overpowers us with the astonishing variety of his images, his sentiments, and his refinements upon tenderness and pleasure, on which he seems to have delighted to dwell. Ilis style is remarkable for its harmony, and for a rich flow of passion and expression, which in the eighth canto is carried to its highest point. Nice feelings of morality and propriety, however, seldom restrain him in his descriptions, any more than the rules of sound taste and criticism, in the distribution of his work. The conclusion of his poem assumes quite a romantic cast. The jealousy of Mars and of a malicious fairy interrupts the loves of Venus. Adonis is torn from her side ; but in vain the fairy tries to seduce his affections. He effects his liberty, and regains his Venus ; when, his passion for the chase in- volving him in fresh perils, the poem closes with his death, and with the funeral rites celebrated over his tomb. We cannot consider the Chevalier Marini — a title confer- red upon him by Charles Emanuel, — as very fortunate in the selection of his subject. In itself, it is destitute of interest ; as the gods, and more particularly those of the pagan world, awaken no sort of sympathy in mere mortals ; while the poet, renouncing all keeping and probability, preserved too little nature, both in his incidents and descriptions. But Marini aspired to no heroic wreaths ; he revelled in the myrtle bowers. The poet of pleasure and of wit, he presents us with a gay series of enchanting pictures, but is by no means solicitous as to the manner in which it is arranged. In regard to wit and spirit, the poem is replete with all those OF THE ITALIANS. 455 sparkling graces so much admired by his contemporaries. Phiys upon words, endless antitheses, and striking images, together with every thing calculated to surprise or to bewilder his readers, admired before it is comprehended, an(J despised as false when understood, are the chief character- istics of his poetry. Enjoying, for a period, the highest degree of popularity and poetic fame, Marini was extolled, during the seventeenth century, even above those writers whom we have been taught to consider as the classic authorities of Italy. The Spaniards, who imitated, and even went beyond him in his own eccentric career, held him in the highest estimation; while the French were scarcely less enthusiastic in his praise, the effects of which may be traced in their poetry up to the time of Rousseau, who has given a great number of Marini's verses in The new Jleloise. ■ I shall here select a few stanzas out of the eighteenth canto, entitled Xa Morfe, con- taining a description of the chase in which Adonis was killed by the wild boar : That soft white hand now hurls the threatening spear. Straining each nerve, against the monster's side. But, ah ! in vain, to check his fierce career ; Harmless it flew, nor drew the crimson tide ; And stouter heart and stouter arm might fear To urge the quivering point, he vainly tried, Through that dark bristling shield ; like some firm wall. Or anvil, fix'd it stood ; no red drops fall. Adonis saw ; his purple cheeks grew pale ; The startled blood flew to his throbbing breast ; Late he repents, late sees his bold hopes fail. And doubts, and turns to fly, while onward prest The terrors of his foe, that ever quail Young hunters' heails ; sharp growl, erected crest, And rapid pace, with eyes more fearful bright Than meteors seen 'mid darkest clouds of night.* * Con la tenera mano il ferro duro Spinge contro il cinghial, quanto piil pole ; Ma pill robusto braccio e piil securo Pcnetrar non poria dov' ei percote ; L' acuio acciar, com' habbia un saldo muro Fcrito, overo una scabrosa cote, Com' habbia in un ancudinc percosso, Toma senza trar fuor stilla di rosso. Quando 4o6 ON TUB LITERATURE These lines are calculated to convey an idea of the lofty harmony of verse, and the picturesque powers of a poet, who, in an age of greater freedom, might have so far counteracted his peculiarities, and restrained his imagination by models of a purer taste, as to have ranked amongst the most distinguished poets of Europe. The boar is supposed to be in pursuit of Adonis ; and Marini, in one of those whimsical flights of imagination, in which he so much loved to indulge at the expense of good taste, divests the enraged animal of its natural ferocity, as if suddenly enchanted with the beauty of the young hunter, who is flying for his life.* Adonis attempts once more to repulse the monster with his dart ; but he is stretched upon the plain ; and the fero- cious animal repeatedly attacking him, pierces his tender side with grievous wounds. Soft-breatbing sigbs, sweet languor, sweetest bue Of pallid flowers, Death's ensigns beautiful, With Love's triumphant smiles, no terrors threw O'er his bright face and form, and eyes late full Of amorous fires. Though quench'd those orbs of blue. Their beauty doth not yet look cold or dull : Shining, as Love and Death young brothers were. And sported midst those graces, cold as fair. Cool fountains shed their urns, warm-gushing tears. Proud oaks and pines low bend their mournful heads. And Alpine height, and forest murmuring hears. And pours a flood of sorrow o'er the meads. Xow weep the Xymphs, and Drj-ads weep with fears For Yenus now ; her lost Adonis bleeds ; Quando cio mira Adon, riede in se stesso, Tardi pentito, et meglio si consiglia, Pensa a lo scampo suo, se gli ^ permesso, E teme, e di fuggir partito j^iglia ; Perche gli scorge, in riguardarlo appresso Quel fiero lume entro 1' horrende ciglia Ch' ha il del talhor, quando tril nubi rotte Con tridente di foco apre la notte. Canto 18. st. 92. * Col mostaccio crudel baciar gli voile II fianco, che vincea le nevi istesse, S credendo lambir 1' avorio molle, Del fier dente la stampa entro v' impresse: Sczzi fur gli urti, atti amorosi e gesti Xon le 'nsegno natura altri che questi. OF THE ITALIANS. 457 "While spring and mountain-haunting XjTnphs lament ; Through springs and mountains is a sighing sent.- Among Marini's innumerable imitators, Claudio Achillini| and Geronimo Preti are the first to claim our attention. Few writers ever attained to so high a degree of reputation during their lives, and few have afterwards sunk into more complete oblivion. Italy, at that time, languished under the dominion of bad taste, whose influence, over the mind and the imngination, seemed to stifle every other species of talent. It was only by improving, and refining on the lustre of each other's thoughts, that authors could then flatter themselves with hopes of making a brilliant display ; and to rest satisfied with the mere representation of truth and nature, either in sentiment or description, was, at that period, only to court obscurity. This corrupted taste of the Italians, for some time, likewise infected the literature of France. Achillini addressed a sonnet to Cardinal Richelieu, on the raising of the siege of Casal, in 1629, beginning with the following line : " Sudate, o fochi ! a preparar metalli I" " Sweat, sweat, ye fires, to frame metallic tubes." "When this line was written, he was in high repute at the court of France. Such a verse is now only cited as an excellent specimen of this ridiculous and affected style. Achillini was the author, also, of a canzone inscribed to Richelieu, in honour of the Dauphin's birth, which obtained * come dolce spira e dolce langue, qual dolce pallor gT imbiauca il volto ! Horribil no, che nelF horror, nel sangue II riso col piacer stassi raccolto. Ilegna nel eiglio ancor voto ed essangue E trionfa negli occhi amor sepolto. E chiusa o spenta 1' una e 1' altra stella Lampeggia, e morte in si bel vise e bclla. Arsero di pietate i freddi fonti, S' intenerir le dure querce e i pini; E scaturir da le frondosc fronti Lagrimosi ruscelli i gioghi Alpini ; Pianser le ninfe, ed ulular da monti E da profondi lor gorghi vicini, Driadi e Xapee stempraro in pianto i lumi, Quelle ch' amano i boschi, e queste i fiumi. f Achillini was bom in the year 1574, and died in 1640. VOL. I. F F 458 ON THE LITERATURE for liim great consideration, as well as more substantial pre- ferments. We give below a specimen of his Madrigal, composed in the very spirit of an age, sparkling with all those concetti of the South, once so rapturously admired.* The Scuderys, the Voitures, and the Balsacs, were among the foremost who imitated this fastidious and affected style, in France. It became the reigning fashion of the day. Boileau and Moliere were the authors who most contributed to bring it into disrepute. These revivers of good taste among the French, perceiving that such corrupt examples had been held out by Italy, expressed great contempt for Italian poetry, of which the purest ore appeared to them nothing better than tinsel. They introduced into France the word concetti, as being characteristic of the most affected and extravagant pro- ductions ; whilst this term, which really signifies a power of poetic conception, is invariably received in a favourable sense by the Italians. Thus, they not only resisted the progress of false taste in France, but set an example, in their works, which afterwards extended its influence to Itahan literature, and eventually induced succeeding writers to renounce the affectation and absurdities formerly so much in vogue. Public opinion was, at that period, subjected to such restraint, that Alessandro Marchetti, having translated the poem of Lucre- tius De Natura Rerum, with an elegance and vigour of poetical imagination which raised him above the spirit of his age, Cosmo III. would not consent to its publication, on the plea of its containing the Epicurean doctrines. If we consider the subject well, there are scarcely any opinions which have not some kind of connexion either with religion or with politics, and when every thing relating to these two subjects is dictated by a jealous government, under which every idea, varying from the standard of established authority, is con- sidered as a crime against divine or human majesty, we must iillow that freedom of mind and strength of genius are no * Col fior de' fiori in mano II mio Lesbin rimiro, Al fior respiro, e 1 pastorel sospiro. II fior sospira odori, Lesbin respira ardori ; L' odor deir uno odoro, L' ardor dell' altro adoro, Ed odorando ed adorando i' sento Dal odor dal ardor ghiaccia e tormento. OF THE ITALIANS. 459 longer to be expected. And should some individuals still have the courage to aspire to a degree of literary fame, their only chance of success seems to lie in the use of concetti, hy- perbole, and afiectation, with which they may make a brilliant display, and console themselves for the loss of nobler and more serious pursuits in the cause of freedom and of truth. There is, indeed, only one poet belonging to the seventeenth centuiy distinguished for his patriotic sentiments. That poet is the senator, Filicaia. It is somewhat remarkable with what ardour the spark of ancient liberty revived in his breast. He was a Florentine, born on the thirtieth of December, 1642, and he closed his career on the twenty-fifth of September, 1707. His genius took its source in deep national and religious feelings, and in interests affecting the repose of Europe. It was first excited by witnessing the siege of Vienna by the Turks, in the year 1683, and its gallant defence by Charles V. duke of Lorraine, with its final deliver- ance by John Sobieski. Filicaia composed several canzoni, breathing heroic ardour, joy, and religious gratitude, in cele- bration of the Christian victory, and in a style very superior to any thing we find in the works of other poets of the age. In these we have the rare, and, indeed, the single example, during an entire century, of a native of Italy giving free ex- pression to his thoughts and feelings in his poetry. The odes which he addressed to Leopold I., to the Duke of Lorraine, and to the King of Poland, all of whom returned very flattering acknowledgments to the poet in their letters, excited general admiration and enthusiasm, wherever they appeared. The wars of the succession, and the devastations committed by the French and German armies, in Italy, soon called forth new patriotic strains from his indignant muse. The calamities of his country were a theme not easily exhausted, and a series of productions were expressly devoted to the subject. There are six sonnets and a canzone. One of the former of these, which is here introduced, maintains, to this day, the highest degree of reputation ; and it is, perhaps, the most celebrated poetic specimen which the Italian literature of the seventeenth century affords. Italia ! thou to wliom, in evil hour, The fatal boon of beauty Kature gave, Yet on thy front the sentence did engrave, That ceaseless woe should be thy only dower 1 F F 2 460 ox THE LITERATURE All ! were that beauty less, or more thy power ! That he wlio now compels thee to his arms, Jlight gaze with cold inditrerence on thy charm?. Or tremhlc at thine eye's indignant lower; Thou should'st not, then, behold, in glittering line, From the high Alps embattled throngs descend, And Gallic hordes pollute thy Po's clear wave ; Xor, whilst cncompass'd close by spears, not thine, Should'st thou by foreign hands thy rights defend. Conquering or conquer'd, evermore a slave.* TV'lule it is allowed that a certain grandeur of patriotic feeling pervades tliis sonnet, we may nevertheless trace, in one or two of the lines, the effects of the spirit of the age in which the poet wrote. The remaining sonnets are, by no means, of equal merit. Filicaia does not appear to have com- posed them in a free and consistent spirit. He was somewhat too careful of giving offence, in these heroic effusions, to the French, the German, and the Italian potentates. He dared not to show the least partiality; and least of all to inspire his countrymen with a wish to revenge their wrongs. With these views, he succeeded in avoiding to compromise his safety, but did not much add to the lustre of his fame. The same age is remarkable for several mock heroic poems, which made their appearance from time to time, and whose reputation has outlived that of more serious works. The Secchia liapita of Alessandro Tassoni, a native of Modena, born in 1565, has entitled him to rank among the best poets of Italy. He accompanied the Cardinal Colonna into Spain, and returned with very strong prejudices, which he did not attempt to disguise, against that country. His critical disquisitions first brought him into notice. He assailed the literary autho- * Italia ! Italia ! o tu cui fee la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai Funesta dote d' infiniti guai, Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte. Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen pii forte ! Onde assai piil ti paventasse, o assai T' amasse men, chi del tuo bello ai rai Par cho si strugga, e pur si sfida a morte. Che or giil dall' Alpi non vedrei toiTenti Scender d' armati, ne di sangue tinta Bever 1' onda del Po Gallici armenti : N& te vedrei, del non tuo ferro cinta, Pugnar col braccio di straniere genti. Per servir sempre, o vincitrice o vinta. OF THE ITALIANS. 461 rity of Aristotle, and ventured to question the established merits of Petrarch, as a poet. This opened a new field of controversy, in which he engaged with the utmost activity and ardour. On the death of Cardinal Colonna, he entered into the service of Charles Emanuel, Duke of Savoy, who employed him in a public character on several occasions. Towards the latter part of his life he visited Tuscany, where he terminated his days, in the year 1635. He published his poem of the Secchla Rapita, or The Itape of the Bucket, in 1622; with a notice that it had been written by him when very young, and had been ever since deposited in his desk. He probably conceived that it might, in some way, affect the dignity of a statesman, to be the declared author of a burlesque poem, more particularly at that advanced period of life ; but its versifi~ cation every where betrays marks of the author's maturer powers. The subject of the Secchia liapita arose out of the party wars between the Modenese and the Bolognese, during the thirteenth century ; in which it appears that the Bucket was carried away from a well, by the heroes of Modena, out of the very heart of Bologna, and borne in triumph into their own city. There it is supposed to be to this day carefully preserved, under double lock and keys, in the belfry of the cathedral. The rage of the Bolognese at having suffered such a trophy to grace the walls of their adversaries, together with tlieir struggles and stratagems to recover their treasure, afforded Tassoni materials out of which to form twelve mock- heroic cantos. The chief object of the poet, I am inclined to think, was a satirical exposure of the petty Italian wars, which exhausted the country, and left its natives an easy prey to the foreign sword. But if such were, indeed, his motive, the author appears soon to have lost sight of it ; and his readers are quite at a loss to discover it through twelve books of battles, which have, in reality, too strong a resemblance to each other. They are told, however, with much ease and spirit, and with occasional elevation of style ; qualities which we can by no means refuse to this amusing poet.* The intro- ductions to his several cantos are peculiarly rich in picturesque * In his description of the manner in -which king Heinsius ivas taken prisoner, Tassoni, while he ridicules the grave style of the real Epic, €inploy3 one of the happiest images which the best specimens of the 462 ON THE LITERATIJEE and poetical ornament; while his manner of characterizing the different personages engaged, evinces much real humour. Such is the surprise of the military equipage of the Floren- tines, flaming with ornaments of gold, so inviting to the ava- ricious eye of the enemy, and found to contain only dried figs and walnuts; which conveys an amusing idea of the sumptuous parsimony attributed to the Florentine people.* It is to be Litter can afford. To this he adds a humorous picture of the manners of the times, as iivell as of the provincial eloquence of a magistrate, and of the jargon in which he spoke. Canto vi. st. 42. II Ee si scuote, e a un tempo il ferro caccia Nel ventre a Zagarin, che gli 6 rimpetto ; Ma non puo svilupparsi da le braccia Di Tognon, che gli eigne i fianchi, e '1 petto : Ed ecco Periteo giugne, e 1' abbraccia Subito anch' egli, e 1 tien serrato e stretto Ei r uno 6 r altro or tira, or alza, or spigne, Ma da' legami lor non si discigne. Qual fiero toro, a cui di funi ignote Cinto sia il corno e 1 pi& da cauta mauo, ^Muggisce, sbulfa, si contorce, e scuote, TJrta, si lancia, e si dibatte in vano; E quando al fin de' lacci uscir non puote Cader si lascia affiitto e stanco al piano : Tal I'indomito Ee, poiche comprese D' alFaticarsi indarno, alfin si rese. Fil drizzato il carroccio, e fu rimcsso In sedia il Podesta tutto infangato, Non si trovo il robon, ma gli fu mcsso Indosso una corazza da soldato, Lo calze rosse abenche avea, col fesso Dietro, e dinanzi un braghetton frappato, E una squarcina in man, larga una spanna, Parea il bargel di Caifas c d' Anna. Ei gridava in Bresciano ; Innanz, Innanzi, Che r fe rott' ol nemin, valcnt soldati Fegho sbita la schitta a tucch sti Lanzi Maledetti da De, scommunegati. Cosi diccndo, gia vedea gli avanzi Del destro corno, andar qua c lii sbandati, E raggirarsi per que' campi aprichi Cercando di salvar la pancia a fichi. * La tcrza insegna fit de Fiorentini, Con cinque niila tra cavalli e fanti, Che conduccano Anton Francesco Dini E Averardo di Baccio Cavalcanti : i Non OF THE ITALIANS. 463 regretted that here, as in other instances, the burlesque poetry of the age should be destitute of that species of interest to be conferred upon it by liberty alone ; and we really hardly find it worth our while to amuse ourselves at the expense of per- sonages who have been buried for tbe last five hundred years, and with whom we have no points of resemblance, in man- ners, in customs, or in character. The implied satire on the democratical government of the Bolognese in the thirteenth century, or the wars of King Heinsius, are of too insipid a flavour for us ; and, without looking for much stinging satire in a mock-heroic poem, we might reasonably expect something a little more lively. About the same period, flourished Francesco Bracciolini, a native of Pistoia,* who likewise produced a comic-heroic poem, under the title of Lo Scherno degli Dei, or Tlie Mocltery of the Gods. They are, in truth, the Pagan deities, intro- duced by Bracciolini among the hills of Tuscany, and mingling with the peasants of the place, in order to make themselves, on all occasions, more agreeably ridiculous. In a dialogue by way of preface, he boasts with infinite complacency of the service he had rendered to true religion, by this witty triumph over ancient errors. He very frequently presents us with mythology travestied. The gods declaim in a mean and vul- gar dialect ; and he succeeds in exciting a smile at the con- trast between the grace and dignity which our memory still Non s' usavano Stame e Marzolini Nfe poUi d' India allor, ne vin di Chianti ; Jla le lor vittovaglie eran caciole, Noci, e castagne, e sorbe secche al sole. E di queste n' avean cou le bigonce Mille asinelli al dipartir carcati, Accid per quelle strade alpestre e sconce If on patisser di fame i lor soldati : Ma le some coperte in guisa e conce Avean con panni d' mi color segnati, Che faeean di lontan mostra pomposa Di salmeria superba e preziosa. Canto v. St. 36. It is to possess themselves of these, that in the following canto, the soldiers of Garfagnana, with the Germans, abandon King Heinsius, who, being thus deserted, is made prisoner. * Bom 1566, and died 1645. 464 ON THE LITERATURE attaches to the Homeric fables, and the meanness of the lan- guage and of tlie interests of the lowest classes of the people, among whom his laeroes dwell.* In a few instances, however, the author seems to rise above his usual strain of parody, when his descriptions assume a more pleasing and poetical character. We have an instance of this kind in his introduc- tion of the portrait of a votary of Bacchus, whom Venus dis- covers asleep in a solitary cavcj * Of this description is the dialogue between Bellona and Mars, the former of whom wishes to persuade her brother to attack Vulcan. Canto i. st. 29. Dicendo, bella cosa, il Dio dell' armi Scender dal ciel per far una quistione, E poi fuggirsi 1 un ignominia parmi Da non lavarla mai ranno o sapone ; lo per te cominciava a vergognarmi, Peru discesi dal sovran balcone, E voglio in ogni mode, 6 molto 6 poco Che tu meni le man col Dio del foco. Marte risponde all' hor. Come tu credi Per paura 6 viltii non mi ritiro, Ch' al corpo, al sangue, il pesterei co piedi, E ridurrelo in forma di butiro ; Ma perche fabbricar piche, ne spiedi Non sa se non cestui, se ben rimiro, E s' io r uccido, al poco mio giudizio Cade '1 mestier dell' arme in precipizio. In oltre tu non sal ch' egli h fratello Xostro, e Venere sua, nostra cognata, E toccherebbe a noi farle il mantello Da vedova modesta e sconsolata, E rivestire a brun quel ghiottoncello D' amore, e tutta quanta la brigata ; E saria d' uopo per nostro decoro Spendere ne la cera del mortoro. + Appar nel mezzo, infra due pietre rotte Da r eta luuga un antro orrido, e voto, Pieno d' incerto lume, e d' una notte Che non lascia tra 1' ombre il mondo ignoto. Per diritto sentier la bocca inghiotte !Ne r ampio ventre il nubiloso Koto, Suona la grotta a questo vento, e freme, Da lui percossa, e nessun altro teme. Passa la Dea nel orrid' antro, ov' ella Sente il misto romor che fuor se n' esce, E illuminando la nascosa cella Toglie a lei 1' ombra, a se bellezza accresce. 1 OF THE ITALIANS. 465 We can scarcely convey an idea of tlie extreme violence and animosity ■with which the question of the first discovery of the comic epopee was then discussed in Italy. Was Tassoni or Bracciolini best entitled to the honour of original inven- tion ? It was pretty generally admitted, on all hands, that Tassoni had been the iirst to write, but that Bracciolini was the first to publish his production. There was, however, little comparison between the merits of the two poets ; Bracciolini being considered as in every way inferior to his rival. It was easily perceived, both from their subject and the manner of treating it, that neither had been indebted to the other ; while no one appeared to recollect, that after Berni, there could be little occasion for farther dispute respecting the origin of the mock epopee. But, in truth, the desire of a fresh literary warfare had arisen, and it was thus indulged. The excessive rancour of this controversy is quite characteristic of the seventeenth century, and oflfers a striking contrast between the fine intellectual energies which the Italians still displayed, and the very paltry interests for which it was their fate to contend. By arguing themselves into real warmth, in pur- suit of objects equally vain and unprofitable, they created a kind of illusion, which imposed upon them for a moment, and Cosi tra rotte nuvole, piil bella Che per sereno ciel Cintia riesce, E pii diletta a riguardar la rosa Cinta di spine infra la siepe ombrosa. Nel on'id' antro uom' vermiglio e grasso Sil per r umido suol disteso giace, Vinto dal vino, e '1 grave ciglio e basso Preme alcun raggio a la visibil face ; La stanca fronte ha per guanciale un sasso Di musco avvolto, e d' edera tenace, K'atural felpa, onde s' adoma e veste, Capczzal duro in coltrice terrestre. Giace con la ritonda aperta bocca Lo sturato barletto al lato manco, E '1 turaceiolo suo, ch' hor non 1' imbocca Pende legato a uno spaghetto bianco. La saliera v' 6 ancor piil volte tocca Dal fiero ramolaccio acuto e franco Vincitor de la lingua, onde h mestiere Che trafitta da lui, dimandi here. 466 ON THE LITERATURE ed them to believe that they had yet an existence — that they were not yet utterly extinct. Of a later period, there are two more examples of the same species of epopee, which are highly appreciated by the lovers of Tuscan poetry at this day. The first of these is the 3Ial- mantile racquistato, by Lorenzo Lippi, pubUshed in 1676; the second is called the Torracchione desolato, from the pen of Paolo Minucci. It is well known that the Italians have a peculiar relish for the popular and idiomatic expressions used by the natives of Florence, in which, however rude and simple, they discover a certain harmony and grace ; and the reputa- tion of these poems is thus founded on their rare merit, in exhibiting the Florentine dialect in a perfectly pure, yet homely style. The Academy della Crusca, engaged, at that period, in compiling its voluminous dictionary, thus preparing another controversy between the Tuscans and the other literary parties, had, likewise, attended to the preservation of this more simple and familiar mode of speech. Many Italian writers, even of this age, still retain so much admiration of its peculiarities, that they consider no other dialect as com- parable to it ; nor any style as perfect, which is not founded on the language spoken by the common people of Florence, during the fourteenth century. Those, however, who are not prejudiced in favour of this popular and pedantic style, will take comparatively little interest in the two poems of the 3Ialmantile and of the Torracchione. Next to the divine comedy of Dante, the 3IalmantUe is. perhaps, the production on which the Italian critics have bestowed the most pains, and which has been published, accompanied Avith the most ample commentaries, and in the most splendid form. The castle of Malmantile, the capture of which is the sub- ject of the poem, is built upou an eminence in the lower Val d'Arno, about eight miles from Florence. One of the heroes declares, that it might pass for the eighth wonder of the world, but he does not inform us where it is situated. The force destined for the attack, was sent fi'ora the neighbourhood of Florence. But, though the author informs us that it embarks before arriving at its destination, he cautiously avoids giving us the least information respecting the country to which it is transported. The time is equally uncertain, and the heroes and heroines of the story have no sort of relation to the OF THE ITALIANS. 467 inhabitants of this world, or, indeed, to any thing we know. By the authority of Turpin, which is frequently cited, and by histories of ogres and enchantments, we are transported to the romantic times of chivalry, at the same time that many popular allusions still remind us of the seventeenth century. By attempting to avoid the appearance of any individual appli- cation of his satire, the author ceases to interest or to fix the imagination of his readers ; he leaves us no curiosity; and when we look for wit and spirit, we are presented with proverbs and provincialisms, whose language has little of the air of reality and truth. I have, indeed, had some difficulty to discover a few stanzas at all worthy of selection, to convey an idea of the merits of this too highly vaunted poem.* * Era in quci tempi la quando i geloni Tornano a chiuder 1' osterie de cani E talun che si spaccia in milioni Manda al Presto il tabi pe' panni lani ; Ed era appunto 1' ora clie i crocchioni Si calano a 1' assedio de' caldani ; Ed escon con le canne e co' randelli I ragazzi a pigliare i pipistrelli ; Quando in terra 1' armata con la scorta Del gran Baldone a Malmantil s' invia : Onde uu famiglio nel serrar la porta Senti romoreggiar tanta genia. Un vecchio era quest' uom di vista corta, Clie r erre ognor perdeva a 1' osteria ; Talche tra il bere e 1' esser ben d" etD. ITon ci vedeva piCi da terza in la. Per questo mette mano a la searsella Ov' ha piii ciarpe assai d' un rigattiere ; Perche vi tiene iniin la favcrella Che la mattina mette sul brachiere. Come suol far chi giuoca a cruscherella. Due ore andd a la cerca intere intere : E poi ne trasse, in mezzo a due fagotti Un par d' occhiali atfumicati e rotti. I quali sopra il naso a petronciano Con la sua flemma pose a cavalcioni, Talch6 meglio scoperse di loutano Esser di gente armata piil squadroni. Spaurito di cio cala pian piano Per non dar ne la scala i pedignoni E giunto a basso lagrima e singhiozza Gridando quanto mai n' ha ne la strozza, Dicendo 468 ON THE LITEKATURE The rise of the opera may, perhaps, be considered as the only literary event of the seventeenth century of which Italy can justly boast. With tlie decline of literature, the triumph of the various arts of design had also ceased. Michael Angelo had been the contemporary of Ariosto ; his pupils and suc- cessors flourished in the time of Tasso ; and thenceforward the flashes of true genius no longer animated the canvass or the poet's page. The astonishing progress of musical science, however, succeeded to that of the sister arts, as if the intellec- tual energies of man sought developement in the only career left open to them ; and those who felt within themselves the impulse of a creative faculty, had recourse, as a last resort, to harmony, in which they might give full and uncontrolled expression to their genius, without encountering the ven- geance of inquisitions. Nor were the Italians, from their organization, less susceptible of the charms of music than of poetry and of painting. A fine natural taste led them at once to appreciate, with little effort or reflection, whatever was most pure and beautil'ul of its kind. The ablest com- posers of the present day venture not, without some distrust, to perform their new pieces for the opera, before the Lazza- roni of Najiles ; watching the motion of their pointed caps, filling the whole area of Santo Carlo, as a sure indication whether the music will succeed or not. No means are so effectual to rouse the modern Italians from a state of apathy as a fine voice and a striking style of execution ; and I have frequently seen houses surrounded by the lower classes, struggling to hear an amateur concert, inspired by the genius of a celebrated female singer. The increasing progress and importance of music, at a time when poetry was on the decline, gave the former such a superiority, that poetry became a mere accessory and ornament to it. It was I'en- Dicendo forte, perehb ognun 1' intenda : A r armi a 1' armi, suonisi a martello : Si lasci 11 giuoco, 11 ballo e la merenda, E serrinsi le porte a clilavistello; Perchti quaggiil nel piano h la tregenda, Che ne vlene a la volta del castello : E se non ci serriamo o facelam testa, Mentre balllamo, vuol suonare a festa. Canto iii. st. 3. OF THE ITALIANS. 469 dered subservient to the merest trifles, and to all the variations and fashions of the day ; while the sister art approached nearer and nearer to perfection, in proportion to its established importance, and to the influence which it exerted over the other arts. It is highly probable that on the first revival of the dramatic art, music accompanied theatrical representations. In imitation of the Greeks, the chorus was introduced into Italian tragedy, and it was invariably sung. Pastoral dramas were likewise interspersed with these songs, accompanied with instruments. But music had been only the accessory in such compositions, intended to give zest and perfection to the festival, but not to constitute its very nature. The first occasion on which this order was reversed, was in the year 1594. Ottavio Einuccini, a Florentine poet, with little genius and invention, but with a fine musical ear, that seemed to feel the beauties of language only in relation to harmony, imited his efforts to those of three musicians. Peri, Giacopo Corsi, and Caccini. Together they produced a mythological drama, in which they meant to display the united excellences of the fine arts in the most splendid dress. Rinuccini appeared to be less ambitious of the reputation of a poet, than of setting oflP his associates to the greatest advantage. He neglected nothing which might give attraction to the decora- tions and machinerj', and surprise or captivate the senses of the audience. Men of letters had, at least, preserved the memory of the musical declamation of the Greeks, and Peri or Caccini imagined he had discovered that this consisted in the recitative, which he blended so intimately with the poetry, that there was nothing farther to be merely spoken, throughout the whole of the opera. Thus poetry, written only with a view to being sung, very soon assumed a different chai'acter ; and the developement of scenes, already too extended, was no longer admissible. The poet's object was to produce effect, and to this he readily sacrificed the conduct of the piece, hastening or retarding the course of events as he thought best adapted to musical exhibition, rather than to the natural expression of the passions. In pursuit of a different species of harmony, he abandoned the lyric form of the canzone, on account of its length of period, and adopted that which Chia- brera was, at that time, employed in introducing into his 470 ON THE LITERATDKE stanzas, borrowed from the ode of the ancients.* This com- plete union between poetry and music was not, however, the work of a moment. It occupied more than an age in its discovery and perfection. The honour of the former belongs to llinuccini, and Metastasio lays full claim to the latter. Kinuccini's first attempt consisted of little more than one of Ovid's metamorphoses thrown into dialogue. Apollo is exhibited in the act of wounding the serpent Python, while the nymphs and shepherds ai'e seen in flight. Scornful in his victory, he ventures to taunt the god of Love, who takes his usual revenge. Smitten with Daphne's beauty, Apollo pursues her ; she flies, and a shepherd soon after appears, who gives a relation of her metamorphosis. Such is this little drama, consisting of four choruses, divided into as many short acts, hardly amounting altogether to four hundred and fifty verses. The choruses are given in veiy easy couplets, which seem to be exquisitely adapted for music, f The * He makes use of the same form of verse in dialogue, of which we may judge from the dispute between the two divinities of love and poetry, forming the ground-work of the action. Apollo. Dimmi, possente arciero. Qua! fera attendi, o qual serpents al varco Ch' hai la faretra e 1' arco 1 Ajiore. Se da quest' arco mio Kon fil Pitone ucciso, Arcier non son pero degno di riso, E son del cielo, Apollo, un nume anch' io. Apollo. SoUo ; ma quando scocchi L' arco, sbendi tu gli occhi, ferisci a 1' oscuro, arciero esperto 1 Veneke. S' hai di saper desio D' un cieco arcier le prove, Chiedilo al Ee de 1' onde, Chiedilo in cielo a Giove : E tra r ombre profonde Del regno orrido oscuro Chiedi, chiedi a Pluton s' ei ftl sicuro \ Apollo. Se in cielo, in mare, in terra, Amor, trionfi in guerra. Dove, dove m' ascondo ? Chi novo ciel m' insegna, o novo mondo ? •}■ The last chorus, which terminates the piece, ends thus : S' a fuggir moTO le piante Yenir possa il mio crin d' auro Vero amante, Kon pur lauro, Contro amor cruda e superba, Ma qual' e pii miser erba. Sia OF THE ITALIA^■S. 471 remaining portion of the opera was probably altogether reci- tative, as we find no detached airs, duets, or pieces by several voices. The Earidice of Rinuccini followed his Daphne, and was produced, likewise, by an union of talent Avith the same musicians. It was represented, for the fii'st time, in 1600, on occasion of the nuptials of Mary de' Medici and Henry IV. He shortly after composed Ar'iana, the reception of which was no less brilliant. The success of the opera was thus complete ; and every court eagerly followed the example held out by Florence. These first attempts were then brought to perfection. More lively action was given to the dramatic parts, and greater variety to the music, in which the airs were agreeably blended with the recitative. Duets and other harmonized pieces were also added ; and, after the lapse of a century, Apostolo Zeno rose to carry it to as high a degree of perfection as it could possibly attain, before the spirit of a Metastasio breathed a soul of fire into the ingenious and happy form created by others. Apostolo Zeno, of a Venetian family, originally from Candia, was born in the year 1669. Passionately devoted to the study of history, he was the first to introduce historical pieces into the scenes of the opera, instead of confining himself within the prescribed limits of mythology. The reputation of French tragedy had already begun to extend itself through Europe ; and he often availed himself of some of its best pieces, as his models. Of sixty operas which he brought before the public, the most complete and successful were undoubtedly those in "which he had imitated our best classics. Thus, the whole of the plot, the incidents, and the characters of his Tphigenia are bor- Sia vil canna il mio crin biondo, Che rimmondo Gregge ognor scliianti e dirami : Sia vil fien ch' ai crudi denti De gli armenti Tragga ognor 1' avida fame. Ma s" a preghi sospirosi Amorosi Di pieti sfavillo ed ardo, S' io prometto a 1' altrui pene Dolce spene Con un riso e con un ifuardo. lion soiFrir, cortese amore Che 1 mio ardore Prenda a scherno alma gelata ; Non soffrir ch" in piaggia o 'n lido Cor infido M' abbandoni innamorata. F§, ch' al foco de' mici lumi Si consumi Ogni gelo, ogni durezza ; Ardi poi quest' alma allora, Ch' altra adora Qual si sia .a mia bellczza. 472 ON THE LITERATURE rowed from Racine, in such away as he thought best adapted to the opera. The language of the passions is throughout imbued with that solemn harmony, with which music so well accords, without, however, arriving at the vigour and brevity belonging to tragedy. The historical pieces which he pro- duced, though by no means of a more etieminate or romantic character than those of Metastasio, are certainly a more ex- travagant burlesque of history. We feel that Metastasio could not have represented human nature otherwise than he does ; whilst Zeno, who as constantly dwells upon the passion of love, is deficient in all that harmony, delicacy, and ardour, which, in the former, transport us out of ourselves.* Zeno, likewise, composed several comic operas, which appeared about the year 1597, coeval with those of a more serious kind. They were modelled upon the extemporaneous come- dies already well known. In them the Harlequins, Colum- bines, and other masks of the Italian theatre, appear as tlie principal personages of the piece. But Zeno did not exhibit much talent in the comic opera, and this very amusing sort of national spectacle, to which Italy is indebted for much of her excellent music, has never hitherto been illustrated by any superior genius. Apostolo Zeno was invited to Vienna by the Emperor * Wc subjoin a few examples from oue of liis dramas, entitled / due Dittatori, founded ujion the quarrel between the great Fabius Cunctator and M. Minutius, lieutenant of the horse, during the second Punic war. The passion of two captive princesses is, in Zeno's hands, the hidden source of all these grand events. Arisba, a Carthaginian captive, avails herself of her charms to sow dissension in the Roman camp, and con- gratulates herself, as follows, upon her success. Act III. Scene 8. Colpi al segno lo stral : gittati ho i semi Del civil odio. Vedro iu breve armarsi Tribuni c Dittatori. Qual gloria per Arisbc ' E se dirlo a me lece, Forse Annibale ancor tanto uon fece. A r uonio il saperc, L' ardire, il poterc Natura donu. E a noi die Insciu ] Astuzia, c belt a. Ma il sesso piil fralo, A senno, e possanza Sovrasta, c prcvalc, Se OF THE ITALIANS. 473 Charles VI., where he was invested with the two very oppo- site employments, of imperial historiographer, and of poet laureat to the court opera. He lived to a very advanced age, dying in the middle of the last century, in 1750, at the age of eighty-one years, and having the mortification of behold- ing his reputation eclipsed in his old age by Metastasio. The seventeenth century was remarkable, likewise, for its abundance of dramatic authors. Innumerable tragedies, comedies, and pastorals, were every where recited before the different courts, and in the theatres, of Europe. Not any of these, however, were comparable to those of a former age ; nor are they, indeed, to be placed in competition with those of the eighteenth century. The tragedies are singularly deficient in their delineation of characters and of manners ; the style partakes of the inflated taste of the age, and the action flags ; while the authors seem to have hesitated between the pedantic imitation of the ancients, and the mistaken route pursued by the moderns. Their productions are, perhaps, now worthy of mention, only as objects of literary research and curiosity ; nor could they be represented or endured on any theatre, much less supply other writers with models or ideas in their future efforts. The poet's sole object was Se d' armi si forti Yaler ben si s3,. Being jealous of the son of Fabius, Minutius condemns him to death; while Fabius, out of regard to military discipline, is unwilling to oppose the sentence, but thus addresses his son as he is borne to punishment. Act IV. Scene 7. So qual sono, e qual tu sei. Tu i pietosi affetti miei, • E la patria avra i piil forti. Dura invitto ; e ad ogni eta In tua gloria passera La virtil che toco porti. His son takes leave of the object of his affections, in the following air. Act IV. Scene 8. Concedimi ch' io baci Cara, la bianca mano, Favor di tua pietade a 1' amor mio. Ma tu sospiri e taci : Mi basta il tuo dolor ; Ersilia addio. In the verse of Zeno we certainly find the origin of that of Metastasio, tut nothing of his spirit, sentiment and grace. VOL. I. G G 474 ON THE LITERATURE to surprise the spectator by the brilliancy of the scenery, or by a bustling niovement of the stage, while probability was wholly sacrificed to the general desire of witnessing the appearance of monsters, combats, and processions of chariots and horses. The comedies were, in the same manner, un- connected, insipid, low, and appreciated only by the populace. The pastorals became more affected, unnatural, and dull ; insomuch that the opera seemed the only species of theatrical representation at all esteemed, or which, indeed, deserved to be so. It is with difficulty we can conceive how the very general corruption, which had introduced itself into every branch of literature, and palsied the powers of the human mind, was arrested in its progress. We should have expected that the false taste of the age would have inevitably produced a total neglect and cessation of mental cultivation ; that in the pursuit of trifling and despicable objects, all nobler pursuits would have been abandoned ; and that Italy would have again fallen under the leaden sceptre of corrupted taste, as she had before done for a whole age, succeeding that of Adrian. And it is highly probable, that if Italy had had to depend on her own resources, her national literature would have ceased to exist ; for if we consult such of her authors as are in nothing indebted to the genius of other nations, we shall acknowledge them to be worthy disciples of the school of Marini and of Achillini. Nor is modern Italy, at this day, without abun- dance of sonnets which have not the least pretension to our notice, as destitute of thought or feeling as they are fidl of extravagance and false taste. To those writers who are Acquainted only with their native language, all poetry appears to consist of images ; extravagance is in their eyes beauty ; while sonorous words, and superfluous epithets are substituted in the place of thought and meaning. But the example of the great poets of the age of Louis XIV. soon extended beyond the national barriers, into other countries ; and the reputation of their works travelled beyond the Alps, towards the commencement of the eighteenth century. These master- pieces of literature were soon put in competition with the tasteless productions of the Seicentisti ; and the result was favourable to the triumph of good taste. They were found to be more deeply imbued with the qualities of thought and OF THE ITALIAIfS. 475^ feeling, than native Italian verse ; and, notwithstanding the jealousy of inquisitions, both political and religious, they brought along with them a spirit of inquiry, of which Italy stood so much in need. Europe was beginning to awaken out of her lethargy ; nobler views were held out ; and man- kind began to aspire after greater and better things, connected "with their improvement and happiness. Even Italy, in de- fiance of the efforts of princes and of prelates, exhibited some share of the growing energies which marked the opening of the eighteenth century. The first, and not the least happy result of the influence of the well known French writers, and of a few of the English just beginning to be read in Italy, was the reform which they introduced into the theatrical and poetical character, so totally destitute of propriety and taste. The poems of Frugoni, the dramas of Metastasio, and even the comedies of Goldoni, have all, more or less, a moral tendency ; and if we, for a moment, contemplate the general degradation of the people, and the revolting license of their poets before these writers appeared, we must allow them to be entitled to no small degree of praise. Poetry once more restorea to decency and to good feeling, was better enabled to plume her wings for more noble and lofty flights. The first effort of the most attractive of the sister arts, ought naturally to be to return to a purer and more moral atmo- sphere, if there be any truth in the assertion, that high- thoughts have their origin in the heart. CHAPTER XVII. THE EIGHTEENTH CEIfTURT. — FRPGONI — METASTASIO. The close of the seventeenth century is rendered remark- able by the birth of Metastasio and of Frugoni, two men destined to revive the declining fame of Italian literature, in the succeeding age. Carlo Innocenzo Frugoni, one of the most distinguished of the modern lyric poets, was born at Genoa, on the twenty-first of November, 1692, of a noble family, whose name became extinct after his death. He was educated by the Jesuits, and compelled by his parents to G G 2 4Y6 ON TUE LITERATURE assume the religious habit at thirteen years of age. After many years of tedious suffering and anxiety, the Pope re- leased him from his more strict and irksome vows, although Frugoni still remained a priest ; cut off, by his profession, from more active life, and from all those domestic ties which the warmth of his heart and the activity of his mind would have naturally led him to embrace. Italy was then di- vided between the partizans of the affected and finical taste introduced by Marini, and those who, in opposition to this false standard, recommended only a servile imitation of the writers of the sixteenth century, or that of the classics, their earliest models. Frugoni rejected the opinions of both these parties ; his genius suggested to him a bolder and far more original career. He devoted himself to the study of those poets who flourished in the ages scarcely emerged from bar- barism. Without making use of them as models, he disco- vered in them examples of true greatness. He felt within himself the enthusiasm of soul capable of celebrating the fame of heroes, as it deserves to be celebrated, rather by the heart and the imagination, than by the memory ; and he scorned the inferior talent, which reproduces only what has already been done. Frugoni has treated in his poems, on a great variety of subjects. All passions, both human and divine, seem to have furnished him with materials for sonnets, canzoni, and lyri- cal effusions, in every kind of metre. But it is in the versi sciolti, or blank verse, that he more especially surpasses his predecessors, in the simplicity of his expressions, in the eloquent emotion that inspires him, and in the boldness of Lis poetry. But, perhaps, he may be justly reproached with Laving too frequently mingled science and polite literature together ; his acquaintance with the more abtruse sciences being so very intimate and profound, that he not unfrequently borrowed his images wholly from these sources, and treated, in verse, subjects generally considered to be very unfit for poetry. No one, however, could have accomplished such a task with a greater degree of elegance, and with more bril- liant and striking effect. It is not, indeed, uncommon, in Italy, thus to mingle science with poetry ; where people of very sliglit attainments, hasten to display their knowledge on every fresh acquisition, as a man exhibits his newly acquired OF THE ITALIANS. 477 riches. The farther v;e advance in civilization, the greater is the necessity we feel of giving to poetry more substantial materials of thought : and when enthusiasm no longer glows in the poem, we must seek to satisfy the judgment as well as the imagination. It is thus that the Italians, to whom true philosophy was as " a fountain sealed," have frequently sub- stituted science in the place of reflection and thought. Ce- lebrated impj'ovisatori have been known to make the science of numbers, the properties of bodies, and even the anatomy of the human frame, objects of their serious study, that they might be better enabled to answer, in rhyme, any sort of questions which might be addressed to them. Frugoni, as poet to the court of Parma, under the last of the Farnese, and the Bourbons who succeeded them, was appointed manager of the public spectacles ; and was often occupied, in a most unworthy manner, in translating little pieces for the theatre, and in penning epithalamiums and occasional verses, upon subjects by no means congenial to his taste. He lived very luxuriously, however, at this court, being seldom without some love-intrigue, and passionately attached to the society of women to an advanced age ; preserving, along with the passions, the fire and the imagination of youth. He died at Parma, at the age of sixty-six, on the twentieth of Decembei', 1768. His reputation, however great, does not seem to have extended farther than Italy, from the circumstance of lyrical poetry being less suscepti- ble of translation than any other kind, and less likely to be relished where the language is not thoroughly understood. Frugoni owed his education to Gravina, a celebrated phi- losopher and jurisconsult of that age. Endowed with an exquisite taste and genius for letters, far greater, indeed, than we should imagine from the productions of his own muse, Gravina was, likewise, the instructor of Metastasio. If the reputation of the former of his pupils was confined within the bounds of Italy, that of the latter, however, extended over all Europe. We are at a loss to mention any author who wrote in a spirit more congenial to modern feelings and tastes, or one who has exercised greater influence in propor- tion to the eminence to which he was raised. Born at Rome, on the third day of January, 1698, he was early brought up to the trade of a goldsmith ; but Gravina, who appreciated 478 ON THE LITERATURE his fine talents, took him to his own house, changing his name from Trapassi to the Greek translation of the same word, and hence he was called Metastasio. He took care, at the same time, to have him instructed in every branch of knowledge likely to facilitate his progress in the poetic art ; and he encouraged liis genius for extemporaneous effusions, which, by enlarging his powers of poetical language, enabled him to express the finest traits of sentiment and passion wdth equal grace and facility. In the mean time, Metastasio be- came attached to the style of composition by which he attained to such a height of celebrity. At the early age of fourteen, he wrote a ti-agedy, entitled Justin, which may be found among his works. It is, in truth, a very indifferent produc- tion ; but the undertaking, of itself, does honour to so young a person. From that piece, it is clear that the genius of Me- tastasio was turned to the opera, and, indeed, his tragedy, in five acts, may be said to be an opera. The flow of the verse is extremely musical ; and airs are introduced into his cho- rus, in the same manner as those inserted, at a later period, in his more finished productions. Gravina, afterwards, accompanied his pupil to Crotona, his native place, in the kingdom of Naples, that he might receive the instructions of Gregorio Caroprese, who had also been his own master in the Platonic philosophy. On his return to Rome, he died in the year 1718, leaving, by will, all his property, which was pretty considerable, to his pupil Metastasio. For a century and a half, Italy had been unable to boast of her literary superiority ; but, in producing Metastasio, nature seemed to iiave made her ample amends, as none of her writers ever more completely united all the qualities that constitute a poet ; vivacity of imagination, and refinement of feeling, with every charm of versification and expression. Nor shall we easily find one who, by the mere force of his style, is entitled to be considered as a more graceful painter, or a more delightful musician. Metastasio made no preten- sions, however, to the highest order of genius. He did not aim at those lofty and vigorous creations of the poet which excite our admiration by their sublimity. He wished to be the poet of the of)era, and in this he succeeded ; and con- fining himself to the path which he had chalked out, he sur- passed the most distinguished writers of Italy, oi', perhaps, of OF THE ITALIANS. 479 any otlier nation. He very correctly appreciated the pecu- liar character of the theatre, to which he devoted his talents ; and in a species of composition which has never conferred much reputation on any other poet, he has produced the most national poetry that Italy, perhaps, can boast of possessing, and which is most deeply impressed upon the memory and feelings of the people. The object of tragedy, so differently explained by different critics, and as diversely understood by their readers, has, in reality, varied with the variations of time and place. "With the ancients it was, in turn, religious, moral, or political ; Avhen, revealing the immutable laws and mysteries of fate, the poets sought to fortify exalted minds by an acquaintance "with misfortune. It has consisted among the moderns, either in the simple display of deep emotions, or in the living picture of nature ; or, founded upon a still more noble system, it comprises the worship of all that is most beautiful in the pro- ductions of the mind, and the admiration of art carried to its perfection, united to natural truth. The opera could not boast so proud an origin. Taking its rise in the voluptuous courts of princes, it had none ot the elements favourable to the growth of heroes. Its union of qualities w^as expected to yield every enjoyment, and the most pleasing emotions, by captivating, at the same moment, both the ear and the eye, and gratifying the tenderest affec- tions of the soul. To ennoble pleasure, and to render it, in some degree, sacred, by the mixture of refined and elevated sentiment ; and, if we are to look for political motives, to screen the prince from the shame of his own indolence and effeminacy, and to blind the people to every consideration but that of the passing moment ; such would seem to have been the spirit of the Italian opera. And such it was, as it appeared in the courts of the Medici and the Farnese, and on the theatres of Venice,where voluptuousness was encouraged by the senate for interests of state. In this situation Meta- stasio found it, when he first entered upon his career; and without examining the effeminate character of this species of poetry, he eagerly followed tlie impulse of his feelings, which led him to adopt a refined sort of Epicurean doctrine, identi- fying every thing that was heroic, elevated, and pui-e, with the passion of love. His language was of that rich and im- 480 ON THE LITERATURE passioned nature, formed to carry to its most luxurious pitch a relish for all those pleasures of existence, derived from dancing, painting, and a species of poetry still more seductive than these, of which an audience so vividly feels the power. His predecessors, on the other hand, hesitating between an imitation of the Greek, the French, and even the Spanish dramatists, as well as of the pastoral poets of Italy, failed to discover the true laws of this kind of composition, Meta- stasio seized upon them with a daring hand, regardless of the indignation of pedantic critics. Scoi'ning to subject himself to unity of place, he delighted in varying the scene, com- manding a wider field for all that brilliant display of theatri- cal variety and effect, on which the charm of the opera so much depends. He had much moi'e regard to the unity of time, without confining himself altogether within the limits prescribed, in such a way as to embrace as many incidents, processions, and ceremonies, within the four and twenty hours, as the good nature of the spectators could well admit. He submitted to regulate the unity of action by the circum- stance of being obliged to bring forward two sets of person- ages, three male and three female lovers, upon the boards, to serve as the means of contrast to the musician. The cata- strophe of his pieces is almost invariably happy ; as the lan- guor of soul, consequent upon the music, would have been too much disturbed by very deep or painful emotions. He succeeded with unequalled skill, in combining natural ex- pression with all the dignity and richness sought for in l}Tic poetry ; and he infused into the combination of his words and lines an irresistible harmony, which it is the boast of the sublime accompaniments of Pergolese, to have so faithfully and accurately preserved. Metastasio composed no less than twenty-eight grand operas, besides many of a shorter kind, a number of baUeffe, and celebrations of festivals ; a species of dialogue intermixed with musical airs and recitative, and very frequently en- livened by a dramatic action. He borrowed his subjects almost indiscriminately from mythology or history, and brought upon the stage most of the different people and different countries, belonging to the ancient world. He is also indebted to Ariosto for one of his more romantic and chivalric pieces, entitled Ritggkro, which must be referred to OF THE ITALIANS. 481 the period of the middle ages. It is to this very enlarged view of different countries, ages, and manners, that Metastatio owes all those ornamental varieties introduced into his lyric scenes, the very great diversity of decorations and costumes, and even that richness of local imagery, in which his poetry so much abounds. But he has not been so successful in variety of character, interests, and passions, as he might, perhaps, have been by more minute observation and analysis of nature and historic truth, Metastasio, carried away by his exquisite musical taste, sacrificed the higher objects of his art to the gratification of this feeling. Music, how- ever well adapted to give expression to the passions, cannot so well serve to mark the different situations in a piece ; and the science would only be rendered ridiculous, by being made to assume a character expressive of the different manners and language of each people. AVe should feel disgusted at hearing barbarism celebrated in wild and savage strains ; or if, in singing of love, it were attempted also to convey an idea of the pride of the Romans, and the despotism of the Orientals. Aware, in some degree, of this uniformity in music, Metastasio did not attempt to follow his heroes to Rome, or into the East. Whatever names or whatever dresses he bestows upon them, they are invariably characters of the same stamp, whose manners and whose passions have a strong resemblance, and whose scene of action is always the lyric theatre. Such manners, having no prototypes in any nation, seem, singularly enough, to be formed out of the pastoral and romantic elements of another age. Love is, in- deed, the animating principle of all these dramas ; it is every where irresistible, and the immediate motive to every action. The other passions, however, are gifted with the same refined and imaginary qualities ; and we behold pa- triotism, liberty, loyalty, filial love, and chivalric honour, all carried, by the poet, to the same extremes. There are sentiments with which the world acknowledges no sympathy ; a degree of devotedness which no virtue re- quires ; and on the other hand, examples of baseness and perfidy, which, we rejoice to reflect, are no longer real. The whole of Metastasio's plays exhibit the same opposition of interests between our passions and our duty, or between two contending principles of duty, always under the same 482 ON THE LITEEATDBE ideal character. The plot is throughout ravelled by the per- fidy of some rival, or by that of an inferior agent, who is purposely drawn in very dark colours, and on whom the whole odium of the mischief is made to rest ; while the contrast to such a character is gifted with all the perfections in the poet's power tu bestow. The intrigue is brought to light either by some very magnanimous effort of virtue, or by an unsuccessful attempt to execute some diabolical project, and the drama almost always closes in a happy manner. If, indeed, any personage perishes, he is one, at least, who has richly merited his fate. The sameness of manners, extravagance of character, and invariably hajipy catastrophes, produce, it must be allowed, a feeling of monotony in Metastasio's plays. One piece con- veys too complete an idea of all that remain ; and, when we have once familiarized ourselves with the author's manner, we may pretty accurately divine, as soon as the overture of each begins, what will be the nature of the plot, and what its disclosure. If, however, we have the candour to keep in view, that Metastasio was the poet of the opera ; that the emotions he wished to excite were all in reference to music, and were never intended to leave violent or painful im- pressions on the mind ; we shall cease to reproach him for his voluptuous tenderness and eflfeminacy, for the ideal beauty of his sentiments, and even for the invariably happy termi- nation of his pieces. We perceive that these defects were inherent in the nature of the subject, and not in the poet M'ho treated it ; and we, also, feel sensible that he carried his art to its highest degree of perfection. His dramas in- variably open with striking and imposing effect, and are full of magnificence and attractions, calculated to rivet the at- tention of the audience. He gives a very simple exposition of the most intricate action, and brings the spectators, without much preface, into the most interesting situations it affords. In the inventing and varying of these, he displays the greatest skill ; and no one knew better than MetastasiO; how to create in others an impassioned interest in his subject, by the manner of weaving his plot. The language in which he clothes the darling passion of his drama, has in it all that is most delicate and impassioned in love. He developes, with a surprising air of reality, the most elevated sentiments OF THE ITALIANS. 483 attached to loyalty, filial love, and the love of our country, to all of which he attributes ideal excellences, both in action and in character. We must add that the flow of his verse in the recitative, is, altogether, the most pure and harmonious known in any language ; and that the airs or strophes, at the close of the different scenes, breathe a fine lyric spirit, and a richness of poetical expression not surpassed by the very first masters in the art. In conclusion, the adaptation of the sentiment to the musical accompaniment is every where so justly observed, that not an image or an expression is held out to the musician, wliich is not naturally adapted to harmonic developement, and in itself essentially harmonious. Yet we dare hardly venture, like many of the Italians, to consider Metastasio in the character of a tragedian ; nor ought he to be held out as a model to other nations, in any species of composition, but that of the opera. His poetry must not be divested, for a moment, of its musical attractions; nor ought it to be put into the mouth of tragic actors, as is too often the case, at present, in Italy. It makes no pretensions to real tragedy ; and if placed in competition with that, to which it cannot, in justice, be compared, we should, doubtless, be compelled to admit its improbabilities, its want of con- sistency, and the effeminacy of tlie manners, which it depicts. Viewed in this light, the musical drama is confessedly inferior. We feel that the object of tragedy is to call forth the most powerful emotions, by pictures of human fate and wretched- ness ; and we know that no feelings can be thus deep and powerful, which are not essentially founded in nature and in truth. It is the duty of the tragic poet to transport us at once into the very place he has chosen, to make us the witness of some terrific action. Here we expect to find places, man- ners, prejudices, and passions, every thing in union together, as a consistent whole. AVe must be made to breathe, as it were, the very atmosphere, glowing with the words and spirit of the heroes, contending with their destiny around us. This was the triumph of the Greek theatre ; and this the Germans have also succeeded in effecting. The grand failure of the French tragedians, as it has generally been supposed, was in giving to all the great personages of antiquity, the precise language and sentiments of their own countrymen. They were doubtless wrong, but this error by no means 484 ON THE LITERATURE approaches in importance to that of having produced mere ideal characters. We can indulge in some degree of sym- pathy for the former, in whom, as soon as we forget their names, a living truth of character appears ; but the latter we are unable to comprehend, inasmuch as they are without a prototype in nature. In orde]- to convey as correct an idea of the drama of Metastasio, by means of specimens and translations, as it lies in my power to do, I propose to give, in the first place, a minute analysis of one of his most finished pieces. It is entitk^d Hypsipyle; and it may serve to explain the fabx-ic of the Italian opera, in its varieties of incident and character. We could not proceed to try that succession of very brilliant and striking situations, and of novel events, with which the poet has crowded his drama, by any severe and critical standard, without speedily detecting the glaring improbability and the want of skill apparent throughout his whole compo- sition. The analysis we now propose, and which may appear somewhat invidious, it will, therefore, be superfluous to repeat in other instances, which would merely present ns with the same defects ; and we shall endeavour to present our readers only with what we find most beautiful in the rest of his dramas. The play of Ilyps'ipyle is, perhaps, one of the most poeti- cal. It combines more of a I'omantic interest ; and as the danger, to which the leading characters are exposed, is very well supported, it, for this reason, keeps alive the anxiety and attention of the spectators. The versification is, likewise, very superior to most of the same class, and the dialogue is, by turns, equally touching, eloquent, and impassioned. To enjoy it, as we ought, we must create for ourselves an illusion, which may serve to disguise the many improbabilities of facts and character ; and, abandoning ourselves to its impulses, we must wander through an ideal world where every thing is new, and where even moral laws take their source in other principles. The scene of Ilypsipyle is placed in Lemnos. The theatre represents the temple of Bacchus, whose rites are about to be celebrated. Ilypsipyle appears with her confidant Khodope, armed in the cliaracter of Bacchantes. The fatal oath, engaging her to a frightful conspiracy of the Lemnian women, OF THE ITALIANS. 485 has just passed her lips. It is to massacre the whole Lemniaa ax'my, on the eve of its return from a long expedition into Thrace. Tlie princess, who had only feigned to approve of the plot, commands Rhodope to hasten towards the shore, to prevent, if possible, her father, King Thoas, from disem- barking ; but it is too late, and Eurynome, one of the most desperate Bacchantes, who originated the project of assassi- nating all their brothers and husbands, announces the arrival of Thoas. She stirs up the fury of the Bacchantes, by exciting their jealousy, and gives final orders for the massacre, which is to be executed during the night. Hypsipyle encourages it, and seems, by her language, more ferocious than Eurynome herself. We look in vain for a motive to this dissimulation, which only favours the projects of Eurynome, and ends in the death of the unfortunate Lemnians ; whilst the measures taken by Hypsipyle to save her father are unaccountable ; as she waits for the landing of Thoas, before she thinks of en- trusting the young princess, her confidant, with the care of detaining him in the port. The speech of Eurynome is certainly very beautiful. It has the twofold merit of express- ing the eloquent feeling of the moment, and of explaining to the spectator the motives and the mysteries of this strange conspii-acy, in such a manner as to give them at least an air of probability. Most noble Princess, {To Rlwdope) And you, brave comrades of our enterprize, Lo ! from the Thracian shores once more returning, The faithless Lemnians claim their native soil. But, be it ours to xiiM their offences With vengeance due. True, they return, but how-. Have not three summer suns Witness'd our harvest toils* * EURINOME. Eodope, Principes.sa, Valorose compagne, a queste arene Dalle sponde di Tracia, a noi ritorno Fanno i Lenni infedeli. A noi s' aspetta Del sesso vilipeso L' oltraggio vendicar. Toman gl' ingrati, ila dopo aver tre volte Viste da noi lontano Le messi rinnovar. Tomano a noi. Ma ci portan sugli occhi De' 486 ON THE LITEKATDBE Neglected and unaided 1 Now they come To give the oifspring of their stolen embraces Into your laps ; while each barbarian mistress. Wild as the savage beast, whose milk she drew, With painted visage mocks your slighted charms. Eevenge, revenge our wi'ongs ! We have vow'd it, and our vow must be fulfill'd. Fortune looks smiling on, And favouring night her curtain lends To shield our enterprise. While the glad god. Whose noisy rites we celebrate. With joyous songs shall drown their feeble cries. Let fathers, sons, and brothers. And falsest consorts, in one fate be buried. For us, be ours the glory or the blame ; A proud example to the ingrate race Of woman's wrath, for violated faith. Thoas arrives with liis Lemnians ; but Hypsipyle ventures not to return his caresses. Full of grief, she beholds hira surrounded by liis soldiers ; a word from his daughter's mouth would save him and his valiant companions from an ignomi- nious death, by an open combat with the women, which could not long be doubtful. There is, mceover, nothing to ex- cuse the whimsical indignation of the Lemnian ladies. The character of Thoas has all the qualities of manly prudence, kindness, and protection. The language given him by the poet attracts us by the paternal aflection it displays ; but a De' talami furtivi i frutti infami ; E le barbare amiche Dipinte il volto, c di ferigno latte Avezzate a nutrirsi, adesso altere Delia vostra belta vinta e negletta. Ah vendetta, vendetta ! La giurammo ; s' adempia. Al gran disegno Tutto cospira, 1' opportuna notte, La stanchezza de' rci, del Dio di Nasso II rito strepitoso, onde confuse Fian le querule voci Fra le grida festive. I padri, i figli, I germani, i conSorti Cadano estinti ; e sia fra noi commune II merito 6 la colpa. II grande esempio De' femminili sdegni, Al sesso ingrato a serbar fede inscgni. Atto I. Sc. 2. or THE ITALIANS. 487 different character would have thrown a greater air of proha- bility over the conspiracy of which he is made the victim. Thoas. Hypsip. Thoas. Hypsip. EoD. Hypsip. EUKIN. Thoas. Hypsip. ^Thoas. Hypsip Long loved, and loved in vain, Come to a father's arms, my child, my daughter. I cannot tell how sad and -wearily The weight of my long years has on me press'd. Since thus I fondly held you to mj^ breast. Now you again are near me ; now I feel The burden of my years sit light and easy Upon an old man's head. My heart will break. {Aside.) But why so sad and silent, ;RIy only girl '? and why so strangely cold — A father just restored ] Alas ! you know not. My Lord — Ah, silence ! {To Issipile.) Ye gods, what torture ! {Aside.) Her weakness will betray me ! {Aside.) And is it my return That grieves you thus 1 Would you could read my heart ! Nay, tell me aU ! Ye gods !* * TOANTE. Vieni, dolce mia cura, Vieni al paterno sen : da te lontano, Tutto degli anni miei sentiva il peso ; E tutto, figlia, io sento Or che appresso mi sei II peso alleggerir degli anni miei. Issip. (Mi si divide il cor.) ToANiB. PerchS ritrovo Issipile si mesta 1 Qual mai freddezza e questa Air arrivo d' un padre ] Issip. Ah tu non sai . . . Signor , . . EoD. Taci Issip. (Che pena !) EuRiN. (Ah, mi tradisce La debolezza sua !) ToANTE. La mia presenza Ti funesta cosi ] Issip. Non vedi il core ; Percio . . . ToANTE. Spiegati. Issip. Oh Dio J TOANIE, 488 ON THE LITERATURE TnoAS. What is "t that moves you ? Speak ! Can th' hymeneal rites, which the young prince Hastens from Thcssaly to celebrate, Displease my daughter 1 Hypsip. No, sire ; from the moment I saw him first, I loved him. Thoa3. Can it be You fear to lose the power my absence gave you 1 Fear not. No longer sovereign prince or king Am I. Still govern at your pleasure here, Reward, and punish. — No desire have I, But here to live, and in your anns to die. In the meanwhile, Thoas and the Lemnians retire to rest, and Hypsipyle repeats her promise to assassinate her fathei*. Eurynome now unfolds the cause of her desperate attempt. Her object is to avenge her son Learchus, who having made an attempt to carry off Hypsipyle, had been banished by Thoas, and was believed to have died in exile. Eurynome next hastens to give oi'ders for beginning the massacre ; but at the moment she disappears, Learchus enters upon the scene, where he meets Rhodope, who had formerly bestowed her af- fections upon him. She eagerly beseeches him to fly from a place where every man is doomed to destruction. Learchus will not be persuaded to believe her. As the captain of a band of pirates, he has entered Lemnos for the purpose of pre- venting the nuptials of Jason, the prince of Thessaly, who is every moment expected to lead Hypsipyle to the altar. Learchus introduces himself into the palace gardens, whither Hypsipyle, in a short time, conducts her father, for the pur- ToANEE. Spiegati, figlia; Se r imeneo ti spiace Del prence di Tessaglia Che a moment! verra . . . Issip. Dal primo istante Che il vidi 1' adorai. ToANTE. Forse in mia vece Awezzata a regnar, temi che sia Termine di tuo regno il mio ritorno 1 T' inganni. lo qui non sono Pill sovrano nh Ilh. Punisei, assolvi, Ordina premi e pene : altro non bramo, Issipile adorata ! Che viver teco, e che morirti accanto. AttoI.Sc. 3. OF THE ITALIANS. 489 pose of concealing him from the fury of the Bacchantes. Their conversation is overheard by Learchus, who finds that Rho- dope had not deceived him. He now seeks to draw away Thoas by a stratagem, and to appear in his place, with the view of carrying off Hypsipyle, who had retired, as soon as she returns to seek her father. In fact, he addresses himself to Thoas, entreating him, for his daughter's sake, to conceal himself elsewhere, assuring him that his retreat is already dis- covered ; and, on Thoas retiring, he himself enters the thicket in his stead. The scene is afterwards changed. Eurynome announces to her infatuated countrywomen, who are assembled in the Temple of Vengeance, that an armed man had been observed in the precincts of the palace ; " but the Lemnian heroines," she continues, " have surrounded him, and, I doubt not, wiU soon prove victorious." It was Jason ; and the next moment he appears, sword in hand, pursuing the Lemnian ladies, whom he had completely put to the rout. He is astonished to find Eurynome and Hypsipyle busily employed in organizing these Amazonian culprits. He, nevertheless, accosts his be- trothed bride in the most affecting and impassioned language ; and is received with no less tenderness on her part. But his surprise is changed into horror, when he hears of the slaughter, which has just taken place, of all the Lemnians, and of the assassination of the king by the hands of his own adored and beautiful bride. Hypsipyle, herself, confirms a recital, which in the eyes of her lover overwhelms her with disgrace. She had even taken the precaution to place a dis- figured corpse upon the couch of Thoas, in order to deceive the conspirators. Jason hastens from this scene of blood, disgusted at the unnatural wickedness of the bride, whom he had flown to embrace. The second act opens with the appearance of Eurynom during the night in the palace gardens, where Hypsipyle ha concealed her father. EuK. Alas ! whichever way I turn. Some fatal object meets my eyes, Kindling again my passions into madness.* * EcR. Ah ! che per tutto io veggo Qualche oggetto funesto Che riafaccia a quest' alma i suoi furori I VOL. I. H n Vol; 490 ON THE LITERATURE 'Midst these deep solitudes I strive to lose the dread remorse, Which still, where'er I fly, intrudes. Tell me, j'e awful scenes ! The spirit of my boy no longer wanders Sad, unavenged, on the Lethean strand ; That now his mournful shade may pass the wave, And taste the rest his mother's vengeance gave. The son, to whom sbe here appeals, is at her side in the same retreat ; but this piratical chief is, in truth, more cow- ardly than a woman. He shews himself with the utmost fear, and retreats again at the least noise. His voice increases the anguish of Eurynome, who recognizes that of her son. Hyp- sipyle now arrives to withdrav/- her father from the place of his retreat ; and she informs Learchus, whom she mistakes for Thoas, of the preparations she had made for flight. Eury- nome, hearing her intention, hastens to summon the Bac- chantes ; while Learchus, alarmed at the sudden flash of lights, makes his escape before he can be discovered. Eury- nome gives orders for the grove to be surrounded by the Bac- chanals ; and for the retreats on all sides to be explored and set fire to; when, just at the moment she expects to stab Thoas with her own hand, Learchus is brought forward, and falls at her feet. This incident possesses theatrical effect, which might be considered as striking, had Metastasio em- ployed it less frequently. The Bacchantes are supposed to insist upon the king's death; but they, in reality, say nothing; whilst Rhodope, still in love with Learchus, comes forward, under pretence of hastening his punishment, with the inten- tion of saving his life. She contrives to lead Eurynome away, and orders her companions to make preparations for the pub- lic sacrifice ; remaining, unaccompanied, to keep guard over Learchus. As soon, however, as the women have departed, she restores him to liberty. If the Lemnian ladies were to be thus easily imposed upon, surely Hypsipyle needed not to have invented so many unreasonable and fatal artifices. Voi, solitari on'ori, Da' seguaci rimorsi Difendete 11 mio cor. Ditemi voi Che per me piil non eiTa invendicata L'ombra del figlio mio ; che piil di Lete Non sospira 11 tragitto ; E che val la sua pace il mio delitto. j OF THE ITALIANS. 491 The scene again changes ; and Jason is seen, at sunrise, on the seashore, at a little distance from his slumbering com- panions in arms. After a monologue, in which he reproaches Hypsipyle for her perfidy and cruelty, wearied with long watching, he falls asleep upon the ground. Learchus here ap- proaches him, and beholds his rival at his feet, unarmed and alone. He draws his dagger to despatch him, when Hypsi- pyle, suddenly arriving, arrests the blow, threatening to alarm Jason, She obliges him to deliver up his arms ; but Learchus is revenged upon her by himself awakening Jason, and crying out that he is betrayed. The Thessaliau prince starts up ; beholds Hypsipyle with a dagger in her hand, and doubts not for a moment, that she, who had assassinated her father, is now aiming at her lover's life. In vain she attempts to ex- culpate herself, and to inform him of the truth ; Jason appears to listen to her with horror, and rejects her caresses with dis- gust. She is scarcely gone, before Thoas, approaching Jason, convinces him, by his appearance and conversation, of the entire innocence of Hypsipyle. Jason immediately rouses his companions. He swears to snatch Hypsipyle from the palace, and from the power of these furies ; to solicit her forgiveness, and to take vengeance for the blood which the Lemnian women have shed. In the beginning of the third act, we have the prospect of a solitary place, not far from the seashore, where Learchus is lying in ambuscade, together with two of his piratical followers. Thoas, whose anxiety has drawn him out of the tents of Jason, is approaching near ; but Learchus, with his two followers, judging himself no match for the old king, despatches his comrades for more assistance, while he attempts to amuse Thoas until their return. He pretends to make a confession, and to entreat the king's forgiveness of his crimes ; and on receiving pardon, he takes his hand in token of reconciliation. The next moment Thoas is surrounded by the pirates ; and Learchus suddenly changing his tone, calls on him to surrender. Such are these variations of fortune, called by the Italians, cU bei colpi di sceiia; fine theatrical strokes ; and which are of much the same nature in the action of a piece, as the concetti in regard to style. In truth, the language made use of in these surprising turns, is imbued \Yith many of the same defects : we have enough HH 2 492 ON THE LITERATURE of spirit and of elevation of manner, but nothing natural and true. They are followed by the plaudits of the theatre ; we admire and we recur to them ; but the frequent antitheses give them a peculiar air of a(F(ictation. Thus Learchus says to the king, who despises lil'e : Lear. Nay, these arc dreams ! There is no thing so vile But loves to live. 'Tis a deceitful wile, A tale told only to the idiot throng. Of heroes' hearts firm amidst utter woe ; And thine (I read thy soul) is trembling now.* The reply of Thoas is almost a parody of the preceding passage. Thoas. Are they dreams ? I know thou canst not be at peace ; For virtue with ourselves is born, Whose love, though spurn'd, deserts us never ; And whips those faults, from which it fails to shield us. It is Heaven's voice ! and if we hear it not, Woe to us ; for the very worst of evils Is when the sinner bears within his heart The longing after good, the sense of right. Even in his own despite. I read thy soul, and know ev'n now it trembles. * Learco. Fole son queste, Ogni animal che vive Ama di conservarsi ; arte che inganna Solo il credulo volgo, 6 la fermezza Che aifetano gli eroi ne' casi estremi. lo ti leggo ueir alma e so che tremi. ToANTE, Fole son queste 1 Tranquillo esser non puoi ; So che nasce con noi L' amor della virtil. Quando non basta Ad evitar le colpe, Basta almeno a punirle. E' un don del cielo Che diventa castigo Per chi ne abusa. II piil crudel tormento Ch' hanno i malvagi, S il conservar nel core Ancora a lor dispetto, L' idea del giusto, e dell' onesto i semi, lo ti leggo nell' alma, e so che tremi. AttoJII.Scl. OF THE ITALL\JS'S. 493 In the mean while Rhodope, who saw Thoas borne away by the pirates, and Hypsipyle, informed of the fact, have recourse to Jason's assistance, and excite him to vengeance. The scene is altered ; and we behold the sea-port, where the ships of Learchus are at anchor. Learchus, with the captive Tiioas, is already on board ; while Jason, Hypsipyle, and Ehodope appear in pursuit of them with the Argonauts. Jason wishes instantly to attack the ships of the enemy ; but Learchus, standing upon the deck, threatens to despatch Thoas with the weapon which he holds suspended over the old man's .head. He refuses to restore his prisoner until Hypsipyle shall surrender herself into his hands. This, Hypsipyle, notwithstanding her own fears, and the opposition of Thoas and of Jason, resolves to do; and slowly approaches the pirate's vessel. Jason then observes Eurynome, who is in search of her son Learchus ; and seizing hei-, he threatens to kill her, unless Thoas is set at liberty. The two victims are trembling under the knives of their respective assassins, on each side of the stage. When this spectacle has been exhibited a sufficient time, Learchus yields, and agrees to exchange Thoas for his mother ; and, as if to carry the im- probability of aU this to its highest point, after expressing remorse, and reproaching himself for this act of virtue, he stabs himself, for the weakness he has shown, and throws himself into the sea. Few dramas exhibit greater study of theatrical effect than Hyimpyle; and, if we except its total want of probability, without requiring of the author to account in a natural manner for the incidents introduced, few, perhaps, will be found that possess a greater degree of interest. But the same theatrical surprises are repeated, until they weary the patience of his audience. We see the dagger at the throat of a father, a mother, a son, or a beauty ; and the same laconic reply is given to all the finest speeches in the piece, vieni oV uccido: Approach! or he dies. We have, also, convenient liberators, with the weapons which they have just snatched from the real assassins in their hands, and who are themselves accused of the crime ; and mothers, who persuading themselves that they are in pursuit of their worst enemy, find an only son in his place ; but not until they have brought him into the extremest jeopardy. Such materials 494 ON THE LITERATTJHE are the common property of Italian tragedy. The incidents and characters are all ready drawn out, and the situations capable of being transferred elsewhere without distinction of time or place ; thus rendering the drama of modern Italy so easy a production, that every troop of players makes a point of entertaining its own poet ; and we are assured that more than a single specimen of the serious opera has really proceeded from the pen of a shoemaker. Metastasio's cha- racters are, likewise, brought upon the scene, with more tedious repetition than even the incidents and situations of his pieces. A total want of national interest, and too great exaggeration of the different virtues and vices of the per- sonages he displays, admit of little variety in the poet's cha- racters. We are never presented with any of those half- villains, or half-virtuous people so frequently met with else- where. The author takes it for granted, that one vice is followed by all the rest in the decalogue, and that it is im- possible for a virtuous character to commit a single fault ; insomuch that he equally fails to excite our sympathy in the transcendent villains, and in those immaculate characters, who invariably triumph over their passions, after the struggle of a moment. We shall pei'ceive, in treating of the Italian comedy, the same resemblance between the different masks, and the uniform manner in which Pantaloon, Harlequin, and Columbine are made to support the same character, in all the comedies in which they appear. They are, indeed, the same persons, placed in different circumstances, as best suits the convenience of the author. The more sei'ious Italian opera was framed upon a similar model. It admits only of a limited number of masks upon the scene, each of which is the original type and essence of a fixed and stated character : such as that of the tyrant, the good king, the hot-headed hero, the plaintive lover, and the faithful friend. On these personages the author invariably confers foreign names and dresses, while he gives them no other charactei-istics of the nation to which they belong. We have a Greek, a Roman, a Persian, or a Scythian ; but if their individual costume were changed, the dramatic action attributed to each would be quite as suitable to the inhabitants of the opp(3sit>'} end of the world. Metastasio began his career by a piece entitled Dido OF THE IT.U.IANS. 495 abandoned by ^neas, founded upon no very favourable sub- ject; out of which he failed to elicit the degree of interest of which it might have been rendered susceptible. The ^neas whom he holds out as his hero, is a disgusting cha- racter ; but the charm of the versification, even in this first attempt, had the effect of raising him far above his competi- tors. This favourable impression was increased by his succeeding efforts; and in 1729, his reputation procured for him an order from the Emperor Charles VI. to attend, as Imperial poet, at Vienna, to replace Apostolo Zeno, who now wished to retire to Venice. There Metastasio continued to reside, in the service of the court, till an advanced old age. He died on the twelfth day of April, 1782, in his eighty- fourth year. Nine of his pieces, which were composed during the first ten years of his residence at Vienna, are held in much higher estimation than the remainder. These consist of his Issipile, Olimplade, Demofoonte, La Clemenza di Tito, Acliille, Giro, Teinistocle, Zenohia, and Regolo. Of a few of these we propose to give some account, as well with a view to their general merits, as to the more particular excellences which they display, but we shall avoid repeating the irksome task of following them scene by scene. The Olimpiade is of a soft and impassioned character throughout ; the style extremely pure ; with little probability of incident, and little nature except in the passion of love. The scene is placed amidst the Olympic games, where the poet supposes Clisthenes, king of Sicyon, to preside. The king has given his daughter Aristea as a prize to the victor in the wrestling-match. There are two friends, Lycidas and IMega- cles, in love with Aristea, the former of whom has had no experience in the Olympic combats, while the latter has fre- quently been victorious in the wrestling ring. Lycidas had formerly saved the life of Megacles, who now wishes to enter the arena, and to win the disputed beauty for his friend, and in his friend's name. A similar situation of the characters is introduced in another of Metastasio's pieces, founded on chivalric manners, and borrowed from Ariosto, under the name of Ruggiero and Bradamante. Megacles disguises from his friend the passion which he entertains for the fair Aristea ; he enters the lists, is victorious over all competitors, and yielding the prize into the arms of his friend, precipitates 496 ON THE LITERATURE himself into tlie river, to avoid seeing the object of his passion in the embraces of another. The catastrophe is, nevertheless, brought about favourably for all parties. A fisherman snatches Megacles from the waves ; Argene, formerly deserted by Lycidas, inspii-es him with renewed passion while present at the games ; and Lycidas is finally discovered to be the son of Clisthenes, and brother to Aristea. As hope can no longer be here indulged, tlie two pair of lovers are united agreeably to the dictates of their first passion. The Olbnp'iade appears to me to excel all the other pieces of which Metastasio can boast, in point of imi)asaioned elo- quence. In the scene between iMegacles and Aristea, in which he acquaints her with his triumph, but that he has triumphed for another instead of himself, and in which he offers the sacrifice of both at the shrine of friendship, the interest assumes a high and pathetic tone. The farewell of Megacles to the object of his love and to his friend, is expressed in the most eloquent and impassioned language, the close of which falls into a sweet air, to which Cimarosa has given an effect beyond the power of mere human words to produce. Music appears to have lavished upon it the utmost tenderness of which the art is susceptible, and expresses the most delicate varieties and shades of feeling with an eloquence of which words can convey but a faint impression. The quatrain with which the air closes : Che abisso cli yene : is a burst of grief which opens the innermost recesses of the bosom to a feeling of despair. It would be quite impossible to convey an idea in feeble prose, of the united effect of the finest poetry and music. But we must, at least, attempt to catch a portion of the thoughts and sentiments thus exquisitely embodied, were it only to exhibit the powers of Metastasio, as a faithful and natural delineator of passion. Meg. This is the mystery — You know the secret now — the Prince of Crete Dies to possess you. He implores my pity ; He saved my life. How can I spurn his jirayer? * Meg. Tutto 1' areano Ecco ti svelo. II principe di Creta Langue per te d' amor. Pieta mi chiode^ E la vita mi diedc. Ah ! principessa, Se negarla poss' io, dillo tu stessa. Akist. OF THE ITALIAXS. 497 Arist. You fought — Meg. It was for him. Arist. Ah ! would you lose me 1 Meg. Yes ! to preserve my honour, and remain Still worthy of j'our love. Arist. And I must therefore — Meg. Crown the great work, most generous, most adored. O, Aristea, help the grateful throbs Of my torn heart, and be to Lycidas All thou hast been to me. Yes, love him, love him ! He is deserving of such infinite bliss : MVe have been one in heart ; If thou art his, we do not wholly part. Arist. What have you said? Am I, indeed, so fallen From my bright heaven of hopes, to the abyss Of wretchedness ] It cannot be. Xo ! find him Some nobler recompense ; for without you Life is not life. Meg. Yet must I say adieu. Do not thou also, beauteous Aristea, Tempt me to be a traitor to my virtue. Too dreadful are the pangs of this resolve ; And now the least of these sweet fond emotions Makes all my eSbrts vain. Arist. Alas ! you leave me — Arist. E pugnasti — Meg. Per lui. Arist. Perder mi vuoi — Meg. Si, per serbarmi sempre Degno di te. Arist. Dunque io dovrd — Meg. Tu dei Coronar 1' opra mia. Si, generosa, Adorata Aristea, seconda i moti D' un grato cor. Sia qual io fui tin ora, Licida in avvenire. Amalo. E degno Di si gran sortc il caro amico. Anch' io Vivo di lui nel seno ; E s' ei t' acquista, io non ti perdo appieno. Arist. Ah, qual passaggio fe questo ! Io dalle stelle Precipito agli abissi. Ah, no ; si cerchi Miglior compenso. Ah ! senza te la vita Per me vita non h. Meg. Bella Aristea, Non congiurar tu ancora Contro la mia virtu. Mi costa assai II prepararmi a si gran passo. Un solo Di quel teneri sensi Quant' opera distrugge ! Arist. E di lasciarmi — Meo. 498 ON THE LITERATURE Meg. It is too true. Arist. Tnie, dost thou say ? and when ? Meg. This, this, ('tis worse than death to utter it,) This is my last farewell. Arist. The last ! Ungrateful ! Help me, ye gods — I sink into the earth ; Colli damps are on my brow ; I feel a Hand, A chilly hand oppress my very heart. Meg. Me miserable ! what do I behold 1 Her grief hath killed her. Gentle love, look on me ; Do not, bright Aristea, thus yield up Thy nobler self. Hear ! Megacles is with thee ; I will not leave thee. Ah ! she does not heed me. Are there more woes in store for me, ye gods ] Farewell, farewell, for ever. And may the Fates be kinder To thee, love, than to me 1 Ye gods, preserve your noblest work below. And the bright days I lose, on her bestow ! My Lycidas, hear : My fate would she discover. And say : Where is he fled 1 Then answer thou : Thy lover, Thine hapless friend, is dead. Meg. Ho risoluto. Akist. Hai risoluto ] e quando J? Meg. Questo (morir mi sento) Questo fe I'ultimo addio. Akist. L'ultimo ! ingrato — Soccorretemi, o Numi ! il pi^ vacilla : Freddo sudor mi bagna il volto ; e parmi Ch' una gelida man m' opprima il core. Meg. Misero me, che veggo ! Ah, r oppresse il dolor ! Cara mia speme, Bella Aristea, non avvilirti ; ascolta : Megacle h qui, non partiro. Sarai — Che parlo ] Ella non m' ode. Avete, o Sielle, Pill sventure per me 1 — • — Addio, mia vita ; addio, Mia perduta speranza. II ciel ti renda Pill felice di me. Deh ! consen'ate Questa bell' opra vostra, eterni Dei, E i di ch' io perdei-6, donate a lei. • Licida, ah senti. Se cerca, se dice : L' amico dov' h 1 L' amico infelice, Kispondi, mori. OF THE ITALIANS. 499 Yet no ! a grief so titter She shall not feel. Oh say. He sorely wept to quit her. And -weeping, went his way. mighty gulf of woe ! To leave my love, my heart ! For evermore to part ! To part, and leave her so. We discern, likewise, in the Olhnpiade, an attempt to give a more distinct expression to the characters of the piece. Lycidas is not altogether, like the otliers, a perfect hero ; but gives signs of impatience and presumption, peculiar to him- self. Strength of character may, however, be considered as a superfluous quality in most operas ; for the events are so far out of the i-each of the influence of the personages engaged in them, that did they assume a character quite opposite to that assigned to them, the result would be precisely the same. It is probably true, that, by this character of Lycidas, Metastasio wished to explain his last rash action. He rushes, like a madman, into the temple, attacks the king, and is about to kill him, when he feels himself restrained by a sud- den feeling of respect, and by a sort of supernatural presenti- ment of his birth, frequently dignified by the name of the voice of nature, but, in fact, more nearly resembling the voice of the theatre, or the voice of romance. The whole of the conduct attributed to Lycidas is, nevertheless, quite inex- plicable, and his indignation as much so as his respect. But it was convenient to the author, as the source of one of those grand colpi di scena, or dramatic surprises, so much applauded by the people of Italy. The king condemns Lycidas to death, while he is full of compassion for his victim ; and every thing is prepared for his execution, when he recognizes him as his own son. Then, with an excess of magnanimity, as Ah ! no ! si gran duolo Non darle per me : Eispondi, ma solo ; Piangendo parti. Che abisso di pene ! Lasciare il suo bene Lasciarlo per sempre, Lasciarlo cosi ! Olimpiade, Alto IL Sc. 9. 500 ON THE LITEKATURE I little agreeable to reason as to sound morality, the king I declares : And shall I dare to say tlie path of crime Is open to my race ? Each one of you Hath proved his virtue, and shall 1 alone Be feeble in the contest 1 This, of me. The world shall never hear. Upon your altars Kindle, ye priests, the sacred fire ! And thou, my son, go forth, and die ! Soon to be foUow'd by thy wretched sire.* The fatal order is, however, deferred, on a representation being made to his Majesty that he is, indeed, the King of Sicyon, but not of Olympia ; that his authority was confined to the late games ; and that it rests with the people to dis- jjose of the prisoner. The people, or in other words, the chorus, pronounce tlie pardon of Lycidas. It is also observable of the mythology of the opera, that all the punishments consist of sacrifices offered in honour of the gods ; and that, agreeably to this system, an innocent victim is always considered as more valuable than one already stained with blood. "We may be allowed to question whether this creed ever prevailed among the ancient pagans ; but it is, at least, a convenient one for poets, whom it has supplied, since the time of Guarini, with many noble scenes of poetical devotion. We thus behold Megacles and Argene successively claiming the right of dying for Lycidas ; and the same sacri- fice has been frequently repeated in all the theatres of Italy. It is by the entreaties of Argene, and by the proofs which she brings forward of her former relations with Lycidas, that he is discovered to be the son of Clistbenes. Metastasio was not a little indebted to Guarini, as has already been remarked ; but it is more particularly in his Demqfoonte that he approaches the author of the Pastor Fido. The plot, and especially the introductory scene, have * Clistenk. E forse La liberta dei falli Permessa al sangue mio % Qui viene ogni altro Valore a dimostrar : 1' unico e.sempio Esser degg' io di debolezza ] Ah, questo Di me non oda il mondo. Ola, mirJstri, Risvegliate su 1' ara il sacro foco .; Va, figlio, e mori. Anch' io morru fra poeo. Atto 111. Sc. 10. OF THE ITALIANS. 50 1 a very neai* resemblance. This play is founded upon the tradition of human sacrifices, celebrated in obedience to the ancient oracles of Thrace, the continuance of which depended on some enigmatical event, which could alone remove the cruel tribute exacted by the gods ; upon barbaric laws, which con- demned to death the woman who should venture to espouse the hereditary prince without the king's consent ; upon the double substitutions of children, and double recognitions ; and upon an elaborate structure of mythological romance, not transmitted to us by antiquity, and so little in unison with its usages and manners, as to place it even beyond the pale of our belief. The piece is not, however, destitute of interest ; inasmuch as Metastasio uniformly expresses the passions of a lover, a spouse, or a mother, in natural and pathetic language ; but it is the perpetual recurrence to dramatic common-places, so inconsistent with the dictates of real nature, and the stale magnanimity of heroes devoting themselves for each other, v/hich throw such an air of tedious improbability over the whole. Vfe have hitherto pursued the career of Metastasio, in the province of mingled fable and history; and have seen him treating subjects which permitted him to transpose, to em- bellish, and to adapt them to the purposes of the opera which he had always in view. But he has occasionally intro- duced the history of times, with which we are presumed to be somewhat better acquainted ; times which are, perhaps, more in unison with the interests of the tragic drama, in which the impression of truth adds so much to the emotion, than to the opera, in which we merely rest upon illusions to which we readily yield belief, provided they do not actually come in contact with our experience of previous facts. Among his historical productions, Zia Clemenza cli Tito is one of those held in the highest estimation, the subject of which, with very slight difference, is the same as that of Cinna. It embraces, like the latter, a conspiracy against a generous sovereign, directed by a female hand. But in Corneille there are, at least, old Roman and heroic principles, which put weapons into the hands of the conspirators. A just vengeance is the object of some ; the love of liberty and of their country ani- mates others; and Cinna alone is represented as entangled and driven on by his mistress. In Metastasio every thing is put 502 ON THE LITERATURE into action by artificial wires ; by the motives and passions best adapted to the interest of the opera. Vitellia, secretly in love with Titus, prevails upon Sextus to enter into a conspi- racy against him, only that she may be revenged upon him for his preference of the charms of Berenice. She is, in fact, the Hei'mioue of this new Orestes. Sextus is the friend of Titus, and has not even the shadow of a complaint against him, for Titus is the best of men, and Metastasio is an excellent painter of those faultless monsters without a spot. Indeed, there is a peculiar kind of efieminacy in the character of the poet, very favourable to the expression of goodness and tenderness of soul. Titus always appears with a gentle, confiding, and even fondling manner ; his generosity surpasses that of Augustus; it is beyond all limits ; but it would produce a greater im- press."'on did it proceed from a somewhat firmer character, and if the dignity of the sovereign were allowed to mingle with the kindness of the friend. Love is always so far the acting principle of all Metastasio's pieces, that death nowhere appears under a more serious aspect than in the speeches of his lovers. They speak of it, and menace each other with it, incessantly. But, in the midst of the most terrible agitation which the word may appear to excite, we feel a tolerably comfortable convic- tion that all is not meant that meets the ear. The rage of Vitellia, the daggers of Sextus, and even the conflagration of the Capitol itself, have altogether such a tempered fury, as will not suffer us to be really alarmed. In this piece, as well as in the preceding, those grand struggles of generosity ai*e repeated, until they weary the mind. Annius, a friend of Sextus, renounces his mistress Servilia in favour of Titus j while Servilia, on her side, renounces the throne of Titus for the love of Annius. The latter, having exchanged dresses with Sextus, carries on his robe the conspirator's badge, and receives the accusations of the object of his affections and of his prince, who take him for a traitor, without a reply. Sextus, who is, in his turn, discovered, is also silent, in spite of the most pressing intreaties of Titus, in order that he may not involve Vitellia. AYe must, nevertheless, admit that these two last incidents have a more probable appearance, and are of a less conventional nature in themselves, than some of the preceding; while they are, at the same time, treated in a very delicate and touching mannsr. These are the passages in OF THE ITALIANS. 503 Metastaslo wliicli draw tears ; but they are always the tears of tenderness and of passion. No prol'ound emotions of grief or terror are ever excited in us. He only relaxes and attenu- ates the fibres of the soul, and when he has rendered them sufficiently weak and flaccid, he surprises us into tears of the opera, which have nothing in common with those due to genuine tragedy. This peculiar softness and sensibility may, pei'haps, be well exemplified in the concluding lines addressed by Sextus to Vitellia, at the moment when he thinks he is about to sufier death for her sake : If you should feel upon your cheek Some breath, like Zephyr, wjindering nigh. Oh say : This is the parting sigh Of the fond youth who dies for me ! Your lover's spirit hovering near, Shall find a balm for every tear And sorrow past, to hear you kindly speak.* When Titus afterwards wishes to draw from Sextus an avowal of his fault, the gentleness of the one, and the sufier- ings of the other, are both very finely expressed. Titus. Hear me, Sextus ! Think not your sovereign speaks. He is not here K'ow open all your heart, as friend to friend : Believe my word, Augustus shall not hear it. Give me the reasons of your crime. Together Let us find means of pardon — no less pleasure To Titus than to Sextus.* * Se mai senti spiraili sul volto Lieve fiato che lento s' aggiri, Di : son questi gli estremi sospiri Del mio fido cue muore per me. Al mio spirto dal seno disciolto . La memoria di tanti martiri Sara dolce con questa mercfe. Aito II. Sc. 15. \ Tito. Odimi, o Sesto ! Siam soli ; il tuo sovrano Non fe presente. Apri il tuo core a Tito ; Confidati all' amico. lo ti prometto Che Augusto nol sapra. Del tuo delitto Di la. prima cagion. Cerchiamo insieme Una via di scusarti. lo ne sarei Forse di te piil lieto. Sesto. 504 ON THE LITERATCBE Sex. 1 say nothing ! My £vult admits of no defence. Titus. At least, Grant it, in friendship. I have not concealed From you the nearest secrets of my state. And surely merit some return of confidence From Sextus. .Sex. This is torment, such as never (Asule) Was known before : either I must otfend him, Or worse, betray Vitellia. Titus. Doubt you still ? Sextus, you wound my heart ; You outrage friendship, and insult the friend, With these unkind suspicions. Think once more, And grant my just request. Sex. What fatal sign Cast its malignant influence on my birth ! This play is dedicated to the Emperor Charles VI. ; the same who, in tlie year 1714, delivered up the faithful and unfortunate Catalonians to the ferocious vengeance of Louis XIV. and of Philip v., leaving thousands of victims to perish on the scaf- fold, sacrificed in his cause. Yet Aletastasio can say, " I had not ventured thus to describe you, were you not universally recognized in the character of Titus ; and is the poet account- able for the strong resemblance ? If you would avoid every where meeting with your own likeness, you must command the Muses, O victorious Augustus, no longer to sing the exploits of heroes." Sksto. Ah ! la mia colpa Non ha difesa. Tito. In contracambio almeno D' amicizia lo chiedo. lo non celai A la tua fede i piil gelosi arcani ; Merito ben che Sesto Sli fidi im suo segreto. Sesto. (Ecco una nuova Spezie di pena ! o dispiacere a Tito Vitellia accusar.) Tito. Dubiti aueora 1 Ma, Sesto, mi ferisci Nel pill vivo del cor. Yedi che troppo Tu r amicizia oltraggi Con questo diffidar. Pensaci, appaga II mio giusto desio. Sesto. ;RIa qual' astro splendeva al nascer mio I Aito III. Sc. 6. OF THE ITALIAi;3. 505 It is difficult to ascertain how far these specimens and trans- lations of the original may serve to convey a just idea of Me- tastasio, to such of my readers as are unacquainted with the Italian language. With a genius embracing so many opposite qualities, I may, very possibly, have scarcely succeeded in shewing in what manner the most refined graces of his poetry are united with false and exaggerated descriptions; the most correct and simple expression of the passions, with a total want of probability in the characters ; and an inexhaustible variety in the details, with a tedious sameness in the gi'ound- work of the plots. They are peculiar compositions of their kind; and yet, in perusal, appear to bear too marked a resem- blance to the tragic drama to be referable to any other rules. When we receive them, however, as such, we are unable to lend ourselves, in the least degree, to the illusion of those combats of the opera, in which very brilliant victories are achieved without any appearance of the dying or the dead ; and we become weary of those side whispei's, intended to in- struct the inattentive spectators, insomuch that we never hear a falsehood uttered aloud, but it is sure to receive a contra- diction in an under-breath. There is even a degree of tedious- ness felt in the mixture of the lyric and dramatic verses, which interrupts the expression of the sense, to give play to the imagination ; but the moment we consider Metastasio in his true character, as the great poet of the opera, he will always excite that degree of admiration which is due to an author advancing, without a guide, in a new career, and leaving behind him none who ventured to imitate him. Fresh serious operas doubtless appear, daily, soliciting the attention of the composers; but where shall we meet with one which will bear perusal ? Where shall we meet with an author who has ac- quired a reputation for even taste and talent, in a style of composition which has raised Metastasio to a rank among the greatest poets ? It is not dramatic skill alone which draws forth the plaudits of the public. There is a certain delicacy and enchanting softness of character, which are as sure to win its smiles, as the most finished art in exhibiting to our view the workings of human passions, and the details of human events. We do not mean to enter upon the discussion of the lyrical productions of Metastasio. His cantate and canzonette might VOL. I. II 506 ON THE LITERATURE liave been suflBcient for the reputation of another author. They have the same smoothness of versification as his airs, the same truth of drawing, and the same delicious sweetness in the language. But our admiration is absorbed in the fine dramatic creations of a poet, who has exercised such a marked influence over the taste of his nation ; and since we have been compelled to pass over so many of these, without touching upon their peculiar excellences, it can hardly be expected that we should bestow more of our attention upon lighter pieces, which, with all their merit, are certainly not original in their way. "We scarcely need to observe, that Metastasio is, at once, the most pleasing, and the least difficult of the Italian poets ; and that no one can be wrong in commencing the study of the Italian classics, and in imbibing, at its very source, the pleasure of poetic harmony, in the great poet of the opera. CHAPTER XVIII. ITALIAN LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY CONTINUED : COMEDIES — GOLDONI. The revival of Italian literature, after more than an age of degeneracy and decline, must be allowed to be a subject wor- thy of our curiosity and attention. Such a regeneration, unaccompanied by any favourable combination of circum- stances, and such a rapid developement of mind, amidst obstacles nearly similar to those which arrested the progress of letters. in the preceding age, are surely a cause for conso- lation and triumph to mankind. "We perceive how much vigour and perseverance are at once required effectually to repress the intellectual energies of man, and what resources for renewed action have been conferred upon him, enabling him to rise superior to the calamities which may have over- whelmed him. The political situation of Italy underwent but little improvement during the eighteenth century, and what had been gained was, perhaps, more than counterbalanced by habits of national sloth and indifference acquired by the people. A destructive war broke out, in the beginning of the OP THE ITALIAXS. 507 century, relating to the Spanish succession, which had, at first, the effect of transferring the provinces formerly in possession of the Spaniards to the German house of Austria. But sub- sequent -wars, which terminated in 1748, restored a portion of the provinces, forming a part of the Imperia;! dominions under Charles V., to the princes of the royal family of Spain. These princes, however, were of the house of Bourbon, and the influence which they exercised in Italy, might as justly he accounted of French as of Spanish origin. During the remaining part of the century, Italy had to complain of few serious wars ; and the course of her own affairs experienced neither interruption nor encouragement from the revolutions of foreign countries. A very formidable power had arisen in the north of Italy, in the house of Savoy, which, in 1713, attained to royal dignity, and continued to aggrandize itself during the last age, under a succession of politic and warlike princes. But though distinguished for men of superior talents and character, the state of Savoy contributed little to the advancement of Italian lettei's. The government was wholly military, and bestowed no attention on the progress of the human mind ; while the popular language spoken in Piedmont, a rude dialect composed of French and Italian, added to the indiffer- ence shewn by the Piedmontese for literary pursuits. The duchies of Milan and of Mantua, under the power of the house of Austria, and subsequently of that of Lorraine, were, for a long period, governed by the deputies of sovereigns, who, while they indulged a taste for Italian poetry, were as cautious of encouraging the growth of intellectual freedom in Italy, as they were in Germany. The regency of Count Firmian, and the patronage afforded by Joseph II,, were, nevertheless, favourable to these provinces, during the latter part of the eighteenth century. The universities of Pavia and Mantua owed their restoration to Imperial munificence ; and the disputed jurisdiction of the Popes gave rise to more liberal doctrines, pronounced from the chairs, than had been heard in Italy for a considerable length of time. The Venetian Republic, striving to disguise its decay of importance and of power under the cloak of policy and of resolute neutrality, seemed only desirous of burying itself in oblivion. While it encouraged the sciences in the university of Padua, philosophy ii2 508 ON THE LITERATURE was carefully excluded. Amusements were, also, liberally encouraged among the people, for the purpose of diverting their attention from more serious affairs, and the splendour of its theatres seemed to infuse fresh energy into the drama of Italy ; while the Dukes of Parma, and many other potentates, endeavoured, by rewards and encouragement, to produce pieces of equal excellence, and to vie with the Venetians, though in vain. The duchy of Modena, still in possession of the house of Este, with that of Parma, revived in favour of a younger branch of the Bourbons, had both been almost extinguished in the wars of the early part of the century. They were not again restored until after the lapse of a con- siderable time and with great difficulty ; nor did they in any way contribute to the advancement of letters, except by small pensions bestowed upon poets of the court. The grand-duchy of Tuscany had been subjected to a variety of changes, at different periods. During some years, at the beginning of the century, Cosmo III. still continued to reign. A jealous and suspicious bigot, he held the intellect, as well as the conscience of his subjects, in the harshest state of vassalage. The monks were his counsellors, and the whole of that beautiful country wore the aspect of one of their gloomiest convents. His son, Giovanni Gastone, on the contrary, sought to bury the sense of his own infirmities, and of the approaching extinction of his family, in a sort of perpetual carnival, and dissipation of mind. When, in the year 1737, Tuscany was transferred to Francis I. of Lorraine, who had married Maria Theresa, he appeared inclined to abandon it to its fate, refusing to reside there, on the plea of devoting his attention to the more important concerns of the empire. But his son Leopold, when he assumed the sovereignty, began with greal zeal and activity to apply the doctrines of philosophy to the afiliirs of state. He invited the attention of his subjects to political studies, and himself led them in the path they should pursue. He restored to the people of Tuscany the power of thinking, of speaking, and of writing, to an extent, which, though not unlimited, had no resemblance to the servile repose to which Italy had been accustomed for upwards of two hundred years. A pretty correct edition of the Italian poets and classics was published, by his particular direction, at Leghorn, under the fictitious date of London, which consisted almost entirely of OF THE ITALIANS. 509 prohibited books. The papal dominions were also in the possession, during this age, of two sovei'eign pontiffs, who appeared to emulate the example of Popes Nichohis and Pius of the fifteenth century, by the encouragement they afforded to letters and to the sciences. These men were Clement XIV. and Benedict XIV., whose personal influence, however, was rendered much less effectual by the opposition of the govern- ment of the priests. In fact, the territories of the Church, during the whole of this age, might be compared to one immense desert, where no signs of cultivation or of life appeared. The university of Bologna, alone, seemed to be exempted from the universal apathy which reigned around. Letters appeared to share with commerce the protection afforded by a municipal government, which preserved some resemblance of its ancient liberty. And, finally, the house of Bourbon, which had borne sway in Naples since the year 1735, attempted to mark the revival of that ancient monarchy, by advancing the progress of science and of letters. Charles IV. of Naples, and III. of Spain, gave the first impulse to these pursuits, of which the nation availed itself, during the long and lethargic reign of his successor. We may gather, even from this brief sketch of the times, that the disposition displayed by the different potentates of Italy towards the cause of letters was of a much more en- couraging nature, during the eighteenth century, than during the preceding age. Yet we may observe that none of these princes had received a very favourable education, nor possessed a character capable of undertaking noble things. A few of them are, doubtless, entitled to the praise of good intentions, but none have any claim to a lasting reputation, nor to a high place in the historical records of the times. A contracted spirit prevailed throughout their counsels and administration, even more than in their own minds. An established practice of exact controul, of obstinate dislike to every thing new, and of jealous inquietude and mistrust, ran through all the inferior departments of the government, habituating its sub- jects to a state of passive obedience and restraint. The corruption of manners was the result rather of the dictates of fashion than of any excess of the passions ; a general frivolity occupied the place of all serious reflection, and all warmth of conversation ; while long habits of indolence. 510 ON THE LITER ATUEE farther enfeebling the mind, seemed to incapacitate it for every kind of occupation. The fashionable custom of atten- dant Oicisbei, as little favourable to intellect as to manners, engaged the chief portion of the time of those whose object it was to trifle the whole of it away, and devolved hourly duties upon beings who might boast of having no other aim in life. They possessed no new ideas, no resources, either in the conduct of life, in action, or in speech ; and the hopeless- ness of applying study to any laudable purpose led to an extreme remissness in the education of j'outh. The universi- ties, which formerly bore so high a reputation, were frequented only by the students of theology, of medicine, and of juris- prudence, with a view to a lucrative profession ; and the hours devoted to more liberal studies than those of the priest, the physician, and the advocate, Avere generally considered as lost. The numerous private academies, which had produced so many distinguished chai'acters, during the fifteenth century, were now closed ; and only a few monkish seminaries remained, where the chief object of education was not so much to teach as to restrict, and to inculcate the duty of submitting the reason and the will to the established law of silence and dis- simulation, of obedience and fear. In short, the whole nation might be considered as virtually extinct ; or if any vestiges of its former great qualities were to be discovered, they were found in those obscure stations where the influence of educa- tion and of society had not penetrated, among the peasants and the lowest classes of the people, who, it may be observed, uniformly retain the same power of imagination, and the same quickness of feeling, as during the happiest periods of their annals. They who had sufficient energy to emerge out of this state of general apathy and. degradation, were first induced to make the effort from very laudable views. They took a national pride in demonstrating to the world that the literature of no people could boast, in any of its branches, of a superiority over the Italian. Their information was derived from foreign sources, and chiefly from the French. They began to com- pare themselves with others, before they had learned pi'operly to appreciate themselves. Imagining that they discovered in the worlis of the French critics too severe and jDartial a judgment of Italian literature, they attempted to prove its I OF THE ITALIA^^S. 5ll fallacy by their works. They had been accused of want of comprehension, or want of observation, of the rules of Aristotle ; and they immediately made them the main article of their literary creed. We recognize this emulative spirit in the eagerness evinced by the Italians to display the excel- lences of their writers in every branch of knowledge ; and, indeed, in all the productions belonging to this century, they sought to convey an impression that in nothing had they been surpassed. Such motives, too evidently apparent, deduct largely from the sincei'ity and originality of the wox'ks of the eighteenth century. One of the first attempts to supply their deficiency, for which the Italians had been reproached, in dramatic poetry, proceeded from a very tame imitator of French models, %vho could boast nothing of the genius they displayed. Pietro Jacopo Martelli was professor of literature at Bologna, where he died in the year 1727. He took Corneille for his prototype in the tragic, and Moliere, in the comic line ; antl, with talents something below mediocrity, he succeeded in preserving only the outline of their pieces, the combination of their scenes, and their theatrical regulations ; but the spirit and the power of their di'ama were beyond his reach. The un- dertaking, however, proved so far successful, in point of language, that it conferred upon the Italian a new species of verse, entitled, from its author, 3IarteUiano, which is still occasionally employed. To give his pieces a more complete resemblance to the French, Martelli wished to adapt the Alexandrine to Italian poetry ; and Avith this view he made an alteration in it, which, though indispensable in point of language, rendered it intolerable to the ear. He added a mute syllable to the cesura of the hemistich, giving to the stanza 3Iartelliana, a sort of movement, at the same time discordant, vulgar, and abrupt. All writers of Italian comedy, since that period, have adopted the same metre, whenever they wished to compose in verse. Faggiuoli, a Florentine, who died in 1742, is another of those authors who attempted to introduce a new style of comedy on the model of the French. The chief merit of his dramas, consisting of seven volumes, will be found in their correct delineation of manners, in their popular humour, and in the ease and purity of their language. But the fire and 512 ON THE LITERATURE force of dramatic genius are wanting. Even the finest passages possess only a negative kind of beauty ; and Faggiuoli, like Martelli, failed to fill up the void in the annals of the Italian drama. The Marchese Scipione Maflei was the third to enter the lists on this occasion. He could, at least, boast the possession of real talent and feeling, both of which he displayed in his 3Ierope, deserving the extended reputation it acquired. Matfei was born at Verona, in 1675 ; and like most of the literary characters of Italy, produced verses at a very early age. His genius embraced a wide field of human knowledge, being equally conversant with history, antiquity and natural philosophy. He undertook a poem, in an hundred cantos, upon the harmony of human virtues. Consulting the interests of the theatre, he made a selection of the best tragedies and comedies written in the sixteenth century, which the theatri- cal managers had suifered to sink into oblivion. Jealous of the fame of the French drama, he produced a critique on the Roclorjune of Corneille, embracing general strictures upon the taste of the French theatre. In a word, he resolved, at the age of thirty-nine, to present the world with a model of true tragedy, such as he conceived it should be ; and availed him- self both of the Greek and the French dramatists, without tamely following in their path. His tragedy, brought forward, at Modena, in the spring of 1713, enjoyed a run of success altogether unexampled in the annals of the Italian theatre. It ai'rived at the sixteenth edition, and the autograph manu- script of the author is preserved as one of the sacred reliques of Italy. As the 3Ierope of Euripides is lost to the moderns, Maffei may be considered as the first author, possessed of genius, who availed himself of this very dramatic and affecting story, which has since been treated by Voltaire and by Alfieri. Maftei piqued himself on the possibility of convincing the moderns that a tragedy might be written without a syllable of love, and without adopting the romantic taste which pre- vailed in the drama of France. He succeeded, in fact, in exciting, and in maintaining, a very lively interest, by the danger to which a mother exposes her only son, under the idea that she is about to avenge him. A few of the scenes are peculiarly afiecting, by the contrast ofiered between the OF THE ITALIANS. 513 fury of Merope and the resignation of -^gisthus, who is sup- posed to feel a presentiment of her being his mother. But the idea of Merope burning to execute vengeance, with her own hands, upon a prisoner lying bound before her, instead of awakening our sympathy, makes us recoil with disgust.* * The opening of this scene will serve to give an idea both of the beauties and the defects of the Merope of Mafl'ei. EuRiso. Eccomi a cenni tuoi. Merope. Tosto di lui T' assicura. Eur. Son pronto, or piil non fugge, Se questo braccio non ci lascia. Egisto. Come ! E perch^ mai fuggir dovrei ] Eegina, Non basta dunque un sol tuo cenno ] imponi : Spiegami il tuo voler ; che far poss' io ? Vuoi ch' immobil mi renda? immobil sono. Ch' io pieghi le ginocchia 1 ecco le piego. Ch' io t' offra inerme il petto 1 eccoti il petto. Ism. (Chi crederia che sotto un tanto umile Sembiante tanta iniquitii sasconda ?) Mek. Spiega la fascia, e ad un di questi marmi L' annoda in guisa che fuggir non possa. Egisto. ciel, che stravaganza ! Eur. Or qua, spediamci, E per tuo ben nou far \xh pur sembiante Di repugnare o di far forza. Egisto. E credi Tu che qui fermo tuo valor mi tenga 1 E ch' uom tu fOssi da atterrirmi, e trarmi In questo modo ? IS'on se tr& tuoi pari Stessermi intorno ; gli orsi alia foresta Jfon ho temuto d' aflrontare io solo. Eur. Ciancia a tuo senno, pur ch' io qui ti leghi. Egisto. Mira, colei mi lega : ella mi toglie II mio vigor : il suo real volere Venero e temo : fuor di cio, gia cinto T' avrei con queste braccia, e soUevato T' avrei percosso al suol. Mer. Non tacerai, * Temerario 1 aSirettar cerchi il tuo fato ? Egisto. Kegina, io cedo, io t' ubbidisco, io stesso Qual ti place, m' adatto. Ha pochi istanti Ch' io fui per te tratto dai ceppi, ed ecco Ch' io ti rendo il tuo don : vieui tu stessa ; Stringimi a tuo piacer : tu disciogliesti Queste misere membra, e tu le annoda. MtB. Or va, recami un asta. Egisto. 514 ON THE LITERATURE The anxiety of the spectator is well supported, and even be- comes more poignant from scene to scene, although it must be allowed to be rather that of an intrigue, than of strict tragedy. Too many adventures, also, are inwoven, and somewhat too unaccountably ; while the incidents come upon us as if it were by mei'e chance. The whole is composed in versi sciolti, or blank verse, which are equally elevated, simple, and harmonious, Maffei, ridiculing the measured stateliness of French verse, wished to present us with a more natural and easy style, and, perhaps, occasionally ran into the opposite extreme of a trivial and prosaic turn of expression. This de- gree of simplicity, however, sometimes gave him the com- mand of language of a more true and touching description ; as when Euryses, Merope's confidant, attempts to console her, on hearing of the death of her son, by bringing to mind ex- amples of fortitude under similar calamities : EuK. Think how the mighty king, for whom all Greece In arms arose "gainst Troy, in Aulis gave His dear child to a fierce and cruel death. As the gods will'd it. JMek, But, Euryses, the great gods had never Eequired it of a mother,* This sentiment, however, is not Maffei's ; he was indebted for it to a mother suffering under real affliction. There is, moreover, a very graceful turn of language and a natural expression of the feelings, though rather of a pas- Egisto. Un asta ! o sorte Qual di me gioco oggi ti prendi ? e quale Commesso ho mai nuovo delitto ? Dimmi : A qual iine son io qui awinto e stretto ? ]\Ier. China quegli occhi, traditore, a terra. Ism. Eccoti 11 ferro. Eur. Io il prendo, e se t' fe in grado, Gliel presento alia gola. Mer. ♦ A me quel ferro. Atto III. Sc. 4, * Eur. Tu ben sai che il gran r&, per cui fu tratta La Grecia in armi a Troia, in Auli ei stesso La cara tiglia a cruda morte oiFerse, E sai che il comandar gli stessi Dei. Mer, O Euriso, non avrian giii mai gli Dei Cio comandato ad una madre. Atto II. Sc 6. OF THE ITALIANS. 515 toral than of a tragic nature, in the speech of Polydore, where he first discovers the son of his friend in the palace of Merope, and recalls his numerous virtues to mind. The following translation of this passage, in blank verse, by Vol- taire, is found in his letter to Maffei. Eurises, c'est done vous ? Yous, cet aimable enfant que si souvent Sylvie Se faisait un plaisir de conduii'e ^ la cour 1 Je crois que c'est liier. ! que vous etes prompte ! Que vous croissez, jeunesse ! et que dans vos beaux jours Yous noiis avertissez de vous cSder la place.* From the number of similar attempts made by Voltaire, we might suppose he was desirous of introducing this species of verse into French poetry ; altliough he did not wish to incur himself the responsibility attaching to it. But he should have avoided, somewhat more carefully, prosaic turns of ex- pression, in lines possessing no longer the attraction of rhyme. The Italian language, on the other hand, is distinguished by much greater elevation of style, when Avritten in blank verse, than in rhyme. Maffei, likewise, applied his talents to comedy ; but, of two pieces, which he composed in this line, neither appeared to meet with much success. He died in the year 1755, at the advanced age of eighty years. The example which he gave to the dramatists of the day, in his tragedy of Merojoe, seemed to rouse them to fresh exertions, and a host of writers took him for their model in a series of tragedies, which appeared during the early part of the century. None of these deserved a lasting reputation ; and the collections which have been made of them, wiU hardly reward us for the trouble of perusal. The Abb^te Pietro Chiari, poet to the court of the Duke of Modena, in the hope of producing a new era in the drama- tic annals of Italy, composed no less than ten volumes of comedies in verse. These enjoyed a partial success ; being * Tu dunque sei quel fanciuUin clie in corte Silvia condur solea quasi per pompa : Parmi 1" altr' ieri. Oh quanto siete presti, Quanto mai v' afirettate, o giovinetti, A fairi adulti, ed a gridar tacendo Che noi diam loco ! Ati^ li. -/c 4. 516 ON THE LITERATURE received much in the same manner as his romances had before been by the ladies of Italy ; a proof to what an extent the cor- ruption of good taste, and of the drama must have proceeded. Tliey are characterised by a solemn emptiness and by a common-place affectation, which render them equally tedious and ridiculous. Carlo Goldoni, at length, made his appearance ; and the revolution so frequently attempted in the taste of the Italian theatre, by men whose talents were unequal to the task, was reserved for one, whose genius was capable of making a stronger impression on the minds of his countrymen. Gol- doni was a native of Venice, born in 1707, and he died in Paris in 1792. He was at first intended for an advocate, but the pleasure he derived from a short tour made with a com- pany of comedians, led him to renounce his profession, and to attach himself wholly to the theatre, where he commenced his original career in 1 746. The first piece represented by the company to which he belonged, was his Donna d'l Garho : The Lady of Merit, which was received with very general applause. From that period he poured forth his pieces with astonishing facility, and traces of his rapidity may be clearly perceived in the compositions themselves ; of which, we are assured, he wrote no less than one hundred and fifty. He speedily overthrew the reputation acquired by the Abbate Chiari, whose tame and pedantic productions could not bear a moment's competition with those of Goldoni. He after- wards encountered more powerful opposition from the pen of Count Carlo Gozzi, who accused him of having deprived the Italian theatre of the charm of poetry and imagination. Gozzi had obtained a very popular, although a short-lived name, in 1761, by working fairy tales into dramas ; and Goldoni had to struggle against him for a considerable time. He at lust became irritated ; and in the same year, in a mo- ment of indignation, set out for Paris, where he produced, in the French language, Le Bourru hienfaisant : Tlie viorose Plulantliropist, represented for the first time in the year 1771. He was offered a situation at court, and notwithstand- ing the renewed success which his works met with in Italy, he could not be induced to visit it again. He became blind in the decline of life, and died in 1792. In the outset of his career, Goldoni found the Italian theatre OP THE ITALI.\>;S. 517 divided between two classes of dramatic composition. These were the classical comedies, and the comedies of art. The first" class comprehended such as were more particularly the production of the closet ; the fruits of anxious study and correct observance of the Aristotelian rules ; but possessing none of the popular qualities sought for by the public. Of these, some were pedantic copies of the ancients ; others, imitations of these copies ; and others again, were boiTowed from the French. We have already bestowed sufficient no- tice upon these, and have pointed out to what degree they ai'e deficient in the qualities of originality, strength, and wit. The comedies of art were the production of the comedians themselves, and were chiefly extemporary, or sketched with a very slight outline, intended for the actor at his pleasure to fill up. Such was the species of composition which brought upon the Italian theatre the reproach of endeavouring to in- terest the public only by its popular pleasantries, by gross buffooneries, and by adventures equally improbable and ab- surd. Foreigners invariably treated them with extreme contempt ; while the Italians themselves, ashamed to hear them mentioned, and conscious that the public was pleased with no other kind of exhibition, had nothing to offer in their own excuse. In fact, the people resorted in crowds to wit- ness the comedy of art, while the classical theatre was left to the actors and to empty benches. Yet, neither were the people in the wrong ; nor were the accusations attaching to the comedies of art unjust. The truth is, they were the only productions agreeable to the national spirit of the people, and which gave a just view of the force and vivacity of the Italian character. Theatrical managers, who gave a new comedy every even- ing, were naturally desirous, for economical reasons, of making use of the dresses of the night for the personages who were to appear on the ensuing day; and hence, doubtless, the origin of the comic Italian masks. A sort of abstract consideration of the different characters supposed to be requisite to give a natural and complete view of familiar life, was entered into by these comic speculators ; and two fathers, two lovers, two ladies, and three or four domestics, were gene- rally fixed upon. An appropriate situation, a name, a country, a mask, and a dress, were bestowed ou each of these ; and 518 ON THE LITERATUEE each actor was entitled to one of these personages hy right of long prescription, and strove to make himself master of his character, his tone of voice, and his repartees. Dramatic tradition, also, came in aid of this first distribution of the parts : a particular motion of the head, tone of voice, or gesture, adopted by some uncommon performer in the cha- racter of Pantaloon, of Doctor Balanzoni, of Harlequin, or of Columbine, became the peculiar attributes of such fantastic beings. Every thing was " set down and conned by rote ;" the character, the ideas, and the minutest tricks ; insomuch that the actor had no scope allowed him for invention ; his business was to fill correctly the part which had been assigned to him. Each individual personage, as it has been very happily observed by A. W. Schlegel, in his Dramatic Course, resembled one of the pieces at a game of chess, whose progress is ready chalked out, and invariably subject to the same rules; a knight is never permitted to move like a bishop or a rook. Yet, with pieces of a limited number, and of invariable power, the com- binations of the game are infinite ; and the same remark may very ijroperlybe applied to the characters of the Italian theatre. But in proportion as less was left to the discretion of the actor to do, in the invention of this imaginary personage, the more safely might he be entrusted with every tiling incum- bent upon him to say. An actor, who had never appeared on the boards except in the character of Pantaloon, or one who had, all his life, done nothing but play the part of Har- lequin, was much less likely to commit any improprieties of character, than even the author who had produced the piece. Of this, the latter was so sensible, that he was in general content to write a mere sketch. He brought upon the scene two or three of these personages, pointed out the manner in which their colloquies were to end, and took his leave of them in the confidence that they would put the finish to their natural humour in their own wav. These outlines of per- formances, were in repute during the whole of the seventeenth and the greatest part of the eighteenth century, when they were, also, introduced into France by the actors of Italy. They had, morever, no little influence in fixing the taste for the species of humour most appropriate and admissible for the Italian stage. This humour could seldom be derived from the subject of the piece ; and it was, on the contrary, neces- OF THE ITALIANS. 519 sary to elicit it almost entirely from the characters. The comic situations and incidents were all arranged before hand ; because a word too little or too much, would be quite suffi- cient to change the whole aspect of affiiirs ; to release an luilucky wretch from his difficulties; to discover the secret of the piece, or to explain a mutual misapprehension. Besides a really good pleasantry, which ought to be equally ingenious, just, and pertinent, is by no means such a vulgar article as always to come to hand at the moment it is wanted; and it is very well if it can be elaborated before. A good actor had, nevertheless, sufficient scope allowed him to display a humo- rous imagination, without encroaching upon the province of another, or bringing into jeopardy the interest of the piece. Pantaloon was at liberty to make a display of good-natured folly; the Doctor had an old prescription for his pedantic vanity ; Columbine fgr her roguery, and Harlequin for his foolery. Gaiety was expected from the drolleries; but it had no malice in it ; inasmuch as each held up his own foults and his own happy absurdities to view, instead of ridiculing the foibles of his neighbour ; but the satire was thus very fre- quently as little pointed as it was true. It failed in point, because the performers neither observed nor knew before hand, the persons whom they might have to deal with upon the scene ; and it wanted nature, inasmuch as each actor caricatured the part which he had to play, for the sake of producing greater effect. But Goldoni, while he engaged the actors to deliver his pieces exactly as he had written them, Avith a prohibition against introducing dialogues at their pleasure, contrived to approach nearer to the comedies of art, than any author who had until then appeared. He retained in, at least, one half of his plays aU the masks of Italian comedy ; leaving them in undisputed possession of the character which tradition had assigned to them : and when the performers were fi'eed from the immediate restraint of the author's presence, they again began to exhibit their extemporary talents ; so that, as the writers who succeeded to Goldoni renounced the masks alto- gether, it is only in the pieces of the latter that we are still treated, in Italy, with the appearance of an actor playing his own part as an improvvlsatore. Goldoni is considered, by the Italians, as the author who 520 ON THE LITERATURE carried the dramatic art, in Italy, to its highest point of per- fection; and he must, certainly, be allo^\ed to have possessed no common powers. He had a fertility of invention, which supplied him with subjects for his comic muse, almost always new ; and such facility of composition, that he not unfre- quently produced a comedy of five acts, in verse, within as many days : a rapidity so far prejudicial, as it led him to bestow too little pains upon the correctness of his comedies. His dialogue was extremely animated, earnest, and full of meaning ; and with a very exact knowledge of the national manners, he jiossessed the rare faculty of giving a lively representation of them on the stage. To these he added an exquisite relish of Italian humour, which delights in amusing pictures of absurdity, and in the genius of the buffoon. It is not to be denied, however, that Goldoni's works are not so highly estimated by foreigner^ as by the people of Italy ; and this is chiefly to be attributed to the want of those romantic and poetic elements in the national manners, which renders them less suitable for dramatic display. The passion of love must still form the animating principle of our comedy, as well as of our romance ; being, at once, the most lively and poetical of all the social passions, and that which gives the greatest developement to character, and the strongest colours to our future days. But lasting and impassioned love, taking its source at once in the heart, the understanding, and the senses, and combining their qualities in one ; a love which founds its pleasure upon mutual preference, cannot easily be supposed, in Italian manners, to aim at marriage as its ultimate object. Educated in complete seclusion from society, and obliged to maintain the utmost reserve, their young women are subjected to as severe an ordeal of public opinion for merely appearing in the world, as for engaging in a dishonourable intrigue. They are thus, in some instances, induced to yield the rein to their feelings, not only in a very inconsiderate manner, but with an impetuosity and impru- dence equally surprising and revolting ; and they often learn to think less of indulging a choice of affection than of obtain- ing, in a general way, an establishment in marriage. This they look forward to as the means of at once throwing off the restraints imposed upon them by their parents and by society, and the affectation of a reserve, as little agreeable to their OF THE ITALIANS. 52) inclinations as totlieir taste ; and as the moment for enjoying the pleasures afforded them in the world. In Italy, it is made a point of duty, in a discreet and sensible girl, to accept the husband provided for her by her parents, whatever may he her objections to his character, his understanding, or his person ; and it is this singular sort of moral, always incul- cated by the comic poet, which exhibits such an amusing contrast to our own preconceived opinions on the subject. Thus, in The Trvins of Venice, a subject treated at least twenty times by the dramatists of every nation, since the time of Plautus, and the humour of which depends upon the mistakes arising out of the perfect resemblance between two brothers, we behold one of them just arrived from the moun- tains of Bergamo, to espouse Rosetta, the daughter of Doctor Balanzoni. Now Rosetta is a virtuous and prudent girl, whom the author delights to hold up as a model of duty to the young ladies of Italy. Her lover is an idle, ignorant, cowardly, uneducated fool ; a sort of harlequin, intended to support the absurdity of the piece to its close. Rosetta is at some pains to repel his impertinence, and to keep him at a distance, although, at the same time, she frequently gives us to understand that he is far from being very disagreeable. The author rids himself of this notable hero by poisoning him upon the stage, and further justifies this summary way of proceeding, in his preface, by the ingenious argument, that, far from exciting any tragic feelings, he only amuses us by the ridiculous manner in which he meets with his death. But I doubt whether the spectators do not view the affair ia another light, and feel that the levity of a buffoon, attending the commission of an atrocious crime, adds considerably to it3 horror. However this may be, Rosetta, after expressing a proper sense of her despair, in the next scene accepts the hand of Lelio, another species of the tribe of fools, whose boasting falsehoods and absurdities had sustained the first four acts. Until the fifth, J^ie had been devoted to another lady ; but he has then the option of Rosetta's hand, with a fortune of fifteen thousand crowns ; and exclaims, in the presence of the lady, " She cannot but be agreeable ; fifteen thousand crowns confer beauty upon every one." The lady's consent is then asked ; and Rosetta replies, " That slie has always pleasure in fulfilling the wishes of her father." This VOL. I K K 522 ON TUE LITERATURE utter want of delicacy is, we must confess, too frequently met with in the manners of the people ; but we can hardly persuade ourselves that sucli raannei-s are adapted to the stage. The female characters of most of this author's pieces dis- cover little more delicacy in their sentiments and conduct. Thus, in his Donna dl testa dehole: or Tlie n-eak-headed Lady, D. Elvira makes improper advances, and induces her friend to take similar steps, in her name, to D. Fausto, a lover of her sister-in-law, not out of any affection she enter tains for him, but out of mere jealousy lest her sister-in-law should be married before herself.* She, likewise, gives a very sharp lecture to her uncle Pantaloon, the master of the house, for not shewing more alertness in providing her with a separate establishment, in marriage, j As the name indicates the genius of the character, all the Kosettas of his pieces are found to be sentimental young ladies, a little amorous, and very obedient ; with a vast ambition of being married, but with still higher notions of paternal authority. Goldoni's Beatrices, on the contrary, are of the opposite character, full of vivacity, impetuosity, and ffoHc, as a contrast to his melancholy Rosettas. Sometimes their extreme violence carries them beyond all kind of conventional bounds. VCq. are presented, in many of Goldoni's plays, with young ladies just eloped from home, pursuing their admirers in a student's gown, or a military roquelaure, proceeding from place to place, and after all concluding their adventures happily. Such personages have a very strong infusion of the national character; no country in the world affording so many instances of the triumph of passion, when once the fair martyrs have overcome all obstacles, in order to yield them- selves up to its dictates ; but the results attributed by the romance are by no means probable. There is no truth in them ; and it is prejudicial, in a moral point of view, to give honourable results to a vicious and dissipated course of life, such as that of- Beatrice in The Tivlns of Venice, or in Harlequin the Valet of T)vo 3f asters ; and to suppose that female virtue incurs no risk by an elopement from the pater- nal mansion. It may, to be sure, be observed, that regard to di-amatic propriety, not always favourable to morals, would * La Donna di testa debole. AttoII. Sc 10. t The same. Attol. Sc. U. . OF THE ITALIANS. 523 not admit of a less fortunate conclusion to the story. In truth, the scenic heroines, hy pretty general agreement, are supposed, on the Avhole, to entertain only virtuous sentiments ; and this rule, which I am far from presuming to impugn, gives a singular air of incongruity to the representation of manners, which are by no means so immaculate. The cliief developement of the passions, the absorbing interest of life, iu Italy, appear to be centered in that Avhimsical relation known by the name of Cicisbei, or Cavalieri serventi. The restraint there imposed upon young unmarried women, and the unbounded liberty gi'anted to those who wear the hymeneal yoke, invariably led, according to the customs of the country, to the reign of love, subsequent to that of marriage. Love was then no longer confounded with the vague desire of a settlement in life, but sprung from intimate acquaintance, coincidence of feelings, and an union of the whole soul. This, however, had a very unfavourable influence on all the relations of social life ; on the peace of families, the educa- tion of children, and the character of woman. None of the comic authors ventured to exhibit a sentiment of so immoral a tendency upon the stage, although they could not wholly ex- clude one of the most characteristic traits from the pictures of national manners thus exhibited. Cicisbei are introduced into the greatest part of the comedies, without, however, being permitted to breathe a syllable of love. We are almost at a loss to perceive the object of their hopes or fears ; their situation renders them peculiarly dull and unim- passioned ; it never changes ; and in this very disinterested sentiment, leading to no action, and permitted to give no ex- pression to its wishes, we anticipate as little of the intrigue as of the catastrophe. ' Nor is it the tender passion only which is thus misrepre- sented in the character of Goldoni's women. We find others equally inconsistent, both in point of natural and dramatic propriety. I have invariably found the exhibition of feminine i'riendship received with the most lively applause on the Italian stage. The ladies, in Goldoni, always meet each otlier with the most rapturous expressions of alfection, bestowing mutual flattery upon their graces of mind and person, with the warmest assurances that they take infinite pleasure in parti- cipating each other's feelings ; yet the moment they are sepa- KK 2 524 ON THE LITERATURE rated, they attack each other's character in a strain oi mingled hatred and contempt. Unfortunately, this species of hypocrisy among fair acquaintance is of no very rare occurrence in Italy. It is, perhaps, more usual there than irr other places ; but it required no great degree of skill, on the part of the author, to bring this contrast of manners into view. Thei'e can be no merit in describing a scene which calls for no particular delicacy, judgment, or accuracy. And even supposing such hypocrisy to be natural, it is equally low and revolting when it occurs so frequently throughout the author's pieces ; and, by renouncing the interest arising out of real friendship, he, at the same time, deprives himself of one grand source of touching the feelings, and of weaving and unravelling his plot. In the same manner, the good and the bad qualities of his women are all carried to an extreme ; there are no redeem- ing points in some, and no foibles in others. In one of his comedies, Goldoni aimed at throwing ridicule upon the tastes of learned ladies, in which he far surpassed the degree of extravagance and caricature for which Moliere has been re- proached ; whose portraits may be considered as patterns of delicacy when placed by the side of the Italian. The subject of this satirical piece, La Donna di testa debole, brings forward very powerful arguments, with much acuteness and good sense, for the cultivation of her mind. But this she conceives chiefly to depend upon the number of lessons she takes in the Latin syntax, from an ignorant student, who instructs her to speak in a pedantic jargon, which cannot fail to render her ridiculous as well as her master, neither of them being able to utter a sentence without a solecism, or to understand the Latin decree pronounced by the judge in her lawsuit. In Italy, however, the nature of pedantry is not understood, A person is never exposed to ridicule for making a parade of the knowledge he really possesses, but for piquing himself on that which he does not, in the least, understand. Upon this distinction, Goldoni founded his Donna di Garho : the Lady of Merit, as a contrast to the Donna di testa debole : The iveak-headed Lady ; the former of whom is a most intolerable pedant ; yet because she surpasses every one opposed to her in real scientiflc knowledge, she is fiixed upon as the source of the interest OF THE ITALIANS. 525 of the piece, and as a pattern for all studious ladies. Holding a menial situation in the house of Dr. Balanzoni, she engages the affections of the doctor, who is induced to marry her. Sometimes she reads her own poetry ; sometimes she argues a Latin thesis, and at others, engages in scholastic disputes ; displaying, throughout the whole performance, the sort of in- formation least agreeable in women. In another Italian comedy, Di Napoli SlfjnoreUi, we are presented with a lady, in a man's dress, playing the part of an advocate ; and the specimen of her pleading, sprinkled with texts of Roman law, is inserted at length in the drama. Defects of the same kind are apparent, also, in the charac- ters of the men. In Italy no considerations on moral philoso- phy, which are always suspected of endangering the interests of religion, are allowed to appear. Sound morality is, in con- sequence, so falsely appreciated and understood, that what a comic author not unfrequently exhibits as noble, delicate, and virtuous, is precisely of an opposite nature ; and the same remark will even apply to more serious writers. Dissimulation and breach of faith are vices of which the Italian people are in general accused. This fact may, perhaps, have given rise to that frequent inculcation of a religious observance of the word, which we so frequently find placed among the virtues of the Italian stage. But they extend this duty to cases where it will not apply, depending entirely upon the will of others ; and they treat the heart and hand of a daughter as if it were always in a father's power to confer them. We have an instance of this in The Obedient Daitr/hter; a piece, in other respects, deficient neither in interest nor wit, where Pantaloon encourages his daughter's regard for Florindo, who had set out for Leghorn to obtain the consent of his parents to their nuptials. He returns successful ; but a few hours after his arrival, Count Ottavio, a rich blockhead, makes his appearance, requesting Rosetta's hand from her father, who is not disposed to lose so favourable an opportunity of a rich alliance. He, therefore, gives his daughter's consent, without consulting her on the subject ; and his word, on such an occa- sion, is considered as irrevocable. Florindo, in despair, pleads his prior title in vain ; and in vain Rosetta, while she obeys, discovers the wretchedness of her heart. The new lover, of whom no one in the family knew any thing, likewise displays 526 ON THE LITEEATURE the most cliildisli extravagance in the presence both of father and daughter, all in vain. He is a bad character, a spendthrift, and a coward ; but Pantaloon, though neither an obstinate, nor avaricious father, but a kind and sensible parent, with a high sense of his duties, has given his word and will observe it. He deeply sympathizes in his daughter's affliction, but is not the less resolved to sacrifice her to his promise. Rosetta submits to every thing, with the greatest resignation ; she consents to give her hand to the Count that very day, and even tells herfixther that, for his sake, she does it with pleasure. The only reason of the marriage not taking place proceeds from the Count, who, as a fresh instance of impertinence, breaks his promise with the lady. Even integrity is represented under very false colours, and without the least pretension to delicacy of mind. Really honest people make such repeated protestations that they will respect the property of others, as might, in other places, give rise to strong suspicions against them. In Tlie Twins of Venice, Tonino, intended by the author for an accomplished gentle- man, obtains, through the mistake of Harlequin, jewels to a veiy large amount, with a purse of gold belonging to his brother. Pie repeatedly acquaints us that " Such an incident might have made another's fortune ; but as for me, I am an honourable character, and scorn to meddle with other people's property. I shall take care of this case of jewels, and of this purse, and when I am lucky enough to meet with their right owner, I shall not fail punctually to restore them." He, nevertheless, in the next scene, offers the jewels to a woman whom he has reason to believe to be an impostor ; and he finally entrusts them, under the express condition of restor- ing them to the proprietor, to a stranger, who turns out to be a rogue. Learned characters are invariably represented as intolerant pedants ; not for the purpose of casting ridicule upon them ; but because little knowledge exists in Italy ; be- cause those who possess it seldom appear in society, and know as little of what is due to the self-love of others, as they do of the ridicule attached to their own vanity. Courage is turned into a sort of bravado, which fails upon being puttotlie proof. Duels are frequently exhibited on the stage, while the heroes as frequently pause to reflect, whether it might not be the safest way to assassinate their adversary. OF THE ITALIANS. 527 In describing the extremes of absurdity and of vice, Gol- doni threw great animation into the portraits he drew. There is, in general, a consistency in the character of each of his per- sonages, which he preserves throughout, and which appears in every action, word, and gesture. Sucli a character, how- ever, has, for the most part, little resemblance in nature, or in truth. As there is no real society in Italy, no power of opinion, and no satire which is dreaded, we there behold errors and vices exhibited with a fearless sincerity, which we in vain look for in any other country. There are certain limits, however, beyond which the comic writer must not venture to pass, if he would avoid exciting feelings less allied to pleasure th:in to disgust. Cowardice is, perhaps, the quality best adapted to rouse an audience to laughter ; but Goldoni, instead of confining it to persons altogether of a ridiculous stamp, conferred it, in many instances, upon his lovers, waom he thus rendered at least as effeminate as the objects of their adoration. Extreme perfidy and depravity of mind ought, by no means, to be admitted on the stage ; noi', indeed, any character which is likely to be assailed by the hisses of the audience. Pancrace, in the Twins, is one of these ; he is at once a hypocrite, a coward, and a brute, who finishes his career by poisoning his rival with so little prospect of advan- tage to himself, that the improbability of the circumstance adds to the feeling of disgust which his crime inspires. This feeling of delicacy in the spectators is, in France, carried so far as not to admit of the appearance of female ad- venturers upon the stage. But the Italians are not so fasti- dious ; and it is, perhaps, chiefly in the parts assigned to female dancers and actresses ; in the pride which their father is supposed to take in their riches and success ; and in the incessant mixture of vain boasting and of meanness, that Gol- doni discovers talents at once natural and humorous. In the pleasing comedy entitled La Locandicra: The Landlady, in which the animation of the dialogue, and the whimsical con- tradiction of the characters, are carried very far, the only females who make their appearance are three intriguers. The author here attempts to centre the interest in Mirandolina, the mistress of the inn, who supports the character of an experienced coquette, full of life, variety, and compliment ; totally insensible to the tender passion with which she dallies 528 ON THE LITERATURE for mere pastime, but quite virtuous at heart ; and with a reputation which, in conchision, procures her a very suitable establishment in married life. And, in order to exhibit her excellent points in a more pleasing light, the author does not scruple to contrast her with two very impertinent, assuming, and grasping adventurers, who would not be tolerated, for a moment, on the French stage. In the Jealous Mixer, Pantaloon appears as an old usurer, who has just taken to himself a young wife, and who watches her like his money ; though still rather with the mistrust of avarice than of love. The character is happily conceived, and developed with much spirit ; but the verj^ ex- travagance of his two foibles diminishes the probability of each, and renders the effect too disagreeable. The jealous miser makes himself so thoroughly contemptible, that his reformation, at the end of the play, is hardly to be accounted for by a miracle. Among the most happy subjects for the display of the national absurdities is, doubtless, that of ostentation. In a country, where the censui'e of opinion falls very lightly on those who have no solid claims to esteem, riches form the readiest means of making an impression on the public. Goldoni caught the true spirit of a foible, which gives an air of happy ridicule to many of his comedies. Three of these are devoted to the subjects of Le Vdlegiature ; the season passed in the country during the rui'al festivals ; and the author has succeeded in drawing a very ludicrous picture of the sumptuous display, peculiar to one month in the year, for which whole families are content to sacrifice the comforts and enjoyments of the eleven remaining months. Such exhibi- tions, however, of vices and absurdities have seldom much eifect in eradicating them. I have been witness to a family lavishing its resources on a magnificent festival, given on the banks of the Brenta, in which they represented the piece, well entitled : Le Smanieper la Villegiatura : The rage for the Fetes Chamyetres. All the performers mutually ridiculed each other. The legal processes which had been served at their villa in the morning, left very little room, indeed, for illusion ; but so far did they disregard such a consideration, that they seemed to take pleasure in displaying their own. characters upon their own theatre. OF THE ITALIA>-S. 529 ' After the analysis we have just given of the different cha- racters of Goldoai's comedy, it will easily be perceived how small is the share of fine feelings which they display. In- deed, the drama of this author is any thing but sentimental. His heroes and heroines are not those of romance ; he gives them their full share of human foibles, and delights to make us laugh at their expense ; displaying the egotism lurking in their generosity, the interested nature of their friendship, the envy mingled with their admiration, and throughout all, the dull, calculating, and vulgar part of human nature. This he accomplished with considerable address and wit, and v/ith no slight knowledge of dramatic effect. He strongly excites our laughter, at the same time that we applaud the natural turn of the dialogue and of the characters. But we are not very sure that tllis is the sole object of comedy ; and the feeling of weariness which we so soon experience in the perusal of Goldoai's plays, leads us to suspect that in all the productions of art, something of a more ideal character is requii'ed. The various actions of mankind, the objects which they have in view, their thoughts and their opinions, may all be considered in an opposite light, and tried by two very different rules. In the ideal world, we propose to our- selves only that which is most perfect and beautiful in its kind ; in the real world, we consider what is most likely to turn out to our own advantage. Of these characters, the former class may be considered as poetical, and the latter as prosaic. The struggle between these antagonist qualities fur- nishes subjects equally good for the tragic, and for the comic muse ; and it rests with the author to take part with the one or the other, as he feels most inclined to call forth our sympathy for those poetical beings withering in the frown of the world, or to amuse us with laughing at their ignorance of human affairs, and at their inability to make themselves un- derstood by mere worldly men. But where no character of this elevated description appears in a comedy, we soon become weary of the narrow views and despicable opinions peculiar to the prosaic class. We begin to feel the want of a species of interest which we do not find ; and to this aspi- ration after nobler sentiments, and more grateful feelings, may be attributed the revival of sentimental comedy, of domestic tragedy, of tragi-comedy, the melo-drame, and 530 ON THE LITERATURE romantic comedy, in different ways, upon the stage of every people. But though Goldoni occasionally aimed at creating a sort of interest, it was rather in imitation of the intricacy of the Spanish wibrogU, and of the romantic comedy, where the incidents crowd upon each other, and the heroine only escapes out of one danger to rush into another, than upon the model of the French sentimental dramas, employed by his rival Chiari, that he sought to attract and to move the feelings of his audience. The best specimen which wc pos- sess of this kind, is in his Incofjnita. Rosaura is the' daughter of a Sardian gentleman, Avho had been ruined in a family quarrel, which had already caused the effusion of much blood. His other children had all been assassinated, and he is himself in continual danger from the weapons of hired bravos sent in pui'suit of him by his enemy. Both had been banished by the laws of their country ; and the father of Rosaura had sought refuge, under a feigned name, in Naples ; where he disguises himself even from his daughtex', to whom he only appears as a friend of her family. Fresh dangei's once mere compel him to seek for safety in flight ; he concealshisdaughter in the cottage of a peasant in Aversa ; and there the scene first opens upon us. A gen- tleman of the name of Florindo, cavaliere servente to Bea- trice, wife of the intendant, falls in love with Rosaura at Aversa. She requites his passion, and is on the point of eloping with him, to avoid the importunities of Lelio, another admirer, who is the leader of those bravos and smugglers formerly so numerous in the kingdom of Naples. He dis- perses the force sent in pursuit of him; sets justice at defiance, and spreads terror through the neighbouring country. By the outrages and depredations of Lelio, the vindictive jealousy of Beatrice, the importunate Avarmth of Florindo, and the intendant's love of justice, Rosaura is in- volved in a series of adventures, carried away an infinite number of times and as often released, in such a way as to keep up a very lively degree of interest and, curiosity. The character of Pantaloon, Lelio's father, and a respectable merchant of Venice, who alone retains any influence over Lis son, is of itself suflicient to support the interest of the piece. His conduct, under the most trying circumstances. OF THE ITALIANS. 53 1 is represented as equally delicate, generous, and determined. "We may, likewise, consider Goldoni as entitled to praise for having placed the scene of his comedies in the manners of a country, in every way so suitable for the representation of romantic adventures. It is there that we behold men en- slaved by habits of effeminacy and sloth ; or breaking through the restraints of society, to surrender themselves madly to their passions ; living in open defiance of public order, and yielding no obedience to the despicable govern- ments, whose yoke they have shaken off. We have there, likewise, seen, no later than the close of the sixteenth cen- tury, a sovereign prince, Alfonso Piccolomini, duke of Monte Mariano, become the chief of a horde of banditti, and continue his strange profession for more than a period of ten years. It was a circumstance of more common occur- rence for the Neapolitan gentlemen to grant the use of their castles and estates, as a safe retreat for the banditti em- ployed by them in their private quarrels ; insomuch that the existence of these men, living in open defiance of the laws, and dreaded even by cities, which had suffered from their violence, was sufficiently real to admit of the introduction of scenes, similar to those of the Incognita, into the roman- tic comedy and the romances of Italy. CHAPTER XIX. THE ITALIAN COMEDT CONTINUED : GOZII ; AL BERG ATI ; ATELLONI ; FEDERICI ; ROSSI ; PDfDEMOSTX, &C. Goldoni is universally allowed, by the people of Italy, to be the great master of the comic stage ; and his produc- tions, identified as they are with the character and manners of the nation for which they were written, are always received with enthusiastic applause. I have frequently heard the representation of one of his pieces interrupted by the repeated cry of " Gran Goldoni," which was caught and re-echoed through all parts of the theatre. Yet his mei'it, however eminent in the natural and faithful delineation of manners, 532 ON THE LITERATURE and in the strain of gaiety that runs throughout, by no means conveys an idea of grandeur, or of transcendent genius. As-we have before had occasion to observe, Goldoni was extremely pi'ovoked to behold his pieces made a subject of parody by Count Gozzi, and more so that his attempts had been received by the public with very general applause, though bestowed less, perhaps, on the happiness of the parody than on the fantastic productions in which it was con- tained. This gave rise to a literary quarrel, attended by two very remarkable circumstances. Goldoni became irri- tated to such a degree as to lead him to abandon his country and his native tongue. E-etiring to Paris, he devoted his talents to the French theatre, producing pieces written in that language. With Gozzi it had likewise the effect of leading to a new style of comedy, by the introduction of those fairy dramas, which had such an astonishing run, during several years, at Venice, and which are now com- pletely forgotten, except indeed by the Germans, who, on their revival, conferred upon Count Gozzi the title of the first comic writer of Italy. Tlie dramatists of tlie eighteenth century, who adopted the French drama as their model, invariably produced com- plete pieces for the stage. The company of which Goldoni had the management, undertook to give a faithful repre- sentation of the author's pieces : each performer engaging to observe his instructions, without interrupting the dialogue, for the sake of displaying his own extempore talents. This was a sudden and a serious check to the comedy of art, which, however loose and improbable, and often vulgar and indecent in its character, had discovered, in its original spirit, great energy and vivacity ; those stei'ling qualities of the Italian drama, of which Goldoni availed himself, to give a lasting reputation to his name. It appears that one of the most distinguished companies of players, entitled La Com- 2oagnia Sacchi, each of which had supported, with surprising success, the character of the mask assigned to him,, found itself, in consequence of the desertion of its poets, reduced to the last stage of wretchedness. These celebrated Pantaloons, Harlequins, and Columbines, in vain souulit opportunities for a fresh display of their talents ; and tin y now struggled against the influence of Goldoni's company, which, although OF THE ITALIANS. 53S possessed, as it appeared, of much less sterling wit and originality, was yet too powerful to be met by open compe- tition. Their indignation ro^e high against Goldoni, as well as against the Abbate Chiari, who, by aid of his pompous vei'si Martelllani, not only maintained his ground, but dis- puted the stage with his opponent, the Venetian advocate. Count Carlo Gozzi had declared himself in favour of the old national comedy, whose popular wit and spirit, he ob- served with concern, were fast disappearing. His fine musical taste had been long wearied with the recitation of the ver&i Martelllani, then admitted, for more than twenty years, upon the stage, in contempt of all Italian prosody ; nor was his delicacy less wounded by the very inflated and per- plexed style adopted by the Abbate Chiari, in imitation of Marini and the seicentisti. His national feelings were equally opposed to the authority assumed, in matters of taste, by the French writers. He, moreover, disliked their philo- sophy, and eagerly availed himself of an occasion to turn it into ridicule. In 1761, he presented the company of players, entitled S^cchi, with his dramatic sketch of the Three Oranges, leaving the subordinate parts to be filled up by the humour and imagination so abundantly displayed by these admirable actors ; who, further inspired by the personal dislike which they felt towards the objects of their parody, played it with the greatest success. The scene of the Three Oranges is laid in the kingdom, and at the court of the King of Diamonds, who appears in all his mock majesty and gravity, very exactly copied from his proto- type in cards. Tartaglia, the hereditary prince of Diamonds, is in the last stage of melancholy, owing to the dark enchant- ments of a wicked fairy (the Abbate Chiari), who is destroy- ing the prince by a slow poison of the versi Martclliani, drop by drop. The same fairy is in league with the ambitious knave of Diamonds, and with Clarice, the lady of his aftec- tious, representing, I believe, the queen of Spades, who flatter themselves with the hope of succeeding to the crown. Tar- taglia has not the least chance of recovery, unless he can be made to laugh ; and another enchanter (Goldoni) has dis- patched Truflaldino, a black mask, to the court, who employs his art in tempting the prince to smile. So far, the piece was a direct and almost undisguised satire upon Goldoni and 534 ON TUE LITERATURE Chiari. Their appearance on the stage was accompanied by a parody of their hmguage, and the turn of their ideas ; and the conceited and pompous manner of Chiari, and the tech- nical phrases of Goldoni, were equally the object of ridicule. The remaining characters were all burlesques of the dramas of these two authors, and the malice of the actors took a secret pleasure in supplying the satire, of which, the malice of the spectators was always ready to make the application. But the author, having founded the idea of his parody upon an enchantment, naturally enough connected the action with that fairy world, so universally known. He selected a fairy tale of very genend repute in Venice, most probably to be met with in the Cabinet des Fees, entitled The Loves of the Three Oranges. Tartaglia, recovering from his melancholy by a sudden fit of laughter, is seized with a desire of under- taking the conquest of the Three Oranges, preserved in the castle of the fairy Creonta, whose history he had heard during his illness. His expedition for their discovery and conquest, with all the wondei'ful events which follow, were intended, by their author, as a series of satirical reflections upon different works of Goldoni and Chiari. While assisting at their repre- sentation. Count Gozzi was surprised to observe the pleasing effect of the supernatural portion of the spectacle upon the audience, which he had been so far from contemplating, that he had inserted it only by way of interlude, with little varia- tion from the fairj-^ tale in the manner that it is related by good housewives and beldams, to beguUe their nursery hours. The fairy Creonta summons her dog : " Go, bite the thief who stole my oranges ! " and the dog replies, " Why should I bite him ? he gave me something to eat, whde you have kept me here, months and years, dying of hunger." The fairy then turns to the well: "Rope, bind the thief who stole my oranges ! " The cord, rising up, thus replies : " Why should I bind him who hung me in the sun to dry, while you have left me for months and years to moulder in a corner ? " The fairy then commands the iron gate of the castle : " Crush the tliief who stole my oranges ! " but the gate replies, " Why should I crush him who oiled me, while you have left me here so long to rust ? " Yet, during the whole of this dialogue, the audience was rapt in pleasure and attention, listening to a marvellous tale, known to every one before, and follovNdng it OF THE ITALIANS. 535 withi loud applause. But the admiration was at its height when Truffaldino came forward with fresh prodigies ; and on cutting two of the oranges, there stepped forth two beautiful young ladies, who very soon died of thirst. On Tartaglia l^roceeding to cut the third orange, by the side of a fountain, a third princess made her appearance, to whom he lost no time in giving something to drink, as it appears she was destined, after many more adventures, to become his wife. She is transformed into a dove before the eyes of the specta- tors, and it is some time before she can again recover her natural figure. It Avas thus accidentally, that Count Gozzi acquired a knowledge of the use which might be made of the love of the marvellous, and of the admiration of the people for decep- tions and metamorphoses accomplished on a great scale, upon the stage ; in a word, of the emotions A\hich attend the re- vival of the early fictions familiar to our childhood. "While the Sacchi company was thus replenishing its funds by re- peated representations of The Three Oranges, Gozzi more seriously devoted himself to the new species of drama which he had just discovered. He selected for the stage all the fairy tales that appeared to him best calculated to produce a brilliant effect. He dramatized them, and gave them to the public, accompanied with such magnificence of decoration and surprising machinery, as did not fail to draw forth testi- monies of its liveliest applause. The humour of the actors, and the animation and interest which the author contrived to throw into these time-worn fictions, gave them all the effect of a tragi-comedy equally interesting and amusing. In many of these fantastic creations, Gozzi at once dis- played the qualities of a poet and a man of wit. Of this, perhaps, the pieces entitled The Lady Serpent, Zobeide, The Blue Momter, The Green Bird, The King of the Genii, &c., might afford sufficient proofs. He avoided personal satire, in order better to sustain the serious portion of his subject. He seemed to have imbibed the very spirit of fairy fables ; and if his tragi-comedy display too little resemblance to nature, it, at least, preserves the sort of probability we look for in a fairy tale. He no longer bounded his ambition to a mere outline, as he had before done in Tlie Three Oranges; but divided his performances fnto the acts and 536 ON THE LITERATURE scenes of a regular tragedy, and composed . the parts relating to the serious characters in iambi* verse. To the extempore talents of the actors, the author confided only the live characters, in mask, of Pantaloon, Columbine, the Neapo- litan Tartaglia, Trullaldino, (the Harlequin of others,) and Smeraldina, his sister, or the sister of Columbine. The scene Avas laid in unknown regions of the East, where the marvellous required to be limited only by the author's own imagination, and where he supposes five Italian adventurers, the masks, had just arrived to try their fortune ; referring the event to modern times, in order that he might lose none of the sources of amusement to be derived from allusions to the manners of his contemporaries and fellow-countrymen. He had, likewise, sketched and prepared the particular scenes? which he proposed to leave to the discretion of his improvvi- satori, in such a manner as hardly to permit them to mistake the part assigned them, either in their style of language, in their peculiar sort of jileasantry, or in the general design of the whole. The more serious personages were invariably placed in very critical circumstances, for the purpose of creating sufficient interest and curiosity, sometimes in the adventures, and sometimes in the characters themselves. Their language was occasionally touching, inspired by kind and impassioned feelings, and expressed with a poetic warmth, which seemed to spring from the heart. Most fre- quently, however, the interest was kept alive by one astonish- ing incident crowded upon another, for the gratification of surprise and curiosity. We might almost be led to suppose, that the human faculties, beyond a certain degree of power, are destructive of each other, and that an excessive develope- ment of the imagination is inconsistent with sensibility of mind. There is, for instance, no situation of a more affecting nature than in the Zobeide of Gozzi, yet its perusal, in all probability, never cost a single tear. The princess is carried off by a wricked enchanter, who, imposing upon her by his hypocrisy, has inspired her with a passion for him. This monster, whose name is Sinadab, never retains the same wife longer than forty days ; after which time he transforms her into a heifer, and cai'ries off another by the power of his magical art. Those who have resisted him are tormented, in a dismal cavern, with all the punishments he can inflict. OF TUE ITAI.LiXS. 537 Zobeide has already arrived at the fortieth day, and the mouster is resolved to destroy her.* But she has fortunately made an impression on the heart of Abdidac, the high priest of the country, no less powerful a magician than the king himself, and he endeavours to make the infernal incantations of the latter recoil upon his own head. He reveals to Zobeide the character of her husband, and the fate which is in reserve for her. He shews her, among the wx'etched prisoners in the cavern, who have resisted King Sinadab, her own sister and her half-sister ; and the scene represented on the stage strongly resembles the character of Dante's Hell. One of these wretches is seen pacing the winding cavern, with her head in her hand, suspended by the hair ; the bosom of another is made the prey of serpents perpetually gnawing at her heart ; a third is seen half metamorphosed into a monster ; and all exclaim with horror against the cruelty and excesses of Sinadab. No longer under delusion, Zobeide tears the image of the monster from her heart ; but in order to escape his fury, she is obliged to conceal from him the discovery she has made. She has soon further reasons to detest him. Her father and her brother arrive, with au army, to her rescue ; when Sinadab, by a new enchantment, so far changes their appearance, that, ignorant of each other, they engage in single combat, and the father is killed by his own son. Zobeide still disguises her feelings, and is invited by Sinadab to partake of a collation, where he proposes to give her the fatal cake which was to transform her into a heifer. But she adroitly takes care to substitute one of the cakes for another, and Sinadab himself is now transformed into a monster, a circumstance of which Abdalac avails him- self, to break the whole of his enchantments, and to restore his captives to liberty. Few tragedies exhibit more terrific incidents than we meet with in Zobeide : where she discovers her own sisters among the victims of a husband she so much loved, and where Schemseddin, her brother, kills his father * [It would appear that the English are little less indebted than the Germans to the fantastic drama of Gozzi, many of whose marvellous productions may be traced in the most popular after- pieces of the day, exhibited with all the supernatural embellishment and efiect which the Kinff of the Genii, and the great Blue Beard himself, so well know huw to jtroduce. Tr.] VOL. I. L L 538 ON THE LITERATURE in mistake. But so many marvellous events seem to leave no room for emotions of pity, either in the author or the spectator ; the former being too much busied in conducting new intrigues, to think of bestovfing more than a few excla- mations upon the most distressing occurrence, and in the tumult and crowd of incidents, losing sight of the effects which they ought to be made to produce upon the feelings of the audience. Although the versification can by no means be pronounced faultless, in regard to metrical rules, yet its chief failure is the want of elevation of style and expression ; and whilst the incidents tend to excite the attention, they in no way produce a lasting impression on the mind. The comic masks had full as great a share in supporting the credit of these fantastic exhibitions, as the supernatural machinery itself. They were entitled, by their author, Fiahe, or Fables, from an old Italian word, nearly obsolete. The masks of Gozzi, however, have no sort of resemblance to those of the comedy of art. The ancient masks were chosen with a view to a general representation of the circumstances of real social life. Thus Pantaloon, the merchant ; the doctor of law, Balanzoni ; Captain Spaviento, the Spanish bullv ; the busybody, Columbine ; the stupid valet, Harlequin, and so many others, were all taken from different conditions of society, in such a way as to give a sort of family picture, appi'oaching as nearly to the original as possible. Their country, their situation in life, and their family, were all, like their characters, arranged so as to display an accurate representation of domestic affairs. But when once trans- ported into enchanted regions, they no longer preserved their individuality ; and the distinction of situation, of language, and of country, between Harlequin, Columbine, and Panta- loon, when they arrive at Teflis, or at Samandal, is almost too trifling to be observed. They seem to have lost the recollection of their former condition, and have all the ap- pearance of upstart adventurers, very much resembling each other. They are scarcely to be distinguished in Gozzi's pro- ductions ; which is chiefly to be regretted for the sake of the character of Pantaloon, whose appropriate qualities were an honourable testimony to the loyalty, simplicity, and good feeling of the old merchants of Venice. A tinge of ridicule attached itself to their manners, no less antique than the OF THE ITALLLN'S. 539 fashion of their beard and dress ; but a noble, generous, and even delicate conduct and deportment shone through this antiquated disguise.* The works of Gozzi fell into neglect on the separation of the Sacchl company, as no other troop remained which had been accustomed to extemporary acting, with the same ability and success. Indeed, Gozzi himself -had contributed not a little to deprive the actors of their former spirit and invention, qualities which he nevertheless exacted of the performers, by altering the parts which had been assigned to them ; and when divested of their individual character, they seemed to lose the associations and the inspira- tion which had facilitated the exercise of their peculiar talents, f It does not appear that Gozzi's plays were ever represented upon other theatres than those of Venice ; nor do they, in truth, represent the national spirit of the Italian people. We almost feel inclined, on their perusal, to refer them to a G-erman, rather than to an Italian origin ; and, indeed, they have been repeatedly published, and received with the great- est enthusiasm by the German people. Many of his pieces were translated, and acquired for Gozzi a reputation which has ever since made his name popular in Germany.;]: The taste for fairy fictions appears to have spread, however, no farther than Venice : they are neither to be met with in the peasant's hut, nor in the nursery, in other parts of Italy. They appear * M. Camillo Ugoni, who published, in 1822, an excellent Trork on Italian literature, in the second half of the 18th century, justly remarks, that I ought to haA'e made an exception in favour of il corvo, Avhere Gozzi confers on Pantaloon a superb character ; he relates in a lively manner the adventures of Gozzi, -(vhich were not a few, but he dwells also upon the Venetian patrician's dislike to public enlightenment and liberty. + These extempore comedies continued to be played at Venice till within a very few years. In the theatrical journals, up to the year 1801, we frequently find mention of them as represented at the theatres of S. Angelo, S. Luca, and S. Gio. Crisostomo. Under the titles of Comedies of Art, we meet with La Nascita di Truffaldino, I Perso)i' naggi di Truffaldino, I Due Truffaldini, La Favola del Corvo, &c. The names of the ancient masks are also inserted in these journals : such as. Pantaloon, Tartaglia, Harlequin, Columbine; but neither comedies of art, nor masks, appeared at so recent a period in other parts of Italy. X The English translator of this work, Jlr. T. Roscoe, b^ whose re- searches it has frequently been enriched, remarks that the theatre of Gozzi has had considerable influence on the mino drama in England. — Author's note to last edition, ll2 540 ON THE LITERATURE to have taken refuge among the common people of Venice, with Avhom every species of fiction was in repute, and where it is made a regular profession to invent and to recite stories for the populace in the streets. As soon as the relater per- ceives that the interest is at its heiglit, and that the curiosity of the people is excited without being gratified, he adroitly presents his hat to each of his audience, and raises a subscrip- tion before he proceeds with the catastrophe, which he gives out according to the price. Count Gozzi was one of the last writers of talent who produced his pieces in the sketch, and who aimed at preserving to his countrymen the extempore character of the old comedy. His theatrical reputation con- tinued for ten or fifteen years in Venice ; but, while he ob- tained the applause of the people, all the men of letters, even those Avho had the least pretensions to the title, attacked him with the utmost critical virulence and animosity. They ridi- culed his Fables ; and without being at the trouble of entering into the merits of the subject, or of examining how far the efibrts of a wild imagination may be made subservient to the expression of the feelings and to theatrical success, they endeavoured to expose the absurdity of such transformations and miracles, and the improbability of the fairy tales upon which they were founded. The modern Italians have also peculiar opinions relating to some points of supernatural belief. They entertain a particular dread of being suspected of lending the same faith to fairy tales and apparitions, which they ai'e daily in the habit of displaying on the subject of new miracles, so frequently performed before their eyes. They seem to regard the fictions of the imagination Avith jealousy, as if they were afraid of being accused of childish wealvuess and credulity. The fact would appear to be, that their feelings are too much under the infiuence of super- natural alarm, to derive any degree of poetical pleasure from the subject. The dislike which they express towards the mar- vellous, in these creations of the fancy, pretty clearly proves how much their minds must be still imbued with the super- stition which they so much dread. Gozzi, however, yielded to the outcry which had been raised against him ; and by degrees, he relinquished the kind of drama which he had adopted. In the collection entitled, Teatro moderno applaudito ; The approved modern theatre; OF THE ITALIAN'S. 541 consisting of sixty volumes, not a single specimen of his fanciful productions has been admitted, although three of his subsequent dramas form a part of the selection. Two of these, The JPhilosophical Princess and the Negro jvith a fair com- plexion, are of a mixed kind ; consisting of tragedy and comedy; of Tmprovvisatori masks, with the Venetian dialect; and of serious characters, whose dialogue is in verse. Gozzi, in tliese pieces, had merely substituted romance in the place of the marvellous ; and he succeeded in effecting, by human causes, by the aid of heroism and of perfidy, those revolutions "which are intended to gratify curiosity and to surprise the spectators. A fresh host of critics attempted to denounce this union of elevated sentiment and buffoonery, of heroism and gaiety, and of verse and prose ; and very good reasons may certainly be alleged both in favour of, and against a species of innovation which brings Gozzi into comparison with Shakspeare ; but these reasons should be drawn from an analysis of the faculties of the human mind, and from the sources of the imaginative arts. It was found easier, however, to appeal to rules : and the classical authority, which has been neither obeyed nor overthrown by the writers of Italy, was found sufficiently powerful for the condemnation of Gozzi. He had then recourse to the Spaniards, amongst whom he found writers who furnished him with models. A third production, which, under tlie title of Tlie Bletapliysician, really pourtrays a very amiable sort of personage, both in friendship and in love, is evidently borrowed from the Spanish theatre. Gozzi met with much the same success in this fresh undertaking, as the vivacity of his imagination had procured for him before. His dramas are far from being excellent in their kind ; but they always possess a degree of interest, and much animation and wit. They have, moreover, a dignity and elevation of character, and a delicacy and noble- ness in the sentiments and manners, very rarely to be met with in the Italian theatre, and which betray, at a glance, their Spanish origin. We have, elsewhere, had occasion to observe that the Duke of Parma proposed prizes as the means of producing the best dramatic compositions. At the annual meetings, which took place about the year 1770, and were continued until 1778, several pieces of a superior character appeared, among 542 ON THE LITERATURM which those of the Marchese Albergati Capacelii, a Bolognese, were the most distinguished. One of these dramas, entitled The Prmmer, merited tlie laurel crown in the year 1774. The peculiar qualities of Albergati's dramas, which are pretty numerous, are the versatility, ease, and variety, which are everywhere discoverable, united to much delicacy of wit and good feeling. The play of 2'kc Prisoner consists of five acts, and is written in verse. The interest turns upon the affec- tion of a man of rank for a lady wanting the advantage of birth, and the eufferings which they experience in conse- quence of the undue exercise of parental authority. Alber- gati was nearly the first writer in Italy who selected this incident for dramatic use ; and he treated it with equal energy and sensibility. It was not long before he displayed talents, no less conspicuous in pure comedy. A man of the world, and conversant with the best society which Italy afforded, he employed the opportunities he thus enjoyed, to observe life and to describe it with impartiality and truth. His Ciarlatore MaJdicente, The Malicious Jbu^yhody^ is quite worthy of Goldoni, in the singular correctness of its characters, and in the spirit of the dialogue ; while in point of lavish wit, and elegance of style, it may, perhaps, be pro- nounced to be superior. But we find little that is interesting in this comedy, any more than in those of Goldoni ; Alber- gati, like him, borrowing his descriptions altogether from Italian manners, in which he must have been at a loss to dis- cover any model either of poetical beauty or elevation of character. The spectator's indifference as to the conse- quences of a passion, of which the object is far from being deserving, leaves him little curiosity to know whether the quarrel of the lovers, originating in the malicious reports of the Busybody, will continue, or whether they will be recon- ciled at the expense of all their future comfort in life. The oidy real interest lies in the hope of seeing the author of the calumnies punished. But this motive is not sufficiently powerful to sustain the action of a piece, unless qualities of a more prepossessing nature are discovered in the victims of the treachery. Many pieces, of the style of composition known under the name oi farce, are from the pen of the same author ; and they are justly ranked among the most amusing productions of OF THE ITALIAXS. 543 ^vh^ch the Italian theatre can boast. In these, Albergati had the art of uniting to national humour, and to the bullbonery of the old comedy, that elegance of manners peculiar to good society. The most successful, perhaps, was one entitled Dei Conviilsioni: Convulsions; in which Albergati took occasion to rally those aifected disorders of the nerves so fashionably prevalent about the end of the last century, and fcucceeded in deterring the voluntary victims from making them the pretence for further usurpation of authority over their husbands and their lovers ; thus freeing the people of Italy from the new yoke with which they were threatened. Albergati was passionately devoted to the study of the drama, and was one of the founders of the patriotic theatre at Bologna, instituted witli a view of introducing a more correct style of declamation among the players, by public i^pecimeus of elocution, in which his own histrionic talents were employed in throwing new light on the subject of dramatic composition. He distinguished himself, also, by his critical taste and acquirements, as appears from the remarks which he made upon his own works, and from his correspondence with Count Alfieri ; and he undoubtedly deserves to be enumerated among those, who, without possessing any extraordinary degree of genius, contributed most to the perfection of the Italian theatre. In consequence, however, of the increasing influence of French taste, and of the superficial philosopliy so much in repute towards the end of the eighteenth century, the drama of Italy was wholly deprived of its original character. The principles contained in tlie Encyclopccdia had not sprung up naturally in Italy ; they had been transferred thither without being applied or understood, and were by no means agreeable to the feelings and opinions of the people. The disciples of the new philosophy proposed to substitute idle declamation, and tlie most futile arguments and opinions, in place of the ancient prejudices, which they flattered themselves they had exploded. The plays of Beaumarchais, of Diderot, and of INIercicr, imbued with the modish spirit of this philosophy, made great impression upon the Italians ; and the writers who appeared about the end of the century, universally endeavoured to imitate them. Francesco Antonio Avelloni, of Venice, surnamed // Poctino, procured for himself a high reputation for comic wit, for which he was chiefly indebted 544 ox THE LITERATURE to the parts he horrowed from Beaumarchais. He had, indeed, the same object in view as the latter. He directed the ridicule of the lower orders of the people against their superiors in rank ; making philosophers of lacqueys, and ex- posing the various abuses of the establislied order of things to the public eye. The character of Cianni, in his Magic Lantern, seems to be formed upon the model of Figaro; but II Poefino is very far from displaying the wit and spirit which we meet with in Beaumarchais. Himself a comic actor, and as ignorant as the rest of his profession in Italy, he falls into egregious errors, whenever he ventures to lay the scene of action beyond the circle of his own experience. The character which he bestows upon his English and German personages is pitiable to the last degree ; his men of learning are mere ridiculous pedants, and his philosophers are babblers, who never repeat any thing beyond a common-place. His acquaintance with society is equally despicable ; he describes what never has been, and what is never likely to be ; and his ideas of morality, honour, and honesty, on which all his heroes are modelled, are as much out nature as his heroes themselves. But enveloped, as he is, in clouds of ignorance, Avelloni is not without talent. The outline of his characters is good, and his dialogue excels in the qualities of nature, of vivacity, and sometimes of wit. His choleric personages are admirably brought out ; and he displays considerable skill in the humorous description of the passion of anger in all its varieties. In the pettishness, the raillery, and the capricious manners of women, he is not easily surpassed. His comedy of 3Ial Genio e buon Cuore: The had Dispo- sition and the good Heart, is very attractive, and contains some good comic incidents ; it is The morose Philanthropist, or more properly, The good passionate Man. The character is, perhaps, a little forced ; although in a country where edu- cation is so much neglected, and society so lightly esteemed, we ought not to be greatly surprised to meet with men whose violence of character is little short of that of the Cavalier Ardenti. In regard to the instances of generosity with which he has attempted to redeem it, we must bear in mind, that poets and romance writers have always claimed the right of disposing of the purse of their ideal heroes with boundless munificence. A very remarkable, but very general trait of OF THE ITALIANS. 545. excellence in the comedies of Avelioni is the correctness of their dramatic perspective ; the art of exhibiting each cha- racter in such an exact and proportionate point of view, that it may only be seen as far as it is required, and without throwing the other characters into shade. The Homicide in the cause of Honour, another of Avelloni's works, is quite in the manner of the sentimental comedy. The plot of the piece is interesting, and many of the characters liave the recommendation of novelty ; and in particular that of a domestic who is jealous of her mistress, and who watches in order to cross her in her amours ; as well as that of the Marchese Amadoro, which has frefjuently made its reappear- ance on the Italian stage. The marquess is a very lively, jovial, clever fellow, who has notliing more at lieart than gaiety, good cheer, and the comforts of peace and content- ment, yet is not without a strong fellow-feeling for the suf- ferings of others. He is a warm friend, and does not fear to risk his own safety in the service of others ; displaying that degree of activity in doing good which he before seemed to have devoted entii-ely to pleasure. Such a character is very far from being naturalized in France ; where the love of pleasure, which is, perhaps, never free from a mixture of vanity, corrupts the heart, encourages egotism, and in its absorbing principle of self-love, rarely discovers any feeling for others. But the Italian species of bans vivans have more resemblance to overgrown children than to profligate rakes ; and the model thus drawn is doubtless national, since we see so many copies of it extant. We may observe that the sentimental bons vivans of the new comedy are all traced upon the same model, in the same manner as the characters of Pantaloon and Columbine are every where the same, in the ancient. They all speak the same language, and are represented with tlie same accent, and peculiar manners and gestures, by the actor who is always called the Cavatterista ; and we are almost inclined to regret that they do not every where appear under the same name and mask. The Muiuicide in the cause of Honour would have reaUy been a very interesting production, had the author enjoyed the advantage of a more intimate acquaintance with the world, with the laws of honour, and with the military laws, upon which lie modelled his piece. He might very easily 546 ox THE LITERATURE have contrived to make the old Lascari, though certainly guilty in a military view, altogether innocent at the bar of conscience. An old gentleman, reduced to extreme distress through the extravagance of his son, engages himself as a common soldier, and is placed under the command of a sergeant, who had formerly been a servant in his family. This man avails himself of his authox'ity to add to the misfor- tunes of his former master. He sometimes irritates him by sarcastic observations ; at others, by more flagrant insults, and ends by chastising him with his cane. Lascari defends himself with his bayonet, and kills the sergeant on the spot. He is then condemned to death ; and the king, on being informed of all the circumstances, thinks him an unworthy object of his mercy ; while he himself declares that his crime has covered him with eternal disgrace, and that he wishes to die, in order to escape the excess of his remorse. "We cannot but be sensible of the extravagance of all this : the provoca- tion given is too severe ; the retaliation is too strongly called for ; and the remorse has too little foundation in justice to be natural. The interest fails from the very circumstance of the author having so much overcharged it. The truth is that, in general, the minor Italian dramatists undertook to give an account of more than they had ever seen, and of more than they knew ; of courts which they had never visited, and of foreign countries where they had never travelled. Fortunately for them, however, they were blessed with spectators still more ignorant than themselves, who invariably received their counterfeits as original portraits, for the sole reason that they differed from every thing which they had witnessed of the same kind before. ■ Of the sentimental pieces, which attracted the greatest public applause in Italy, several were borrowed from the French, English, and German romances. A new TT'e/Yer appeared from the pen of Anton Simone Sografi, a writer of some repute ; and a Neapolitan, of the name of Gualzetti, produced a series of these dramas founded on the History of the Count de Comminges, which does not reach its conclu- sion until the end of the third piece. Few pieces have been more frequently played, or are received with a greater de- gree of pleasure, than these three dramas upon the Italian stage. The second, entitled Adelaide married, is a particular OF THE ITAUAJfS. 547 favourite, though it is far from being free from those pecu- liar defects of which the sentimental school has been long accused ; defects arising out of a total ignorance of the national manners of other countries, and of the laws of true honour. The Count de Comminges contrives to introduce himself into the house of a lady of whom he is enamoured, and, without seeing her, engages himself as a painter in the service of the Marquis of Benavides, her husband, submitting to the greatest indignities, and falling upon his knees when he is threatened with chastisement, to beg his master will not, by dismissing him, deprive him of all hope of obtaining his bread. It is this total want of dignity in the dramatic heroes of the Italian stage which deprives them of the interest we might otherwise feel in this species of composition. Con- tempt is too strongly mingled with our pity ; and we almost reproach ourselves for sympathizing with characters which we cannot esteem, until we recall to mind the utter improba- bility of their existence. The illusion in a moment ceases ; and we only behold before our eyes a poet who has proved himself to be a very poor painter of human nature. Pamela is another story which has furnislied the Italian dramatists with new materials for comedy, and Goldoni has drawn from it no fewer than three successive plays. The Abbate Chiari, in the same manner, extracted three more from a romance, of which he was very probably the author, entitled Fanni Nubile, Fanni a Londra, Fanni Maritata, The Cavaliere Giovanni Greppi likewise produced three connected dramas, between the same personages, and with the scene laid throughout in England. They are called Teresa e Claudio, Teresa Vedova, and Teresa e Wilk. Tom Jones and Clarissa have also figured upon the Italian boards, as well as an innumerable list, whose pretensions both to English names and to English manners would be quite as applicable to the meridian of China or Japan. The Count of Selphegor, originally from the pen of Machiavelli, has furnished a tolerably good comedy ; but it was here thought advisable to lay the scene in a country of reprobates, the only place where such personages could be presumed to live at their ease, free from the importunities of magistrates and priests. Geneva was therefore fixed upon ; and it is at Geneva that the Devil is supposed to arrive, provided with 548 ON THE LITERATURE ample recommendations to the prince of the city ; that he is likewise supposed to enter into the holy estate of matri- mony, and, driven to despair by the bitter temper of his lady, to regret his ancient residence below. But, perhaps, the most distinguished farce writer of Italy was Camillo Federici, a Piedmontese actor, who, as I have been informed, owed his education to the Jesuits. He after- wards made many long tours with his company, in the course of which he obtained some acquaintance with the German theatre, more particularly with the drama of Kotzebue, many of whose pieces he attempted to naturalize at home. These, while they discover much less talent and knowledge of the world, retain all the peculiar qualities and defects of the German poet. Pie wrote a considerable number of comedies of the mixed kind, which are entitled by the French clrames. But he rarely excites our laughter by the sprightliness of his wit, or awakens our sympathy by the pathos he displays. The chief attraction of his comedy consists in the force of the incidents and situations. The dialogue is, for the most part, dull and monotonous, without being natural ; his pleasantries are severe ; and when he aims at sentiment he is most frequently pedantic or affected. His plots, however, are, in general, striking and new ; and, in the conduct of his little romance, the interest depends more upon curiosity, and upon humorous and unexpected surprises, than upon senti- ment. One of the most popular of his productions is, per- haps, I falsi Galantuomini : Tlie pretended Men of Worth ; the subject of which, however, is a little stale. It is that of a sovereign arriving unexpectedly in one of his cities, lately added to his empire, to observe, incognito, the conduct of his subaltern officers, and the perfidy and egotism of all ranks ; rewarding each, in conclusion, according to his deserts. Residing in a country divided into a number of sovereign duchies, Federici selected a sovereign duke for bis hero. He fixed upon the Duke of Burgundy, whom he represents as residing at Dijon, wholly occupied with the cares of state, and with the promotion of the welfare of his subjects. This hero, of the most pacific disposition possible, is, we are sur- prised to find, no other than Charles the Bold. Federici appears to have had a very limited acquaintance with the history of other times and nations, for which we could have OF THE ITALIAN'S. 549 more readily pardoned him, if he had displayed a more inti- mate knowledge of the liuman heart. But his JFahi Galan- TAiomini, his pretended Men of "Worth, are surely the most impudent rogues that were ever brought forward upon the stage. - Not having sufficient skill to present us with a com- plete exemplification of their principles within the dramatic period allowed to him, the author has made such an inarti- ficial display of them in their discourse as would not fail to render villains in real life very harmless chai'acters indeed. An advocate informs the duke, whom he does not recognize, of the injustice of many of the causes in which he is engaged, and of the means which he proposes to try in order to render them successful, either by false witnesses, or by documents as false. A physician next assures him, that his object is to restore only the more wealthy ranks of society to health ; as it is, in fact, a chai'ity to permit the others to die, being the last chance the poor have of escaping from their sufferings, in being quickly despatched into another world. The presi- dent, or chief justice of the place, commits himself still more imprudently, by betraying a very atrocious case of conspiracy, by which he had effected the ruin of an unfortunate treasurer, and had reduced him to the point of death, for the purpose of seducing his wife. We may here observe, that besides the capital error of having made all these villains so boastful and imprudent, Federici has also fallen into that of drawing the whole of his characters in chiaroscuro. They are all light or all shade : we find only very atrocious crimes, or the most shining virtues. Thus seven monsters of iniquity and four perfect characters are contrasted ; and among the last, is a peasant, whose virtuous qualities are even more marvellous than the vices of the others. Here we behold good faith ■without a taint of suspicion, generosity beyond bounds, and all the virtues carried to perfection. Tlie sovereign, with the character which is ascribed to that rank by comic authors, is a model of perfect justice, of elevation of mind, and of zeal in the cause of virtue. At the conclusion, he disposes of every thing in a very summary and arbitrary manner ; and the fortunes, the liberty, and the lives of all the personages concerned, are regulated according to his good will and pleasure, and to the infinite satisfaction of the audience- It is thus that comic writers have always approved themselves 550 ox THE LITERATURE the stanch friends of despotism. The developement of an intrigue always proceeds more pleasantly and rapidly when a dictatorial character appears, to dispose of the liberty and the lives of the rest, without the tedious process of consulting the forms of law ; and as the retributive justice of the theatre is always in unison with the wishes of the spectators, their reiterated applause attends every fresh abuse of authority which Mussulmen themselves would be ashamed of admitting into their administration. Yet, in the midst of these glaring faults, we are in justice bound to confess, tliat the represen- tation of the Fahl Galantuomini is invariably attended with feelings of pleasure. There is something singularly happy in the subject, although so often repeated, of royalty in dis- guise ; and in the continued contrast afforded, between the unsuspicious confidence of these wicked subjects, and the gulph of destruction which we see opening at their feet. We seem to lose our own feelings as spectators, in those of the judge, who is a spectator also. Like him we feel aware of the importance of each casual word, thus incautiously pronounced; and the degree of interest which he takes in each instance is precisely the measui*e of our own. There is another piece from the pen of Federici, which is likewise frequently played with great success. It is called I Pregiudizi de^ pae.<;i jjiccoU: The Prejudices of small Towns; and, in its character, it is not very unlike the pre- ceding one. The idea is bon*owed from the travels of the Emperor Joseph, in which he appeared incognito, and from the amusing blunders which the vanity of the people led them to commit in the royal presence. As the author did not venture to name an individual sovereign of modern times, he confers upon his character, in some of the editions, the name of Albert, and in others, of Sigismond. We possess also, in French, The Little Town of Picard, and, in German, The Little Town of Kotzebue, of which the latter bears the most striking resemblance to that of Federici, first represented at Turin, in the year 1791. The successive perusal of these three comedies must be extremely curious, by affording us a comparison between the national foibles presented by each of these authors upon the stage, from which the character of the three nations would be seen in a very striking point of view. The productions of Federici, however, have none of OP THE ITALIANS. 551 the originality indicative of a native growth. As he sought rather for fresh novelties to entertain his company than for reputation and f\ime, he rejected nothing, and scrupled not to avail himself of the literary property of others ; advancing no pretensions to originality, and only desirous of securing sole possession of the pieces which he had thus borrowed from resources not his own. I have read an Elvira of Vitry, or. The speaking Hat, with his name attached to it ; but though I have not been able to trace it to its real author, I can scarcely persuade m}self that it is his. The dignity of the characters, the refinement of the sentiments, and a certain judgment and propriety, which no mere comedian, unac- quainted with the best society, could have displayed, render it altogether too pleasing a production to be attributed to Federici. The story is that of a married lady, who, while her conduct is perfectly correct, has indulged a secret attach- ment for a young officer, in consequence of which she is betrayed into several imprudent steps. The officer is dis- covered to be her own brother, of whom she had retained no recollection ; and the love by which she is supposed to have been actuated, is nothing more than the sisterly aflection originating in confused and tender remembrances of their childhood. But her remorse, her suffi?rings, and the jealousy of her husband, are all delineated with a degree of delicacy and honourable feeling seldom to be met with on the Italian stage. FedericI may be said to belong to our own age ; his death having taken place only a few years ago. He had a son named Carlo, who embraced the same profession, and their works are frequently confounded together. The son, how- ever, had a more extensive acquaintance with the history and manners of other people, and we may discover traces of more elevation and truth of character in his writings. Many Italian dramatists of our own days, dissatisfied with the mix- ture of sentiment and of pathos which they met with in the drama of Federici, have attempted to replace sentimental comedy by what is termed domestic tragedy. They en- deavoured to disguise the want of dignity of character in their personages, by investing them with more daring and perverse natures, and by placing them in more terrific si- tuations J thus fiattering themselves that they were imitating 552 ON THE LITERATURE the Englisli and Spanish writers, and becoming disciples of Shakspeare and of Calderon, when, in truth, the only approach which they made to the spirit of these raiirhty masters, was the mistaken sacrifice of their own national taste. However strict our dramatic laws may appear, it Avill be found far easier for mediocrity of talents to conform to them, than in any degree to attain the living truth and sub- limity of Shakspeare, or the brilliant poetry of Calderon ; and those authors set out under no very favourable auspices, who strive to emulate their genius, by first renouncing the laws of consistency and good taste. We have an example, in Giovanni di Gamera, of these self-imagined imitators of Shakspeare, who have never perused, far less appreciated, the excellences of that great poet. The language of Gamera is not mere prose ; it is prose at once the most dull, con- ceited, and unmeaning, that his characters can be made to utter. We behold atrocities accumulated upon atrocities, but they are all of a despicable description ; and, contrasted with those of Macbeth and of Richard III., which strike us with terror while they fascinate our gaze by the gigantic grandeur of their savage heroism, they produce only a feel- ing of disgust bordering upon horror, emanating from cha- racters whose meanness is equalled only by their cruelty. His Guilt ij 31other, which can pretend to no sort of compe- tition with that of Beaumarchais, is, perhaps, the most wretched production ever exhibited upon any stage ; and if such a labyrinth of crime for a moment excites an interest or attracts attention, the reader and the spectator have, equally, reason to blush for the feelings thus indulged. The popular admiration of these comedies still maintains its ground in Italy, among those classes who are accustomed to feel no sort of interest in the regular drama, and who love to indulge strong emotions, without asking themselves in xvhat manner they are pi'oduced. But the most distinguished authors and critics seem now agreed to explode the sentimental style of comedy; many of our own contemporaries devoting their talents, perhaps with less success, but with considerably more merit, than these minor dramatists, to the Italian stage. The most deserving among these, is Gherardo di Rossi, a Roman gentleman, who has presented the public with four volumes of comedies, and many very pleasing pieces in verse. In his OF THE ITALIANS. Oo3 comedies, he lias succeeded in giving a correct description of the character and manners of his nation, as well as in catching the peculiar faults and foibles of the society in which he lived. We every where trace the hand of a man of taste and of one possessing a familiar acquaintance with the world. Of superior birth to most of the comic writers, whose productions we have just mentioned, his attainments are likewise of a higher order. In liveliness of imagination and in elegance of language, he far surpasses his predecessors. But his satire, unfortunately, has too much severity in it to pass for mere humour, and his characters are either too mean or too vicious to deserve our sympathy. To this we must undoubtedly attribute the little popularity which has attended his productions, although they discover greater powers of imagination, wit, and truth, than those of any other comic writer of Italy. In the true spirit of comedy, Gherardo di Rossi has aimed rather at sprightliness and wit than at sentiment, but he was happy only in that species of gaiety which depends more upon the incidents than upon the language. In the latter, although possessed of no ordinary powers of mind, he may be said to have completely tailed. His comedies, on perusal, appear to very great advantage ; the characters have each their indi- vidual traits, and they are admirably brought out, both in point of contrast and collision. The incidents are equally unexpected and natural, and the satire is carried in the catastrophe to its very highest pitch. We wonder when we lay them down that we have not been more entertained ; but the author is, in truth, not happy in those sudden turns and expressions, which seem to give the signal for universal laughter, and draw the applauses of the audience. The wit of Gherardo di Rossi is, indeed, too much the result of study, to meet with the success which more spontaneous effusions never fail to obtain. Out of sixteen comedies, pretty equal in point of merit, I shall here select only one ; it is entitled Le Lagrime della Vedova : The TVidoiv'sTears, and it may, at least, serve to con- vey an idea of this writer's manner. The countess Aurelia is supposed to have just lost her aged husband, for whom she had entertained no affection while he was alive. Her time had been wholly devoted to romances ; and, with her mind full of what she had read, she resolves not to allow so favour- VOL. I. H M 554 ON THE LITERATURE able an opportunity for the display of her sensibility to escape. She appears to be absorbed in mourning, grief, and despair ; and talks, and is incessantly occupied about raising a monument worthy of her deceased husband, in which she flatters herself with the hope of being shortly herself interred. Fainting fits and convulsions are next resorted to without intermission ; and the language in which she expresses her- self is an amusing compound of high-wrought plirases and fragments of sentimental romances. Her brother-in-law, at whose house in the country she is residing, is completely the dupe of these high-flown sentiments ; but her sister regards them with more suspicion ; their very excess leading her to doubt that they are not very sincere. The former of these is a man who piques himself on his scientific acquirements, on his talents in physiognomy, and on the most recent dis- coveries in natural philosophy and the arts. Despising those whom he has reason to deem less accomplished than himself, he is nevertheless always open to the impositions of mere pretenders. He is, in particular, made the dupe of a pro- jector of the name of Horace, who has obtained a footing in his house, and who influences him in the conduct of his affairs. This man proposes innumerable speculations, each more ridi- culous than the former ; till at last he succeeds in stripping him of his fortune, under the pretence of enriching him. The lady, on the other hand, under a calm exterior is very sar- castic and accute. She is sensible of the foibles of her hus- band, penetrating into the character of the roguish projector, and into the affected sensibility of her sister, all of whose peculiarities she rallies, while she prepares the spectator for what is next to appear. During the lifetime of her husband, it seems, the countess Aurelia entertained a cavaliere servente, of whom the old gentleman was excessively jealous. He was an officer ; and, about the time of the baron's decease, having a gambling quarrel with his colonel, in which the latter was wounded, he had been obliged to seek his safety in flight. He takes refuge in the very place where the scene of the plot is laid, little expecting to meet the object of his attentions. In the dis- guise of a peasant, accompanied by his servant, he solicits employment from a farmer, until he can find an opportunity of reaching the adjoining frontier. Here his situation becomes OF THE ITALIAKS. 555 Tery perplexing, the country being infested with deserters who are closely pursued by the militaiy ; and the captain is in hourly danger of being taken. But, while the servant is devising means for his master's safety, the captain's thoughts are wholly taken up with the lady, with whom he has frequent interviews, in the same dark cypress avenue where she is about to erect a monument to the memory of her late husband. Here, affecting the utmost conjugal despaii", she informs her lover that he must leave her, never to return, for that the image of her beloved husband impressed upon her heart, de- stroying every other feeling, leads her to consider it a crime even to listen to him. The captain humours the romantic folly of her feelings ; his language is also that of love and despair ; and he threatens every moment to surrender himself to the officers who are in pursuit of him. But his own do- mestics and those of Aurelia provide for his safety ; and, in order that he may avoid the general pursuit already begun, they propose that he should avail himself of the passport of her late husband, to which the countess herself consents. But he must assume the appearance of the deceased ; and the lady supplies him with her husband's wardrobe. Nor is this enough ; in the passport, the deceased is described as setting out on his travels with his wife and servants ; and Aurelia, without any diminution of her romantic tenderness and lamen- tations, gives her hand, and consents to elope with the captain for the laudable purpose of ensuring his escape. They are both arrested and taken back ; and the captain is brought before the major of the regiment, by whom he is informed, that the affair is less serious than it might have been ; that the colonel is recovering ; and that he will escape with a year's garrison-duty for punishment. There are sufficient materials in this comedy for three or four, and there are at least as many characters powerfully and distinctly drawn. Such is that of the Marchese Anselmo, the master of the house, of his wife, of the countess, and of the projector. The number of the characters, however, lessens the interest we feel, while it injures the effect derived from dramatic unity and perspective. In works whose object is chiefly the display of character, it is of importance that only one of the figures should stand very prominently forward, and that the others should be thrown into shade, so as mex'ely to SI 31 2 556 ON THE LITERATURE give relief to the principal in the eye of the spectator. Rossi strongly exemplifies the necessity of this rule. He abused the talent which he possessed for the discrimination of cha- racter, in such a way, that, by dividing the interest and direct- ing the attention successively to each of the characters, he failed in concentrating tliem in any. Another Roman gentleman, but of French extraction, Count Giraud, has very recently pursued the same career, in the line of true comedy. His dramatic talents display a cui'ious combination of the qualities peculiar to the two na- tions to which he may be said to trace his birth ; his produc- tions exhibiting as much of the Italian good nature as of the finesse of the French. His plots are conducted with a spirit and rapidity peculiar to the people of the South, whilst his characters, in the midst of the most ridiculous situations, always preserve a tone of dignity, which French taste can never be altogether content to resign. Giraud is the most recent of all the comic writers, dating his labours only from the nineteenth century, and having ah-eady procured for him- self a very extensive reputation. His productions have been received with eagerness by the different comic managers ; even by such as have fjiiled to render justice to the merits of Rossi. Indeed, they are nearly the only specimens of a truly comic description, which are now brought forward upon the theatres, giving an agreeable relief to the monotonous senti- ment of tlie other dramatists. One of the most pleasing, perhaps, in point of humour of incident and animation of dia- logue, is his L'Aio nelV imharazzo : The Tutor in a Di- lemma. Although the perusal of this piece may fail to produce the same degree of amusement as we derive from Le Lagrime della Vedova, yet its exhibition has far greater charms for the spectator, because its gaiety consists not so much in its wit as in the turn of the words, in the incidents, and in that surprise which electrifies a whole audience. Thus, when the tutor is admitted into the confidence of his pupil, who had contracted a secret max-riage a year before, he finds himself compelled, within a few hours, to conceal the lady in his own chamber, to avoid the vengeance of the suspicious and irritated father of the youth. Being afterwards unable to release her from this situation, he is, likewise, under the necessity of going in search of the infant, which he brings OF THE ITALIANS. 5o7 concealed under his cloak ; and the moment in which the father surprises him, and finds a young child carefuUy wrapped up in the old tutor's arms, produces, perhaps, one of the happiest results ever witnessed on the comic stage. The sprightlinessof the language is, also, well adapted to the humour of the incidents, without diminishing the interest and pathos of the piece. Giraud has the perfect art of catching the feel- ings of his audience, of which his comedy of Tlie Prior of Cerreto, in which humorous incidents are very happily com- bined with the tenderest feelings and the most alarming events, affords a striking proof. No modern author, devoting his genius to the theatre, has yet appeared, whose eiforts, in favour of the Italian comedy of the nineteenth century, promise happier results. We next approach another of our contemporaries whose talents, neither of a strictly comic nor tragic order, have frequently found employment for the theatres of Italy. He is far, however, from sustaining the same degree of reputa- tion in the closet, which he acquired upon the stage. The Marchese Giovanni Pindemonti is a native of Verona, but now residing at Milan. In 1804-, he presented the world with four volumes of Dramatic compositions, as he is pleased to denominate them, in order to shelter them from the sterner frowns of criticism, which might have assailed them under the higher title of tragedies ; as well as to decline the authority of Aristotle. A few of these, however, have attained to a reputation seldom awarded to the best tragedies. Pindemonti is a complete master of dramatic effect ; he seizes the imagination by the splendour of his theatrical imaginary ; he animates and takes possession of the stage ; and he is, in almost every sense, the reverse of his contemporary Alfieri, whose productions will form the subject of the two succeeding chapters. In the same pro- portion as Alfieri may be said to have exhibited the bones of tragedy, by restoring it to its simplest elements of form and verse, and by keeping one undivided object in view, Pindemonti sought to adorn it by circumstantial and outward pomp ; by every thing that can captivate the senses, and by all the variety and number of characters which contribute to render the impression more complete. His more tender and impassioned feelings are delineated with much energy and truth ; while he sought to give expression to that love of civil 558 ON THE LITERATURE and religious liberty, of which he had been the friend and the martyr under the old government, by giving it new life upon the stage. In this last point, however, he is somewhat too verbose and declamatory ; diverging into tedious and repeated speeches, which are not sufficiently charged with matter, nor very much to the point. The variety of objects which he embraces required more poetical powers to give them a picturesque effect. In this, as well as in the harmony of his numbers, he is deficient ; while marks of haste and obscurity, owing as much to an extreme conciseness as to a faulty construction, must be considered among the defects peculiar to this author ; which are, however, amply redeemed by the interest infused into his subject, and by the originality of mind which led him to pursue a career before unknown to the Italians. No single production of Pindemonti seems to have attained greater celebrity than his Glnevra of Scotland, borrowed from Ariosto. It exhibits a striking similarity to the Tancred, of Voltaire, boasting those attractions of a chivalric character, and all that magic belonging to the good old times, which still assert their powerful influence over our feelings. The revolting character of Polinesso, who intro- duces himself into the chamber of Ginevra, so as to be seen by Ariodante, whom he has placed in view, for the purpose of defaming the character of that princess ; and the mean- ness of Dalinda, who receives, in the dress of her mistress, the visit of Polinesso, and thus promotes the stratagem, give rise only to feelings of disgust. The whole plot is altogether too improbable ; while Riualdo's protracted speeches give an air of tameness and frigidity to the conclusion of the piece. A few scattered scenes and incidents, however, are fraught with deep tragic interest and beauty ; and we cannot fail to be struck with the character of Ginevra, throughout the whole of the fourth act. Condemned and abandoned to her fate, under the most suspicious appearances, she still asserts a pride and purity of innocence which support her father, and dissipate all his fears. Ariodante arrives, in the same manner as Tancred, in quality of her champion, clad in black armour which completely conceals him from view. The accused lady is then left alone with her true knight, who, though fully convinced of her guilt, cannot resist coming ■forward in her behalf, consoling himself only with th^ OF THE ITALLVA'S. 559 thoughts of dying for her. This situation is, perhaps, oue of the finest ever presented on the stage. GiNEV. Since thou hast resolved Kobly to risk thy name in nay behalf, Thou art, I trust, persuaded of the wrong, False, shameless -m.-ong, done to my virgin fame : Never did lanee grace juster cause than mine, In champion's hand, aud if Heaven do, indeed. Prosper its righteous judgments in the strength Of battling heroes, know, thou shalt come forth A wreathed conqueror ! Akiod. (Ye Gods ! what boldness !) (Aside) GiNEV. But 'tis idle here To give such hopes a tongue. Xow, noble sir, Since ancient custom so doth authorize, Let me avail me of these moments granted, Aleekly to beg one boon of my protector. Aeiod. Say on — GiNEV. I know the order of the king, my father. Doth yield me up a guerdon to the conqueror ; Thine shall I be, so thou wipe off the stain. The undeseiwed aspersion of mine honour. I know, alas ! thou may'st enforce thy wishes ; But oh ! if thou be generous as thou seemest. By all the warmest prayers by woman utter'd * * GiSEV. Ariod. GiNET, Aricd. GiNEV, Poiclie imprendesti Con magnanimo cor la mia difesa, Ben cred' io, cavalier, che dell' atroce Che al mio pudor vien fatto, enonne torto, Persuaso sarai. Sappi soltanto Ch' unqua da alcun campion pii giusta causa Non fu protetta, e che s' fe ver che il cielo II divin fuo giudizio manifesti Di prodi eroi nelle battaglie, certo Tu sarai vincitor. (Che audacia !) Or vano Saria su cid spender parole, e invece Permetti, cavalier, giacche il costume Spazio di favellarti a me concede, Che farti io possa un umile preghera. Favella pur. So che in vigor del bando Dal re mio padre pubblicato, io sono, Signor, conquista tua. Poichfe avrai tolta L' immeritata macchia al nome mio, Tu mi puoi posseder. Ma, poich^ sei Si generoso, coi piu caldi voti Io ti scongiuro a non voler del tuo Giusto 560 ON THE LITERATURE In sorest need, I do Ijesoecli tliee pause. And spare what is thine own. Take wealth, take honours, All the rich dower, with which my royal father Hath portion'd me ; but leave my wretched self Freely to weep ; for know, I could not love thee. Ariod. How ! — GiNEv. Nay, he not offended ! — Ariod. (aside.) (Shameless ! Yet, Yet loves she Polinesso.) Listen, lady ; Know you what 'tis to love ] — GiNEv. Alas, I do. Ariod. Then wlierefore doth your g:uilty lover loiter 1 Why leaps not forth his lance in thy defence. For whom thou errcd'st and weep'st ] GiNEV. Oh God ! he cannot ! Lowly he lies in the wide waters buried, A wretched prey to monsters of the deep ; Yet is there now a lofty spirit beaming From out those mortal spoils, in the blest heavens, Where all my love is garner'd. ]3ut, perhaps, The fame of youthful years, the gallant bearing Of his proud country's shield, of Ariodante, (0 worshipped name, sole care and sole delight), Are all unknown to you. Now hark ! He rush'd Giusto diritto usar. Tienti gli stati E le dovizie che assegnommi in dote II genitor, e in libertade amara Non t' incresca lasciar donna infelice Che non poti'ebbe, anche volendo, amarti. Ariod. Come ! GiNEv. Non ti sdegnar. Ariod. (Quanto 1' indegna Ama ancor Polinesso !) Amante, donna, Tu dunque sei 1 GiNEv. Lo sono. Ariod. E pcrchii dunque L'amante tuo, che sara forse stato Deir error tuo cagione, in tua difesa Non s' anna 1 GiNET. Ah no, Signer, un cener freddo, IJn inutile spoglia in mezzo all' acque Sommersa, e forse miseiabil pasto De' pesci in questo istante, un' alma bella Trapassata agli estinti e il solo oggetto Del mio tenero amor. Non so se mai Giunto air orecchio tuo d'Ariodante, Nobil garzon, prode guerrier, sosteguo Di questo stato, e mia delizia e cura, 11 nome sia, nome adorato ! Ei corse Volontario a sommergersi nel fiume ; PerchS OF THE ITALIANS. 561 And madly plunged into the ■^■aves. ThoT say^ I know not — but they say it was for me. As Heaven shall judge my soul, I do aver I was not false — no ! even in thought, I was not False to his love. Oh, you would pity me, Did you but know the mingled love and gi'ief That tear my heart, whose unstanchcd wounds still bleed "With bitter memories of that one loved name, Hound which my boimden fealty clings till death. Yet am I grateful for the generous aid Afforded, for the sake of my fair fame. Far more than life, worse than a burden now. Should other means be wanting, yet a life Of living death will kill, though lingering long. Then, kind as brave, complete your glorious task ; Relieve my woes ; snatch me fi-om infamy ! Oh, fight and conquer ! Then, most merciful. Plunge your victorious sword into my bosom. Ariod, (Aside) (Eternal Heaven, though certain of her guilt. What soul-subduing words ! They look like truth. And wherefore should she feign them to a stranger ?) GixEV. (What is he murmuring ']) (Aside) Ariod. (It is most strange. — (Aside) My heart is wnmg with woe.) — Ginevra ! Perchfe non so. Per mia cagion si dice, Ed io non son rea d'un pensier che a lui A^olto non fosse. Oh cavalier pietoso, Se tu vedessi questo cor ! vi stride Tuttora, e grondera sangue in etei'no L' immedicabil mia doppia ferita D' amore e di dolor. La sua memoria M"6 ognor cara ed acerba, e la mia fode A raggiungerlo andra fra I'ombre ancora. La generosa aita tua mh grata Perchfe da rea calunnia il mio pudico Onor difeso sia ; non perche salva Sia la mia vita. Io vita aborro,e certo Qualora a donna disperata manchi Altra via di morir, di lunga morte W uecidera 1' ambascia. Or se alia tua Dolce piet^, magnanimo guerriero, Yuoi porre il colmo, e de' miei negri gioml L' affanno alleggerir, combatti, vinci, Salvami dall' infami, e poi m' uccidi. (Onnipossente Kume ! — Io so che ii rea — Ma quai parole incantatrici ! — Oh come Par vero quel dolor ! — ila qual cagione Di tanto simular con uomo ignoto i) (Ei favella tra s^) (Ifulla comprendo — E il cor mi sento lacerar) — Ginevra — Ginev, Ariod. GiNEV. Ariod. 562 ON THE LITERATURE GiNET. Say You gi'ant my prayer — one prayer, for all my woes ; Leave me but free ! Ariod. 'Tis granted — all is granted. GiNEv. I thousrlit no less. You have a noble heart, And nobly have you done ! Thus let me kneel Low at your feet. {Kneeling.) Ariod. No, rise, Ginevra ! Tell me, {Raising her) Can you be innocent ] Now, to your champion Unfold your inmost mind ! GiNEV. You too ! My champion — Do you too doubt me ] Ariod. (0 ye gods ! what rage ! {Aside) "What anguish !) Hark ! who gave a cavalier. At night, the meeting at her chamber windows 1 Was it Ginevra ■? GixEV. - Jlay Heaven's lightnings strike me To dust, if ever I did quit my couch A moment, where I laid my virgin limbs. Ariod. (I do believe her ; for if this be falsehood, {Asid^ There is no tnith. Yet have 1 not had proofs ] Such proofs 1 Oh, misery !) And do you say You loved but Ariodante ? GiNET. As alive. I loved him always, so I love him dead. * GiNET. Ebben, Signore, accordi al mio cordoglio La grazia di lasciar libera questa Misera destra ? Ariod. Io tutto accordo. GiNEV. Ah meno Non m' attendea da un nobil cor : concedi Che a tuoi pie — {inginocchiandosi.) Ariod. {Alzandola) No; sorgi — Ginevra— dimmi, Sei tu innocent e in vero ? — Al tuo campione Tutto il tuo cor tu dei svelar. GixEV. Tu dunque, Tu, mio campion, puoi dubitame ] \ric-> (0 Dio ! Che smania ! — che martir I) ma nella scorza Notte non accogliesti un cavaliero Tu sul verone ] GiAEV. Un fulmine del cielo M' incenerisca, se le caste piume Un solo istante abbandonnai. Akiod. (Chi mai Non crederebbe ] — Ah, se menzogna h questa, Qual fia la verita % — S' io ben non fossi Certo del suo fallir— Che pena !) E solo Ariodante amasti ] GiMET. E come vivo Io OF THE ITALIANS. 563 Ariod. GiNEV. Ariod. GlKEV. Ariod, GlKEV. Ariod. GiNEV. Ariod. Ungrateful ! No ! What dost thou say ? (Ye gods ! (Aside) I shall betray myself ! I cannot bear it ; 'Tis death or something worse than death ! Enchantress, Thy spells are on me. I would disbelieve What I have seen.) What is 't that troubles you ? Why speak you thus 1 — Why cast such terrible looks Upon me now, from those stem steel-clad brows ] Indeed, you fright me : wherefore do you groan, As from your inmost spirit, and stifle sighs That seem to shake your soul 1 Speak ! • It is nothing. Nay, what you've asked I granted. Leave me now. How can I leave th' assert or of my honour] Away, away ! you know not what you do : Your sight ia death to me. Alas, what say you ? (What phantom flits before me — things long pasti (Aside) If dead things come to life — what hope ? what joy? That voice — those looks !) Oh ! tell me, noble warrior. Art thou unhappy, like myself ] I am. lo sempre 1' adorai, 1' adoro estinto, Ne mai sara ch' altri m' accenda. Ariod, Ingrata ! GiNEv. Che parli tu ! Ariod. (Cielo ! che dissi ! ah quasi La mia smania crudel mi di discoperse — ■ Ahi lasso me ! — Kesistere non posso — Morir mi sento — Essa m' incanta — E quasi Mi faria niegar fede aghi occhi miei) — GiNEV. Cavaliero, che hai ? Perche cotanto Era te stesso favelli 1 E quali sguardi Slanci tu fuor dalla ■s'isiera ? E d' onde Quel cupo e sordo gemito, che invano Kasconder tenti, e quel che si ti scuote Forte anelito il petto ] Ah parla — Arioi>. Nulla. Quanto bramasti, io t' accordai, mi lascia. GufET. Ch' io lasci il mio prode campion ? — Oh Dio ! — ■ Ariod. Lasciami, tu non sai quanto funesta Mi sia la tua presenza. GiNEV. Ahime ! — Che dici ! — (Qual larva lusinghiera ! — Ah, se dall' ombre Tomassero gli estinti — se leggiera Aura di speme — II suon della sua voce — Que' sguardi — Quelle smanie) — Ah cavaliero ; Infelice tu sei come eon io ? Ariod, Si I Ginev. 564 ON THE LITERATURL GiNET. I do beseech you, let me now behold Your features. Oh, for pity ! Ariod. Xo, you shall not. Till death hath waved his pallid ensigns o'er them, When battle's done. GixEV. Are these your hopes of conquest ] Ariod; Kay, I will fight ; but victory crowns the just ! How may I conquer ? GiNEV. In the righteous cause ! Akiod. I— no, I cannot. — What say'st thou ] she trembles ! GiNEV. The innocent tremble not. Ariod. I am — GiNEV. Who are you ! Quick ! quickly tell me ! Ariod.- I refuse no longer ; Gine-iT-a, you will have it. Know— (A trumpet sounds) GiNEV. That sound ! Ariod. I hear — I come ! Ginevra, fare you well ! To battle and to death. {He rushes out.) GiNET. For mercy, stay ! Tell me, at least — alas, alas ! he's gone. It was the great object of Pindemonti to bring before the eyes of his countrj-men, the proud history of their country, and to infuse fresh spirit into the drama of Italy, by engraft- ing upon it the loftier character, and more heroic manners, belonging to the middle age. In his 3Iastino de la Scala, GiNEv. Deh, ti scopri alfin, deh, il tuo sembiante Mostrami per pieta. Akiod. Ko, nol vedrai, Se non se tinto del pallor di morte, Dopo la pugna. GixEV. E cosi vincer speri 1 Akiod. Io con valor combattero ; ma vince Chi difende ragion. GiNEV. Tu la difendi. Ariod. Io — no — non posso — che favelli ! — trema. GiNEv. Xon trema 1' innocenza ! Ariod. Io sono — GixEv. lo voglio Saper chi sei ; ti scopri. Ariod. Io non resisto. Ginevra — tu lo vuoi — sappi {s' ode suonare una troinbd) GrsET. Qual suono ] Ariod. Ecco la tromba. Addio, Ginevra. Io vado A pugnar, a morir. (Parte veloce.) QiNET. Ferma, t' arresta — • Deh, dimmi almeno — Ei vola — Ginevra di Scozia, Atto iv. Sc. 9. ' OF THE ITALIANS. 565 he transports us back to the times of Verona's highest power and splendour, in the thirteenth century. Three of his tragedies are founded upon the history of Venice ; consisting of Orsa Ipato, one of the doges, about the tenth century ; Elena e Gerardo, the subject of which is borrowed from the domestic annals of Venice ; and the Coloni cU Candia, em- bracing the conspiracy ajrainst the Venetian Republic, which took place during the fifteenth century, and which is de- veloped with singular dramatic skill and power. Indeed, in Jill these pieces, Pindemonti has shown no little art and judgment, in employing the associative power, which familiar names and well known objects, endeared to us from child- hood, possess over our feelings, when our personal im- pressions are added to great national recollections, and when we learn to transfer our emotions, excited by existing ob- jects in the natural world, into the world of poetry and romance. Pindemonti has, likewise, produced a few dramas founded on Greek and Roman subjects. These are, Agripjjina, The Bacchanah, The Leap of Lsucadia, and Cincinnatus, all of which were represented with distinguished success, before they were given to the press. Nearly all these subjects are original, and display considerable inventive powei's. But that which was, perhaps, among all his tragedies, the most strikingly new to Italy, is entitled Adelina e Roberto, or The Auto da fc. The noble assertion of religious toleration, and the hatred manifested towards the relentless ministers of a criminal tribunal, are clothed in words which seem to faU strangely, in the Italian tongue, upon Italian ears. The scene is laid at Brille, in the Low Countries, and under the government of the Duke of Alva. The chief characters consist of Roberto de Tournay, condemned for two years to the dungeons of the Inquisition ; Adelina his wife, and his father-in-law, both arrested as guilty of heresy, for express- ing some degree of compassion towards Roberto. The holy Bishop of Brille is likcAvise introduced, a real protector of his flock, and the advocate of the oppressed, who in his attempt to save them, only compromises his own safety ; and the members of the dreadful tribunal of the inquisition are also brought upon the stage. The scene continues, nearly throughout, in the dungeons of the Holy Office, where the 566 ON THE LITERATURE circumstances of the . trial, and the preparations for torture, are drawn with a foi'ce of reality which harrows up the soul. Poetry here appears despoiled of her sweeter graces and at- tractions, to give a more forcible and terrific expression of truth to the appalling features of religious persecution. The unrelenting sternness of the grand inquisitor, and the milder character of the grand vicar, are not, however, drawn with traits of hypocrisy. These personages are actuated by a blind fanaticism, which appears in all its native rage and cruelty. Indeed, the whole performance makes us thrill with horror, beyond even what is admissible in representa- tion. It amounts to a degree of actual suffering ; while it threatens to overwhelm us with still more appalling realities, in the preparations for torture exhibited before our eyes. The victims appear under condemnation, and their sufferings are about to commence, when the proceedings are interrupted by an occurrence which only permits time to prepare for the auto-da-fe. The victims now arrive at the place of execu- tion ; the faggots are in readiness ; the dreadful malediction is j ust pronounced upon them, and they are upon the point of being delivered to the flames, when the soldiers of the Prince of Oi-ange suddenly appearing, restore these unfor- tunate people, already arrayed in their san henito, to liberty and to life. CHAPTER XX. Italian comedy had made a sensible progress towards per- fection, during the eighteenth century. Voltaire has justly said of Goldoni, that his appearance on the stage might, like the poem of Trissino, be termed, Italy delivered from the Goths. The writers of whom we spoke in the last chapter, occupied the stage with him ; and amongst the directors of the theatres, and ' amongst the comedians, men of genius were occasionally found, who gave to the stage, pieces en- riched with the ancient Italian gaiety. Thus, also, in our own time, anew kind of comic pantomime has been invented by the comedian Luigi del Bono. This is the Harlequin OP THE ITALIANS. 567 of the Florentines, Stentarello. His coat, patclied with sackcloth, bears marks of the wrappers and remnants of the shops, with which he has clothed himself ; his language is empty and important, like that of the lower orders in Flo- rence ; he affects an eloquent mode of speech, and is embar- rassed in the long periods he attempts ; he is accustomed to parsimony and to boasting ; nor do his gaiety and his folly bear any resemblance to the characters of » the Venetian masks, though they are also performed extempore. Tragedy, in the mean time, had not in any degree ad- vanced. Except the Jlcropc of Maffei, the Italians pos- sessed scarcely a tragedy which had maintained itself on the boards.* The new pieces were forgotten in the same year in which they were produced ; and the performers, when they were desix'ous of presenting a serious drama, were obliged to give one of the operas of Metastasio without the music. These, indeed, from their division into three acts, and their length, did not suit the modern musical composers, and they were scarcely any longer to be found on the stage of the opera. Metastasio was the favourite poet of the nation ; the whole audience knew his pieces by heart, and, "^ The prize offered at Parma, in 1772, for the best theatrical compo- sitions, was aTvarded to five tragedies, and to three comedies. These are the oldest pieces wliich have remained on the stage, if we may use this expression with regard to Italy, where the celebi-ity of the theatre adds nothing to that of the authors, and where each manager has his separate collection. AVe very seldom, indeed, meet with these five tragedies on the stage, where their ephemeral reputation is almost for- gotten. The first is the Zelinda of the Count Orazio Calini, a romantic love storj', the scene of which is laid in Persia, among the successors of Artaxerxes. To .this succeeds Valsei, or the Hero of Scotland, of Don Antonio Perabd. It is difficult, under this name, to recognize the renowned AYallace, the antagonist of Edward I., and the liberator of his countrj', at the close of the thirteenth century. The next were Conrad, the hero of Montferrat, who repulsed Saladin before the walls of Tyre, and disputed the throne of Jerusalem with Guy of Lusignan ; and Jioxana, the daughter of Bajazet, and slave of Tamerlane : both by Count Ottavio Magnocavallo. 1 am not acquainted with the fifth ; but in these pieces we perceive rather an imitation of the softness of Meta- stasio, than any real attempt at true tragedy. In the despotic court of Artaxerxes, amongst the brave and savage Scotch, the fanatic Cnisaders, and the wild Tartars, we hear only from the Italian poets the dulcet language of the opera ; of beaming eyes which decide the destinies of heroes and empires, and of struggles between romantic passion, and duties and ambition merely theatrical. 568 ox THE LITERATURE notwitlistandinjr, always greeted tliem with undiminished enthusiasm, la a precedinjjj chapter it was no dillicult task for us to expose the defects in the plots, the too great simi- larity of character, and the improbable scenes of these dramas ; but it is by no means so easy to give any idea of that inimitable grace, and that voluptuous poetry, which, overpowering us by its inebriating sweetness, its harmony of language, and''its richness of imagery, leads our imagination to the most gorgeous and beautiful creations. No author Avhatcver, in any country, is more decidedly the poet of the lieart, and of woman. He is accused by the critics of having represented the world neither as it exists, nor as it ought to exist ; but the female sex approve and claim it as their own. Statesmen and moralists charge Metastasio with having had a pernicious influence on energy of character and on morals ; but, on the other side, women see with plea- sure that his heroism has its origin in love ; that he gives a pure and noble direction to the most tender of passions, and that he attempts to unite sentiment with the observance of duty. But what may be very appropriate to the sex whose vir- tues and Avhose charms are founded on sensibility, cannot be applied to man, on whom nature has imposed principles of greater austerity. Italy has, however, in our own days, given birth to a man Avho, beyond any other, was calculated by his virtues, and by his defects, to perceive the errors of Metastasio ; to despise his effeminacy ; to ridicule his stage effect, his suspended daggers, his love confidants, and all the factitious system which he had introduced on the stage. The Count Vittorio Alfieri, of Asti, has himself acquainted us, in his Con- fessions, with his own fierce and aspiring character, impatient of all restraint, violent, an enemy to repose, and to a mode of life which had enervated his fellow-countrymen. He regarded effeminacy as a public crime, and blamed I\Ietastatio more for having corrupted the Italians, than for not adopting the true rules of tragedy. As soon as the predilections of his youth began to calm, and he had discontinued traversing Europe, more as a courier than as a tourist, his first verses were dictated by indignation. He had an exalted idea of the duties and the dignity of man, an ardent love of liberty, and of all the noble actions to which it has given birth ; a sinsular ignorance OF THE ITALIA^•S. 569 whicli did not allow him to judge correctly of the govern- ment of any country, and which led him to confound the dis- solution of all the bonds of society with that freedom after which he sighed ; and an inveterate hatred of that system of tyranny in the governments around him, which had degraded mankind. This, indeed, might be called a personal hatred, since he shared and felt more acutely than any other indivi- dual, that humiliation which for so long a time had debased the Italians. Metastasio was the poet of love ; Alfieri of fi-eedom. All the pieces of the latter have a political tendency, and owe their eloquence, their warmth, and their rapidity, to the ])owerful sentiment which possessed the poet, and compelled him to write from the impulse of his soul. Alfieri did not possess the requisite talent for tragedy. His vivid emotions were not derived from his imagination, but solely from his feelings. Pie did not change places with his hero, to be himself moved by varied impressions ; he remains always himself ; and from this circumstance he is more deficient than any writer in variety of incident, and often degenerates into monotony. But, before we inquire whether we should allow his productions the title of fine tragedies, we ought, as a celebrated female has observed, wben we consider the circumstances of his life, to regard them as actions command- ing our admiration. The creation of a new Italian drama by Alfieri is a pheno- menon which strikes us with astonishment. Before his time- the Italians were inferior to all the nations of Europe in the dramatic art. Alfieri has ranged himself by the side of the great French tragedians ; and he shares with them the advantages which they possess over all others. He has united the beauties of art, unity, singleness of subject, and probability, the properties of the French drama, to the sub- limity of situation and character, and the important events of the Greek theatre, and to the profound thought and sentiment of the English stage. He has rescued tragedy from the saloons of courts, to which the manners of the reign of Louis XIV. had restricted her ; he has introduced her to councils, to public places, to the state ; and he has given to the most elevated of poetical productions, the most noble, the most important general interest. He has annihilated the conven- VOL. I. N N 570 ON TUE LITERATURE tional forms which substituted a ridiculous affectation for the sublimity of nature ; the gallantry derived from the old French romances, which exhibits the heroes of Greece and Rome under a preposterous disguise ; the honied sweetness and pastoral languor which, since the time of Guai'ini, repre- sented all the heroic characters on the Italian stage, with effeminate sentiments and manners ; the affectation of chivalry and valour, which, on the Spanish stage, attaching life itself to a delicate and scrupulous point of honour, converts the loftiest characters into bravoes, eager to destroy each other. The gallantry of romances, the effeminacy of pastorals, the point of honour of chivalry, appeared to him so many masks imposed upon nature, under which all true feelings and passions were concealed from view. He has torn off these masks, and has exhibited on the stage man in his real great- ness, and in his true relations. If in this new conception of tragedy he has sometimes erred, if he has abandoned himself to exaggeration, and to a violence natural to his own charac- ter, he lias still effected enough to claim our admiration. The writers who have succeeded him, and who have profited from the grandeur of his style, without incurring his peculiar faults, sufficiently prove the progress which the Italian di-ama made under him, and how highly it stands indebted to his genius. We shall introduce some of his pieces in a detailed analysis, and shall endeavour to develope the beauties peculiar to them. But before we describe the style of poetry of whicli he was the author, we shall first proceed to combat the extravagance of his principles, and to show the true bounds Avhere all, whom so noble a model might possibly seduce, ought to pause. Alfieri, notwithstanding his own extraordinary character, and the entirely novel form which he has given to his trage- dies, is wholly Italian in his genius. He has sometimes run into the extreme directly opposed to his predecessors, merely because he had his predecessors alone before his eyes. At the time he commenced writing, he was ignorant of Greek, scarcely acquainted with the ancients, and a stranger to the French stage ; but he had been constantly accustomed to see on the stages of Italy and of other countries, during his travels, indifferent or bad pieces, all in the classic style. He did not perceive the possibility of another kind ; and this indepen- OF THE ITALIANS. 571 dent genius, believing himself born under the legislation of Aristotle, did not dream of shaking otF his sovereignty. Trissino, in giving birth to the Italian drama by his Sopho- nisba, was the first imitator of the Greeks, although he was incapable of transferring their true feeling and spirit. All the poets of the sixteenth century, composing in the presence rather of the ancients, than of the public, before they were acquainted with the Poetics of Aristotle, or had commented on them, had sought for their rules in the ancient tragedies, and knew no other perfection than that of conforming to these models. The pedantic spirit of the age had given an undis- puted authority to this system, and no one had sought, by analysis, to ascertain on what principle the law of the unities was founded. They were admitted as articles of faith, and the French themselves, who have always observed them with so much fidelity, have never regarded them with the same sub- mission as the Italians. Alfieri was of all poets the most rigid observer of dramatic unity. I do not speak merely of the unities of time and place, to which he has scrupulously adhered, and which, implicitly observed on the French stage, have been wholly neglected on those of Spain, Germany, and England. It is the unity of action and of interest, which forms the essence of his manner, and which is exclusively peculiar to him, although in all known theatres, as well romantic as classic, a respect for this unity is professed as an essential rule of dramatic art. Alfieri's aim was to exhibit on the stage a single action, and a single passion ; to introduce it in the first verse and . to keep it in view to the last ; not to permit the diversion of the subject for a moment, and to remove, as idle and injurious to the interest of the piece, every character, every event, and every conversation, which was not essentially connected with the plot, and which did not contribute to advance it. In this manner, expelUng from the theatre all confidants and inferior parts, he has reduced almost all his tragedies to the number of four persons essential to the piece ; and at the same time suppressing all conversations foreign to the plot, he has ren- dered his tragedies shorter than those of any other poet. They seldom, indeed, exceed fourteen hundred lines. It appears, however, to me, that Alfieri has deceived him- self in adopting this predominating idea of poetic unity. The KN 2 572 ON THE LITERATURE perfection of the unity is found in the combined relation of numerous sensations. Harmony consists in bringing to one centre diverging sounds ; it produces a vast and varied crea- tion, animated by a single sentiment. If there be not a con- trast of the composite with tlie simple, there is no difficulty vanquished, no charm for the mind. An union of instruments of different pitch and tone, produces a concert ; but in the sound of a single bell, there can be no harmony, however fine the sound may in itself be. Thus, Alfieri, in his tragedies, touches only one string. The art of the poet consists in uniting various events, characters, and passions, in a single action, and he does not exercise this art, when all these characters are suppressed, and the action remains insulated. The simultaneous representation of several actions would not possess harmony, because it would be wanting in unity ; and the representation of a single action, deprived of all accessory circumstances, has no more claim to harmony, since it is wanting in variety. The true object of theatrical representation is to present to the spectator an action which shall seize and absorb the facul- ties of the soul. But it will not affect the imagination, unless it communicates a clear and precise view of the scene ; that is to say, of the people among whom it is placed, of the man- ners, the circumstances, and the interests of the moment ; unless it makes us acquainted, in the same way, with the per- sonages and their character ; and that not only in the rela- tions of that character with the action represented, but as it forms an entire and consistent whole. Unless the tragic Avriter can accomplish this, it were better not to summon the spectators to the theatre. His story will produce more effect in the closet than in the representation ; for the representa- tion will not increase the illusion ; if it offers to the sight nothing more than words have already expressed. But the true poet places before our eyes the Greeks as Greeks, the Germans as Germans ; so that during the performance we live in the midst of them, and all which we behold derives a reality from our recollections ; and he thus succeeds in combining harmony with unity, not only in all the parts of the piece, but in the ideas which previously subsisted in the minds of the spectators with respect to the nation, or the incident presented to their notice. OF THE ITALIANS. 573 We have observed that Metastasio represents every thing under a conventional form, a state of society ever the same, and whose manners and characters are invariable, in whatever dress he clothes his personages, and whatever name he im- poses on them. Alfieri completely banished this effeminate, peculiar, and conventional form, which reminded him of what he most held in abhorrence, the debasement of his country ; but he substituted nothing in its place. The scenes of the pieces of Metastasio may be said to be in the theatre ; but those of Alfieri have no scene whatever. He accomplished all the five acts without any description ; and in those tragedies where the chief passion is the love of country, he has deprived the patriot of his native soil, "We may remark, that every nation, perhaps every tragic poet, has a different manner of placing before the eyes of his fellow-citizens events remote in time or place ; and, indeed, it is not an easy task to introduce a spectator, often uninformed, to a country and manners to which he is an entire stranger. The French have adopted the easy mode of transferring their tragic heroes to their own capital. If they describe the Greeks, all that is generally known of them is accurately and consistently painted ; but for the rest, they represent manners as being the same in Greece as in Paris ; and the court of Agamemnon does not, in their view, differ much from the court of Louis XIV. The Gei*- raans have proposed to themselves another kind of represen- tation, and the spectator has reason to regret, if he be ignorant of the subject ; for he will have the more pleasure the more he is acquainted with the history of the piece. They neglect nothing to make the picture faithful and complete ; they sacri- fice the rapidity of the action, rather than allow the imagination to remain uninfoi'med of a single circumstance ; they rely on vast information on the part of the spectator; and still un- satisfied, they devote a further quantity of time to his instruc- tion ; and this not so much in local details, which lessen the interests, as in philosophical digressions, from which the Ger- man poets are unable to abstain. This mode, however, affects the imagination by its truth of description. The illusion is irresistible, since it meets us on evei'y side ; and the drama, the manners of which are truly national and unmixed, is a panorama where the eye meets nothing foreign to the subject. Shakspeare had a greater knowledge of man than of facts j 574 ON THE LITERATIJIIE and, in consequence, wherever he laid the scene, he created it, by the force of his genius, in an exact relation with human nature, though this relation miglit be false with regard to the people whose name he borrowed ; and the richness of his imagination allowed him incessantly to vary these creations, and to conduct us perpetually into new enchanted countries. Lope de Vega, Calderon, and tlieir countrymen, always place the scene in the ideal and chivalrous manners of the old Spaniards. It is not their real country, but that of their ima- gination, and that with which, of all others, they are best acquainted. To conclude, Metastasio has created a pastoral scenery common to all nations, while Alfieri has suppressed all circumstances of time and place. Although the system adopted by Alfieri tended to deprive his tragedies of the charms of imagination, it cannot be denied that his motives were well judged in banishing con- fidants from the stage. These parts are always filled by the worst actors of the theatre. The public lends its attention to them for the purpose only of detecting something ludicrous in their parts ; and, in consequence of this circumstance, whenever they appear, their intervention only enfeebles the interest of the piece. It is, moreover, quite impossible to perform these parts with effect, as the author seldom gives himself the trouble to bestow on them any character, and their situation in the piece does not permit any expression of passion. Their whole conduct, if we gave any attention to them, would excite our ridicule. They listen to accounts of what they have seen, and what they must have heard a thousand times. They always subscribe to the opinion of the person speaking, and follow him as constant as a shadow, unless when they are despatched on an errand, or when they return with an answer ; a contrast to their habitual useless- ness. Alfieri would have rendered the greatest service to the drama, if, in excluding confidants from the stage, he had introduced in their place secondary personages, who might have taken an inferior, but direct interest in the action, and would not have been the mei'e shadow of others ; such per- sons as we find in comedy, where the action is not confined wholly to two lovers, and to a father and mother opposed to their union. There the servants have a character of their own ; the friend of the family, strangers, and even idle OF THE ITALIANS. OiO intruders, have a distinct physiognomy, and act in their own names and pei'sons. There we find beings, such as nature presents us with in every event of life, who forward or retard tlie action by their individual views, and who, finding them- selves in a less impassioned situation, possess a more distinct character ; for passion effaces all shades of difference, and the individual exhibits the peculiar features of his character only in a state of rest. Real life no longer exhibits to us either heroes waiting on themselves, or constantly followed by confidants ; and the suppression of the middle personages is no more conformable to truth than it is favourable to art. The Germans and the English alone have succeeded in occu- pying the stage with persons who have a being and an individual existence, without, at the same time, obstructing the action of the piece. The perfection of art consists in admitting these characters, and in making all contribute to tlie unity of the action. These are not the only changes which Alfieri has introduced into his dramatic pieces, in opposition to the practice of his predecessors. He has rejected all the usual scenes and com- mon-place incidents which Metastasio had introduced on the stage. He lluis expresses his opinion of his own tragedies. " Here," he says, " will be found no eaves-droppers to pry into secrets, on the discovery of which the plot is to depend ; none of those personages who are unknown to themselves and to others, except those whom antiquity has already presented to us, as -^gisthus in Merope ; no departed spirits re-appear- ing ; no thunder and lightning ; no celestial interference ; no useless massacre, nor threats of assassination, as revolting as unnecessary ; no borrowed or improbable confessions ; no love letters, crosses, funeral piles, locks of hair, or recog- nized swords ; in short, none of those idle stratagems so often heretofore employed." He adds, that he has made it an invariable rule to introduce the action by lively and passion- ate dialogue, as far as is consistent with the opening of the piece, and between personages who have a direct interest in the plot ; and farther, where probability and circumstances have permitted him, he has placed the catastrophe under the eyes of tl;c spectator, and has terminated the action, as he had commenced it, on the stage. On this occasion Alfieri gives himself credit for having greatly diversified his person- 576 ON THE LITERATURE ages, in having given to every tyrant, every conspirator, every queen, and every lover, an appropriate character. I doubt much whether this merit will be so fully appreciated by his readers as by Alfieri himsell". On the contrary, there prevails in the tragedies of Alfieri a great monoton3^ Kot only characters of the same class are mingled togetlier, but even those which belong to different classes bear a resem- blance to each other, and they all partake of the mind of the author. He himself was a man of too passionate, too caustic, and too independent a character, easily to adopt the senti- ments and thoughts of another. From the beginning to the end of his pieces, we may trace in him the sworn foe of tyrants, the enemy of corruption, and, apparently, the enemy of all established forms of society ; and as his style is always constrained and concise, almost to affectation, the expression of the sentiments, and the sentiments themselves, have too frequent and too great resemblance. In renouncing confidants, ALfieri has often been obliged to explain events, and still more frequently the passions and the views of his characters, by soliloquies. He has, how- ever, always made them concise, animated, and as natural as a soliloquy can be ; and, no doubt, more so than the recital of a secret could be to a confidant. Theatrical representation absolutely requires that the spectators should be introduced to the motives of the principal characters ; and we there- fore lend ourselves, even beyond all illusion, to an improbable, but necessary, fiction. Soliloquies afford us an insight into the hearts of the personages, in the same m^anner as the cur- tain which is drawn discovers to us the apartment Avhich is supposed to be concealed from every eye. Soliloquies, in this point of view, are much less revolting than that side acting, in which the secret reflection is unveiled to the spectator, in opposition, generally, to the performer's own words, without any passion that can excuse this involuntary utterance, and Avheu the person, who thus speaks in a low tone, often hazards his life for the purpose of instructing the spectator. Meta- stasio, who calculated upon an audience little disposed, or little able to detect the emotions of the mind, never allows any of his personages to utter a falsehood, without contra- dicting in a low tone what he had declared in an audible voice. All the ephemeral tragic writers of Italy have done OF THE ITALIANS. 0/7 the same thing ; and, with a ridiculous simplicity, they give to their characters words which amount almost to the con- fession of their being base flatterers, traitors, and liars, at the same time requesting the spectators not to give ci'edit to their candid avowal. Alfieri, while he, perhaps, too far multi- plied soliloquies, has wholly interdicted these side observations. I do not recollect a single instance of them in his tragedies. " The principal defect/' he says again of himself, " which I remark in the conduct of my tragedies is uniformity. "Whoever is acquainted with the structure of one is acquainted with them all. The first act is too short ; the protagonist never appears on the stage before the second ; there is no incident ; too much dialogue ; four feeble acts ; chasms occa- sionally in the action, but the author imagines he has filled them up, or concealed them by a certain vivacity of dis- course ; the fifth act exceedingly short, very rapid, generally consisting of action and stage effect ; the dying making very short speeches. This is an abridgment of the constant tenor of all these tragedies." When an author avows a defect in his own works, it is most probable that such defect was designed. Indeed, the uniformity with which Alfieri here reproaches himself was nothing more than the perfect conformity of all his tragedies to the model which he had prescribed to himself, and which he had always before his eyes. He adds, " The unity of action is observed with the most scrupulous rigour. The unity of place is violated thrice only ; in PJdlip, Arjis, and The Second Brutus. In the two first pieces, the scene is changed from a palace to a prison ; in the third, from the house of a conspirator to the palace of the senate ; but in no case does the change of place take the action from the same city, and from a very limited circle. The unity of time is on no occasion violated, but only sometimes slightly extended, in such a way that probability is never outraged, and the spectator is scarcely sensible of it." But the most important change which Alfieri effected in the dramatic art of Italy was in its style. All his predecessors, agreeably to the genius of their language, had been harmo- nious to an excess, and had indulged, to a fault, in the softness of Italian metre. They supported their conversa- tions by brilliant images, and by ornaments almost lyrical. They wei*e prolix even to garrulity ; and they interlarded 578 ON xnr j.irEHATUitK their ilialogu'^? witli common-place morals, and with philoso- phical rellections and comparisons. Alfieri, to avoid these errors, fell into the contrary extreme. His four first tragedies in particular, Pliilip, Polynice, Antigone and Virginia, were remarkable for the excessive harshness of their style. They were the first that were published ; for his nineteen tiieatrical pieces appeared at three different pCilods. Some obscurity and harshness are also found in the six fallowing plays ; although the numerous criticisms which he had drawn on himself had determined him to recast liis style, to renounce his inversions, to replace the article >vhicli he had often suppressed, and to retrench the pronouns which he had repeated even to aflectation. Alfieri, who dreaded beyond every thing a similarity to Metastasio, studied to render his style hard and abrupt ; to break the harmony of the verse, whenever there was danger of its degenerating into singing ; to run the lines into each other ; to suppress all superfluous ornament, ail figurative expression, and all comparison, even the most natural, as laboriously as another would have studied to clothe his verses with poetic charms. In estimating himself, he thus gives an idea of the bounds which he had prescribed to himself, but which he had far exceeded : '• I may say^ that with regard to style, they appeal* sufficiently pure, correct, and exempt from feebleness, and that their language is neither too epic, nor at any time lyrical, except when it may be so without ceasing to be tragic. It thence happens that thei'e are no similes, except as very short images ; very little narrative, which is never long, and never inserted where it is not necessary; very few maxims, and never spoken by the author ; the thoughts never, and the expression seldom inflated ; sometimes, though rarely, new- words, in all of which we may remark that a love of brevity, rather than of novelty, has created them." Alfieri, in his criticism on his own style, has, in two points, perhaps, treated himself with too much indulgence ; when he imagines that he has succeeded in rendering his language strictly tragic, because it is neither epic nor lyric ; and when he says that he is free from inflation. Tragedy has, at all times, been regarded as a poem, and not a simple imitation of nature. The materials from which the writer forms his imitations, ai'e given to him by poetry, as marble and bronze are given OF THE ITALIANS. 579 to the sculptor, and colours to the painter. Neither the one nor the other would be faithful to the rules of his art, if, for a part, either in the picture or the group, he should substitute the object itself for the thing represented. The materials of the tragic poet are poetic language; he is not even allowed to substitute for this the language of nature herself. In medi- tation, in rage, in the pathetic, the melody of the style ought never to be abandoned ; the gratification of the ear ought always to follow that of tlie mind ; and the figurative portion of language, which adorns it with pictures drawn from universal nature, ought not to be neglected, but employed with proper moderation. Tragedy ought always to depend on poetry for its rhythm, its images, its harmony, and its colours. When an author renounces the language of poetry, he acts as a sculptor who clothes his statue with real, instead of marble vestments. Harmony and the language of imagi- nation have been too entirely rejected by AlHeri. In almost all his tragedies we find more eloquence than poetry. Alfieri considered himself free from the chai'ge of an in- flated style, because he had no pomp of expression, no bom- bast, no extravagant images ; but there may stiU exist an inflation of style in the sentiments, constrained, harsh, ex- aggerated, and expressed with a conciseness, sublime, indeed, when it is rarely used, but atfected, when it is employed with too lavish a hand. This poet, born in a country to which liberty is a sti'anger, and having neither shared nor known her blessings, had formed to himself an exaggerated and false idea of the sentiments and duties of a citizen, to wliich character he attached a rudeness in discourse, a bitterness of hatred, and an arrogance of opposition, which, we would hope, are fiir from natural. He formed for himself an ideal world, agreeably to the peculiarities and defects of his own character. He is always sententious ; he always attempts to be sublime ; and his affected simplicity, laconic brevity, and loudly proclaimed sentiments, cannot be considered as the true language of nature. Thus, at the commencement of the tragedy of Octavia, Nero and Seneca appear on the stage : Sexkca. Lord of the world, what seek'st thou ? Nero. Peace !* * Se.sec. Signor del moado, a te che manca ? >'i:aosE. Pace. Sekec. 580 ON THE I.ITEUATURE Seneca. 'Twere thine, if tliou deprivcdst not others of it. Nero. 'Twcrc wholly Nero's, if by nuptial band Abhorr'd, he were not with Octavia join'd.* This opening undoubtedly possesses beauty and eloquence, but not such as are suitable to tragedy ; since the natural dialogue, when the situation is not one of emotion, slxould never present ideas or sentiments conipres.sed into so few words, under a form at once so epigrammatic and so all'ected. Alfieri may be considered as the founder of a new school in Italy. He there etfected a revolution in the theatrical art ; and whatever objections may have been raised by the critics against his poetical style, his principles have been, in a manner, adopted by the public. He has effectually exploded the system of confidants. The repeated stage tricks, the daggers suspended over the heads of hostages, and the passions of the opera dare no longer shew themselves in tragedy ; and Italy has, at lengtli, adopted, as national, that system of poetry, austere, eloquent, and rapid, but, at the same time, naked, which her only tragic poet has bestowed on her. The French revolution was favourable to the fame of Alfieri. His dramas were printed and represented in ■countries, where, before that event, they could neither have been performed nor published. Eighteen editions succeeded ■each other in a short time. Two large theatres were erected, the one at Milan, the other at Bologna, by the lovers of the drama, for the recital of the pieces of Alfieri, with that com- plete conception and love of the art which he complained «ould not be found amongst the actors of Italy, and which he believed it to be impossible to obtain from them. The.^e men, whom he considered as incapable of comprehending liis works, and to whom he could never be induced to trust his tragedies, enlisted themselves under his banners, and adopted Jiis own ideas of the drama. It is related that one of them, named IMorocchesi, came one day to intreat Alfieri to assist Sexec. L' avrai se ad altri non la togli. Neroxe. Intera L' avrai Neron, se di aborrito nodo Stato non fosse a Ottavia avsinto n.ai. [* The extracts from Alfieri are borrowed from Mr. C. Lloyd's characteristic and nervous translation. — Tr.J OF THE ITALIANS. 581 at a representation of Said, which he wished to give at Florence. Alfieri for a long time, and with incivility, re- fused, declaring that it was impossible that Morocchesi could comprehend him, or do justice to so difficult a part. He yielded, however, at length, and the actor so greatly surpassed his expectation, that Allieri rose in the nidst of the perform- ance, and regardless of drawing on himself the eyes of the audience, encouraged the actor by applauding him with all Lis force, crying, "Bravo, Moi'occhesi I" In the course of a very few years afterwards, these tragedies, which Alfieri considered to be so little adapted to common performers, be- came so popular, tliat I have myself seen them represented by mechanics, bakers, and tailors, the greater part of whom were unable to read, and who, notwithstanding, had succeeded in committing them entirely to memory. Thus, in this country, where the imagination even of the populace is so ardent, public favour still affords deserved encouragement to genius. It is now time for us to form a more intimate acquaintance with Alfieri, by making an analysis of some of his most cele- brated pieces, as we have already done in the case of Meta- stasio. But the prolixity of the latter made it easy to abridge him, and to include in a small number of lines what enabled him to fill a long piece. A similar specimen of Alfieri would be incomplete. He is the most close and concise of poets, and never admits an inefficient line. He was himself of opinion, that if a spectator lost one or two verses, or had his attention distracted for a moment, it was impossible to re- cover the thread of the plot, and that some one of the beauties which composed the general perfection would be lost. The first tragedy composed by Alfieri was Philip II. It was a subject well suited to his genius, to delineate this tyrant, the darkest monster of modern times, and to describe the secret and disastrous passion of his son Don Carlos. Isabella appears alone on the stage, and, in a passionate soli- loquy, reproaches herself with the love, which she conceals in her heart, for Don Carlos, whilst she is the wife of Philip. Carlos enters her apartment ; she attempts to fly ; and he complains, with bitterness, that, like the common crowd of courtiers, she shuns him since he has lost his father's favour. 582 ON THE LITERATUKE He implores her compassion, and congratulates Limself on iiaving obtained it. In that he finds consolation for his sufferings. Yet, of all his griefs, he says, the most severe is derived Irom herself. Ah ! thou art ignorant of my father's nature, And may kind Heaven that ignorance prolong ! The treacherous intrigues of an impious court To thee are all unknown. An upright heart Could not believe, much less such guilt imagine. More cruel than the sycophantic train Surrounding him, 'tis Philip that ahhors me. He sets the example to the servile crowd ; His wi-athful temper chafes at nature's ties : Yet do I not forget that he's my father. If for one day I could forget that tie. And rouse the slumbers of my sraother'd wi'ougs, ]S^ever, oh never, should he hear me mourn ;My ravish'd honours, my ollcnded fame, His unexampled and unnatural hate. No, of a wrong more deep I would upbraid him : He took my all the day he tore thee from me.* In fact, Isabel had at first been destined for the wife of Carlos. The king had encouraged their passion, but he afterwards required that their sentiments should yield to his own political views. Isabella meanwhile represses the love of Don Carlos ; she represented it to him in the light of a crime : but she is powerfully agitated ; and when he asks, " Am I then so guilty ]" * Caklo. Ah ta non sal Qual padre io m' abbia ; e voglia il ciel, che sempre Lo ignori tu ! gli aATolgimenii infami D' empia corte non sai ; nh dritto core Creder li pud, non che pensarli. Crudo Pill d' ogni crudo che d' intorno egli abbia, Pilippo h quel che m' odia ; egli da norma Alia servil sua turba ; e d' esser padre Se pure 11 su, si adira : io d' esser figlio Gia non oblio per ciO ; ma, se obliai'lo Un di potessi, ed allentare il freno Ai repress! lamenti, ei non mi udrebbe Doler, no mai, nh dei rapiti onori, iSTfe della oiiesa fama, e non del suo Snaturato, inaudito odio patemo ; D' altro maggior mio danno, io mi dorrei — Tutto ei mi ha tolto il di che te mi tolse. Filijfpo, Atto I. Sc. 2. OF THE ITALIAN'S. 583 she replies, " "Would it ■were only thou !" This avowal is understood, and Isabella, unable to retract it, presses Carlos at least to shun her presence, and to fly ; or, if flight be not possible, to follow her no more, to avoid further interviews, and, since their eri'or has only had Heaven for a witness, to conceal their passion from the world and from themselves, and to tear the recollection of it from their hearts. She is scarcely gone, when Perez unexpectedly enters, the friend of Carlos, and the only man who, in this despotic court, entertains liberal sentiments. He is surprised at the agitation of Don Carlos, and begs him to acquaint him with his griefs, that lie may share them with him. Don Carlos for some time repulses his generous friendship and advises him to follow the example of the courtiers, who all consider it a crime to be faithful to him who is hated by the king. Their conversation is supported, perhaps, with more monotony than true energy, by bitter invectives against the falsehood of mankind, the corruption of courts, and the debasing effects of tyranny. Don Carlos at length gives his hand to Perez, in testimony of his inviolable friendship, and as an earnest of his promise, to allow him to share his sufferings, though he cannot disclose his secret. The first scene of the second act. between Philip and his minister, Gomez,* commences in a manner so laconic and sententious, that it might easily degenerate into affectation. When, however, it is in character, as in this sombre court, it possesses an imposing beauty. Philip. What, above all things that this world can give, Dost thou hold dear ] f * Ruy Gomez de Sylva was, in fact, one of the three confidants of Philip, and with the Duke of Alva, and the President Spinosa, was the object of the jealousy of the prince, and the instrument of the hatred of the king. Antonio Perez, who, after escaping the tjTanny of Philip, wrote the memoirs of this horrible court, is probably the historical personage whom Alficri has here ennobled in point of character, and made the confidant of Carlos. The poet has, on the whole, conformed himself accurately to the circumstances of this catastrophe, as delivered to us by history. Don Carlos perished at the age of twenty-two, ia Februarj' 15G8. t FiL. Gomez, qual cosa sovra ogni altra al mondo In pregio hai tu ] Goir. 584 ON THE LITERATURE Gomez. Thy favour. Tjiilip. By what means Dost hope to keep it '> Gomez. By the means that gained it : Obedience and silence. I'liiLip. Tiiou art called This day to practise both. In this manner, Philip instructs Gomez to observe the queen, during a conversation that he designs to have with her. He thus prepares the spectators to observe all her feel- ings ; and he himself maniiests suspicions, Avhich he is un- willing to reveal in words. Isabella arrives. Philip consults her respecting his son. lie accuses him of the most odious treason, in having maintained a correspondence with the rebels of Batavia ; in having supported them in their revolt against their God and their king ; and in having, on that very day, given audience to their ambassador. But this is not the suspicion which dwells on his mind. His words, commenced in an equivocal manner, are artfully broken in such a way that Isabella may believe that he has discovered their mutual attachment. Isabella trembles at every dubious expression, and the spectator with her. Phi. But tell me, al.«o, ere the fact I state, And tell -without reserve, dost love or hate Carlos, my son ? IsA. My Lord 1 Pui. I understand tbec, If thou didst yield to thy first impulses. And not obey the stern behests of duty, Thou woulds't behold him ... as a step-dame.* GoM, La grazia tua. FiL. Qual mezzo Stimi a serbarla 1 GoM. II mezzo, ond' io la ottenni ; Obbedirti et tacermi. FiL. Oggi tu dunque Far r imo e I' altro dei. * FiL. 'Ma. dimmi inoltre, anziche il fatto io narri, E dimmi il rer : Carlo, il niio figlio . . . I'ami ? Todi tu ? IsAB. . . . Signor . . . FiL. Ben gia t' intendo. Se del tuo cor^gli affetti, e non le voci Di tua virtude ascolti, a lui tu senti D' esser . . . madrigna. IsAB. OF THE ITALI.VXS. oSo IsA. Xo. Thou art deceived , . . . The prince .... Pni. Is dear, then, to thee. Yet hast thou so much of true honour left, That being Philip's wife, that Philip's son Thou lov'st ivith . . . love maternal. IsA. Thou alone Art law to all my thoughts : thou lovest him ; ; At least I deem so : and e'en so I love him. Pni. Since thy well regulated, noble heart. Beholds not Carlos with a step-dame's thought, Nor with blind instinct of maternal fondness, I choose thee for that Carlos as a judge. IsA. Me 1 Put Thou hast heard it. Carlos the first object Was, many, many years, of all my hope ; Till, having tum'd his footsteps from the path Of virtue, he that lofty hope betray 'd. How many pleas did I, from time to time. Invent, to excuse my disobedient son 1 But now his insane, impious hardihood, Hath reached its greatest height, and I'm compell'd, Compelld against my will, to means of violence. To his past crimes such turpitude he adds. Such, that compared with this, all others vanish : Such, that words fail me to express his baseness. IsAB. Ah ! no ; t' inganni — il prence . . . Fiu Ti (5 care dunquc : in te virtude adunque Cotanta hai tu, che de Pilippo sposa, Tu di Filippo il figlio ami d' amore — Matemo. IsAB. ... A miei pensier tu sol sei nonn.a. Tu V ami . . . o il credo almeno ... c in simil guisa Anch' io . . . I'amo. FiL. Poich' cntro il tuo ben nato Gran cor, non cape il madrignal talcnto, Nfe il cieco amor senti di madre, in voglio . Giudice tc del mio figliuol. TsAD. Ch' io ] FiL. :\r odi. Carlo d' ogni mia speme unico oggetto Molti anni fu ; pria che, ritorto il piede. , Dal sentier di virtude, ogni alta mia Speme ei tradisse. Oh ! quante volte io poscia Patemc scuse ai rcplicati falli Del mal docile figlio in me cereava ! ^la gia il suo ardire temerario insano Giunse oggi al sommo ; e violenti mezzi Usar pur troppo ora degg' io. Delitto Cotal si oggiupge ai suoi dclitti tanti ; TOL. I. O Tale, .686 ox TDE LITERATCEE ■\Vitli outrage so immense lie liatli assail'd me, As all comparison to baffle ; such, That, from a son, no father could expect it ; Such, that no longer I account him Bon. ,■ Ah ! thou e'en shudderest ere thou knowest its vastness • Hear it, and shudder in another fashion- More than five years, thou knowest, a A\Tctched crew On swampy soil and shores whclm'd by the ocean, Have dared my sov'reign mandate to resist. Rebels no less to God than to their king, &c. Yet, when the crime of the Prince is explicitly declared, she undertakes his defence with noble eloquence and courage. The king appears to be convinced : he sends for Carlos ; and, while interrogating him, he alarms him by the same artifices. He speaks to him of the aifection of the queen, the maternal affection that had led her to undertake his defence; he seems even to be aware of their interview in the first act; but, after having alarmed them both, he dismisses them with an appa- rent return of kindness, and advises them to see each other frequently. This double examination, which makes us shud- der, is terminated by a scene, in three verses between Philip and Gomez. Phil. Heard'st tJiou ] Go jr. 1 heard. Phil. Sawest thou 1 Goii. I saw. PniL. Oh, rage ! Then, then, suspicion — * Tale, appo cui tutt' altro 6 nulla ; tale Ch' ogni mio dir vien manco. Oltraggio ei fammi Che par non ha ; tal, che da un figlio il padre Mai non 1' attende ; tal, che agli occhi miei Gii non pii figlio il fa . . . Ma che ] tu stessa Pria di saperlo fremi ] . . . Odilo, e fremi Ben altramente poi Gia piil d' un lustro Deir ocean la sul sepolto Udo Povero stuolo, in paludosa terra Sai che far fronte al mio poter el attenta, etc. Aitoll. sc. 2. * FiL. Udisti? GoM. Udii. PiL. Yedesti ] GoM. lovidi FiL. Oh rabbia ! Ducque il sospetto 1 — Goit. 01'' THE ITALIANS. 587 GoM. Now is certainty. Phil. And Philip yet is unrevenged 1 GoM. Eeflect — Phil. I have reflected. Follo-w thou my footsteps. Carlos, who well knows his father's character, is alarmed at the sympathy which he has manifested, and above all, at his kindness, which, with him, is always the harbinger of a moi*e terrible hatred. He seeks an interview with the queen. He communicates to her his feai's at the commencement of the third act, and he conjures her never to speak of him again to the king. The queen cannot believe him ; she retires ; and Gomez entering, congratulates Carlos on being again received into favour by the king, professes his devotion to him, and tenders his services ; but Carlos turns his back on him, and goes otF without deigning to reply. Philip then, in the same saloon, assembles a council. He appears, followed by his guards, by several counsellors of state, who are silent, by Perez, and by Lionai-do, who doubtless was intended by the author for the Grand Inquisitor, but to whom he has not given that title. Philip, in a crafty discourse, informs his council that he has assembled them to judge his son. He then accuses Don Carlos of having attempted to assassinate him ; and says, that the prince had approached him from behind, his sword raised to strike him, when a cry from one of his courtiers put him to flight. Gomez supports the accu- sation ; he produces intercepted letters of the prince, which he pretends afford proofs of a treasonable correspondence with France, and with the revolted Hollanders ; and he con- cludes by adjudging Don Carlos to death, Lionardo then speaks ; and, in a hypocritical and ferocious speech, charges Don Carlos with heresy and impiety, and requires the king to lend his arm in avenging the cause of offended Heaven. Perez then speaks, and triumphantly exculpates his friend. He easily proves that all the accusations are feigned, and he does not suffer a doubt to remain on the mind of any present ; GoM. E' omai certezza — ' FiL. E inulto Filippo 6 ancor ! GoM. Pcnsa — FiL. Pensai — Mi sei^i. Ati.oII.Sc.o. V O O 2 ,588 ox THE LITERATURE but he addresses the king himself and liis counsellors with an outrageous arrogance, which it would have been unbecoming in Philip to allow ; and in the character of Perez we plainly recognize Alfieri himself. All these characters are too highly exaggerated ; the contrast between the crime or baseness of some, and the hardy independence of others, is too abrupt j and this scene of the council, although the four speeches are written with great eloquence, does not produce the effect which it might have done, if probability had been less violated. Philip dismisses his advisers, and desires them t» pass judgment on his son in his absence. When alone, in violent exasperation against Perez, he exclaims, And can a soul so fonn'd Spring, where 1 reign ; or where I reign, exist 1 Carlos, at the commencement of the fourth act, expects a confidant of the queen, who is frequently mentioned in the course of the play, but who never appears. The king, pre- ceded by his guai'd, approaches. It is night. Carlos, seeing the soldiers advance, draws his sword to defend himself, but replaces it when he sees the king. The king accuses him of having raised his arm against him, and there ensues between them a violent altercation, in which Carlos employs the most outrageous and bitter language, such as Alfieri always assigns to the enemies of tyrants, and which the latter must be en- dowed with more than human patience to support. Philip orders his son to be arrested and conducted to a dark prison. Alfieri informs us, that, in the first sketch of this tragedy, the council was placed in the fourth act. It was there held in consequence of this interview, and the fact of Carlos having drawn his sword served as a pretext for an accusation of parricide. Alfieri has inverted this order, that the accusa- tion of Philip might appear gratuitous, and might excite a greater horror. It appears, however, to me, that he has erred in this. It produces confusion in the progress of the piece, when this second accusation follows the first ; and if Alfieri wished that the accusation which Philip made in council should be absolutely gratuitous he ought to have suppressed this imprudent quarrel, which is not natural, which nothing justifies, and which has no result. While Carlos is led to prison, Isabella enters. She is OF THE ITALIANS. 589 alarmed ; and Philip increases her fears by his equivocal words respecting the prince, which occasion her to be further compromised in the eyes of the king. Her attachment may not, perhaps, have escaped the observation of the tyrant; she fears she may have said too much, and probably betrayed herself. When she is left alone, Gomez enters, carrying to the king the sentence of the council, who have condemned his son to death. He communicates to the queen the message with which he is charged ; he gains her confidence by com- passionating the prince ; and leads her on to manifest the deep interest which she feels for him. In his turn, he un- veils the atrocious character of Philip ; he leaves no doubt of the innocence of Carlos ; he promises, at last, to the queen, to introduce her into the prison ; and, though we are pre- viously aware that Gomez is not likely to sacrifice the interests of Philip in the presence of the queen, except to draw her into a confession, there yet results from the assis- tance which he promises, a revival of hope in the spectators, which supports the interest of the piece. The scene of the fifth act is in the prison. Carlos is there alone, awaiting his death with constancy. His only fear is, lest his father should have any suspicion of his love for Isabella, his words and looks having alarmed him. Isabella herself suddenly enters the dungeon ; she announces to Don Carlos his approaching fate, if he does not fiy ; but Gomez, she informs him, has prepared for his escape, and it is by his aid that she has obtained admission into this place of dark- ness. Carlos then sees the abyss into which she has fallen as Avell as himself, and addresses Isabella — Incautious queen ! Thou art too credulous ! what hast thou done ] Why didst thou trust to such a feign'd compassion 1 Of the impious king, most impious minister. If he spoke truth, 'twas with the truth to cheat thee. He entreats her to 'fly while there is yet time ; to save her honour ; and to remove all pretext for the ferocious vengeance of the king. But whilst she is refusing to fly, PhiHp appears. He expresses a savage joy in having them both completely in his power. He has been acquainted with their passion from its commencement, and has observed the progress of it, un- known to themselves. His jealousy is not of the heart, but of offended pride, and he now avows it. Carlos attempts to 390 ON TIIIC Lnr.KATLlIK nistify Isabella, but she i-ejects all excuse ; she asks for death to liberate her from this horrible palace ; she provokes Philip by exasperating language ; and AUieri here again l)laces his own feelings, and his own expressions of hatred, in tlie mouth of his personages. Gomez returns, bearing a cup, and a poniard still reeking with the blood of Perez. Phi'iv* (lifers to the two lovers tlie choice of the dagger or the bowl. Carlos chooses the dagger, and strikes himself a mortal blow. Isabella congratulates herself on dying, and Piiilif), to punish her the more, condemns her to life ; but she snatches from the person of the king his own dagger, and kills herself in her turn. This stage trick appears to me to be beneath the dig- nity of Alfieri. A king is not easily robbed of his poniard, and it was scarcely worth while to calculate the action so nicely, if the catastrophe Avas to depend on the chance of Isabella finding herself on the right, instead of the left side of the king ; and on the poniard of the king, if he carried one, not being fastened in his girdle, or hidden by the folds of his dress. Such is Alfieri, who paints with terrific truth the profound dissimulation of the Spanish monarch ; throws a sombre veil over his councils and his policy ; and conducts him to the close of the piece without his revealing to any one his secret thoughts. If we should one day treat of the German theatre, we may then compare the Don Carlos of Schiller with this powerful tragedy. The German poet has succeeded better in his representation of the national manners, of the age, and of the events ; but he is far inferior to Alfieri in the delineation of the character of Philip. He has deprived it of all that terror, derived from the dark and impenetrable silence with which the tyrant invests himself. It is a master-stroke in Alfieri, to have assigned a confidant to Philip, to whom he communicates nothing, even at the moment that he calls him to his councils. The silent concert between Gomez, Lionardo, and the king, in the perpetration of the crime, excites the most profound terror ; whilst Schiller has given to Philip an openness of heart, which he evinces even towards the Marquis de Posa, whose character, wholly German, could never have accorded with that of the king. E>T) OF VOL. I. I LOJTDOJC : a. CLAY, PRINTER, BKEAU STREET HILI J ^" .¥« -r^c-^««^ <^