Full text of "Stories from the Italian poets : being a summary in prose of the poems of Dante, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso; with comments throughout, occasional passages versified, and critical notices of the lives and genius of the authors"

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STORIES

FROM THE

ITALIAN POETS:

BEING A SUMMARY IN PROSE

OF THE

POEMS OP DANTE, PULCI, BOIARDO, ARIOSTO AND TAS30;

WITH COMMENTS THROUGHOUT,
OCCASIONAL PASSAGES VERSIFIED,

AND

CRITICAL NOTICES OP THE LIVES AND GENIDS OF THE AUTHORS.
BY LEIfxH HUNT.

NEW EDITION, COMPLETE IN ON^ VOLUME.

NEW YORK:
GEORGE P. PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY^

1848.

,^"

SIR PERCY SHELLEY, Bart

MY DEAR SIR PERCY.

As I know no man who surpasses yourself in combining a love
of the most romantic fiction with the coolest good sense, and, in passing
from the driest metaphysical questions to the heartiest enjoyment of
humour, — I trust that even a modesty so true as yours will not grudge
me the satisfaction of inscribing these volumes with your name.

That you should possess such varieties of taste is no wonder, consid-
erino'what an abundance of intellectual honours you inherit; nor might
the world have been the better for it, had they been tastes, and nothing
more. But that you should inherit also that zeal for justice to mankind,
which has become so Christian a feature in the character of the age, and
that you should include in that zeal a special regard for the welfare of
your Father's Friend, is a subject of constant pleasurable reflection to

Your obliged and affectionate

LEIGH HUNT.

302430

PREFACE.

The purpose of these volumes is, to add to the stock of
tales from the ItaUan writers ; to retain at the same time
as mucli of the poetry of the originals as it is in the power
of the writer's prose to compass ; and to furnish careful bi-
ographical notices of the authors. There have been several
collections of stories from the novelists of Italy, but none
from the poets ; and it struck me that prose versions from
these, of the kind here offered to the public, might not be
unwillingly received. The stories are selected from the five
principal narrativ^e poets, Dante, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, and
Tasso ; they comprise the most popular of such as are fit for
translation ; are reduced into one continuous narrative, when
diffused and interrupted, as in the instances of those of An-
gelica, and Armida ; are accompanied with critical and ex-
planatory notes ; and, in the case of Dante, consist of an
abstract of the poet's whole work. The volumes are fur-
thermore interspersed with the most favourite morceaux of
the originals, followed sometimes with attempts to versify
them ; and in the Appendix, for the better satisfaction of
the student, are given entire stories, also in the original, and
occasionally rendered in like manner. The book is partic-
ularly intended for such students or other lovers of the lan-
guage as are pleased with any fresh endeavours to recom-

viii PREFACE.

mend it ; and, at the same time, for such purely English
readers as wish to know sometliing about Italian poetry,
without having leisure to cultivate its acquaintance.

I did not intend in the first instance to depart from the
plan of selection in the case of Dante ; but when I consid-
ered what an extraordinary person he was, — how" intense is
every thing w hich he says, — how widely he has re-attracted
of late the attention of the world, — how willingly perhaps his
poem miglit be regarded by the reader as being itself one
continued story (which, in fact, it is), related personally of
the w^riter, — and lastly, w^hat a combination of ditficulties
have prevented his best translators in verse from giving the
public a just idea of his almost Scriptural simplicity — I be-
gan to think that an abstract of his entire w^ork might pos-
sibly be looked upon as supplying something of a desidera-
tum. I am aware that nothing but verse can do perfect jus-
tice to verse ; but besides the imperfections which are par-
donable, because inevitable, in all such metrical endeavours,
the desire to impress a grand and worshipful idea of Dante
has been too apt to lead his translators into a tone and man-
ner the reverse of his passionate, practical, and creative style
— a style whicli may be said to write things instead of
words ; and thus to render every w^ord that is put out of its
place, or brought in for help and fiUing up, a misrepresenta-
tion. I do not mean to say, that he himself never does any
tiling of the sort, or does not occasionally assimie too much
of the oracle and the schoolmaster, in manner as well as
matter ; but passion, and the absence of the superfluous, are
the chief characteristics of his poetry. Fortunately, this sin-
cerity of purpose and utterance in Dante, render him the
least pervertible of poets in a sincere prose translation ; and,
since I ventured on attem])ting one, I have had the pleasure

PREFACE. ix

of iiiccting ^Yitll an express recommeiulation of such a ver-
sion^ ill ail early number of the Eduiburgh Revleiv.

The abstract of Dante, therefore, in tliesc vohimes (with
every deprecation that becomes me of being supposed to pre-
tend to give a thorough idea of any poetry whatsoever, es-
pecially without its metrical form) aspires to be regarded as,
at all events, not exhibiting a false idea of the Dantesque
spirit in point of feeling and expression. It is true, I have
omitted long tedious lectures of scholastic divinity, and other
learned absurdities of the time, which are among the bars to
the poem's being read through, even in Italy (which Foscolo
tells us is never the case) ; and I have compressed the w^ork
in other passages not essentially necessary to the formation
of a just idea of the author. But quite enough remains to
do so in every respect ; and in no part of it have I made ad-
ditions or alterations. There is warrant — I hope I may say
letter — for every thing put down. Dante is the greatest poet
for intensity that ever lived ; and he excites a correspond-
mg emotion in his reader — I wish I could say, always on
the poet's side ; but his ferocious hates and bigotries too often
tempt us to hate the bigot, and always compel us to take
part with the fellow-creatures whom he outrages. At least,
such is their effect on myself. Such a man, however, is the
last whom a reporter is inclined to misrepresent. We re-
spect his sincerity too much, ferocious though it be ; and we
like to give him the full benefit of the recoil of his curses
and maledictions. I hope I have not omitted one. On the
other hand, as little have I closed my feelings against the
lovely and enchanting sweetness which this great semi-bar-
barian sometimes so affectingly utters. On tho.-;e occasions

1 " It is probable that a prose translation would give a better idea of the ge-
nius and manner of this poet than any metrical one." Vol. i. p. 310,

PREFACE.

he is like an angel enclosed for penance in some furious gi-
ant, and permitted to weep through the creature's eyes.

The stories from goodnaturcd Pulci I have been obliged
to compress for other reasons — chiefly their excessive diffuse-
ness. A paragraph of the version will sometimes comprise
many pages. Those of Boiardo and Ariosto are more exact ;
and the reader will be good enough to bear in mind, that no-
thing is added to any of the poets, different as the case might
seem here and there, on comparison ^\^th the originals. An
equivalent for whatever is said is to be found in some part of
the context — generally in letter, always in spirit. The least
characteristically exact passages are, some in the love-scenes
of Tasso ; for I have omitted the plays upon words and oth-
er corruptions in style, in which that poet permitted himself
to indulge. But I have noticed the circumstance in the com-
ment. In other respects, I have endeavoured to make my
version convey some idea of the different styles and genius
of the writers, — of the severe passion of Dante, the overfliow-
ing gaiety and affecting sympathies of Pulci, several of whose
passages in the Battle of Roncesvalles are masterpieces of
pathos ; the romantic and inventive elegance of Boiardo ; the
great cheerful universality of Ariosto, like a healthy ariima
vuindi ; and the ambitious irritabilit}^, the fairy imagination,
and tender but somewhat effeminate voluptuousness of the
poet of Armida and Rinaldo. I do not pretend that prose
versions of passages from these writers can supersede the ne-
cessity of metrical ones, supposing proper metrical ones at-
tainable. Tiiey demand them more than Dante, the tone
and manner in their case being of more importance to the
effect. But with all due respect to such translators as Har-
rington, Rose, and Wiffen, their books are not Ariosto and
Tasso, even in manner. Harrington, the gay "godson" of

PREFACE. xi

Queen Elizabeth, is not always unlike Ariosto ; but when
not in good spirits he becomes as dull as if her majesty had
frowned on him. Rose was a man of wit, and a scholar ;
yet he has imdoubtedly turned the ease and animation of
his original into inversion and insipidity. And Wiffen,
though elegant and even poetical, did an unfortunate thing
for Tasso, when he gave an additional line and a number
of paraphrastic thoughts to a stanza already tending to the
superfluous. Fairfax himself, who upon the whole, and with
regard to a work of any length, is the best metrical translator
our language has seen, and, like Chapman, a genuine poet,
strangely aggravated the sins of prettiness and conceit in
his original, and added to them a love of tautology amount-
ing to that of a lawyer. As to Hoole, he is below criticism ;
and other versions I have not happened to see. Now if I
had no acquaintance with the Italian language, I confess I
would rather get any friend who had to read to me a passage
out of Dante, Tasso, or Aiiosto, into the first simple prose
that offered itself, than go to any of the above translators for
a taste of it, Fairfax excepted ; and we have seen with how
much allowance his sample would have to be taken. I have
therefore, with some restrictions, only ventured to do for the
pulilic what I would have had a friend do for myself.

The Critical and Biograjjhical Notices I did not intend
to make so long at first ; but the interest grew upon me ;
and I hope the reader will regard some of them — Dante's
and Tasso's in particular — as being " stories" themselves,
after their kind, — " stories, alas, too true ;" " romances of
real life." The extraordinary character of Dante, which is
personally mixed up with hir^ writings beyond that of any
other poet, has led me into references to his church and creed,
unavoidable at any time in the endeavour to give a thorough

xu PREFACE.

estimate of his genius, and singularly demanded by certain
phenomena of the present day. I hold those phenomena to
be alike absurd and fugitive ; but only so by reason of their
being openly so proclaimed ; for mankind have a tendency
to the absurd, if their imaginations are not properly directed ;
and one of the uses of poetry is, to keep the faculty in a
healthy state, and cause it to know its boundaries. Dante,
in the fierce egotism of his passions, and the strange identi-
fication of his knowledge with all that was knowable, would
fain have made his poetry both a sword against individuals,
and a prop for the support of the superstition that corrupted
them. This was reversing the duty of a Christian and a
great man ; and there happen to be existing reasons why it
is salutary to shew that he had no right to do so, and must
not have his barbarism confounded with his strength. Mach-
iavelli was of opinion, that if Christianity had not reverted
to its first principles, by means of the poverty and pious lives
of St. Francis and St. Dominic,* the faith would have been
lost. It may have been ; but such are not the secrets of its
preservation in times of science and progression, when the
spirit of inquiry has establislied itself among all classes, and
nothing is taken for granted, as it used to be. A few per-
sons here and there, who confound a religious reaction in a
corner with the reverse of the fact all over the rest of Eu-
rope, may persuade themselves, if they please, that the world

* Discorsi sopra la Prima Deca di Tito Livio, lib. iii. cap. i. At p. 136 of
the present volume I have too hastily called St. Dominic " the founder of the
Inquisition." It is generally conceded, I believe, by candid Protestant in-
quirers, that he was not, whatever zeal in the foundation and support of the
tribunal may have been manifested by his order. But this does not acquit him
of the cruelty for which he has been praised by Dante : he joined in the san-
guinary persecution of the Albigenses.

PREFACE. xiii

lias not advanced in knowledge for the last three centuries,
and so get up and cry aloud to us out of obsolete horn-books ;
but the community laugh at them. Every body else is in-
quiring into first principles, while they are dogmatising on
a forty-ninth proposition. The Irish themselves, as they
ought to do, care more for their pastors than for the pope ;
and if any body wishes to know what is thought of his holi-
ness at head-quarters, let him consult the remarkable and
admirable pamphlet which has lately issued from the pen
of IMr. Mazzini.* I have the pleasure of knowing excellent
Roman Catholics ; I have suffered in behalf of their eman-
cipation, and would do so again to-morrow ; but I believe
that if even their external form of Christianity has any
chance of survival three hundred years hence, it will have
been owing to the appearance meanwhile of some extraordi-
nary man in power, who, in the teeth of worldly interests,
or rather in charitable and sage inclusion of them, shall have
proclaimed that the time had arrived for living in the flower
of Christian charity, instead of the husks and thorns which
may have been necessary to guard it. If it were possible
for some new and wonderful pope to make this change, and
draw a line between these two Christian epochs, like that
between the Old and New Testaments, the world would feel
inclined to prostrate itself again and for ever at the feet of
Rome. In a cathoHc state of things like that, delighted
should I be, for one, to be among the humblest of its com-
municants. How beautifid would their organs be then !
how ascending to an unperplexing Heaven their incense !

♦ It is entitled, " Italy, Austria, and the Pope ;" and is full, not only of
the eloquence of zeal, and of evidences of intellectual power, but of the most
curious and instructive infonnution.

xiv PREFACE.

how unselfish their salvation ! how intelligible their talk
about justice and love !

But if charity (and by charity I do not mean mere tolera-
tion, or any other pretended right to permit others to have
eyes like ourselves, but whatever the beautiful Greek word
implies of good and lovely), if this iruiy and only divine con-
summation of all Christian doctrine be not thought capable
of taking a form of belief " strong" enough. Superstition must
look out for some new mode of dictation altogether ; for the
world is outgrowing the old.

I cannot, in gratitude for the facilities afforded to myself,
as well as for a more obvious and public reason, dismiss this
Preface without congratulating men of letters on the estab-
lishment and increasing prosperity of the London Library^
an institution founded for the purpose of accommodating
subscribers with such books, at their own homes, as could
only be consulted hitherto at the British Museum. The sole
objection to the Museum is thus done away, and the literary
world lias a fair prospect of possessing two book-institutions
instead of one, each with its distinct claims to regard, and pre-
senting in combination all that the student can w^ish ; for
while it is highly desirable that authors should be able to have
standard works at their command, when sickness or other
circumstances render it impossible for them to ^^o to the Mu-
seum, it is undoubtedly requisite that one great collection
should exist in which they are sure to find the same works
unremoved, in case of necessity, — not to mention curious vol-
umes of all sorts, manuscripts, and a world of books of reference.

CONTENTS.

DANTE.

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius, .
The Italian Pilgrim's Progress,

The Journey through Hell, ....

The Journey through Purgatory,

The Journey through Heaven,

PULCI.

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius, .
Humours of Giants, .....
The Battle of Roncesvalles, . . .

BOL\RDO.

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius, .
The Adventures of Angelica, . . .
The Death of Agrican, ....
The Saracen Friends, ....

Seeing and Believing, ....

ARIOSTO.

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius, .
The Adventures of Angelica, (continued,)
Part I. — Angelica and her Suitors,
II. — Angelica and Medorc
ni. — The Jealousy of Orlando, . . .

AsTOLFo's Journey to the Moon,
Ariodante and Ginevra, ....

Suspicion,

Isabella,

FAOE

131

167

189
207

233
249
267
275
291

299

339
339
350
3G0

369
381
393
401

XVI

CONTENTS.

TASSO.

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius,
Olindo and Sophronia,
Tancred and Clorinda,

RiNALDO AND ArMIDA, ETC.,

Part I. — Armida in the Christian Camp,

II. — Armida's Wrath and Love with Rinaldo,
III. — Tancred in the Enchanted Forest,
IV. — The Loves of Rinaldo and Armida,

v.— The Disenchantment of the Forest, and the taking of Jerusalem,

APPENDIX.

No. I. — Story of Paulo and Francesca,

II. — Accounts given by different writers of the circumstan-
ces relating to Paulo and Francesca ; concluding
with the only facts ascertained, ....

III. — Story of Ugolino, .... ...

IV. — Picture of Florence in the time of Dante's Ancestors,

V. — The Death of Agrican,

VI. — Angelica and Medoro,

VII. — The Jealousy of Orlando, ... . .

VIII. — The Death of Clorinda, . . . . i .

IX. — Tancred in the Enchanted Forest, ....

PAGH

409
461
471

483
483
490
494
498
501

519

523
526
533
535
543
552
559
561

DANTE:

Critiral Notice of l)is £ife onir ®enins.

CRITICAL NOTICE

DANTE'S LIFE AND GENIUS.

Dante was a very great poet, a man of the strongest passions,
a claimant of unbounded powers to lead and enlighten the world ;
and he lived in a semi-barbarous age, as favourable to the inten-
sity of his imagination, as it was otherwise to the rest of his pre-
tensions. Party zeal, and the fluctuations of moral and critical
opinion, have at diiferent periods over-rated and depreciated his
memory ; and if, in the following attempt to form its just estimate,
I have found myself compelled, in some important respects, to
differ with preceding writers, and to protest in particular against
his being regarded as a proper teacher on any one point, poetry
excepted, and as far as all such genius and energy cannot in
some degree help being, I have not been the less sensible of the
wonderful nature of that genius, while acting within the circle to
which it belongs. Dante was indeed so great a poet, and at the
same time exhibited in his personal character such a mortifying
exception to what we conceive to be the natural wisdom and tem-
per of great poets ; in other words, he was such a bigoted and
exasperated man, and sullied his imagination with so much that

* As notices of Dante's life have often been little but repetitions of former
ones, I think it due to the painstaking character of this volume to state, that
besides consultinfj various commentators and critics, from Boccaccio to Frati-
celli and others, I have diligently perused the Vita di Dante, by Cesare IJalbo,
with Rocco's annotations ; tlic Histuire Littcraire d' Italic, by (iinguen(^ ; tho
Discorso sul Testo delta Commcdia, by Foscolo ; the Atnori e Rime di Dante
of Arrivabene ; the Veltro Allegorico di Dante, by Troja ; and Ozanam's
Dante et la Philosophic Catholique au Treizieme Siecle.

DANTE.

is contradictory to good feeling, in matters divine as well as hu-
man ; that I should not have thought myself justified in assisting,
however humbly, to extend the influence of his writings, had I
not believed a time to have arrived, when the community may
profit both from the marvels of his power and the melancholy ab-
surdity of its contradictions.

Dante Alighieri, who has always been known by his Christian
rather than surname (partly owing to the Italian predilection for
Christian names, and partly to the unsettled state of patronymics
in his time), was the son of a lawyer of good family in Florence,
and was born in that city on the 14th of May 1265 (sixty-three
years before the birth of Chaucer). The stock is said to have
been of Roman origin, of the race of the Frangipani ; but the
only certain trace of it is to Cacciaguida, a Florentine cavalier of
the house of the Elisei, who died in the Crusades. Dante gives
an account of him in his Faradiso* Cacciaguida married a
lady of the Alighieri family of the Valdipado ; and, giving the
name to one of his children, they subsequently retained it as a
patronymic in preference to their own. It would appear, from
the same poem, not only that the Alighieri were the more impor-
tant house, but that some blot had darkened the scutcheon of the
Elisei ; perhaps their having been poor, and transplanted (as he
seems to imply) from some disreputable district. Perhaps they
were known to have been of ignoble origin ; for, in the course
of one of his most philosophical treatises, he bursts into an extra-
ordinary ebullition of ferocity against such as adduce a know-
ledge of that kind as an argument against a family's acquired
nobility ; affirming that such brutal stuff should be answered not
with words, but with the dagger. f The Elisei, however, must
have been of some standing ; for Macchiavelli, in his History of
Florence, mentions them in his list of the early Guelph and Ghi-

* Canto XV. 88.

t For the donht apparently implied respecting the district, see canto xvi. 43,
or the summary of it in the present volume. The following is the passage al-
luded to in the philosophical treatise : " Risponder si vorrebbe, non colle parole, ,
ma col coltello, a tanta bestiality."— .Convz7o,—0;?cre Minori, 12mo. Fir. 1834, ,
vol. ii. p. 432. " Beautiful mode" (says Perticeri in a note) " of settling ques- ■
tions."

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS.

belline parties, whero the side whicli they take is different from
that of tlie poet's immediate progenitors.* The arms of the
Alighieri (probably occasioned by the change in that name, for it
was previously written Aldighieri) are interesting on account of
their poetical and aspiring character. They are a golden wing
on a field azure. f

It is generally supposed that the name Dante is an abbreviation
of Durante ; but this is not certain, though the poet had a
nephew so called. Dante is the name he goes by in the gravest
records, in law-proceedings, in his epitaph, in the mention of him
put by himself into the mouth of a blessed spirit. Boccaccio in-
timates that he was christened Dante, and derives the name from
the ablative case of dans (giving) — a probable etymology, espe-
cially for a Christian appellation. As an abbreviation of Du-
rante, it would correspond in familiarity with the Ben of Ben
Jonson — a diminutive that would assuredly not have been used
by grave people on occasions like those mentioned, though a wit
of the day gave the masons a shilling to carve " O rare Ben
Jonson !" on his grave-stone. On the other hand, if given at the
font, the name of Ben would have acquired all the legal gravity
of Benjamin. In the English Navy List, not long ago, one of
our gallant admirals used to figure as " Billy Douglas."

Of the mother of Dante nothing is known except that she was

* Istorie Fiorentine, ii. 43 (in Tutte le Opere, 4to., 1550).

t The name has been varied into Allagheri, Aligieri, Alleghieri, Alligheri,
Aligeri, witli the accent generally on the third, but sometimes on the second
syllable. See Foscolo, Discorso sul Teslo, p. 432. He says, that in Verona,
where descendants of tiie poet survive, they call it Aligeri. But names, like
other words, often wander so far from their source, that it is impossible to as-
certain it. Who would suppose that Pomfret came from Pontefract, or wig
from panucca ? Coats of arms, unless in very special instances, prove nothing
but the whims of the heralds.

Those who like to hear of anything in connexion with Dante or his name,
may find something to stir their fancies in the following grim significations of
the word in the dictionaries :

" Dante, a kind of great wild beast in Africa, that hath a very hard skin."
— Florio's Dictionary, edited by Torreggiano.

" Dante, an animal called otherwise the Great Beast."- Vocaholario della
Crusca, Compendiato, Ven. 172.'.

DANTE.

his father's second wife, and that her Christian name was Bella,
or perhaps surname Bello. It might, however, be conjectured,
from the remarkable and only opportunity which our author has
taken of alluding to her, that he derived his disdainful character
rather from his mother than father.* The father appears to have
died during the boyhood of his illustrious son.

The future poet, before he had completed his ninth year, con-
ceived a romantic attachment to a little lady who had just entered
hers, and who has attained a celebrity of which she was destined
to know nothing. This was the famous Beatrice Portinari,
daughter of a rich Florentine who founded more than one char-
itable institution. She married another man, and died in her
youth ; but retained the Platonical homage of her young admirer,
living and dead, and became the heroine of his great poem.

It is unpleasant to reduce any portion of a romance to the
events of ordinary life ; but with the exception of those who
merely copy from one another, there has been such a conspiracy
on the part of Dante's biographers to overlook at least one disen-
chanting conclusion to be drawn to that effect from the poet's
own writings, that the probable truth of the matter must here for
the first time be stated. The case, indeed, is clear enough from
his account of it. The natural tendencies of a poetical tempera-
ment (oftener evinced in a like manner than the world in general
suppose) not only made the boy-poet fall in love, but, in the truly
Elysian state of the heart at that innocent and adoring time of
life, made him fancy he had discovered a goddess in the object
of his love ; and strength of purpose as well as imagination
made him grow up in the fancy. He disclosed himself, as time
advanced, only by his manner — received complacent recognitions
in company from the young lady — offended her by seeming to
devote himself to another (see the poem in the Vita Nuova, begin-
ning " Ballata io vo") — rendered himself the sport of her and her
young friends by his adoring timidity (see the 5th and 6th son-
nets in the same work) — in short, constituted her a paragon of

* See the passage in " Hell," where Virgil, to express his enthusiastic appro-
bation of the scorn and cruelty which Dante shews to one of the condemned,
embraces and kisses him for a right " disdainful soul," and blesses the " mother
that bore him."

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS.

perfection, and enabled her, by so doing, to shew that she was
none. He says, that finding himself unexpectedly near her one
day in company, he trembled so, and underwent such change of
countenance, that many of the ladies present began to laugh with
her about him — "«' gahbavano di we." And he adds, in verse,

" Con r altre donno mia vista gabbate,

E non pensate, donna, onde si mova

Ch' io vi rassembri si figura nova,
Quando riguardo la vostra beltate," &lc. — Son. 5.

" You laugh with the other ladies to see how I look (literally,
you mock my appearance) ; and do not think, lady, what it is
that renders me so strange a figure at sight of your beauty."

And in the sonnet that follows, he accuses her of preventing pity
of him in others, by such " killing mockery" as makes him wish
for death (" la pieta, che 'I vosiro gabbo recinde,'' &c.)*

Now, it is to be admitted, that a young lady, if she is not very
wise, may laugh at her lover with her companions, and yet re-
turn his love, after her fashion ; but the fair Portinari laughs and
marries another. Some less melancholy face, some more intel-
ligible courtship, triumphed over the questionable flattery of the
poet's gratuitous worship ; and the idol of Dante Alighieri be-
came the wife of Mcsser Simone de' Bardi. Not a word does he
say on that mortifying point. It transpired from a clause in her
father's will. And yet so bent are the poet's biographers on
leaving a romantic doubt in one's mind, whether Beatrice may
not have returned his passion, that not only do all of them (as far
as I have observed) agree in taking no notice of these sonnets,
but the author of the treatise entitled Dante and the Catholic
Philosophy of the Thirteenth Century, " in spite" (as a critic
says) " of the Beatrice, his daughter, wife of Messer Simone de'
Bardi, of the paternal will," describes her as dying in " all the
lustre of virginity.""}" The assumption appears to be thus glo-

» Operr Minori, vol. iii. 12, Flor. 1839, pp. 292, &c.

t " Beatrix quitta la tcrre dans tout I'dclat de la jeunesse et de la virginity."
See the work as above entitled, Paris, 1840, p. 60. The words in liatin, aa
quoted from the will by the critic alluded to in the Foreign Quarterly Review
(No. G5, art. Dante Allighieri), are, " Bici filiee suae et uxori D. (Domini)

DANTE.

riously stated, as a counterpart to the notoriety of its untruth. It
must be acknowledged that Dante himself gave the cue to it by
more than silence ; for he not only vaunts her acquaintance in
the next world, but assumes that she returns his love in that re-
gion, as if no such person as her husband could have existed, or
as if he himself had not been married also. This life-long per-
tinacity of will is illustrative of his whole career.

Meantime, though the young poet's father had died, nothing
was wanting on the part of his guardians, or perhaps his mother,
to furnish him with an excellent education. It was so complete,
as to enable him to become master of all the knowledge of his
time ; and he added to this learning more than a taste for draw-
ing and music. He speaks of himself as drawing an angel in
his tablets on the first anniversary of Beatrice's death.* One of
his instructors was Brunetto Latini, the most famous scholar then
living ; and he studied both at the universities of Padua and Bo-
logna. At eighteen, perhaps sooner, he had shewn such a genius
for poetry as to attract the friendship of Guido Cavalcante, a
young noble of a philosophical as well as poetical turn of mind,
who has retained a reputation with posterity : and it was probably
at the same time he became acquainted with Giotto, who drew
his likeness, and with Casella, the musician, whom he greets with
so much tenderness in the other world.

Nor were his duties as a citizen forgotten. The year before
Beatrice's death, he was at the battle of Campaldino, which his
countrymen gained against the people of Arezzo ; and the year
after it he was present at the taking of Caprona from the Pisans.
It has been supposed that he once studied medicine with a view
to it as a profession ; but the conjecture probably originated in
nothing more than his having entered himself of one of the city-
companies (which happened to be the medical) for the purpose of

Simonis de Bardis." " Bici" is the Latin dative case of Bice, the abbreviation
of Beatrice. This employment, by the way, of an abbreviated name in a
will, may seem to go counter to the deductions respecting the name of Dante.
And it may really do so. Yet a will is not an epitaph, nor the address of a
beatified spirit ; neither is equal familiarity perhaps implied, as a matter of
course, in the abbreviated names of male and female.
* Vita Nuova, ut sup. p. 343.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS.

qutilifying himself to accept office ; a condition exacted of the
gentry by the then democratic tendencies of the republic. It is
asserted also, by an early conniientator, that he entered the Fran-
ciscan order of friars, but quitted it before he was professed ; and,
indeed, the circumstance is not unlikely, considering his agitated
and impatient turn of mind. Perhaps he fancied that he had
done with the world when it lost the wife of Simone de' Bardi.

Weddings that might have taken place, but do not, are like the
reigns of deceased heirs-apparent ; every thing is assumable in
their favour, checked only by the histories of husbands and kings.
A\'ould the great but splenetic poet have made an angel and a
saint of Beatrice, had he married her ? He never utters the
name of the woman whom he did marry.

Gemma Donati was a kinswoman of the powerful fairdly of
that name. It seems not improbable, from some passages in his
works, that she was the young lady whom he speaks of as taking
pity on him on account of his passion for Beatrice ;* and in com-
mon justice to his feelings as a man and a gentleman, it is surely
to be concluded, that he felt some sort of passion for his bride, if
not of a very spiritual sort ; though he afterwards did not scruple
to intimate that he was ashamed of it, and Beatrice is made to
rebuke him in the other world for thinking of any body after her-
self, f At any rate, he probably roused what was excitable in

* Vita Nuova, p. 345.

t In the article on Dante, in the Foreign Quarterly Review, (ut supra),
the exordium of which made me hope that the eloquent and assumption-de-
nouncing writer was going to supply a good final account of his author, equally
satisfactory for its feeling and its facts, but which ended in little better than the
customary gratuitousness of wholesale panegyric, I was surprised to find the
xuiion with Gemma Donati characterised as " calm and cold, — rather the ac-
complishment of a social duty than the result of an irresistible impulse of the
heart," p. 15. The accomplishment of the "social duty" is an assumption,
not very probable with regard to any body, and much less so in a fiery Italian
of twenty-six ; but the addition of the epithets, '' calm and cold," gives it a
sort of horror. A reader of this article, evidently the production of a man of
ability but of great wilfuhiess, is tempted to express the disappointment it has
given him in plainer tenus than might be wished, in consequence of the extra-
ordinary license which its writer does not scruple to allow to his own fancies,
in expressing liis opinion of what he is pleased to think the fancies of others.

8 DANTE.

his wife's temper, with provocations from his own ; for the nature
of the latter is not to be doubted, whereas there is nothing but
tradition to shew for the bitterness of hers. Foscolo is of opinion
that the tradition itself arose simply from a rhetorical flourish of
Boccaccio's, in his Life of Dante, against the marriages of men
of letters ; though Boccaccio himself expressly adds, that he
knows nothing to the disadvantage of the poet's wife, except that
her husband, after quitting Florence, would never either come
where she was, or suffer her to come to him, mother as she was
by him of so many children ; — a statement, it must be confessed,
not a little encouraging to the tradition.* Be this as it may,
Dante married in his twenty-sixth year ; wrote an adoring ac-
count of his first love (the Vita Nuova) in his twenty-eighth ;
and among the six children which Gemma brought him, had a
daughter whom he named Beatrice, in honour, it is understood,
of the fair Portinari ; which surely was either a very great com-
pliment, or no mean trial to the temper of the mother. We shall
see presently how their domestic intercourse was interrupted, and
what absolute uncertainty there is respecting it, except as far as
conclusions may be di-awn from his own temper and history.

Italy, in those days, was divided into the parties of Guelphs
and Ghibellines ; the former, the advocates of general church-
ascendancy and local government ; the latter, of the pretensions
of the Emperor of Germany, who claimed to be the Roman
Caesar, and paramount over the Pope. In Florence, the Guelphs
had for a long time been so triumphant as to keep the Ghibellines
in a state of banishment. Dante was born and bred a Guelph :
he had twice borne arms for his country against Ghibelline
neighbours ; and now, at the age of thirty-five, in the ninth of

* " Le invettive contr' essa per tanti secoli originarono dalla enumerazione
rettorica del Boccaccio di tiitti gli inconvenienti del matrimonio, e dove per al-
tro ei dichiara, — * Certo io non affermo queste cose a Dante essere avvenute,
che non lo so ; comechfe vero sia, che o a simili cose a queste, o ad altro che
ne fusse cagione, egli una volta da lei partitosi, che per consolazione de' suoi
affanni gli era stata data, mai nfe dove ella fusse voile venire, ne sofFerse che
dove egli fusse ella venisse giammai, con tutto che di piu figliuoli egli insieme
con lei fusse parente.' " — Discorso sul Testo, ut sup. Londra, Pickering,
1825, p. 184,

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 9

his marriage, and last of his residence with his wife, he was ap-
pointed chief of the temporary administrators of ailairs, called
Priors ; — functionaries who held office only tor two months.

Unfortunately, at that moment, his party had become subdivi-
ded into the factions of the Whites and Blacks, or adherents of
two different sides in a dispute that took place in Pistoia. The
consequences becoming serious, the Blacks proposed to bring in,
as mediator, the French Prince, Charles of Valois, then in arms
for the Pope against the Emperor ; but the Whites, of whom
Dante was one, were hostile to the measure ; and in order to pre-
vent it, he and his brother magistrates expelled for a time the
heads of both factions, to the satisfaction of neither. The Whites
accused them of secretly leaning to the Ghibellines, and the
Blacks of openly favouring the Whites ; who being, indeed, al-
lowed to come back before their time, on the alleged ground of
the unwholesomeness of their place of exile, which was fatal to
Dante's friend Cavalcante, gave a colour to the charge. Dante
answered it by saying, that he had then quitted office ; but he
could not show that he had lost his influence. Meantime, Charles
was still urged to interfere, and Dante was sent ambassador to
the Pope to obtain his disapprobation of the interfej-ence ; but the
Pope (Boniface the Eighth), who had probably discovered that
the Whites had ceased to care for any thing but their own dis-
putes, and who, at all events, did not like their objection to his
representative, beguiled the ambassador and encouraged the
French prince ; the Blacks, in consequence, regained their as-
cendancy ; and the luckless poet, during his absence, was de-
nounced as a corrupt administrator of alTairs, guilty of pecula-
tion ; was severely mulcted ; banished from Tuscany for two
years ; and subsequently, for contumaciousness, was sentenced
to be burnt alive, in case he returned ever. He never did return.

From that day forth, Dante never beheld again his home or his
wife. Her relations obtained possession of power, but no use
was made of it except to keep him in exile. He had not accord-
ed with them ; and perhaps half the secret of his conjugal dis-
comfort was owing to politics. It is the opinion of some, that the
married couple were not sorry to part ; others think that the wife
remained behind, solely to scrape together what property she

10 DANTE.

could, and bring up the children. All that is known is, that she
never lived with him more.

Dante now certainly did what his enemies had accused him of
wishing to do : he joined the old exiles whom he had helped to
make such, the party of the Ghibellines. He alleges, that he
never was really of any party but his own ; a naive confession,
probably true in one sense, considering his scorn of other people,
his great intellectual superiority, and the large views he had for
the whole Italian people. And, indeed, he soon quarrelled in
private with the individuals composing his new party, however
staunch he apparently remained to their cause. His former as-
sociates he had learnt to hate for their differences with him and
for their self-seeking ; he hated the Pope for deceiving him ; he
hated the Pope's French allies for being his allies, and interfer-
ing with Florence ; and he had come to love the Emperor for be-
ing hated by them all, and for holding out (as he fancied) the only
chance of reuniting Italy to their confusion, and making her the
restorer of himself, and the mistress of the world.

With these feelings in his heart, no money in his purse, and no
place in which to lay his head, except such as chance-patrons af-
forded him, he now began to wander over Italy, like some lonely
lion of a man, "grudging in his great disdain." At one moment
he was conspiring and hoping ; at another, despairing and en-
deavouring to conciliate his beautiful Florence : now again catch-
ing hope from some new movement of the Emperor's ; and then,
not very handsomely threatening and re-abusing her ; but always
pondering and grieving, or trying to appease his thoughts with
some composition, chiefly of his great work. It is conjectured,
that whenever anything particularly affected him, whether with
joy or sorrow, he put it, hot with the impression, into his " sacred
poem." Every body who jarred against his sense of right or his
prejudices he sent to the infernal regions, friend or foe : the
strangest people who sided with them (but certainly no personal
foe) he exalted to heaven. *He encouraged, if not personally as-
sisted, two ineffectual attempts of the Ghibellines against Flor-
ence ; wrote, besides his great work, a book of mixed prose and
poetry on " Love and Virtue" (the Convito, or Banquet) ; a
Latin treatise on Monarchy {de Monarckia), recommending the

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. H

"divine right" of the Emperor ; another in two parts, and in the
same language, on the Vernacular Tongue (de Vulgari Eloquio);
and learnt to know meanwhile, as he affectingly tells us, " how
hard it was to climb other people's stairs, a^id how salt the taste
of bread is that is not our own." It is even thought not improb-
able, from one awful passage of his poem, that he may have
" placed himself in some public way," and, " stripping his vis-
age of all shame, and trembling in his very vitals," have stretched
out his hand " for charity'"* — an image of suffering, which,
proud as he was, yet considering how great a man, is almost
enough to make one's common nature stoop down for pardon at
his feet ; and yet he should first prostrate himself at the feet of
that nature for his outrages on God and man.

Several of the princes and feudal chieftains of Italy enter-
tained the poet for a while in their houses ; but genius and
worldly power, unless for worldly purposes, find it difficult to ac-
cord, especially in tempers like his. There must be great wis-
dom and amiableness on both sides to save them from jealousy of
one another's pretensions. Dante was not the man to give and take
in such matters on equal terms ; and hence he is at one time in
a palace, and at another in a solitude. Now he is in Sienna, now
in Arezzo, now in Bologna ; then probably in Verona with Can
Grande's elder brother ; then (if we are to believe those who have
tracked his steps) in Casentino ; then with the Marchese Moroello
Malaspina in Lunigiana ; then with the great Ghibelline chief-
tain Faggiuola in the mountains near Urbino ; then in Romagna,
in Padua, in Paris (arguing with the churchmen), some say in
Germany, and at Oxford ; then again in Italy ; in Lucca (where
he is supposed to have relapsed from his fidelity to Beatrice in
favour of a certain " Gentucca") ; then again in Verona with
the new prince, the famous Can Grande (where his sarcasms ap-
pear to have lost him a doubtful hospitality) ; then in a monas-
tery in the mountains of Umbria ; in Udine ; in Ravenna ; and
there at length he put up for the rest of his life with his last and
best friend, Guido Novello da Polenta, not the father, but the
nephew of the hapless Francesca.

* Foscolo, in the Edinburgh Review, vol. xxx. p. 351.

12 DANTE.

It was probably in the middle period of his exile, that in one
of the moments of his greatest longing for his native country, he
wrote that affecting passage in the Convito, which was evidently
a direct effort at conciliation. Excusing himself for some harsh-
ness and obscurity in the style of that work, he exclaims, " Ah !
would it had pleased the Dispenser of all things that this excuse
had never been needed ; that neither others had done me wrong,
nor myself undergone penalty undeservedly — the penalty, I say,
of exile and of poverty. For it pleased the citizens of the fair-
est and most renowned daughter of Rome — Florence — to cast me
out of her m^ost sweet bosom, where I was born, and bred, and
passed half of the life of man, and in which, with her good leave,
I still desire with all my heart to repose my weary spirit, and
finish the days allotted me ; and so I have wandered in almost
every place to which our language extends, a stranger, almost a
beggar, exposing against my will the wounds given me by for-
tune, too often unjustly imputed to the sufferer's fault. Truly I
have been a vessel without sail and without rudder, driven about
upon different ports and shores by the dry wind that springs out
of dolorous poverty ; and hence have I appeared vile in the eyes
of many, who, perhaps, by some better report had conceived of
me a different impression, and in whose sight not only has my
person become thus debased, but an unworthy opinion created of
every thing which I did, or which I had to do."*

* " Ahi piaciuto fosse al Dispensatore dell' universo, che la cagione della
mia scusa mai non fosse stata ; che ne altri contro a me avria fallato, ne io
soflferto avrei pena ingiustamente ; pena, dico, d' esilio e di pov ert^. Poich6
fu piacere de' cittadini della bellissima e famosissima figlia di Roma, Fiorenza,
di gettarmi fuori del sue dolcissimo seno (nel quale nato e nudrito fui sino al
colmo della mia vita, e nel quale, con buona pace di quella, desidero con tutto il
core di riposare 1' animo stance, e terminare il tempo che m' b dato ) ; per le
parti quasi tutte, alle quali questa lingua si stende, peregrine, quasi mendican>
do, sono andato, mostrando contro a mia voglia la piaga della fortuna, che suole
ingiustamente al piagato molte volte essere imputata. Veramente io sono
state legno sanza vela e sanza governo, portato a diversi porti e foci e liti dal
vento secco che vapora la dolorosa poverty, ; e sono vile apparito agli occhi a
molti, che forse per alcuna fama in altra forma mi aveano immaginato ; nel
cospetto de' quali non solamente mia persona invilib, ma di minor pregio si fece
ogni opera, si gi^ fatta, come quella che fosse a fare." — Opere Minori, ut
sup. vol. ii. p. 20.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 13

How simply and strongly written ! How full of the touching
yet undegrading commiseration which adversity has a right to
take upon itself, when accompanied with the consciousness of
manly endeavour and a good motive ! How could such a man
condescend at other times to rage with abuse, and to delight him-
self in images of infernal torment !

The dates of these fluctuations of feeling towards his native
city are not known ; but it is supposed to have been not very long
before his abode with Can Grande that he received permission to
return to Florence, on conditions which he justly refused and re-
sented in the following noble letter to a kinsman. The old spell-
ing of the original (in the note) is retained as given by Foscolo
in the article on "Dante" in the Edinburgh Review (vol. xxx.
no. 60) ; and I have retained also, with little difference, the trans-
lation which accompanies it :

" From your letter, which I received with due respect and af-
fection, I observe how much you have at heart my restoration to
my country. I am bound to you the more gratefully, inasmuch
as an exile rarely finds a friend. But after mature consideration,
I must, by my answer, disappoint the wishes of some little minds ;
and I confide in the judgment to which your impartiality and
prudence will lead you. Your nephew and mine has written to
me, what indeed had been mentioned by many other friends, that
by a decree concerning the exiles, I am allowed to return to
Florence, provided I pay a certain sum of money, and submit to
the humiliation of asking and receiving absolution : wherein, my
father, I see two propositions that are ridiculous and impertinent.
I speak of the impertinence of those who mention such conditions
to me ; for in your letter, dictated by judgment and discretion,
there is no such thing. Is such an invitation, then, to return to
his country glorious to d. all. (Dante AUighieri), after suffering
in exile almost fifteen years ? Is it thus they would recompense
innocence which all the world knows, and the labour and fatigue
of unremitting study ? Far from the man who is familiar with
philosophy be the senseless baseness of a heart of earth, that
could act like a little sciolist, and imitate the infamy of some
others, by offering himself up as it were in chains : far from the
man who cries aloud for justice, this compromise by his money

14 DANTE.

with his persecutors. No, my father, this is not the way that
shall lead me back to my country. I will return with hasty
steps, if you or any other can open to me a way that shall not
derogate from the fame and honour of d. (Dante); but if by no
such way Florence can be entered, then Florence I shall never
enter. What ! shall I not every where enjoy the light of the
sun and stars ? and may I not seek and contemplate, in every
corner of the earth, under the canopy of heaven, consoling and
delightful truth, without first rendering myself inglorious, nay in-
famous, to the people and republic of Florence ? Bread, I hope,
will not fail me."*

Had Dante's pride and indignation always vented themselves
in this truly exalted manner, never could the admirers of his ge-
nius have refused him their sympathy ; and never, I conceive,
need he either have brought his exile upon him, or closed it as
he did. To that close we have now come, and it is truly melan-

* " In licteris vestris et reverentia debita et affectione receptis, quam repa-
triatio mea cures it vobis ex animo grata mente ac diligent! animaversione concepi,
etenim tanto me districtius obligastis, qnanto rarius exules invenire amicos con-
tingit. ad illam vero significata respondeo : et si non eatenus qiialitur forsam
pusillanimitas appeteret aliquorum, ut sub examine vestri consilii ante judicium,
afFectuose deposco. ecce igitur quod per licteras vestri mei : que nepotis, necnon
aliorum quamplurium amicorum significatum est mihi. per ordinameutum nu-
per factum Florentie super absolutione bannitorum. quod si solvere vellem cer-
tam pecunie quantitatem, vellemque pati notam oblationis et absolvi possem
et redire ut presens. in quo quidem duo ridenda et male perconciliata sunt.
Pater, dice male perconciliata per illos qui tali expresserunt : nam vestre liters
discretius et consultius clausulate nicil de talibus continebant. estne ista revo-
catio gloriosa qua d. all. (i. e. Dantes Alligherius) revocatur ad patriam per
trilustrium fere perpessus exilium? hecne meruit conscientia manifesta quibus-
libet 1 hec sudor et labor continuatus in studiis ? absit a viro philosophie domes-
tica temeraria terreni cordis humilitcis, ut more cujusdam cioli et aliorum in-
famiam quasi vinctus ipse se patiatur ofFerri. absit a viro predicante justitiam,
ut perpessus iiijuriam inferentibus. velud benemerentibus, pecuniam suam sol-
vat, non est hec via redevxndi ad patriam, Pater mi, sed si alia per vos, aut
deinde per alios invenietur que fame d. (Dantis) que onori non deroget, illam
non lentis passibus acceptabo. quod si per nuUam talem Florentia introitur,
nunquam Florentiam introibo. quidni? nonue solis astrorumque specula ubiquo
conspiciam? nonno dulcissimas veritates potero speculari ubique sub celo, ni
prius inglorium, imo ignominiosum populo, Florentineque civitati me reddam ?
quippe panis non deficiet."

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 15

choly and mortifying. Failure in a negotiation with the Vene-
tians for his patron, Guido Novello, is supposed to have been the
last bitter drop which made the cup of his endurance run over.
He returned from Venice to Ravenna, worn out, and there died,
after fifteen years' absence from his country, in the year 1231,
aged fifty-seven. His \ii^ had been so agitated, that it probably
would not have lasted so long, but for the solace of his poetry,
and the glory which he knew it must produce him. Guido gave
him a sumptuous funeral, and intended to give him a monument ;
but such was the state of Italv in those times, that he himself
died in exile the year after. The monument, however, and one
of a noble sort, was subsequently bestowed by the father of Cardi-
nal Bembo, in 1483 ; and another, still nobler, as late as 1780,
by Cardinal Gonzaga. His countrymen, in after years, made
two solemn applications for the removal of his dust to Florence ;
but the just pride of the Ravennese refused them.

Of the exile's family, three sons died young ; the daughter
went into a nunnery ; and the two remaining brothers, who ulti-
mately joined their father in his banishment, became respectable
men of letters, and left families in Ravenna ; where the race,
though extinct in the male line, still survives through a daughter
in the noble house of Serego Alighieri. No direct descent of
the other kind from poets of former times is, I believe, known to
exist.

The manners and general appearance of Dante have been mi-
nutely recorded, and are in striking agreement with his charac-
ter. Boccaccio and other novelists are the chief relaters ; and
their accounts will be received accordingly with the greater or
less trust, as the reader considers them probable ; but the author
of the Decameron personally knew some of his friends and rela-
tions, and he intermingles his least favourable reports with ex-
pressions of undoubted reverence. The poet was of middle
height, of slow and serious deportment, had a long dark visage,
large piercing eyes, large jaws, an aquiline nose, a projecting
under-lip, and thick curling hair — an aspect announcing deter-
mination and melancholy. There is a sketch of his counte-
nance, in his younger days, from the immature but sweet pencil of
Giotto ; and it is a refreshment to look at it, though pride and dis-

16 DANTE.

content, I think, are discernible in its lineaments. It is idle, and
no true compliment to his nature, to pretend, as his mere wor-
shippers do, that his face owes all its subsequent gloom and exa-
cerbation to external causes, and that he was in every respect
the poor victim of events — the infant changed at nurse by the
wicked. What came out of him, he jnust have had in him, at
least in the germ ; and so inconsistent was his nature altogether,
or, at any rate, such an epitome of all the graver passions that
are capable of co-existing, both sweet and bitter, thoughtful and
outrageous, that one is sometimes tempted to think he must have
had an angel for one parent, and — I shall leave his own tolera-
tion to say what — for the other.

To continue the account of his manners and inclinations : He
dressed with a becoming gravity ; was temperate in his diet ; a
great student ; seldom spoke, unless spoken to, but always to the
purpose ; and almost all the anecdotes recorded of him, except
by himself, are full of pride and sarcasm. He was so swarthy,
that a woman, as he was going by a door in Verona, is said to
have pointed him out to another, with a remark which made the
saturnine poet smile — " That is the man who goes to hell when-
ever he pleases, and brings back news of the people there." On
which her companion observed — " Very likely ; don't you see
what a curly beard he has, and what a dark face ? owing, I dare
say, to the heat and smoke." He was evidently a passionate
lover of painting and music — is thought to have been less strict
in his conduct with regard to the sex than might be supposed
from his platonical aspirations — (Boccaccio says, that even a goitre
did not repel him from the pretty face of a mountaineer) — could
be very social when he was young, as may be gathered from the
sonnet addressed to his friend Cavalcante about a party for a boat
— and though his poetry was so intense and weighty, the lauda-
ble minuteness of a biographer has informed us, that his hand-
writing, besides being neat and precise, was of a long and partic-
ularly thin character : " meagre" is his word.

There is a letter, said to be nearly coeval with his time, and to
be written by the prior of a monastery to a celebrated Ghibelline
leader, a friend of Dante's, which, though hitherto accounted
apocryphal by most, has such an air of truth, and contains an

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 17

image of the poet in his exile so exceedingly like what we con-
ceive of the man, that it is difficult not to believe it genuine,
especially as the handwriting has lately been discovered to be
that of Boccaccio.* At all events, I am sure the reader will not
be sorry to have the substance of it. The writer says, that he
perceived one day a man coming into the monastery, whom none
of its inmates knew. He asked him what he wanted ; but the
stranger saying nothing, and continuing to gaze on the building
as though contemplating its architecture, the question was put a
second time ; upon which, looking round pn his interrogators, he
answered, " Peace .'" The prior, whose curiosity was strongly
excited, took the stranger apart, and discovering who he was,
shewed him all the attention becoming his fame ; and then Dante
took a little book out of his bosom, and observing that perhaps
the prior had not seen it, expressed a wish to leave it with his
new friend as a memorial. It was " a portion," he said, "of
his work." The prior received the volume with respect; and
politely opening it at once, and fixing his eyes on the contents, in
order, it would seem, to shew the interest he took in it, appeared
suddenly to check some observation which they suggested.
Dante found that his reader was surprised at seeing the work
written in the vulgar tongue instead of Latin. He explained,
that he wished to address himself to readers of all classes; and
concluded with requesting the prior to add some notes, with the
spirit of which he furnished him, and then forward it (transcri-
bed, I presume, by the monks) to their common friend, the Ghib-
elline chieftain — a commission, which, knowing the prior's inti-
macy with that personage, appears to have been the main object
of his coming to the place. "j"

Tliis letter has been adduced as an evidence of Dante's poem
having transpired during his lifetime : a thing which, in the
teeth of Boccaccio's statement to that effect, and indeed the poet's
own testimony,:}: Foscolo holds to be so impossible, that he turns

* Opere Minori, ut sup. vol. iii. p. 186.

t Veltro Allegorico di Dante, ut sup. p. 208, where the Appendix contains
tlie Latin original.

X See Fraticeili's Dissertation on the Convito, in Opere Minori, ut sup. vol.
ii, p. 560.

18 DANTE.

the evidence against the letter. He thinks, that if such bitter in-
vectives had been circulated, a hundred daggers would have been
sheathed in the bosom of the exasperating poet.* But I cannot
help being of opinion, with some writer whom T am unable at
present to call to mind (Schlegel, I think), that the strong critical
reaction of modern times in favour of Dante's genius has tended
to exaggerate the idea conceived of him in relation to his own.
That he was of importance, and bitterly hated in his native city,
was a distinction he shared with other partisans who have ob-
tained no celebrity, though his poetry, no doubt, must have in-
creased the bitterness ; that his genius also became more and
more felt out of the city, by the few individuals capable of esti-
mating a man of letters in those semi-barbarous times, may be
regarded as certain ; but that busy politicians in general, war-
making statesmen, and princes constantly occupied in fighting for
their existence with one another, were at all alive either to his
merits or his invectives, or would have regarded him as any thing
but a poor wandering scholar, solacing his foolish interference in
the politics of this world with the old clerical threats against his
enemies in another, will hardly, I think, be doubted by any one who
reflects on the difference between a fame accumulated by ages,
and the living poverty that is obliged to seek its bread. A writer
on a monkish subject may have acquired fame with monks, and
even with a few distinguished persons, and yet have been little
known, and less cared for, out of the pale of that very private
literary public, which was almost exclusively their own. When
we read, now-a-days, of the great poet's being so politely received
by Can Grande, lord of Verona, and sitting at his princely table,
we are apt to fancy that nothing but his great poetry procured
him the reception, and that nobody present competed with him in
the eyes of his host. But, to say nothing of the different kinds
of retainers, that could sit at a prince's table in those days. Can,
who was more ostentatious than delicate in his munificence, kept
a sort of caravansera for clever exiles, whom he distributed into
lodgings classified according to their pursuits ;f and Dante only
shared his bounty with the rest, till the more delicate poet could

* Discorso sul Testo, p. 54. t Balbo, Naples edition, p. 132.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 19

no longer endure either the butlboncry of his companions, or tiie
amusement derived from it by the master. On one occasion, his
platter is slily heaped with their bones, which provokes him to
call them dogs, as having none to shew for their own. Another
time, Can Grande asks him how it is that his companions give
more pleasure at court than himself; to which he answers, " Be-
cause like loves like." He then leaves the court, and his dis-
gusted superiority is no doubt regarded as a pedantic assumption.
He stopped long nowhere, except with Guido Novello ; and
when that prince, whose downfall was at hand, sent him on the
journey above mentioned to Venice, the senate (whom the poet
had never offended) were so little aware of his being of conse-
quence, that they declined giving him an audience. He went
back, and broke his heart. Boccaccio says, that he would get
into such passions with the very boys and girls in the street, who
plagued him with party- words, as to throw stones at them — a
thing that would be incredible, if persons acquainted with his
great but ultra-sensitive nation did not know what Italians could
do in all ages, from Dante's own age down to the times of Alfieri
and Foscolo. It would be as difficult, from the evidence of his
own works and of the exasperation he created, to doubt the ex-
tremest reports of his irascible temper, as it would be not to give
implicit faith to his honesty. The charge of peculation which his
enemies brought against this great poet, the world has universally
scouted with an indifijnation that does it honour. He himself
seems never to have condescended to allude to it ; and a biogra-
pher would feel bound to copy his silence, had not the accusation
been so atrociously recorded. But, on the other hand, who can
believe that a man so capable of doing his fellow-citizens good
and honour, would have experienced such excessive enmity, had
he not carried to excess the provocations of his pride and scorn ?
His whole history goes to prove it, not omitting the confession he
makes of pride as his chief sin, and the eulogies he bestows on
the favourite vice of the age — revenge. His Christianity (at least
as shewn in his poem) was not that of Christ, but of a furious
polemic. His motives for changing his party, though probably
of a mixed nature, like those of most human beings, may reason-
ably be supposed to have originated in something better than in-

20 DANTE.

terest or indignation. He had most likely not agreed thoroughly
with any party, and had become hopeless of seeing dispute^
brought to an end, except by the representative of the Coesars.
The inconsistency of the personal characters of the Popes with
the sacred claims of the chair of St. Peter, was also calculated
greatly to disgust him ; but still his own infirmities of pride and
vindictiveness spoiled all ; and when he loaded every body else
with reproach for the misfortunes of his country, he should have
recollected that, had his own faults been kept in subjection to his
understanding, he might possibly have been its saviour. Dante's
modesty has been asserted on the ground of his humbling him-
self to the fame of Virgil, and at the feet of blessed spirits ; but
this kind of exalted humility does not repay a man's fellow-citi-
zens for lording it over them with scorn and derision. We learn
from Boccaccio, that when he was asked to go ambassador from
his party to the pope, he put to them the following useless and
mortifying queries — " If I go, who is to stay ? — and if I stay,
who is to go ?"* Neither did his pride make him tolerant of
pride in others. A neighbour applying for his intercession witli

* " Di se stesso presunse maravigliosamente tanto, che essendo egli glorioso
nel colmo del reggimento della republica, e ragionandosi tr&. maggiori cittadini
di mandare, per alcuna gran bisogna, ambasciata a Bonifazio Papa VIII., e
che principe della ambasciata fosse Daute, ed egli in cio in presenzia di tutti
quegli che cio consigliavano ricliiesto, avvenne, che soprastando egli alia ris-
posta, alcun disse, che pensi ? alle quali parole egli rispose : penso, se io vo, chi
riniane ; e s' io rimango, chi va : quasi esso solo fosse colui che fra tutti valesse
e per cui tutti gli altri valessero." And he goes on to say, respecting the stone-
throwing — " Appresso, come che il nostro poeta nelle sua avversit^. paziente
o no si fosse, in una fu impazientissimo : ed egli infino al cominciamento del
suo esilio stato guelfissimo, non essendogii aperta la via del ritornare in casa
sua, si fiior di modo diventf) ghibellino, che ogni femminella, ogni picciol fan-
ciullo, e quante volte avesse voluto, ragionando di parte, e la guelfa proponendo
alia ghibellina, I'avrebbe non solamente fatto turbare, ma a tanta insania com-
mosso, che se taciuto non fosse, a gittar le pietre I'avrebbe condotto." (Vita di
Dante, prefixed to the Paris edition of the Commedia, 1844, p. xxv.) And
then the " biion Boccaccio," with his accustomed sweetness of nature, begs
pardon of so great a man, for being obliged to relate such things of him, and
doubts whether his spirit may not be looking down on him that moment dis-
dainfully from heaven ! Such an association of ideas had Dante produced
between the celestial and the scornful I

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 521

a magistrate, wlio had summoned him for some offence, Dante,
who disliked the man for riding in an overbearing manner along
the streets (stretching out his legs as wide as he could, and hin-
dering people from going by), did intercede with the magistrate,
but it was in behalf of doubling the fine in consideration of the
horsemanship. The neighbour, who was a man of family, was
so exasperated, that Sacchetti the novelist says it was the princi-
pal cause of Dante's expatriation. This will be considered the
less improbable, if, as some suppose, the delinquent obtained pos-
session of his derider's confiscated property ; but, at all events,
nothing is more likely to have injured him. The bitterest ani-
mosities are generally of a personal nature ; and bitter indeed
must have been those which condemned a man of official dignity
and of genius to such a penalty as the stake.*

That the Florentines of old, like other half-Christianised peo-
ple, were capable of any extremity against an opponent, burning
included, was proved by the fates of Savonarola and others ; and
that Dante himself could admire the burners is evident from his
euloijies and beatification of such men as Folco and St. Dominic.
The tragical as well as " fantastic tricks" which

" Man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,"

plays with his energy and bad passions under the guise of duty,
is among the most perplexing of those spectacles, which, accord-
ing to a greater understanding than Dante's, " make the an-
gels weep." (Dante, by the way, has introduced in his heaven
no such angels as those ; though he has plenty that scorn and de-
nounce.) Lope de Vega, though a poet, was an officer of the In-
quisition, and joined the famous Armada that was coming to
thumbscrew and roast us into his views of Christian meekness.
Whether the author of the story of Paulo and Francesca could
have carried the Dominican theories into practice, had he been
the banisher instead of the banished, is a point that may happily
be doubled ; but at all events he revejiged himself on his enemies

* Novelle di Franco Sacchetti, Milan edition, 1804, vol. ii. p. 148. It forms
the setting, or frame-work, of an inferior story, and is not mentioned in the
heading.

22 DANTE.

after their own fashion ; for he answered their decree of the
stake by 'putting them into hell.

Dante entitled the saddest poem in the world a Comedy, be-
cause it was written in a middle style ; though some, by a strange
confusion of ideas, think the reason must have been because it
" ended happily !" that is, because, beginning with hell (to some),
it terminated with " heaven" (to others). As well might they
have said, that a morning's work in the Inquisition ended happily,
because, while people were being racked in the dungeons, the of-
ficers were making merry in the drawing-room. For the much-
injured epithet of " Divine," Dante's memory is not responsible.
He entitled his poem arrogantly enough, yet still not with that
impiety of arrogance, " The Comedy of Dante Alighieri, a Flor-
entine by nation but not by habits." The word " divine" was
added by some transcriber ; and it heaped absurdity on absur-
dity, too much of it, alas ! being literally infernal tragedy. I
am not speaking in mockery, any further than the fact itself can-
not help so speaking. I respect what is to be respected in Dante ;
I admire in him v/hat is admirable ; would love (if his infernali-
ties would let me) what is loveable ; but this must not hinder
one of the human race from protesting against what is erroneous
in his fame, when it jars against every best feeling, human and
divine. Mr. Cary thinks that Dante had as much right to avail
himself of " the popular creed in all its extravagance" as Homer
had of his gods, or Shakspeare of his fairies. But the distinc-
tion is obvious. Homer did not personally identify himself with
a creed, or do his utmost to perpetuate the worst parts of it in
behalf of a ferocious inquisitorial church, and to the risk of en-
dangering the peace of millions of gentle minds.

The great poem thus misnomered is partly a system of theol-
ogy,' partly an abstract of the knowledge of the day, but chiefly
a series of passionate and imaginative pictures, altogether form-
ing an account of the author's times, his friends, his enemies,
and himself, written to vent the spleen of his exile, and the rest
of his feelings, good and bad, and to reform church and state by
a spirit of resentment and obloquy, which highly needed reform
itself. It has also a design strictly self- referential. The author
feigns, that the beatified spirit of his mistress has obtained leave

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 23

to warn and purify his soul by shewing him the state of things in
the next world. She deputes the soul of his master Virgil to
conduct iiiin througii hell and purgatory, and then takes him her-
self through the spheres of heaven, where St. Peter catechises
and confirms him, and where he is fmally honoured with sights
of the Virgin Mary, of Christ, and even a glimpse of the Su-
preme Being !

His hell, considered as a place, is, to speak geologically, a
most fantastical formation. It descends from beneath Jerusalem
to the centre of the earth, and is a funnel graduated in circles, each
circle being a separate place of torment for a different vice or its
co-ordinates, and the point of the funnel terminating with Satan
stuck into ice. Purgatory is a corresponding mountain on the
other side of the globe, commencing with the antipodes of Jeru-
salem, and divided into exterior circles of expiation, which end
m a table-land forming the terrestrial paradise. From this the
hero and his mistress ascend by a flight, exquisitely conceived, to
the stars ; where the sun and the planets of the Ptolemaic sys-
tem (for the true one was unknown in Dante's time) form a se-
ries of heavens for different virtues, the whole terminating in the
empyrean, or region of pure light, and the presence of the Be-
atific Vision.

The boundaries of old and new, strange as it may now
seem to us, were so confused in those days, and books were so
rare, and the Latin poets held in such invincible reverence, that
Dante, in one and the same poem, speaks of the false gods of Pa-
ganism, and yet retains much of its lower mythology ; nay, in-
vokes Apollo himself at the door of paradise. There was, per-
haps, some mystical and even philosophical inclusion of the past
in this medley, as recognising the constant superintendence of
Providence ; but that Dante partook of what may be called the
literary superstition of the time, even for want of better know-
ledge, is clear from the grave historical use he makes of poetic
fables in his treatise on Monarchy, and in the very arguments
which he puts into the mouths of saints and apostles. There are
lingering feelings to this effect even now among the peasantry of
Italy ; where, the reader need not be told. Pagan customs of all
sorts, including religious and most reverend ones, are existing

24 DANTE.

under the sanction of other names ; — heathenisms christened. A
Tuscan postilion, once enumerating to me some of the native
poets, concluded his list with Apollo; and a plaster-cast man
over here, in London, appeared much puzzled, when conversing
on the subject with a friend of mine, how to discrepate Samson
from Hercules.

Dante accordingly, while, with the frightful bigotry of the
schools, he puts the whole Pagan world into hell-borders (with
the exception of two or three, whose salvation adds to the absur-
dity), mingles the hell of Virgil with that of Tertullian and St.
Dominic ; sets Minos at the door as judge ; retains Charon in his
old office of boatman over the Stygian lake ; puts fabulous peo-
ple with real among the damned, Dido, and Cacus, and Ephialtes,
with Ezzelino and Pope Nicholas the Fifth ; and associates the
Centaurs and the Furies with the agents of diabolical torture.
It has pleased him also to elevate Cato of Utica to the office of
warder of purgatory, though the censor's poor good wife, Marcia,
is detained in the regions below. By these and other far greater
inconsistencies, the whole place of punishment becomes a reduc-
iio ah absurdum, as ridiculous as it is melancholy ; so that one
is astonished how so great a man, and especially a man who
thought himself so far advanced beyond his age, and who pos-
sessed such powers of discerning the good and beautiful, could
endure to let his mind live in so foul and foolish a region for any
length of time, and there wreak and harden the unworthiest of
his passions. Genius, nevertheless, is so commensurate with absur-
dity throughout the book, and there are even such sweet and balmy
as well as sublime pictures in it occasionally, nay often, that not
only will the poem ever be worthy of admiration, but when those
increasing purifications of Christianity which our blessed refor-
mers began, shall finally precipitate the whole dregs of the au-
thor into the mythology to which they belong, the world will de-
rive a pleasure from it to an amount not to be conceived till the
arrival of that day. Dante, meantime, with an impartiality
which has been admired by those who can approve the assumption
of a theological tyranny at the expense of common feeling and de-
cency, has put friends as well as foes into hell : tutors of his child-
hood, kinsmen of those who treated him hospitably, even the father

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 95

of his beloved friend, Guido Cavalcantc — the last for not believ-
ing in a God : therein doing the worst thing possible in behalf of
the belief, and totally ditlering both with the pious heathen Plu-
tarch, and the great Christian philosopher Bacon, who were of
opinion that a contumelious belief is worse than none, and that
it is far better and more pious to believe in " no God at all," than
in a God who would " cat his children as soon as they were
born." And Dante makes him do worse ; for the whole unbap-
tised infant world. Christian as well as Pagan, is in his Tartarus.

Milton has spoken of the " milder shades of Purgatory ;" and
truly they possess great beauties. Even in a theological point
of view they are something like a bit of Christian refreshment
after the horrors of the Inferno, The first emerging from the
hideous gulf to the sight of the blue serenity of heaven, is paint-
ed in a manner inexpressibly charming. So is the sea-shore
with the coming of the angel ; the valley, with the angels in
green ; the repose at night on the rocks ; and twenty other pic-
tures of gentleness and love. And yet, special and great has
been the escape of the Protestant world from this part of Roman
Catholic belief; for Purgatory ij the heaviest stone that hangs
about the neck of the old and feeble in that communion. Hell
is avoidable by repentance ; but Purgatory, what modest con-
science shall escape '? Mr. Cary, in a note on a passage in which
Dante recommends his readers to think on what follows this ex-
piatory state, rather than what is suffered there,* looks upon the
poet's injunction as an " unanswerable objection to the doctrine
of purgatoiy," it being difficult to conceive " how the best can
meet death without horror, if they believe it must be followed by
immediate and intense suffering." Luckily, assent is not belief;
and mankind's feelings are for the most part superior to their
opinions ; otherwise the world would have been in a bad way in-
deed, and nature not been vindicated of her children. But let
us watch and be on our guard against all resuscitations of su-
perstition.

As to our Florentine's Heaven, it is full of beauties also,

* The Vision; or. Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, of Dante Alighieri, ^c
Smith's edition, 1844, p. 90.

26 DANTE.

though sometimes of a more questionable and pantomimical sort
than is to be found in either of the other books. I shall speak of
some of them presently ; but the general impression of the place
is, that it is no heaven at all. He says it is, and talks much of
its smiles and its beatitude ; but always excepting the poetry —
especially the similes brought from the more heavenly earth — we
realise little but a fantastical assemblage of doctors and doubtful
cliaractcrs, far more angry and theological than celestial ; giddy
raptures of monks and inquisitors dancing in circles, and saints
denouncing popes and Florentines ; in short, a heaven libelling
itself with invectives against earth, and terminating in a great
presumption. Many of the people put there, a Calvinistic Dante
would have consigned to' the "other place;" and some, if now
living, would not be admitted into decent society. At the begin-
ning of one of the cantos, the poet congratulates himself, with a
complacent superiority, on his being in heaven and occupied with
celestial matters, while his poor fellow-creatures are wandering
and blundering on earth. But he had never got there ! A di-
vine — worthy of that name — of the Church of England (Dr.
Whichcote), has beautifully said, that " heaven is first a temper,
and then a place." According to this truly celestial topography,
the implacable Florentine had not reached its outermost court.
Again, his heavenly mistress, Beatrice, besides being far too di-
dactic to sustain the womanly part of her character properly, al-
ternates her smiles and her sarcasms in a way that jars horribly
against the occasional enchantment of her aspect. She does not
scruple to burst into taunts of the Florentines in the presence of
Jesus himself ; and the spirit of his ancestor, Cacciaguida, in the
very bosom of Christian bliss, promises him revenge on his ene-
mies ! Is this the kind of zeal that is to be exempt from objec-
tion in a man who objected to all the world ? or will it be thought
a profaneness against such profanity, to remind the reader of the
philosopher in Swift, who " while gazing on the stars, was betray-
ed by his lower parts into a ditch !"

The reader's time need not be wasted with the allegorical and
other mystical significations given to the poem ; still less on the
question whether Beatrice is theology, or a young lady, or both ; i
and least of all on the discovery of the ingenious Signor Rossetti,

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 27

hat Dante and all the other great old Italian writers meant no-
.hing, either by their mistresses or their mythology, but attacks
m the court of Rome. Suffice it, that besides all other possible
neanings, Dante himself has told us that his poem has its obvi-
ous and literal meaning ; that he means a spade by a spade, pur-
gatory by purgatory, and truly and unaffectedly to devote his
iriends to the infernal regions whenever he does so. I confess I '
:hink it is a great pity that Guido Cavalcante did not live to read
he poem, especially the passage about his father. The under-
itanding of Guido, who had not the admiration for Virgil that
Dante had (very likely for reasons that have been thought sound
n modern times), was in all probability as good as that of his
Hend in many respects, and perhaps more so in one or two ; and
nodern criticism might have been saved some of its pains of
)bjection by the poet's contemporary.

The author did not live to publish, in any formal manner, his
Extraordinary poem, probably did not intend to do so, except un-
ier those circumstances of political triumph which he was al-
vays looking for ; but as he shewed portions of it to his friends,
t was no doubt talked of to a certain extent, and must have ex-
isperated such of his enemies as considered him worth their hos-
ility. No wonder they did all they could to keep him out of
Florence. What would they have said of him, could they have
vritten a counter poem ? What would even his friends have
jaid of him ? for we see in what manner he has treated even
:hose ; and yet how could he possibly know, with respect either
.0 friends or enemies, what passed between them and their con-
jciences ? or who was it that gave him his right to generate the
X)asted distinction between an author's feelings as a man and his
issumed office as a theologian, and parade the latter at the for-
mer's expense ? His own spleen, hatred, and avowed sentiments
)f vengeance, are manifest throughout the poem ; and there is
his, indeed, to be said for the moral and religious inconsistencies
x)th of the man and his verse, that in those violent times the
jpirit of Christian charity, and even the sentiment of personal
ihame, were so little understood, that the author in one part of it
s made to bliWi by a friend for not having avenged him ; and it
s said to have been thought a compliment to put a lady herself

28 DANTE.

into hell, that she might be talked of, provided it was for som
thing not odious. An admirer of this infernal kind of celebrit
even in later times, declared that he would have given a sum (
money (I forget to what amount) if Dante had but done as mu<
for one of his ancestors. It has been argued, that in all the pa
ties concerned in these curious ethics there is a generous love <
distinction, and a strong craving after life, action, and sympatl
of some kind or other. Granted ; there are all sorts of half-goo
half-barbarous feelings in Dante's poem. Let justice be done
the good half; but do not let us take the ferocity for wisdom ai
piety ; or pretend, in the complacency of our own freedom fro
superstition, to see no danger of harm to the less fortunate amoi
our fellow-creatures in the support it receives from a man of g
nius. Bedlams have been filled with such horrors ; thousanc
nay millions of feeble minds are suffering by them or from thei
at this minute, all over the world. Dante's best critic, Fosco]
has said much of the heroical nature of the age in which tl
poet lived ; but he adds, that its mixture of knowledge and a
surdity is almost inexplicable. The truth is, that like every thii
else which appears harsh and unaccountable in nature, it was i
excess of the materials for good, working in an over-active ai
inexperienced manner ; but knowing this, we are bound, for tl
sake of the good, not to retard its improvement by ignoring exis
ing impieties, or blind ourselves to the perpetuating tendencies (
the bigotries of great men. Oh ! had the first indoctrinators c
Christian feeling, while enlisting the " divine Plato" into the se
vice of diviner charity, only kept the latter just enough in mil
to discern the beautiful difference between the philosopher's u:
malignant and improvable evil, and their own malignant ar
eternal one, what a world of folly and misery they might ha)
saved us ! But as the evil has happened, let us hope that ev€
this form of it has had its uses. If Dante thought it salutary
the world to maintain a system of religious terror, the same cha
ity which can hope that it may once have been so, has taught i
how to commence a better. But did he, after all, or did he nc
think it salutary ? Did he think so, believing the creed himself
or did he think it from an unwilling sense of its necessity ? O
lastly, did he write only as a mythologist, and care for nothir

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 29

but the exercise of his spleen and genius ? If he had no other
object than that, his conscientiousness would be reduced to a low
pitch indeed. Foscolo is of opinion he was not only in earnest,
but that he was very near taking himself for an apostle, and
^vould have done so had his prophecies succeeded, perhaps with
success to the pretension.* Thank heaven, his " Hell" has not
?mbittered the mild reading-desks of the Church of England.

^ [f King George the Third himself, with all his arbitrary notions,
ind willing religious acquiescence, could not endure the creed of
5t. Athanasius with its damnatory enjoinments of the impossible,
-vhat would have been said to the inscription over Dante's hell-

' ^ate, or the account of TJgolino eating an archbishop, in the gen-
ie chapels of Queen Victoria ? May those chapels have every
ieauty in them, and every air of heaven, that painting and music
;an bestow — divine gifts, not unworthy to be set before their Di-
vine Bestower ; but far from them be kept the foul fiends of in-
mmanity and superstition !
It is certainly impossible to get at a thorough knowledge of

^iie opinions of Dante even in theology; and his morals, if
udged according to the received standard, are not seldom puz-
ling. He rarely thinks as the popes do ; sometimes not as the
Church does ; he is lax, for instance, on the subject of absolution
)y the priest at death. f All you can be sure of is, the predomi-
iance of his will, the most wonderful poetry, and the notions he
sntertained of the degrees of vice and virtue. Towards the
rrors of love he is inclined to be so lenient (some think because
le had indulged in them himself), that it is pretty clear he would
lOt have put Paulo and Francesca into hell, if their story had
lOt been too recent, and their death too sudden, to allow him to
.ssume their repentance in the teeth of the evidence required.
e avails himself of orthodox license to put " the harlot Rahab"
ato heaven (" cette bonne fille de Jericho," as Ginguene calls
er) ; nay, he puts her into the planet Venus, as if to compli-
lent her on her profession ; and one of her companions there is

ai
ani
ill i^

iiiii
ao

to'
evi

ry
elia

lit 11

jflCl

'^'*'J » Discorso sul Tcsto, pp. 64, 77-90, 335-338.

_T t Purgatorio, canto iii. 118, 138; referred to by Foscolo, in the Discorso
mul Testo, p. 383.

30 DANTE.

a fair Ghibelline, sister of the tyrant Ezzelino, a lady famous for
her gallantries, of whom the poet good-naturedly says, that she
" was overcome by her star" — to wit, the said planet Venus ;
and yet he makes her the organ of the most unfeminine triumphs
over the Guelphs. But both these ladies, it is to be understood,
repented — for they had time for repentance ; their good fortune
saved them. Poor murdered Francesca had no time to repent ;
therefore her mischance was her damnation ! Such are the com-
pliments theology pays to the Creator. In fact, nothing is really
punished in Dante's Catholic hell but impenitence, deliberate or
accidental. No delay 'of repentance, however dangerous, hin-
ders the most hard-hearted villain from reaching his heaven. The
best man goes to hell for ever, if he does not think he has sinned
as Dante thinks ; the worst is beatified, if he agrees with him :
the only thing which every body is sure of, is some dreadful du-
ration of agony in purgatory — the great horror of Catholic death-
beds. Protestantism may well hug itself on having escaped it.
O Luther ! vast was the good you did us. O gentle Church of
England ! let nothing persuade you that it is better to preach
frightful and foolish ideas of God from your pulpits, than loving-
kindness to all men, and peace above all things.

If Dante had erred only on the side of indulgence, humanity
could easily have forgiven him — for the excesses of charity are
the extensions of hope ; but, unfortunately, where he is sweet-
natured once, he is bitter a hundred times. This is the impres-
sion he makes on universalists of all creeds and parties ; that is
to say, on men who having run the whole round of sympathy
with their fellow-creatures, become the only final judges of sove-
reign pretension. It is very well for individuals to make a god
of Dante for some encouragement of their own position or pre-
tension ; but a god for the world at large he never was, or can
be ; and I doubt if an impression to this effect was not always
from the very dawn of our literature, the one entertained of hin
by the genius of our native country, which could never lon^
endure any kind of unwarrantable dictation. Chaucer evidently
thought him a man who would spare no unnecessary probe to th(
feelings (see the close of his version of Ugolino). Spenser say
not a word of him, though he copied Tasso, and eulogised Ariosto

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 31

Shakspeare would assuredly h6,ve put him into the list of those
presumptuous lookers into eternity who " take upon themselves to
know'' (Cymbeline, act v. so. 4). Milton, in his sonnet to Henry
Lawes, calls iiim "that sad Florentine" — a lamenting epithet, by
which we do not designate a man whom we desire to resemble.
The historian of English poetry, admirably applying to him a
passage out of Milton, says that

" Hell grows darker at his frown."*

Walter Scott could not read him, at least not with pleasure. He
tells Miss Seward that the " plan" of the poem appeared to him
" unhappy ; the personal malignity and strange mode of revenge
presumptuous and uninteresting. "f Uninteresting, I think, it is
impossible to consider it. The known world is there, and the
unknown pretends to be there ; and both are surely interesting
to most people.

Landor, in his delightful book the Pentameron — a book full of
the profoundest as well as sweetest humanity — makes Petrarch
follow up Boccaccio's eulogies of the episode of Paulo and Fran-
cesca with ebullitions of surprise and horror :

^'■Petrarca. Perfection of poetry ! The greater is my won-
der at discovering nothing else of the same order or cast in this
whole section of the poem. He who fainted at the recital of
Francesca,

* And he who fell as a dead body falls,'

would exterminate all the inhabitants of every town in Italy !
What execrations against Florence, Pistoia, Pisa, Siena, Genoa !
what hatred against the whole human race ! what exultation and
merriment at eternal and immitigable sufferings ! Seeing this, I
cannot but consider the Inferno as the most immoral and impious
book that ever was written. Yet, hopeless that our country shall
ever see again such poetry, and certain that without it our future
poets would be more feebly urged forward to excellence, I would

* Warton's History of English Poetry, edition of 1840, vol. iii. p. 214.
t Memoirs of the Life of Sir Waller Scott, Bart. vol. ii. p. 122.

32 DANTE.

have dissuaded Dante from cancelling it, if this had been his in-
tention."*

Most happily is the distinction here intimated between the un-
desirableness of Dante's book in a moral and religious point of
view, and the greater desirableness of it, nevertheless, as a pat-
tern of poetry ; for absurdity, however potent, wears itself out in
the end, and leaves what is good and beautiful to vindicate even
so foul an origin.

Again, Petrarch says, " What an object of sadness and of con-
sternation, he who rises up from hell like a giant refreshed !

^''Boccaccio. Strange perversion ! A pillar of smoke by day
and of fire by night, to guide no one. Paradise had fewer wants
for him to satisfy than hell had, all which he fed to repletion ; but
let us rather look to his poetry than his temper."

See also what is said in that admirable book further on (p. 50),
respecting the most impious and absurd passage in all Dante's
poem, the assumption about Divine Love in the inscription over
hell-gate — one of those monstrosities of conception which none
ever had the effrontery to pretend to vindicate, except theologians
who profess to be superior to the priests of Moloch, and who yet
defy every feeling of decency and humanity for the purpose of
explaining their own worldly, frightened, or hard-hearted sub-
mission to the mistakes of the most wretched understandings.

Ugo Foscolo, an excellent critic where his own temper and vi-
olence did not interfere, sees nothing but jealousy in Petrarch's
dislike of Dante, and nothing but Jesuitism in similar feelings en-
tertained by such men as Tiraboschi. But all gentle and con-
siderate hearts^must dislike the rage and bigotry in Dante, even
were it true (as the Dantesque Foscolo thinks) that Italy will never
be regenerated till one-half of it is baptised in the blood of the
other If Such men, with all their acuteness, are incapable of
seeing what can be effected by nobler and serener times, and the
progress of civilisation. They fancy, no doubt, that they are vin-
dicating the energies of Nature herself, and the inevitable neces-
sity of " doing evil that good may come." But Dante in so do-

* Pentameron and Pentalogia, pp. 44-50.

t Discorso sul Testo, p. 226. The whole passage (sect, ex.) is very elo-
quent, horrible, and self -betraying.

HIS LIFE AM) GENIUS. 33

ing violated the Scripture he professed to revere ; and men must
not assume to themselves that final knowledge of results, which
is the only warrant of the privilege, and the possession of which
is to be arrogated by no earthly wisdom. One calm discovery
of science may do away with all the boasted eternal necessities
of the angry and the self-idolatrous. The passions that may be
necessary to savages are not bound to remain so to civilised men,
any more than the eating of man's flesh or the worship of Jug-
ghernaut. When we think of the wonderful things lately done
by science for the intercourse of the world, and the beautiful and
tranquil books of philosophy written by men of equal energy and
benevolence, and opening the peacefulest hopes for mankind, and
views of creation to which Dante's universe was a nutshell, —
such a vision as that of his poem (in a theological point of view)
seems no better than the dream of an hypochondriacl savage, and
his nutshell a rottenness to be spit out of the mouth.

Heaven send that the great poet's want of charity has not made
myself presumptuous and uncharitable ! But it is in the name
of society I speak ; and words, at all events, now-a-days are not
the terrible, stake-preceding things they were in his. Readers in
general, however — even those of the literary world — have little
conception of the extent to which Dante carries either his cruelty
or his abuse. The former (of which I shall give some examples
presently) shews appalling habits of personal resentment ; the
latter is outrageous to a pitch of the ludicrous — positively scream-
ing. I will give some specimens of it out of Foscolo himself,
who collects them for a different purpose ; though, with all his
idolatry of Dante, he was far from being insensible to his mis-
takes.

" The people of Sienna," according to this national and Chris-
tian poet, were " a parcel of coxcombs ; those of Arezzo, dogs ;
and of Casentino, hogs. Lucca made a trade of perjury. Pis-
toia was a den of beasts, and ought to be reduced to ashes ; and
the river Arno should overflow and drown every soul in Pisa.
Almost all the women in Florence walked half-naked in public,
and were abandoned in private. Every brother, husband, son,
and father, in Bologna, set their women to sale. In all Lombardy
were not to be found three men who were not rascals ; and in

34 DANTE.

Genoa and Romagna people went about pretending to be men,
but in reality were bodies inhabited by devils, their souls having
gone to the ' lowest pit of hell' to join the betrayers of their
friends and kinsmen."*

So much for his beloved countrymen. As for foreigners, par-
ticularly kings, " Edward the First of England, and Robert of
Scotland, were a couple of grasping fools ; the Emperor Albert
was an usurper ; Alphonso the Second, of Spain, a debauchee ;
the King of Bohemia a coward ; Frederick of Arragon a coward
and miser ; the Kings of Portugal and Norway forgers ; the
King of Naples a man whose virtues were expressed by a unit,
and his vices by a million ; and the King of France, the de-
scendant of a Paris butcher, and of progenitors who poisoned St.
Thomas Aquinas, their descendants conquering with the arms of
Judas rather than of soldiers, and selling the flesh of their daugh-
ters to old men, in order to extricate themselves from a danger, "j"

When we add to these invectives, damnations of friends as
well as foes, of companions, lawyers, men of letters, princes,
philosophers, popes, pagans, innocent people as well as guilty,
fools and wise, capable and incapable, men, women, and chil-
dren, — it is really no better than a kind of diabolical sublimation
of Lord Thurlow's anathemas in the Rolliad, which begins with

" Damnation seize ye all ;"
and ends with

" Damn them beyond what mortal tongue can tell,
Confound, sink, plunge them all to deepest, blackest hell."t

In the gross, indeed, this is ridiculous enough. No burlesque
can beat it. But in the particular, one is astonished and sad-
dened at the cruelties in which the poet allows his imagination to
riot : horrors generally described with too intense a verisimili-
tude not to excite our admiration, with too astounding a perse-
verance not to amaze our humanity, and sometimes with an
amount of positive joy and delight that makes us ready to shut

* Discorso, as above, p. 101. t Discorso, p. 103.

- t Criticisms on the Rolliady and Probationary Odes for the Laureateship.
Third edit. 1785, p. 317.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 35

the book with disgust and indignation. Tlius, in a circle in hell,
where traitors are stuck up to their chins in ice (canto xxxii.),
the visitor, in walking about, happens to give one of their faces
a kick ; the suHerer weeps, and then curses him — with such in-
fernal truth does the writer combine the malignant with the pa-
thetic ! Dante replies to the curse by asking the man his name.
He is refused it. He then seizes the miserable wretch by the
hair, in order to force him to the disclosure ; and Virgil is rep-
resented as commending the barbarity !* But he does worse.
To barbarity he adds treachery of his own. He tells another
poor wretch, whose face is iced up with his tears, as if he had worn
a crystal vizor, that if he will disclose his name and offence, he
will relieve his eyes awhile, that he may weep. The man does
so ; and the ferocious poet then refuses to perform his promise,
adding mockery to falsehood, and observing that ill manners are
the only courtesy proper towards such a fellow !f It has been
conjectured that Macchiavelli apparently encouraged the enormi-
ties of the princes of his time, with a design to expose them to
indignation. It might have been thought of Dante, if he had
not taken a part in the cruelty, that he detailed the horrors of his
hell out of a wish to disgust the world with its frightful notions
of God. This is certainly the effect of the worse part of his de-
scriptions in an age like the present. Black burning gulfs, full
of outcries and blasphemy, feet red-hot with fire, men eternally
eating their fellow-creatures, frozen wretches malignantly dash-
ing their iced heads against one another, other adversaries mu-
tually exchanging shapes by force of an attraction at once irre-
sistible and loathing, and spitting with hate and disgust when it is
done — Enough, enough, for God's sake ! Take the disgust out
of one's senses, O flower of true Christian wisdom and charity,
now beginning to fill the air with fragrance !

But it will be said that Dante did all this out of his hate of

* The writer of the article on Dante in the Foreign Quarterly Review (as
above) concedes that his hero in this passage becomes " almost cruel." Almost I
Tormenting a man further, who is up to his chin in everlasting ice, and whose
face he has kicked I

t " Cortesia fu lui esser villano."

Inferno, canto xxxiii. 150.

36 DANTE.

cruelty itself, and of treachery itself. Partly no doubt he di(^ ;
and entirely he thought he did. But see how the notions of sucfi
retribution react upon the judge, and produce in him the bad pas-
sions he punishes. It is true the punishments are imaginary.
Were a human being actually to see such things, he must be de-
humanised or he would cry cut against them with horror and de-
testation. But the poem draws them as truths ; the writer's
creed threatened them ; h'e himself contributed to maintain the
belief; and however we may suppose such a belief to have had
its use in giving alarm to ruffian passions and barbarously igno-
rant times, an age arrives when a beneficent Providence permits
itself to be better understood, and dissipates the superfluous horror.

Many, indeed, of the absurdities of Dante's poem are too ob-
vious now-a-days to need remark. Even the composition of the
poem, egotistically said to be faultless by such critics as Alfieri,
who thought they resembled him, partakes, as every body's style
does, of the faults as well as good qualities of the man. It is
nervous, concise, full almost as it can hold, picturesque, mighty,
primeval ; but it is often obscure, often harsh, and forced in its
constructions, defective in melody, and wilful and superfluous in
the rhyme. Sometimes, also, the writer is inconsistent in cir-
cumstance (probably from not having corrected the poem) ; and
he is not above being filthy. Even in the episode of Paulo and
Francesca, which has so often been pronounced faultless, and
which is unquestionably one of the most beautiful pieces of wri-
ting in the world, some of these faults are observable, particular-
ly in the obscurity of the passage about tolta forma, the cessation
of the incessant tempest, and the non- adjuration of the two lovers
in the manner that Virgil prescribes.

But truly it is said, that when Dante is great, nobody surpass-
es him. I doubt if anybody equals him, as to the constant inten-
sity and incessant variety of his pictures ; and whatever he
paints, he throws, as it were, upon its own powers ; as though an
artist should draw figures that started into life, and proceeded to
action for themselves, frightening their creator. Every motion,
word, and look of these creatures becomes full of sensibility and
suggestions. The invisible is at the back of the visible ; dark-
ness becomes palpable ; silence describes a character, nay, forms

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 37

the most striking part of a story ; a word acts as a flash of light-
ning, which disph\ys some gloomy neighbourhood, where a tower
is standing, with dreadful faces at the window ; or where, at
your feet, full of eternal voices, one abyss is beheld dropping out
of another in the lurid light of torment. In the present volume
a story will be found which tells a long tragedy in half-a-dozen
lines. Dante has the minute probabilities of a Defoe in the
midst of the loftiest and most generalising poetry ; and this feel-
ing of matter-of-fact is impressed by fictions the most improbable,
nay, the most ridiculous and revolting. You laugh at the ab-
surdity ; you are shocked at the detestable cruelty ; yet, for the
moment, the thing almost seems as if it must be true. You feel
as you do in a dream, and after it ; — you wake and laugh, but
the absurdity seemed true at the time ; and while you laugh you
shudder.

Enough of this crueller part of his genius has been exhibited ;
but it is seldom you can have the genius without sadness. In
the circle of hell, soothsayers walk along weeping, with their
faces turned the wrong way, so that their tears fall between their •
shoulders. The picture is still more dreadful. Warton thinks
it ridiculous. But I cannot help feeling with the poet, that it is
dreadfully pathetic. It is the last mortifying insult to human
pretension. Warton, who has a grudge against Dante natural to
a man of happier piety, thinks him ridiculous also in describing
the monster Geryon lying upon the edge of one of the gulfs
of hell " like a beaver" (canto xvii.). He is of opinion that the
.writer only does it to show his knowledge of natural history.
But surely the idea of so strange and awful a creature (a huge
mild-faced man ending in a dragon's body) lying familiarly on
the edge of the gulf, as a beaver does by the water, combines the
supernatural with the familiar in a very impressive manner. It
is this combination of extremes which is the life and soul of the
whole poem ; you have this world in the next ; the same persons,
passions, remembrances, intensified by superhuman despairs or
beatitudes ; the speechless entrancements of bliss, the purgatorial
trials of hope and patience ; the supports of hate and anger (such
as they are) in hell itself; nay, of loving despairs, and a self-
pity made unboundedly pathetic by endless suffering. Hence

38 DANTE.

there is no love-story so affecting as that of Paulo and Francesca
thus told and perpetuated in another world ; no father's misery
so enforced upon as Ugolino's, who, for hundreds of years, has
not grown tired of the revenge to which it wrought him. Dante
even puts this weight and continuity of feeling into passages of
mere transient emotion or illustration, unconnected with the next
world ; as in the famous instance of the verses about evening,
and many others which the reader will meet with in this volume.
Indeed, if pathos and the most impressive simplicity, and grace-
ful beauty of all kinds, and abundant grandeur, can pay (as the
reader, I believe, will think it does even in a prose abstract), for
the pangs of moral discord and absurdity inflicted by the perusal
of Dante's poem, it may challenge competition with any in point
of interest. His Heaven, it is true, though containing both sub-
lime and lovely passages, is not so good as his Earth. The
more unearthly he tried to make it, the less heavenly it became.
When he is content with earth in heaven itself, — when he literal-
ises a metaphor, and with exquisite felicity finds himself arrived
there in consequence of fixing his eyes on the eyes of Beatrice,
then he is most celestial. But his endeavours to express degrees
of beatitude and holiness by varieties of flame and light, — of
dancing lights, revolving lights, lights of smiles, of stars, of star-
ry crosses, of didactic letters and sentences, of animal figures
made up of stars full of blessed souls, with saints forming am
eagle's beak and David in its eye ! — such superhuman attempt
become for the most part tricks of theatrical machinery, on which]
we gaze with little curiosity and no respect.

His angels, however, are another matter. Belief was prepare
for those winged human forms, and they furnished him with some
of his most beautiful combinations of the natural with the super-
natural. Ginguene has remarked the singular variety as well as
beauty of Dante's angels. Milton's, indeed, are commonplace in
the comparison. In the eighth canto of the Inferno, the devils in-
solently refuse the poet and his guide an entrance into the city of
Dis : — an angel comes sweeping over the Stygian lake to enforce
it ; the noise of his wings makes the shores tremble, and is like
a crashing whirlwind such as beats down the trees and sends the
peasants and their herds flying before it. The heavenly messen-

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 39

ger, after rebuking the devils, touches the portals of the city with
his wand ; they fly open ; and he returns the way he came with-
out uttering a word to the two companions. His face was that
of one occupied with other thoughts. This angel is announced
by a tempest. Another, who brings the souls of the departed to
Purgatory, is first discovered at a distance, gradually disclosing
white splendours, which are his wings and garments. He comes
in a boat, of which his wings are the sails ; and as he approaches,
it is impossible to look him in the face for its brightness. Two
other angels have green wings and green garments, and the dra-
pery is kept in motion like a flag by the vehement action of the
wiijgs. A fifth has a face like the morning star, casting forth
quivering beams. A sixth is of a lustre so oppressive, that the
poet feels a weight on his eyes before he knows what incoming.
Another's presence affects the senses like the fragrance of a May-
morning ; and another is in garments dark as cinders, but has a'
sword in his hand too sparkling to be gazed at. Dante's occa-
sional pictures of the beauties of external nature are worthy of
these angelic creations, and to the last degree fresh and lovely.
You long to bathe your eyes, smarting with the fumes of hell, in
his dews. You gaze enchanted on his green fields and his celes-
tial blue skies, the more so from the pain and sorrow in midst of
which the visions are created.

Dante's grandeur of every kind is proportionate to that of his
angels, almost to his ferocity ; and that is saying every thing.
It is not always the spiritual grandeur of Milton, the subjection
of the material impression to the moral ; but it is equally such
when he chooses, and far more abundant. His infernal precipices
— his black whirlwinds — his innumerable cries and claspings of
hands — his very odours of huge loathsomeness — his giants at twi-
light standing up to the middle in pits, like towers, and causing
earthquakes when they move — his earthquake of the mountain in
Purgatory, when a spirit is set free for heaven — his dignified
Mantuan Sordello, silently regarding him and his guide aS they
go by, " like a lion on his watch" — his blasphemer, Capaneus,
lying in unconquered rage and sullenness under an eternal rain
of flakes of fire (human precursor of Milton's Satan) — his aspect
of Paradise, " as if the universe had smiled" — his inhabitants of

40 DANTE.

the whole planet Saturn crying out so loud, in accordance with
the anti-papal indignation of Saint Pietro Damiano, that the poet,
though among them, could not hear what they said — and the blush-
ing eclipse, like red clouds at sunset, which takes place at the
apostle Peter's denunciation of the sanguinary filth of the court
of Rome — all these sublimities, and many more, make us not
know whether to be more astonished at the greatness of the poet
or the raging littleness of the man. Grievous is it to be forced
to bring two such opposites together ; and I wish, for the honour
and glory of poetry, I did not feel compelled to do so. But the
swarthy Florentine had not the healthy temperament of his
brethren, and he fell upon evil times. Compared with Homer
/and Shakspeare, his very intensity seems only superior to theirs
i from an excess of the morbid ; and he is inferior to both in other
^sovereign qualities of poetry — to the one, in giving you the health-
iest general impression of nature itself — to Shakspeare, in bound-
less universality — to most great poets, in thorough harmony and
delightfulness. He wanted (generally speaking) the music of a
happy and a happy-making disposition. Homer, from his large
vital bosom, breathes like a broad fresh air over the world, amidst
alternate storm and sunshine, making you aware that there is
rough work to be faced, but also activity and beauty to be en-
joyed. The feeling of health and strength is predominant. Life
laughs at death itself, or meets it with a noble confidence — is not
taught to dread it as a malignant goblin. Shakspeare has all the
smiles as well as tears of nature, and discerns the " soul of good-
ness in things evil." He' is comedy as well as tragedy — the en-
tire man in all his qualities, moods, and experiences ; and he
beautifies all. And both those truly divine poets make nature
their subject through her own inspiriting medium — not through
the darkened glass of one man's spleen and resentment.^ Dante,
in constituting himself the hero of his poem, not only renders
her, in the general impression, as dreary as himself, in spite of
the occasional beautiful pictures he draws of her, but narrows her
very immensity into his pettiness. He fancied, alas, that he could
build her universe over again out of the politics of old Rome and
the divinity of the schools !

Dante, besides his great poem, and a few Latin eclogues, of no

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 41

great value, wrote lyrics full of Platonical sentiment, some of
which anticipated the loveliest of Petrarch's ; and he was the
author of various prose works, political and philosophical, all
more or less masterly for the time in which he lived, and all co-
adjutors of his poetry in fixing his native toni^ue. His account
of his Early Life (the Vita Nuova) is a most engaging history
of a boyish passion, evidently as real and true on his own side as
love and truth can be, whatever might be its mistake as to its ob-
ject. The treatise on the Vernacular Tongue (de Vulgari Elo-
quio) shews how critically he considered his materials for im-
pressing the world, and what a reader he was of every production
of his contemporaries. The Banquet (Convito) is but an abstruse
commentary on some of his minor poems ; but the book on Mon-
archy (de Monarchia) is a compound of ability and absurdity, in
which his great genius is fairly overborne by the barbarous ped-
antry of the age. It is an argument to prove that the world must
all be governed by one man ; that this one man must be the suc-
cessor of the Roman Emperor — God having manifestly designed
the world to be subject for ever to the Roman empire ; and last-
ly, that this Emperor is equally designed by God to be indepen-
dent of the Pope — spiritually subject to him, indeed, but so far
only as a good son is subject to the religious advice of his father ;
and thus making Church and State happy for ever in the two di-
vided supremacies. And all this assumption of the obsolete and
impossible the author gravely proves in all the forms of logic, by
arguments drawn from the history of ^neas, and the providential
cackle of the Roman geese !

How can the patriots of modern Italy, justified as they are in
extolling the poet to the skies, see him plunge into such depths of
bigotry in his verse and childishness in his prose, and consent to
perplex the friends of advancement with making a type of their
success out of so erring though so great a man ? Such slavish-
ness, even to such greatness, is a poor and unpromising thing,
compared with an altogether unprejudiced and forward-looking
self-reliance. To have no faith in names has been announced as
one of their principles ; and " God and Humanity " is their motto.
What, therefore, has Dante's name to do with their principles ?
or what have the semi-barbarisms of the thirteenth century to do

42 DANTE.

with the final triumph of " God and Humanity ?" Dante's lauded
wish for that union of the Italian States, which his fame has led
them so fondly to identify with their own, was but a portion of
his greater and prouder wish to see the whole world at the feet
of his boasted ancestress, Rome. Not, of course, that he had no
view to what he considered good and just government (for what
sane despot purposes to rule without that ?) ; but his good and
just government was always to be founded on the sine qua non
principle of universal Italian domination.*

All that Dante said or did has its interest for us in spite of his
errors, because he was an earnest and suffering man and a great
genius ; but his fame must ever continue to lie where his greatest
blame does, in his principal work. He was a gratuitous logician,
a preposterous politician, a cruel theologian ; but his wonderful
imagination, and (considering the bitterness that was in him) still
more wonderful sweetness, have gone into the hearts of his fel-
low-creatures, and will remain there in spite of the moral and
religious absurdities with which they are mingled, and of the in-
ability which the best-natured readers feel to associate his entire
memory, as a poet, with their usual personal delight in a poet
and his name.

* Every body sees this who is not wilfully blind. " Passionate," says the editor
of the Opere Minori, " for the ancient Italian glories, and the greatness of the
Roman name, he was of opinion that it was only by means of combined strength,
and one common government, that Italy could be finally secured from discord
in its own bosom and enemies from without, and recover its ancient empire
over the whole world." " Amantissimo delle antiche glorie Italiane, e della
grandezza del noma romano, ei considerava, che soltanto pel mezzo d' una gen-
eral forza ed autorit^ poteva 1' Italia dalle interne contese e dalle straniere in-
vasioni restarsi sicura, e recuperate V antico imperio sopra tutte le genti" — Ut
sup. vol. iii. p. &

THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL

Argument.

The infernal regions, according to Dante, are situate in the globe we inhabit,
directly beneath Jerusalem, and consist of a succession of giilfs or circles, nar-
rowing as they descend, and tenninating in the centre ; so that the general
shape is that of a funneL Commentators have differed as to their magnitude ;
but the latest calculation gives 315 miles for the diameter of the mouth or cra-
ter, and a quarter of a mile for that of its terminating point. In the middle is
the abyss, p>ervading the whole depth, and 245 miles in diameter at the open-
ing ; which reduces the different platforms, or territories that surround it, to a
size comparatively small. These territories are more or less varied with land
and water, lakes, precipices, &c. A precipice, fourteen miles high, divides the
first of them from the second. The peissages from the upper world to the en-
trance are various ; and the descents from one circle to another are effected by
the poet and his guide in different manners — sometimes on foot through by-
ways, sometimes by the conveyance of supernatural beings. The crater he
finds to be the abode of those who have done neither good nor evil, caring for
nothing but themselves. In the first circle are the whole unbaptised world —
heathens and infants — melancholy, though not tormented. Here also is found
the Elysium of Virgil, whose Charon and other infernal beings are among the
agents of torment. In the second circle the torments commence with the sin
of incontinence ; and the punishment goes deepening with the crime from cir-
cle to circle, through gluttony, avarice, prodigality, wrath, sullenness, or unwil-
lingness to be pleased with the creation, disbelief in God and the soul (with
which the punishment by fire commences), usur>', murder, suicide, blas-
phemy, seduction and other carnal enormities, adulation, simony, soothsaying,
astrology-, witchcraft, trafficking with the public interest, hypocrisy, highway
robbery (on the great Italian scalej, sacrilege, evil counsel, disturbance of the
Church, heresy, false apostleship, alchemy, forgery, coining (all these, from se-
duction downwards, in one circle) ; then, in the frozen or lowest circle of all,

46 ARGUMENT.

treachery ; and at the bottom of this is Satan, stuck into the centre of the
earth.

With the centre of the globe commences the antipodean attraction of its
opposite side, together with a rocky ascent out of it, through a huge ravine.
The poet and his guide, on their arrival at this spot, accordingly find their po-
sition reversed ; and so conclude their downward journey upwards, till they
issue forth to light on the borders of the «ea which contains the island of Pur-
gatory.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL,

Dante says, that when he was half-way on his pilgrimage
through this life, he one day found himself, towards nightfall, in a
wood where he could no longer discern the right path. It was a
place so gloomy and terrible, every thing in it growing in such a
strange and savage manner, that the horror he felt returned on
him whenever he thought of it. The pass of death could hardly
be more bitter. Travelling through it all night with a beating
heart, he at length came to the foot of a hill, and looking up, as
he began to ascend it, he perceived the shoulders of the hill clad
in the beams of morning ; a sight which gave him some little
comfort. He felt like a man who has buffeted his way to land
out of a shipwreck, and who, though still anxious to get farther
from his peril, cannot help turning round to gaze on the wide wa-
ters. So did he stand looking back on the pass that contained
that dreadful wood.

After resting a while, he again betook him up the hill ; but
had not gone far when he beheld a leopard bounding in front of
him, and hindering his progress. After the leopard came a lion,
with his head aloft, mad with hunger, and seeming to frighten
the very air ;* and after the lion, more eager still, a she-wolf, so
lean that she appeared to be sharpened with every wolfish want.
The pilgrim fled back in terror to the wood, where he again
found himself in a darkness to which the light never penetrated.
In that place, he said, the sun never spoke word.f But the wolf
was still close upon him.:|:

* ** Parea che l' aer ne temesse."
t '♦ La dove '1 sol tace."

" The sun to me is dark,
And silent is the moon, , «

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave." — Milton.
t There is great difTerence among tiae commentators respecting tlie mean-

48 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

While thus flying, he beheld coming towards him a man, who
spoke something, but he knew not what. The voice sounded
strange and feeble, as if from disuse. Dante loudly called out to
him to save him, whether he was a man or only a spirit. The
apparition, at whose sight the wild beasts disappeared, said that
he was no longer man, though man he had been in the time of the
false gods, and sung the history of the offspring of Anchises.

" And art thou, then, that Virgil," said Dante, " who has filled
the world with such floods of eloquence ? O glory and light of
all poets, thou art my master, and thou mine author ; thou alone
the book from which I have gathered beauties that have gained
me praise. Behold the peril I am in, and help me, for I tremble
in every vein and pulse."

Virgil comforted Dante. He told him that he must quit the
wood by another road, and that he himself would be his guide,
leading him first to behold the regions of woe underground, and
then the spirits that lived content in fire because it purified them
for heaven ; and then that he would consign him to other hands
worthier than his own, which should raise him to behold heaven
itself; for as the Pagans, of whom he was one, had been rebels
to the law of him that reigns there, nobody could arrive at Par-
adise by their means.*

ing of the three beasts ; some supposing them passions, others political troubles,
others personal enemies, &lc. The point is not of much importance, especially
as a mystery was intended ; but nobody, as Mr. Gary says, can doubt that the
passage was suggested by one in the prophet Jeremiah, v. 6 : " Wherefore a
lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a wolf of the evenings shall spoil
them ; a leopard shall watch over their cities."

* " Che quelle 'mperador che \k su regna

Perch' i' fu' ribellante a la sua legge,

Non vuol che 'n sua cittJi per me si vegna."

The Pagans could not be rebels to a law they never heard of, any more than

Dante could be a rebel to Luther. But this is one of the absurdities with which

the impious eHrontery or scarcely less impious admissions of Dante's teachers

avowrdly set reason at defiance,— retaining, meanwhile, their right of contempt

for the impieties of Mahometans and Brahmins ; " which is odd," as the poet

» Bays ; for beii»g not less absurd, or, as the others argued, much more so, they

had at least an equal claim on the submission of the reason ; since the greater

the irrationality, the higher the theological triumph.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 49

So saying, Virgil moved on his way, and Dante closely fol-
lowed. He expressed a fear, however, as tliey went, lest being
"neither ^neas nor St. Paul." his journey could not be worthily
undertaken, or end in wisdom. But Virgil, after sharply rebu-
king him for his faintheartedness, told him, that the spirit of her
whom he loved, Beatrice, had come down from heaven, on pur-
pose to commend her lover to his care ; upon which the drooping
courage of the pilgrim was raised to an undaunted confidence ;
as flowers that have been closed and bowed down by frosty nights,
rise all up on their stems in the morning sun.*

" Through me is the road to the dolorous city ;
Through me is the road to the everlasting sorrows ;
Through me is the road to the lost people.
Justice was the motive of my exalted maker ;

I was made by divine power, by consummate wisdom, and by primal love ;
Before me was no created thing, if not eternal ; and eternal am I also.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter."

Such were the words which Dante beheld written in dark
characters over a portal. " Master," said he to Virgil, " I find
their meaning hard."

" A man," answered Virgil, " must conduct himself at this
door like one prepared. Hither must he bring no mistrust.
Hither can come and live no cowardice. We have arrived at
the place I told thee of. Here thou art to behold the dolorous
people who have lost all intellectual good.""}"

* " Quale i fioretti dal notturno gelo

Chinati e chiusi, poi che '1 sol gl' unbianca,
Si drizzan tutti aperti in loro stelo."
Like as tlie flowers that with the frosty night
Are bowed and closed, soon as the sun returns,
Rise on their stems, all open and upright,
t This loss of intellectual good, and the confession of the poet that he finds
the inscription over hell-portal hard to understand {il senso lor m' e duro), are
among the passages in Dante which lead some critics to suppose that his hell
is nothing but an allegory, intended at once to imply his own disbelief in it as
understood by tlie vulgar part of mankind, and his employment of it, neverthe-
less, as a salutary check both to the foolish and the reflecting; — to the foolish,
as an alarm ; and to the reflecting, as a parable. It is possible, in the teeth
of many appearances to the contrary, that such may have been the case ; but

50 THE lTALIAx\ PILGRIMS PROGRESS.

So saying, Virgil placed his hand on Dante's, looking on him
with a cheerful countenance ; and the Florentine passed with
him through the dreadful gate.

They entered upon a sightless gulf, in which was a black air
without stars ; and immediately heard a hubbub of groans, and
wailings, and terrible things said in many languages, words of
wretchedness, outcries of rage, voices loud and hoarse, and
sounds of the smitings of hands one against another. Dante
began to weep. The sound was as if the sand in a whirlwind
were turned into noises, and filled the blind air with incessant
conflict.

Yet these were not the souls of the wicked. They were those
only who had lived without praise or blame, thinking of nothing
but themselves. These miserable creatures were mixed with the
angels who stood neutral in the war with Satan. Heaven would
not dull its brightness with those angels, nor would lower hell i
receive them, lest the bad ones should triumph in their company.

" And what is it," said Dante, " which makes them so griev- J
ously suffer?"

" Hopelessness of death," said Virgil. " Their blind existence
here, and immemorable former life, make them so wretched, that
they envy every other lot. Mercy and justice alike disdain
them. Let us speak of them no more. Look, and pass."

The companions went on till they came to a great river with a
multitude waiting on the banks. A hoary old man appeared
crossing the river towards them in a boat ; and as he came, he
oaid, " Woe to the wicked. Never expect to see heaven. I
come to bear you across to the dark regions of everlasting fire
and ice." Then looking at Dante, he said, " Get thee away
from the dead, thou who standest there, live spirit."

"Torment thyself not, Charon," said Virgil. "He has a
passport beyond thy power to question."

The shaggy cheeks of the boatman of the livid lake, who had

ill the doubt that it affects either the foolish or the wise to any good purpose,
and in the certuinty that such doctrines do a world of mischief to tender con-
sciences and the cause of sound piety, such monstrous contradictions, in terms,
of every sense of justice and charity which God has implanted in the heart of
man, are not to be passed over witiiout iudigrnant comment.

sil

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 51

wheels of fire about his eyes, fell at these words ; and he was
silent. But the naked multitude of souls whom he had spoken to
changed colour, and gnashed their teeth, blaspheming God, and
their parents, and the human species, and the place, and the hour,
and the seed of the sowing of their birth ; and all the while they
felt themselves driven onwards, by a fear which became a desire,
towards the cruel river-side, which awaits every one destitute of
the fear of God. The demon Charon, beckoning to them with
eyes like brasiers, collected them as they came, giving blows to
those that lingered, with his oar. One by one they dropped into
the boat like leaves from a bough in autumn, till the bough is
left bare ; or as birds drop into the decoy at the sound of the
bird-call.

There was then an earthquake, so terrible that the recollection
of it made the poet burst into a sweat at every pore. A whirl-
wind issued from the lamenting ground, attended by vermilion
flashes ; and he lost his senses, and fell like a man stupified.

A crash of thunder through his brain woke up the pilgrim so
hastily, that he shook himself like a person roused by force. He
found that he was on the brink of a gulf, from which ascended
a thunderous sound of innumerable groanings. He could see
nothincr down it. It was too dark with sootv clouds. Virgil
himself turned pale, but said, " We are to go down here. I will
lead the way."

" O master," said Dante, " if even thou fearest, what is to be-
come of myself?"

" It is pity, not fear," replied Virgil, "that makes me change
colour."

With these words his guide led him into the first circle of hell,
surrounding the abyss. The great noise gradually ceased to be
heard, as they journeyed inwards, till at last they became aware
of a world of sighs, which produced a trembling in the air.
They were breathed by the souls of such as had died without
baptism, men, women, and infants ; no matter how good ; no mat-
ter if they worshipped God before the coming of Christ, for they
worshipped him not " properly." Virgil himself was one of
them. They were all lost for no other reason ; and their " only
suffering" consisted in " hopeless desire !"

52 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

Dante was struck with great sorrow when he heard this, know-
infT how many good men must be in that place. He inquired if
no one had ever been taken out of it into heaven. Virgil told him
there had, and he named them ; to wit, Adam, Abel, Noah,
Moses, King David, obedient Abraham the patriarch, and Isaac,
and Jacob, with their children, and Rachel, for whom Jacob did
so much, — and " many more ;" adding, however, that there was
no instance of salvation before theirs.

Journeying on through spirits as thick as leaves, Dante per-
ceived a lustre at a little distance, and observing shapes in it evi-
dently of great dignity, inquired who they were that thus lived
apart from the rest. Virgil said that heaven thus favoured them
by reason of their renown on earth. A voice was then heard
exclaiming, " Honour and glory to the lofty poet ! Lo, his shade
returns." Dante then saw four other noble figures coming to-
wards them, of aspect neither sad nor cheerful.

" Observe him with the sword in his hand," said Virgil, as
they were advancing. " That is Homer, the poets' sovereign.
Next to him comes Horace the satirist ; then Ovid • and the last
is Lucan."

" And thus I beheld," says Dante, " the bright school of the
loftiest of poets, who flies above the rest like an eagle."

For a while the illustrious spirits talked together, and then
turned to the Florentine with a benign salutation, at which his
master smiled : and " further honour they did me," adds the
father of Italian poetry, " for they admitted me of their tribe ; so
that to a band of that high account I added a sixth."*

The spirits returned towards the bright light in which they
lived, talking with Dante by the way, and brought him to a mag-
nificent castle, girt with seven lofty walls, and further defended
with a river, which they all passed as if it had been dry ground.
Seven gates conducted them into a meadow of fresh green, the
resort of a race whose eyes moved with a deliberate soberness, and
whose whole aspects were of great authority, their voices sweet,

* It is seldom tliut a Iwast of this kind — not, it must be owned, bashfnl — has
been allowed by poBterity to be just ; nay, in four out of the five instances, be-
low its claims.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 53

and their speech seldom.* Dante was taken apart to an eleva-
tion in the ground, so that he could behold them all distinctly ;
and there, on the " enamelled green, "f were pointed out to him
the great spirits, by the sight of whom he felt exalted in his own
esteem. He saw Electra with many companions, among whom
were Hector and ^neas, and Caesar in armour with his hawk's
eyes ; and on another side he beheld old King Latinus with his
daughter Lavinia, and the Brutus that expelled Tarquin, and Lu-
cretia, and Julia, and Cato's wife Marcia, and the mother of the
Gracchi, and, apart by himself, the Sultan Saladin. He then
raised his eyes a little, and beheld the " master of those who
know":}: (Aristotle), sitting amidst the family of philosophers,
and honoured by them all. Socrates and Plato were at his side.
Among the rest was Democritus, who made the world a chance,
and Diogenes, and Heraclitus, &c. and Dioscorides, the good
gatherer of simples. Orpheus also he saw, and Cicero, and the
moral Seneca, and Euclid, and Hippocrates, and Avicen, and
Averroes, who wrote the great commentary, and others too nume-
rous to mention. The company of six became diminished to
two, and Virgil took him forth on a far different road, leaving that
serene air for a stormy one ; and so they descended again into
darkness.

It was the second circle into which they now came — a sphere
narrower than the first, and by so much more the wretcheder.
Minos sat at the entrance, gnarling — he that gives sentence on
every one that comes, and intimates the circle into which each is
to be plunged by the number of folds into which he casts his tail
round about him. Minos admonished Dante to beware how he
entered unbidden, and warned him against his conductor ; but
Virgil sharply rebuked the judge, and bade him not set his will
against the will that was power.

* " Genti v' eran, con occhi tardi e gravi,
Di j^rande autoriti ne' lor sembianti :
Parlavan rado, con voci soavi."

t " Sopra '1 verde sinalto." Mr. Gary has noticed the appearance, for the
first time, of this beautiful but now commonplace image.

t " II maestro di color che sanno." •

54 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

The pilgrims then descended through hell-mouth, till they came
to a place dark as pitch, that bellowed with furious cross-wmds,
like a sea in a tempest. It was the first place of torment, and
the habitation of carnal sinners. The winds, full of stifled
voices, buffeted the souls for ever, whirling them away to and
fro, and dashing them against one another. Whenever it seized
them for that purpose, the wailing and the shrieking was loudest,
crying out against the Divine Power. Sometimes a whole mul-
titude came driven in a body like starlings before the wind, now
hither and thither, now up, now down ; sometimes they went in a
line like cranes, when a company of those birds is beheld sailing
along in the air, uttering its dolorous clangs.

Dante, seeing a group of them advancing, inquired of Virgil
who they were. " Who are these," said he, " coming hither,
scourged in the blackest part of the hurricane ?"

" She at the head of them," said Virgil, " was empress over
many nations. So foul grew her heart with lust, that she or-
dained license to be law, to the end that herself might be held
blameless. She is Semiramis, of whom it is said that she gave
suck to Ninus, and espoused him. Leading the multitude next
to her is Dido, she that slew herself for love, and broke faith to
the ashes of Sichseus ; and she that follows with the next is the
luxurious woman, Cleopatra."

Dante then saw Helen, who produced such a world of misery ;
and the great Achilles, who fought for love till it slew him ; and
Paris ; and Tristan ; and a thousand more whom his guide
pointed at, naming their names, every one of whom was lost
through love.

The poet stood for a while speechless for pity, and like one
bereft of his wits. He then besought leave to speak to a particu-
lar couple who went side by side, and who appeared to be borne
before the wind with speed lighter than the rest. His conduc-
tor bade him wait till they came nigher, and then to entreat them
gently by the love which bore them in that manner, and they
would stop and speak with him. Dante waited his time, and then
lifted up his voice between the gusts of wind, and adjured the
two " weary souls" to halt and have speech with him, if none

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 53

forbade their doing so ; upon which they came to him, like doves
to the nest.*

There was a lull in the tempest, as if on purpose to let thern
speak ; and the female addressed Dante, saying, that as he shew-
ed, such pity for their state, they would have prayed heaven to
give peace and repose to his life, had they possessed the friend-
ship of heaven. f

" Love," she said, " which is soon kindled in a gentle heart,
seized this my companion for the fair body I once inhabited — how
deprived of it, my spirit is bowed to recollect. Love, which
compels the beloved person upon thoughts of love, seized me in
turn with a delight in his passion so strong, that, as thou seest,
even here it forsakes me not. Love brought us both to one end.
The punishment of Cain awaits him that slew us."

The poet was struck dumb by this story. He hung down his
head, and stood looking on the ground so long, that his guide

* This is the famous episode of Paulo and Francesca. She was daughtei
to Count Guido da Polenta, lord of Ravenna, and wife to Giovanni Malatesta
one of the sons of the lord of Rimini. Paulo was her brother-in-law. They
were surprised together by the husband, and slain on the spot. Particulars of
their history will be found in the Appendix, together with the whole original
passage.

" Quali colombe, dal disio chiamate,
Con r ali aperte e femie, al dolce nido
Volan per 1' aer dal voler portate :

Cotali uscir de la schiera ov' 6 Dido, "^

A noi venendo per 1' aer maligno,
Si forte fu 1' afFettuoso grido."

As doves, drawn home from where they circled still,
Set firm their open wings, and through the air
Come sweeping, wafted by their pure good-will :

So broke from Dido's flock that gentle pair,
Cleaving, to where we stood, the air malign.
Such strength to bring them had a loving prayer.

t Francesca is to be conceived telling her story in anxious intermitting sen-
tences — now all tenderness for her lover, now angry at their slayer ; watching
the poet's face, to see what he thinks, and at times averting her own. I take
this excellent direction from Ugo Foscolo.

56 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

asked him what was in his mind. *' Alas !" answered he, " such
then was this love, so full of sweet thoughts ; and such the pass
to which it brought them ! Oh, Francesca !" he cried, turnino-
again to the sad couple, " thy sufferings make me weep. But
tell me, I pray thee, what was it that first made thee know, for a
certainty, that his love was returned ? — that thou couldst refuse
him thine no longer ?"

" There is not a greater sorrow,"' answered she, " than calling
to mind happy moments in the midst of wretchedness.* But since
thy desire is so great to know our story to the root, hear me
tell it as well as I may for tears. It chanced, one day, that we
sat reading the tale of Sir Launcelot, how love took him in thrall.
We were alone, and had no suspicion. Often, as we read, our
eyes became suspended,"!- and we changed colour ; but one pas-
sage alone it was that overcame us. When we read how Gene-
vra smiled, and how the lover, out of the depth of his love, could
not help kissing that smile, he that is never more to be parted
from me kissed me himself on the mouth, all in a tremble.
Never had we go-between but that book. The writer was the
betrayer. That day we read no more."

While these words were being uttered by one of the spirits,
the other wailed so bitterly, that the poet thought he should have

* " Nessim inaggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Ne la miseria."

t " Per piu fiate gli occhi ci sospinse
Quella lettura."

" To look at one another," says Boccaccio ; and his interpretation has been fol-
lowed by Gary and Foscolo ; but, with deference to such authorities, I beg
leave to think that the poet meant no more than he says, namely, that their
eyes were simply - 8uspended"-hung, as it were, over the book, without be-
mjr able to read on ; which is what I intended to express (if I may allude to a
production of which both those critics were pleased to speak well), when, in my
youthful attempt to enlarge this story, I wrote

«' And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read."

Story oj Rimini.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 57

lied for pity. His senses forsook him, and he fell flat on the
fround, as a dead body falls.*

On regaining his senses, the poet found himself in the third
lircle of hell, a place of everlasting wet, darkness, and cold, one
leavy slush of hail and mud, emitting a squalid smell. The
riple-headed dog Cerberus, with red eyes and greasy black
eard, large belly, and hands with claws, barked above the heads
f the wretches who floundered in the mud, tearing, skinninof,
nd dismembering them, as they turned their sore and soddened
odies from side to side. When he saw the two living men, he
hewed his fangs, and shook in every limb for desire of their
esh. Virgil threw lumps of dirt into his mouth, and so they
assed him.

It was the place of Gluttons. The travellers passed over them,
s if they had been ground to walk upon. But one of them sat
p, and addressed the Florentine as his acquaintance. Dante did
ot known him, for the agony in his countenance. He was a man
icknamcd Hog (Ciacco), and by no other name does the poet, or
ny one else, mention him. His countryman addressed him by it,
lough declaring at the same time that he wept to see him. Hog
rophesied evil to his discordant native city, adding that there

* " Mentre che 1' uno spirto questo disse,
L' altro piangeva si, che di pietade
I' venni men cosi com' io morisse,
E caddi come corpo morto cade."

'his last line has been greatly admired for the corresponding deadness of its
jcpression.

While thus one spoke, the otlier spirit mourn'd
With wail so woful, that at his remorse
I felt as though I should have died. I tnrn'd
Stone-stifF; and to the ground, fell like a corse.

'he poet fell thus on the ground (some of the commentators think) because
e had sinned in the same way ; and if Foscolo's opinion could be established
-that tlie incident of the book is invention — their conclusion would receive
urious collateral evidence, the circumstance of tlie perusal of the romance in
ompany with a lady being likely enough to have occurred to Dante. But the
ime probability applies in the case of the lovers. The reading of such books
^as equally the taste of their own times : and nothing is more likely than the
olume's having been found in the room where they perished.

58 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

were but two just men in it — all the rest being given up to ava-
rice, envy, and pride. Dante inquired by name respecting the
fate of five other Florentines, who had done good, and was in-
formed that they were all, for various offences, in lower gulfs of
hell. Hog then begged that he would mention having seen him
when he returned to the sweet world ; and so, looking at him a
little, bent his head, and disappeared among his blinded compan-
ions.

" Satan ! hoa, Satan !" roared the demon Plutus, as the poets
were descending into the fourth circle.

" Peace !" cried Virgil, " with thy swollen lip, thou accursed
wolf No one can hinder his coming down. God wills it."*

Flat fell Plutus, collapsed, like the sails of a vessel when the
mast is split. \

This circle was the most populous one they had yet come to.
The sufferers, gifted with supernatural might, kept eternally roll-
ing round it, one against another, with terrific violence, and so
dashing apart, and returning. " Why grasp ?" cried the one —
" Why throw away ?" cried the other ; and thus exclaiming,
they dash furiously together. '

They were the Avaricious and the Prodigal. Multitudes of
them were churchmen, including cardinals and popes. Not all
the gold bcneatli the moon could have purchased them a mo-
ment's rest. Dante asked if none of them were to be recognised
by their countenances. Virgil said, "No;" for the stupid and
sullied lives which they led on earth swept their faces away from
all distinction for ever.

In discoursing of fortune, they descend by the side of a tor-
rent, black as ink, into the fifth circle, or place of torment for the
Angry, the Sullen, and the Proud. Here they first beheld a
filthy marsh, full of dirty naked bodies, that in everlasting rage

* Plutus's exclamation about Satan is a great choke-pear to the commenta-
tors. Tlie line in the original is

" Pape Satan, pape Satan aleppe."
The words, as thus written, are not Italian. It is not the business of this ab-
stract to discuss such points ; and therefore I content myself with believing
that the context implies a call of alarm on the Prince of Hell at the sight of
the living creature and his guide.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 59

tore one another to pieces. In a quieter division of the pool were
seen nothing but bubbles, carried by the ascent, from its slimy
bottom, of the stifled words of the sullen. They were always
saying, " We were sad and dark within us in the midst of the
sweet sunshine, and now we live sadly in the dark bogs." The
poets walked on till they came to the foot of a tower, which hung
out two blazing signals to another just discernible in the distance.
A boat came rapidly towards them, ferried by the wrathful
Phlegyas ;* who cried out, " Aha, felon ! and so thou hast come
at last !"

'' Thou errest," said Virgil. " We come for no longer time
than it will take thee to ferry us across thy pool."

Phlegyas looked like one defrauded of his right ; but proceeded
to convey them. During their course a spirit rose out of the
mire, looking Dante in the face, and said, " Who art thou, that
comest before thy time ?"

" Who art thou ?" said Dante.

" Thou seest who I am," answered the other ; " one among
the mourners."

" Then mourn still, and howl, accursed spirit," returned the
Florentine. " I know thee, — all over filth as thou art."

The wretch in fury laid hold of the boat, but Virgil thrust
him back, exclaiming, " Down with thee ! down among the other
dogs !"

Then turning to Dante, he embraced and kissed him, saying,
*' O soul, that knows how to disdain, blessed be she that bore
thee ! Arrogant, truly, upon earth was this sinner, nor is his
memory graced by a single virtue. Hence the furiousness of
his spirit now. How many kings are there at this moment lord-
ing it as gods, who shall wallow here, as he does, like swine in
the mud, and be thought no better of by the world !"

* Phlegyas, a son of Mars, was cast into hell by Apollo for setting the god's
temple on fire in resentznent for the violation of his daughter Coronis. The
actions of gods were not to be questioned, in Dante's opinion, even though the
gods turned otit to be false. Jugghanaut is as good as any, while he lasts. It
is an ethico-theological puzzle, involving very nice questions ; but at any rate,
had our poet been a Brahmin of Benares, we know how he would have \vt\X*
ten about it in Sanscrit.

60 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

" I should like to see him smothering in it," said Dante, " be-
fore we go."

" A right wish," said Virgil, " and thou shalt, to thy heart's

content."

On a sudden the wretch's muddy companions seized and
drenched him so horribly that (exclaims Dante) " I laud and
thank God for it now at this moment."

" Have at him !" cried they ; " have at Filippo Argenti ;" and
the wild fool of a Florentine dashed his teeth for rage into his
own flesh.*

The poet's attention was now drawn off by a noise of lamenta-
tion, and he perceived that he was approaching the city of Dis.f
The turrets glowed vermilion with the fire within it, the walls
appeared to be of iron, and moats were round about them. The
boat circuited the walls till the travellers came to a gate, which
Phlegyas, with a loud voice, told them to quit the boat and enter.
But a thousand fallen angels crowded over the top of the gate,
refusing to open it, and making furious gestures. At length
they agreed to let Virgil speak with them inside ; and he left
Dante for a while, standing in terror without. The parley was

* Filippo Argenti (Philip Silver, — so called from his shoeing his horse with
the precious metal) was a Florentine remarkable for bodily strength and ex-
treme irascibility. What a barbarous strength and confusion of ideas is there
in this whole passage about him ! Arrogance punished by arrogance, a
Christian mother blessed for the unchristian disdainfulness of her son, revenge
boasted of and enjoyed, passion arguing in a circle ! Filippo himself might
have written it. Dante says,

" Con piangere e con lutto
Spirito maladetto, ti rimani. —

Via cost&, con gli altri cani," &c.

Then Virgil, kissing and embracing him,

" Alma sdegnosa
Benedetta colei che 'n te s' incinse," &c.

And Dante again,

" Maestro, molto sarei vago
Di vederlo attirfFare in questa broda," &c.

t Dis, one of the Pagan names of Pluto, here used for Satan. Within the
walls of the city of Dis commence the punishments by fire.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 61

in vain. They would not let them pass. Virgil, however, bade
his companion be of good cheer, and then stood listening and
talking to himself; disclosing by his words his expectation of
some extraordinary assistance, and at the same time his anxiety
for its arrival. On a sudden, three raging figures arose over the
gate, coloured with gore. Green hydras twisted about them ;
and their fierce temples had snakes instead of hair.

" Look," said Virgil. " The P'uries ! The one on the left is
MegGera ; Alecto is she that is wailing on the right ; and in the
middle is Tisiphone." Virgil then hushed. The Furies stood
clawing their breasts, smiting their hands together, and raising
such hideous cries, that Dante clung to his friend.

" Bring the Gorgon's head !" cried the Furies, looking down ;
" turn him to adamant !"

" Turn round," said Virgil, " and hide thy face ; for if thou
beholdest the Gorgon, never again wilt thou see the light of day."
And with these words he seized Dante and turned him round him-
self, clapping his hands over his companion's eyes.

And now was heard coming over the water a terrible crashing
noise, that made the banks on either side of it tremble. It was
like a hurricane which comes roaring through the-vain shelter of
the woods, splitting and hurling away the boughs, sweeping along
proudly in a huge cloud of dust, and making herds and herdsmen
fly before it. " Now stretch your eyesight across the water,"
said Virgil, letting loose his hands ; — '• there, where the smoke
of the foam is thickest." Dante looked ; and saw a thousand of
the rebel angels, like frogs before a serpent, swept away into a
heap before the coming of a single spirit, who flew over the tops
cf the billows with unwet feet. The spirit frequently pushed
the gross air from before his face, as if tired of the base obstacle ;
^^uid as he came nearer, Dante, who saw it was a messenger from
leaven, looked anxiously at Virgil. Virgil motioned him to be
silent and bow down.

The angel, with a face full of scorn, as soon as he arrived at
the gate, touched it with a wand that he had in his hand, and it
flew open.

" Outcasts of heaven," said he ; " despicable race ! whence
this fantastical arrogance ? Do ye forget that your torments are

62 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

laid on thicker every time ye kick against the Fates ? Do ye
fortret how your Cerberus was bound and chained till he lost the
hair oil his neck like a common dog ?"

So saying he turned swiftly and departed the way he came,
not addressing a word to the travellers. His countenance had
suddenly a look of some other business, totally different from the
one he had terminated.

The companions passed in, and beheld a place full of tombs
red-hot. It was the region of Arch-heretics and their followers.
Dante and his guide passed round betwixt the walls and the sep-
ulchres as in a churchyard, and came to the quarter which held
Epicurus and his sect, who denied the existence of spirit apart ^
from matter. The lids of the tombs remaining unclosed till the
day of judgment, the soul of a noble Florentine, Farinata degli
Uberti, hearing Dante speak, addressed him as a countryman,
asking him to stop.* Dante, alarmed, beheld him rise half out
of his sepulchre, looking as lofty as if he scorned hell itself.
Finding who Dante was, he boasted of having three times ex-
pelled the Guelphs. " Perhaps so," said the poet ; " but they
came back again each time ; an art which their enemies have
not yet acquired."

A visage then appeared from out another tomb, looking ea-
gerly, as if it expected to see some one else. Being disappointed,
the tears came into its eyes, and the sufferer said, " If it is thy
genius that conducts thee hither, where is my son, and why is he
not with thee ?"

" It is not my genius that conducts me," said Dante, " but that
of one, whom perhaps thy son held in contempt."

" How say est thou ?" cried the shade ; — " held in contempt ?
He is dead then ? He beholds no longer the sweet light ?" And
with these words he dropped into his tomb, and was seen no more.
It was Cavalcante Cavalcanti, the father of the poet's friend. Guide. f

* Farinata was a Ghibelline leader before the time of Dante, and had van-
quished the poet's connexions at the battle of Montaperto.

t What would Guido have said to this? More, I suspect, than Dante would
have liked to hear, or known how to answer. But he died before the verses
transpired ; probably before they were written ; for Dante, in the chronologfy
of his poem, assumes what times and seasons he finds most convenient.

THE JOURNEY TUROUGill HELL. 63

The shade of Farinata, who had meantime been lookinir on,
now replied to the taunt of Dante, prophesying that he should
soon have good reason to know that the art he spoke of had been
acquired ; upon which Dante, speaking with more considerate-
ness to the lofty sufferer, requested to know how the gift of pro-
phecy could belong to spirits who were ignorant of the time pres-
ent. Farinata answered that so it was ; just as there was a kind
of eyesight which could discern things at a distance though not
at hand. Dante then expressed his remorse at not having in-
ibrmed Cavalcante that his son was alive. He said it was owing
to his being overwhelmed with thought on the subject he had just
mentioned, and entreated Farinata to tell him so.

Quitting this part of the cemetery, Virgil led him through the
midst of it towards a descent into a valley, from which there as-
cended a loathsome odour. They stood behind one of the tombs
for a while, to accustom themselves to the breath of it ; and then
began to descend a wild fissure in a rock, near the mouth of
which lay the infamy of Crete, the Minotaur. The monster be-
holding them gnawed himself for rage ; and on their persisting
to advance, began plunging like a bull when he is stricken by the
knife of the butcher. They succeeded, however, in entering the
fissure before he recovered sufficiently from his madness to run
at them ; and at the foot of the descent, came to a river of boil-
ing blood, on the strand of which ran thousands of Centaurs armed
with bows and arrows. In the blood, more or less deep accord-
ing to the amount of the crime, and shrieking as they boiled,
were the souls of the Inflicters of Violence ; and if any of them
emerged from it higher than he had a right to do, the Centaurs
drove him down with their arrows. Nessus, the one that be-
queathed Hercules the poisoned garment, came galloping towards
the pilgrims, bending his bow, and calling out from a distance to
know who they were ; but Virgil, disdaining his hasty charac-
ter, would explain himself only to Chiron, the Centaur who in-
structed Achilles. Chiron, in consequence, bade Nessus accom-
pany them along the river ; and there they saw tyrants immersed
up to the eyebrows ; — Alexander the Great among them, Diony-
sius of Syracuse, and Ezzelino the Paduan. There was one of
the Pazzi of Florence, and Rinieri of Corneto (infestors of the

64 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

public ways), now shedding bloody tears, and Attila the Scourge,
and Pyrrhus king of Epirus. Further on, among those immersed
up to the throat, was Guy de Montfort, the Englishman, who slew
his father's slayer, Prince Henry, during divine service, in the
bosom of God ; and then by degrees the river became shallower
and siiallower till it covered only the feet ; and here the Centaur
quitted the pilgrims, and they crossed over into a forest.

The forest was a trackless and dreadful forest — the leaves not
green, but black — the boughs not freely growing, but knotted and
twisted — the fruit no fruit, but thorny poison. The Harpies wail-
ed among the trees, occasionally shewing their human faces ; and
on every side of him Dante heard lamenting human voices, but
could see no one from whom they came. " Pluck one of the
boughs," said Virgil. Dante did so ; and blood and a cry fol-
lowed it.

" Why pluckest thou me ?" said the trunk. " Men have we
been, like thyself; but thou couldst not use us worse, had we been
serpents." The blood and words came out together, as a green
bough hisses and spits in the fire.

The voice was that of Piero delle Vigne, the good chancellor
of the Emperor Frederick the Second. Just though he had been
to others, he was thus tormented for having been unjust to him-
self; for, envy having wronged him to his sovereign, who sen-
tenced him to lose his eyes, he dashed his brains out against a
wall. Piero entreated Dante to vindicate his memory. The
poet could not speak for pity ; so Virgil made the promise for
him, inquiring at the same time in what manner it was that Sui-
cides became thus identified with trees, and how their souls were
to rejoin their bodies at the day of judgment. Piero said, that
the moment the fierce self-murderer's spirit tore itself from the
body, and passed before Charon, it fell, like a grain of corn, into
that wood, and so grew into a tree. The Harpies then fed on its
leaves, causing both pain and a vent for lamentation. The body
it would never again enter, having thus cast away itself, but it
would finally drag the body down to it by a violent attraction ;
and every suicide's carcass will be hung upon the thorn of its
wretched shade.

The naked souls of two men, whose profusion had brought

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. G5

them to u violent end, here came runninn- throuirh the wood from
tlie fanjjs of bhick female mastitis — Icavinir that of a suicide to
mourn the havoc which their passage had made of his tree. He
begged his countryman to gather his leaves up, and lay them at
the foot of his trunk, and Dante did so ; and then he and Virgil
proceeded on their journey.

They issued from the wood on a barren sand, flaming hot, on
which multitudes of naked souls lay down, or sat huddled up, or
restlessly walked about, tryino; to throw from them incessant
flakes of Are, which came down like a fall of snow. They were
the souls of the Impious. Among them was a great spirit, who
lay scornfully submitting himself to the fiery shower, as though
it had not yet ripened him.* Overhearing Dante ask his guide
who he was, he answered for himself, and said, " The same dead
as living. Jove will tire his flames out before they conquer me."

" Capaneus," exclaimed Virgil, " thy pride is thy punishment.
No martyrdom were sufficient for thee, equal to thine own rage."
The besieger of Thebes made no reply.

In another quarter of the fiery shower the pilgrims met a
crowd of Florentines, mostly churchmen, whose offence is not to
be named ; after which they beheld Usurers ; and then arrived
at a huge waterfall, which fell into the eighth circle, or that of
the Fraudulent. Here Virgil, by way of bait to the monster
Geryon, or Fraud, let down over the side of the waterfall the
cord of St. Francis, which Dante wore about his waist,f and pres-
ently the dreadful creature came up, and sate on the margin of
the fall, with his serpent's tail hanging behind him in the air, af-
ter the manner of a beaver ; but the point of the tail was occa-

* " Si che la pioggia non par che 'I maturi."

This is one of the grandest passages in Dante. It was probably (as English
commentators have observed) in Milton's recollection when he conceived the
character of Satan.

t The satire of friarly hypocrisy is at least as fine as Ariosto's discovery of
Discord in a monEistery.

The monster Geryon, son of Chrysaor {Golden-sword), and the Ocean-nymph
Callirhoe {Fair- flowing), was rich in the possession of sheep. His wealth,
and perhaps his derivatives, rendered him this instrument of satire. The mon-
strosity, the mild face, the glancing point of venom, and the beautiful skin,
make it as fine as can be.

66 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

sionally seen glancing upwards. He was a gigantic reptile, with
the face of a just man, very mild. He had shaggy claws for
arms, and a body variegated all over with colours that ran in
knots and circles, each within the other, richer than any Eastern
drapery. Virgil spoke apart to him, and then mounted on his
back, bidding his companion, who was speechless for terror, do
the same. Geryon pushed back with them from the edge of the
precipice, like a ship leaving harbour ; and then, turning about,
wheeled, like a sullen successless falcon, slowly down through
the air in many a circuit. Dante would not have known that he
was going downward, but for the air that struck upwards on his
face. Presently they heard the crash of the waterfall on the cir-
cle below, and then distino-uished flamino; fires and the noises of
suffering. The monster Geryon, ever sullen as the falcon who
seats himself at a distance from his dissatisfied master, shook his
riders from off his back to the water's side, and then shot away
like an arrow.

This eighth circle of hell is called Evil-Budget,* and consists of
ten compartments, or gulfs of torment, crossed and connected
with one another by bridges of flint. In the first were beheld
Pimps and Seducers, scourged like children by horned devils ;
in the second. Flatterers, begrimed with ordure ; in the third,
Simonists, who were stuck like plugs into circular apertures, with
their heads downwards, and their legs only discernible, the soles
of their feet glowing with a fire which made them incessantly
quiver. Dante, going down the side of the gulf with Virgil,
was allowed to address one of them who seemed in greater agony
than the rest ; and doing so, the sufferer cried out in a malignant

* " Malcbolge,'' literally Evil-Budget. Bolgia is an old form of the modern
baule, the common term for a valise or portmanteau. " Bolgia" (says the
Vocaholario delta Crusca, compendiato, Ven. 1792), " a valise ; Latin, bulga,
hippopera ; Greek, [mro-nfipa. In reference to valises which open lengthways
like a chest, Dante uses the word to signify those compartments which he feigns
in his Ilell." (Per similitudine di quelle valigie, che s' aprono per lo lungo, a
guisa di cassa, significa quegli spartimenti, che Dante finge nell' Inferno.) The
reader will think of the homely figurative names in Bunyan, and the contempt
which great and awful states of mind have for conventional notions of rank in
phraseology. It is a part, if well considered, of their grandeur.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 67

rapture, " Aha, is it thou that standest there, Boniface ?* Thou
hast come sooner than it was prophesied." It was the soul of
Pope Nicholas the Third that spoke. Dante undeceived and then
sternly rebuked him for his avarice and depravity, telling him
that nothing but reverence for the keys of St. Peter hindered him
from using harsher words, and that it was such as he that the
Evangelist beheld in the vision, when he saw the woman with
seven heads and ten horns, who committed whoredom with the
kings of the earth.

" O Constantine !" exclaimed the poet, " of what a world of
evil was that dowry the mother, which first converted the pastor
of the church into a rich man !"f The feet of the guilty pope
spun with fiercer agony at these words ; and Virgil, look-
ing pleased on Dante, returned with him the way he came, till
they found themselves on the margin of the fourth gulf, the hab-
itation of the souls of False Prophets.

It was a valley, in which the souls came walking along, silent
and weeping, at the pace of choristers who chant litanies.
Their faces were turned the wrong way, so that the backs of their
heads came foremost, and their tears fell on their loins. Dante
was so overcome at the sight, that he leant against a rock and
wept ; but Virgil rebuked him, telling him that no pity at all was
the only pity fit for that place.:}: There was Amphiaraus, whom
the earth opened and swallowed up at Thebes ; and Tiresias,
who was transformed from sex to sex ; and Aruns, who lived in

* Boniface the Eighth was the pope then living, and one of the causes of
Dante's exile. It is thus the poet contrives to put his enemies in hell before
their time.

t An allusion to the pretended gift of the Lateran by Constantine to Pope
Sylvester, ridiculed so strongly by Ariosto and others.

t A truly infernal sentiment. The original is,

" Qui vive la pietS. quand' b ben morta."
Here pity lives when it is quite dead.

" Chi b piu scellerato," continues the poet, " di colui,
Ch' al giudicio divin passion porta."

That is: " Who is wickeder than he that sets his impa.ssioned feelings against
the judgments of God ?" The answer is : He that attributes judgments to God
which are to render humanity pitiless.

68 THE ITALIAxX PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

a ciivcrii on the side of the marble mountains of Carrara, looking
out on the stars and ocean ; and Manto, daughter of Tiresias
(her Jiind tresses over her bosom), who wandered through the
world till she came and lived in the solitary fen, whence after-
wards arose the city of Mantua ; and Michael Scot, the ixiagician,
w ith his slender loins ;* and Eurypylus, the Grecian augur, who
gave the signal with Calchas at Troy when to cut away the ca-
bles for home. He came stooping along, projecting his face over
liis swarthy shoulders. Guido Bonatti, too, was there, astrologer
of Forli ; and Ardente, shoemaker of Parma, who now wishes he
had stuck to his last ; and the wretched women who quit the
needle and the distaff to wreak their malice with herbs and -^
images. Such was the punishment of those who, desiring to see
too far before them, now looked only behind them, and walked
the reverse way of their looking.

The fifth gulf was a lake of boiling pitch, constantly heaving
and subsiding throughout, and bubbling with the breath of those
within it. They were Public Peculators. Winged black devils
were busy about the lake, pronging the sinners when they occa-
sionally darted up their backs for relief like dolphins, or thrust
out their jaws like frogs. Dante at first looked eagerly down into
the gulf, like one who feels that he shall turn away instantly out
of the very horror that attracts him. " See — look behind thee !'"
said Virgil, dragging him at the same time from the place where
he stood, to a covert behind a crag. Dante looked round, and
beheld a devil coming up with a newly-arrived sinner across his
shoulders, whom he hurled into the lake, and then dashed down
afler him, like a mastiff let loose on a thief. It was a man from
Lucca, where every soul was a false dealer except Bonturo.f

* Nc'fianchi cost poco. Michael Scot had been in Florence ; to which cir-
cumstance we are most probably indebted for this curious particular respecting
his shape. The consinrnment of such men lo hell is a mortifying instance of
the great poet's participation in the vulgarest errors of his time. It is hardly,
liowever, worth notice, considering what we see him swallowing every moment,
or pretending to swallow.

t " IJonliiro must have sold him something cheap," exclaimed a hearer of
this passage. No : — the exception is an irony ! There was not one honest
man in all Lucca !

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 69

riie devil eallctl out to other devils, and a heap of them fell upon
the wretch with hooks as he rose to the surface ; telling him, tiiat
[le must practise there in secret, if he practised at all ; and
Jirustiiig him back into the boiling pitch, as cooks thrust back
lesh into the pot. The devils were of the lowest and most re-
volting habits, of which they made disgusting jest and parade.
Some of them, on a sudden, perceived Dante and his guide, and
ivere going to seize them, when Virgil resorted to his usual holy
'ebuke. For a while they let him alone ; and Dante saw one
)f them haul a sinner out of the pitch by the clotted locks, and
lold him up sprawling like an otter. The rest then fell upon
lim and flayed him.

It was Ciampolo, a peculator in the service of the good Thie-
)ault, king of Navarre. One of his companions under the
)itch was Friar Gomita, governor of Gallura; and another,
Vlichael Zanche, also a Sardinian. Ciampolo ultimately escaped
)v a trick out of the hands of the devils, who were so enra"-ed
hut they turned upon the two pilgrims ; but Virgil, catching up
3ante with supernatural force, as a mother does a child in a
)urning house, plunged with him out of their jurisdiction intf
he borders of gulf the sixth, the region of Hypocrites.

The hypocrites, in perpetual tears, walked about in a weari-
lome and exhausted manner, as if ready to faint. They wore
mge cowls, which hung over their eyes, and the outsides of
vhich were gilded, but the insides of lead. Two of them had
)een rulers of Florence ; and Uante was listening to their story,
vhen his attention was called off by the sight of a cross, or
viiich Caiaphas the High Priest was writhing, breathing hard all
he while through his beard with sighs. It was his office to see
hat every soul which passed him, on its arrival in the place, was
>ppressed with the due weight. His father-in-law, Annas, and
dl his council, were stuck in like manner on crosses round the
jorders of the gulf. The pilgrims beheld little else in this region
»f weariness, and soon passed into the borders of one of the most
errible portions of Evil-budget, the land of the transformation
>f Robbers.

The place was thronged with serpents of the most appalling and
m wonted description, among which ran tormented the naked

70 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

spirits of the robbers, agonised with fear. Their hands were
bound behind them with serpents — their bodies pierced and en-
folded with serpents. Dante saw one of the monsters leap up
and transfix a man through the nape of the neck ; when, lo !
sooner than a pen could write o or i, the sufferer burst into flames,
burnt up, fell to the earth a heap of ashes — was again brought
together, and again became a man, aghast with his agony, and
staring about him, sighing.* Virgil asked him who he was.

'• I was but lately rained down into this dire gullet," said the
man, " amidst a shower of Tuscans. The beast Vanni Fucci
am I, who led a brutal life, like the mule that I was, in that den
Pistoia."

" Compel him to stop," said Dante, " and relate what brought
him hither. I knew the bloody and choleric wretch when he
was alive."

The sinner, who did not pretend to be deaf to these words,
turned round to the speaker with the most painful shame in his
face, and said, " I feel more bitterly at being caught here by thee
in this condition, than when I first arrived. A power which I
cannot resist compels me to let thee know, that I am here because
I committed sacrilege and charged another with the crime ; but
now, mark me, that thou mayest hear something not to render
this encounter so pleasant : Pistoia hates thy party of the Whites,
and longs for the Blacks back again. It will have them, and so
will Florence ; and there will be a bloody cloud shall burst over
the battle-field of Piceno, which will dash many Whites to the
eai'th. I tell thee this to make thee miserable."

So saying, the wretch gave a gesture of contempt with his
thumb and finger towards heaven, and said, " Take it, God — a
fig for thee !"t

* " Intorno si mira
Tutto smarrito da la grande angoscia
Cli' egli ha sofferta, e guardaiido sospira."

This is one of the most terribly natural pictures of agonised astonishment ever
painted.

t I retain this passage, horrible as it is to Protestant ears, because it is not
only an instance of Dante's own audacity, but a salutary warning specimen of
the extremes of impiety generated by extreme superstition ; for their first cause

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 71

"From that instant," said Dante, "the serpents and I were
friends ; for one of them throttled him into silence, and another
dashed his hands into a knot behind his back. O Pistoia ! Pis-
toia ! why art not thou thyself turned into ashes, and swept from
the face of the earth, since thy race has surpassed in evil thine
ancestors ? Never, through the whole darkness of hell, beheld I
a blasphemer so dire as this — not even Capaneus himself."

The Pistoian fled away with the serpents upon him, followed
by a Centaur, who came madly galloping up, crying, " Where is
the caititf?" It was the monster-thief Cacus, whose den upon
earth often had a pond of blood before it, and to whom Hercules,
in his rage, when he slew him, gave a whole hundred blows with
his club, though the wretch perceived nothing after the ninth.
He was all over adders up to the mouth ; and upon his shoulders
lay a dragon with its wings open, breathing fire on whomsoever
it met.

The Centaur tore away ; and Dante and Virgil were gazing
after him, when they heard voices beneath the bank on which
they stood, crying, " Who are ye?" The pilgrims turned their
eyes downwards, and beheld three spirits, one of whom, looking
about him, said, " Where's Cianfa ?" Dante made a sign to
Virgil to say nothing.

Cianfa came forth, a man lately, but now a serpent with six
feet.*

'•If thou art slow to believe, reader, what I am about to tell
thee," says the poet, " be so ; it is no marvel ; for I myself, even
now, scarcely credit what I beheld.'

is the degradation of the Divine character. Another, no doubt, is the impul-
sive vehemence of the South. I have heard more blasphemies, in the course
of half an hour, from the lips of an Italian postilion, than are probably uttered
in England, by people not out of their senses, for a whole year. Yet the
words, after all, were mere words ; for the man was a good-natured fellow, and
I believe presented no image to his mind of anything he was saying. Dante,
however, would certainly not have taught him better by attempting to frighten
him. A violent word would have only produced more violence. Yet this was
the idle round which the great poet thought it best to run I

* Cianfa, probably a condottiere of Mrs. Radcliffe's sort, and robber, on a
large scale, is said to have been one of the Donati family, connexions of the
poet by marriage.

72 THE ITALIAN PILGRIMS PROGRESS.

The six-footed serpent sprang at one of the three men front to
front, clasping him tightly witli all its legs, and plunging liis
fun'^s into either cheek. Ivy never stuck so close to a tree as the
horrible monster grappled with every limb of that pinioned man.
The two forms then gradually mingled into one another like
meltinfT wax, the colours of their skin giving way at the same time
tu u third colour, as the white in a piece of burning paper re-
cedes before the brown, till it all becomes black. The other J
two human shapes looked on, exclaiming, " Oh, how thou changest/
Afmello! See, thou art neither two nor yet one." And truly,
thouidi the two heads first became one, there still remained two
countenances in the face. The four arms then became but
two, and such also became the legs and thighs ; and the two
trunks became such a body as was never beheld ; and the hideous
two-fold monster walked slowly away.*

A small black serpent on fire now flashed like lightning on to
the body of one of the other two, piercing him in the navel, and
then falling on the ground, and lying stretched before him. The
wounded man, fascinated and mute, stood looking at the adder's
eyes, and endeavouring to stand steady on his legs, yawning the
while as if smitten with lethargy or fever ; the adder, on his part,
looked up at the eyes of the man, and both of them breathed
hard, and sent forth a smoke that mingled into one volume.

And now, let Lucan never speak more of the wretched Sabel-
lus or Nisidius, but listen and be silent ; and now, let Ovid be
silent, nor speak again of his serpent that was Cadmus, or his
fountain that was Arethusa ; for, says the Tuscan poet, I envy
him not. Never did he change the natures of two creatures face
to face, so that each received the form of the other.

With corresponding impulse, the serpent split his train into a
fork, while the man drew his legs together into a train ; the skin
of the serpent grew soft, while the man's hardened ; the serpent
acquired tresses of hair, the man grew hairless; the claws of the
one projected into legs, while the arms of the other withdrew into

* This, and tlio Irans&irniatiou that follows, may well excite the pride of
such a poet as Dante ; though it is curious to see how he selects inventions of
this kind as special grounds of self-complacency. They are the most appalling
•ver yet produced.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 73

his shoulders ; the face of the serpent, as it rose from the ground,
retreated towards the temples, pushing out human ears ; that of
the man, as he fell to the ground, thrust itself forth into a muzzle,
withdrawing at the same time its ears into its head, as the slug
does its horns ; and each creature kept its impious eyes fixed on
the other's, while the features beneath the eyes were changing.
The soul which had becc^iie the serpent then turned to crawl
away, hissing in scorn as he departed ; and the serpent, which
had become the man, spat after him, and spoke words at him.
The new human-looking soul then turned his back on his late
adversary, and said to the third spirit, who remained unchanged,
" Let Buoso now take to his crawl, as I have done."

The two then hastened away together, leaving Dante in a state
of bewildered amazement, yet not so confused but that he recog-
nised the unchanged one for another of his countiymen, Puccio
the Lame. " Joy to thee, Florence !" cried the poet ; " not con-
tent with havino; thy name bruited over land and sea, it flourishes
throughout hell."

The pilgrims now quitted the seventh, and looked down from
its barrier into the eighth gulf, where they saw innumerable
flames, distinct from one another, flickering all over the place
like fire-flies,

" In those flames," said Virgil, " are souls, each tormented
with the fire that swathes it."

*' I observe one," said Dante, " divided at the summit. Are
the Theban brothers in it ?"

" No," replied Virgil ; " in that flame are Diomed and Ulys-
ses." The sinners punished in this gulf were Evil Counsellors ;
and those two were the advisers of the stratagem of the Trojan

horse.

Viro-il addressed Ulysses, who told him the conclusion of his
adventures, not to be found in books : how he tired of an idle life,
and sailed forth again into the wide ocean ; and how he sailed so
far that he came into a region of new stars, and in sight of a
mountain, the loftiest he ever saw ; when, unfortunately, a hurri-
cane fell upon them from the shore, thrice whirled their vessel
round, then dashed the stern up in air and the prow under water,
and sent the billows over their heads.

THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

" Enouf^li," said Virgil ; " I trouble thee no more." The soul
of Guido di Montefeltro, overhearing the great Mantuan speak
in a Lombard dialect, asked him news of the state of things in
Romagna ; and then told him how he had lost his chance of para-
dise, by thinking Pope Boniface could at once absolve him from
his sins, and use them for his purposes.* He was going to hea-
ven, he said, by the help of St. Francis, who came on purpose to
fetch him, when a black angel met them, and demanded his ab-
solved, indeed, but unrepented victim. " To repent evil, and to
will to do it, at one and the same time, are," said the dreadful
angel, " impossible : therefore wrong me not." " Oh, how I
shook," said the unhappy Guido, " when he laid his hands upon
me !" And with these words the flame writhed and beat itself
about for agony, and so took its way.

The pilgrims crossed over to the banks of the ninth gulf,
where the Sowers of Scandal, the Schismatics, Heretics, and
Founders of False Religions, underwent the penalties of such as
load themselves with the sins of those whom they seduce.

The first sight they beheld was Mahomet, tearing open his own
bowels, and calling out to them to mark him. Before him walked
liis son-in-law, Ali, weeping, and cloven to the chin ; and the di-
visions in the cliurch were punished in like manner upon all the
schismatics in the place. They all walked round the circle,
their gashes closing as they went ; and on their reaching a cer-
tain point, a fiend hewed them open again with a sword. The
Arabian prophet, ere he passed on, bade the pilgrims warn Friar
Dolcino how he suffered himself to be surprised in his mountain-
hold by the' starvations of winter-time, if he did not wish speedily
to follow him.j-

* Guido, Conte di Montefeltro, a celebrated soldier of that day, became a
Franciscan in his old age, in order to repent of his sins ; but, being consulted in
his cloister by Pope Boniface on the best mode of getting possession of an estate
belonging to the Colonna family, and being promised absolution for his sins in
the lump, including the opinion requested, he recommended the holy father to
" promise much, and perform nothing" {molto proitietiere, e nulla attendere).

t Dolcino was a Lombard friar at the beginning of the fourteenth century,
who is said to have preached a community of goods, including women, and to
have pretended to a divine mission for reforming the church. He appeare to
have made a considerable impression, having thousands of followers, but was

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 75

Among other mangled wretches, they beheld Piero of Medicina,
L sower of dissension, exhibiting to them his face and throat all
»ver wounds ; and Curio, compelled to shew his tongue cut out
or advising Caesar to cross the Rubicon ; and Mosca de' Lam-
)erti, an adviser of assassination, and one of the authors of the
jruelf and Ghibellinc miseries, holding up the bleeding stumps of
lis arms, which dripped on his face. " Remember Mosca," cried
le ; " remember him, alas ! who said, ' A deed done is a thing
inded.' A bad saying of mine was that for the Tuscan nation."

" And death to thy family," cried Dante.

The assassin hurried away like a man driven mad with grief
ipon grief; and Dante now beheld a sight, which, if it were not,
le says, for the testimony of a good conscience — that best of
riends, which gives a man assurance of himself under the breast-
>late of a spotless innocence* — he should be afraid to relate
vithout further proof. He saw — and while he was writing the
Lccount of it he still appeared to see — a headless trunk about
come past him with the others. It held its severed head by
he hair, like a lantern ; and the head looked up at the two pil-
grims, and said, " Woe is me !" The head was, in fact, a lantern

the paths of the trunk ; and thus there were two separated
hings in one, and one in two ; and how that could be, he only

iltimately seized in the mountains where they lived, and burnt with his female
lompanion Margarita, and many others. Landino says he was very eloquent,
md that " both he and Margarita endured their fate with a firmness worthy of
L better cause." Probably his real history is not known, for want of somebody
n such times bold enough to write it.
* Literally, " under the breastplate of knowing himself to be pure :"

" Sotto 1' osbergo del sentirsi pnra."

Phe expression is deservedly admired ; but it is not allowable in English, and
t is the only one admitting no equivalent which I have met with in the whole
loem. It might be argued, perhaps, against the perfection of the passage, that

1 good " conscience," and a man's " knowing himself to be pure," are a tau-
oIofiM ; for Dante himself has already used that word ;

" Conscienzia m' assicura ;
La buona compagnia che 1' uom francheggia
Sotto r o.sbergo," &c.

But still we feel the impulsive beauty of the phrase ; and I wish I could have
kept it.

76 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

can tell who ordained it. As the figure came nearer, it liftei
the head aloft, that the pilgrims might hear better what it said.

" Behold," it said, " behold, thou that walkest living among th(
dead, and say if there be any punishment like this. I am Ber
trand de Born, he that incited John of England to rebel agains
his father. Father and son I set at variance — closest affections
set at variance — and hence do I bear my brain severed from the
body on which it grew. In me behold the work of retribution.""'

The eyes of Dante were so inebriate with all that diversity of
bleeding wounds, that they longed to stay and weep ere his guide
proceeded further. Something also struck them on the suddei
which added to his desire to stop. But Virgil asked what ailec
him, and why he stood gazing still on the wretched multitude
" Thou hast not done so," continued he, " in any other portion of
this circle ; and the valley is twenty-two miles further about, anc
the moon already below us. Thou hast more yet to see than
thou wettest of, and the time is short."

Dante, excusing himself for the delay, and proceeding to follow
his leader, said he thought he had seen, in the cavern at which
he was gazing so hard, a spirit that was one of his own family —
and it was so. It was the soul of Geri del Bello, a cousin of the
poet's. Virgil said that he had observed him, while Dante was
occupied with Bertrand de Born, pointing at his kinsman in a
threatening manner. " Waste not a thought on him," concluded
the Roman, "but leave him as he is."

" O honoured guide !" said Dante, " he died a violent death,
which his kinsmen have not yet avenged ; and hence it is that he
disdained to speak to me ; and I must needs feel for him the more
on that account. "f

They came now to the last partition of the circle of Evil-budgJ
et, and their ears were assailed with such a burst of sharp wail-'
ings, that Dante was fain to close his with his hands. Thei
misery there, accompanied by a horrible odour, was as if all the

hospitals in the sultry marshes of Valdichiana had brought\heir

* This ghastly fiction is a rare instance of the meeting of physical horror'
with the truest pathos.

t The reader will not fail to notice this characteristic instance of the ferocity
of the time.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 77

aladies together into one infernal ditch. It was the place of
mishment for pretended Alchemists, Coiners, Personators of
her people, False Accusers, and Impostors of all such descrip-
)ns. They lay on one another in heaps, or attempted to crawl
>out — some itching madly with leprosies — some swollen and
.sping with dropsies — some wetly reeking, like hands washed
winter-time. One was an alchemist of Sienna, a nation vainer
an the French ; another a Florentine, who tricked a man into
aking a wrong will ; another, Sinon of Troy ; another, Myrrha ;
lOther, the wife of Potiphar. Their miseries did not hinder
em from giving one another malignant blows ; and Dante was
tening eagerly to an abusive conversation between Sinon and a
•escian coiner, when Virgil rebuked him for the disgraceful con-
scension, and said it was a pleasure fit only for vulgar minds.*
The blushing poet felt the reproof so deeply, that he could not
eak for shame, though he manifested by his demeanour that he
iged to do so, and thus obtained the pardon he despaired of.
3 says he felt like a man that, during an unhappy dream, wish-
himself dreaming while he is so, and does not know it. Virgil
iderstood his emotion, and, as Achilles did with his spear, healed
3 wound with the tongue that inflicted it.

A silence now ensued between the companions ; for they had
litted Evil-budget, and arrived at the ninth great circle of hell,
the mound of which they passed along, looking quietly and
;adily before them. Daylight had given place to twilight ; and
inte was advancing his head a little, and endeavouring to dis-
rn objects in the distance, when his whole attention was called
one particular spot, by a blast of a horn so loud, that a thunder-
ip was a whisper in comparison. Orlando himself blew no
ch terrific blast, after the dolorous rout, when Charlemagne
is defeated in his holy enterprise."!" The poet raised his head.

* This is admirable sentiment ; and it must have been no ordinary conscious-
5S of dignity in general wliich could have made Dante allow himself to be
) person rebuked for having forgotten it. Perhaps it was a sort o^ penance
his having, on some occasion, fallen into the unworthiness.
t By the Saracens in Roncesvalles ; afterwards so favourite a topic with the
sts. The circumstance of the horn is taken from the Chronicle of the pre-
»ded Archbishop Turpi n, chapter xxiv.

78 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

thinkinfT he perceived a multitude of lofty towers. He asked
Virgil to what region they belonged ; but Virgil said, " Those
are no towers : they are giants, standing each up to his middle in
the pit that goes round this circle." Dante looked harder ; and
as objects clear up by little and little in the departing mist, he
saw, with alarm, the tremendous giants that warred against Jove,
standing half in and half out of the pit, like the towers that
crowned the citadel of Monteseggione. The one whom he saw
plainest, and who stood with his arms hanging down on each side,
appeared to him to have a face as huge as the pinnacle of St.
Peter's, and limbs throughout in proportion. The monster, as
the pilgrims were going by, opened his dreadful mouth, fit for no
sweeter psalmody, and called after them, in the words of some
unknown tongue, Rafel, maee a mech zahee almee.^ " Dull
wretch !" exclaimed Virgil, " keep to thine horn, and so vent
better whatsoever frenzy or other passion stuff thee. Feel the
chain round thy throat, thou confusion ! See, what a clenching
hoop is about thy gorge !" Then he said to Dante, " His howl is
its own mockery. This is Nimrod, he through whose evil am-
bition it was that mankind ceased to speak one language. Pass
him, and say nothing ; for every other tongue is to him as his is
to thee."

The companions went on for about the length of a sling'a
throw, when they passed the second giant, who was much fiercer
and huger than Nimrod. He was fettered round and round
with chains, that fixed one arm before him and the other behind
him — Ephialtes his name, the same that would needs make trial
of his strength against Jove himself. The hands which he then'
wielded were now motionless, but he shook with passion ; and
Dante thought he should have died for terror, the effect on the
ground about him was so fearful. It surpassed that of a tower
shaken by an earthquake. The poet expressed a wish to look at
Briareus, but he was too far off. He saw, however, Antaeus,
who, not having fought against heaven, was neither tongue-con-
founded nor shackled ; and Virgil requested the " taker of a

* The gaping monotony of this jargon, full of the vowel a, is admirably
suited to the mouth of the vast, half-stupid speaker. It is like a babble of the
gigantic infancy of the world.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 79

thousand lions," by the fiime which the living poet had it in his
power to give him, to bear the travellers in his arms down the
steep descent into this deeper portion of hell, which was the re-
gion of tormenting cold. Antieus, stooping, like the leaning tower
)f Bologna, to take them up, gathered them in his arms, and, de-
positing them in the gulf below, raised himself to depart like the
iiast of a ship.*

Had 1 hoarse and rugged words equal to my subject, says the
Doet, I would now make them fuller of expression, to suit the
'ocky horror of this hole of anguish ; but I have not, and there-
fore approach it with fear, since it is no jesting enterprise to de-
scribe the depths of the universe, nor fit for a tongue that babbles
)f father and mother. f Let such of the Muses assist me as
urned the words of Amphion into Theban walls ; so shall the
ipeech be not too far different from the matter.

Oh, ill-starred creatures ! wretched beyond all others, to in-
labit a place so hard to speak of — better had ye been sheep or

roats.

The poet was beginning to walk with his guide along the place
n which the giant had set them down, and was still looking up at
he height from which he had descended, when a voice close to
lim said, " Have a care where thou treadest. Hurt not with thy
eet the heads of thy unhappy brethren."

Dante looked down and before him, and saw that he was walk-
ng on a lake of ice, in which were Murderous Traitors up to
heir chins, their teeth chattering, their faces held down, their
lyes locked up frozen with tears. Dante saw two at his feet so
dosely stuck together, that the very hairs of their heads were
ningled. He asked them who they were, and as they lifted up

* " N6 si chinato li fece tlimora,
E come albero in nave si lev6."

I magnificent image I I have retained the idiomatic expression of the original
aised himself, instead of saying rose, because it seemed to me to give the
lore grand and deliberate image.

t Of " mdmma" and " hdhho,^'' says the primitive poet. We have corres-
onding words in English, but the feeling they produce is not identical. The
?sser fervour of the northern nations renders them, in some respects, more so-
liisticate than they suspect, compared with the " artful'' Italians.

no THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

their heads for astonishment, and felt the cold doubly congeal
them, they dashed their heads against one another for hate and
fury. They were two brothers who had murdered each other.*
Near them were other Tuscans, one of whom the cold had de-
prived of his ears ; and thousands more were seen grinning like
dogs, for the pain.

Dante, as he went along, kicked the face of one of them,
whether by chance, or fate, or i^///,| he could not say. The
sutierer burst into tears, and cried out, " Wherefore dost thou
torment me ? Art thou come to revenge the defeat at Monta-
perto ?" The pilgrim at this question felt eager to know who he
was ; but the unhappy wretch would not tell. His countryman
seized him by the hair to force him ; but still he said he would
not tell, were he to be scalped a thousand times. Dante, uj)on
this, began plucking up his hairs by the roots, the man harking^X
with his eyes squeezed up, at every pull ; when another soul ex-
claimed, " Why, Bocca, what the devil ails thee ? Must thou
needs bark for cold as well as chatter V'^

" Now, accursed traitor, betrayer of thy country's standard,"
said Dante, " be dumb if thou wilt ; for I shall tell thy name to
the world."

" Tell and begone !" said Bocca ; '' but carry the name of this
babbler with thee ; 'tis Buoso, who left the pass open to the en-
emy between Piedmont and Parma ; and near him is the traitor
for the pope, Beccaria ; and Ganellone, who betrayed Charle-

* Alessandro and Napoleon degli Alberti, sons of Alberto, lord of the valley
of Faltcrona in Tuscany. After their father's death they tyrannised over the
neighbouring districts, and finally had a mortal quarrel. The name of Napo-
leon used to be so rare till of late years, even in Italian books, that it gives
one a kind of interesting surprise to meet with it.

t " Se roler fu, o destine o fortuna,
Non so."

What does tlio Christian reader think of that?

\ Latrando.

§ Bocca dogli Abbati, whose soul barks like a dog, occasioned the defeat of
the Guelfs at Montaperto, in the year 1260, by treacherously cutting oif the
hand of the standard-bearer.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 81

eigne ; and Tribaldello, who opened Faenza to the enemy at
ght-time."

The pilgrims went on, and beheld two other spirits so closely
eked up together in one hole of the ice, that the head of one
as right over the other's like a cowl ; and Dante, to his horror,
LW that the upper head was devouring the lower with all the
igerncss of a man who is famished. The poet asked what could
)ssibly make him shew a hate so brutal ; adding, that if there
ere any ground for it, he would tell the story to the world.*

The sinner raised his head from the dire repast, and after wi-
ng his jaws with the hair of it, said, " You ask a thing which

shakes me to the heart to think of. It is a story to renew all
ly misery. But since it will produce this wretch his due in-
,my, hear it, and you shall see me speak and weep at the same
me. How thou camest hither I know not ; but I perceive by
ly speech that thou art Florentine.

" Learn, then, that I was the Count Ugolino, and this man was
.uggieri the Archbishop. How I trusted him, and was betrayed
ito prison, there is no need to relate ; but of his treatment of
le there, and how cruel a death I underwent, hear ; and then
idge if he has offended me. •

" I had been imprisoned with my children a long time in the
»wer which has since been called from me the Tower of Fam-
le ; and many a new moon had I seen through the hole that
jrved us for a window, when I dreamt a dream that foreshadow,
i to me what was coming. Methought that this man headed a
reat chase against the wolf, in the mountains between Pisa and
(Ucca. Among the foremost in his party were Gualandi, Sis-
londi, and Lanfranchi, and the hounds were thin and eager, and
igh-bred ; and in a little while I saw the hounds fasten on the
anks of the wolf and the wolfs children, and tear them. At
lat moment I awoke with the voices of my own children in my
ars, asking for bread. Truly cruel must thou be, if thy heart
oes not ache to think of what I thought then. If thou feel not
5r a pang like that, what is it for which thou art accustomed to

* This is the famous story of Ugolino, who betrayed the castles of Pisa to
lie Florentines, and was starved with his children in the Tower of Famine.

82 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

feel ? We were now all awake ; and the time was at hand when
they brought us bread, and we had all dreamt dreams which
made us anxious. At that moment I heard the key of the horri-
ble tower turn in the lock of the door below, and fasten it. I
looked at my children, and said not a word. I did not weep. I
made a strong effort upon the soul within me. But my little
Ansclm said, 'Father, why do you look so? Is any thing the
matter V Nevertheless I did not weep, nor say a word all the
day, nor the night that followed. In the morning a ray of light
fell upon us through the window of our sad prison, and I beheld
in those four little faces the likeness of my own face, and then _
[ began to gnaw my hands for misery. My children, thinking
I did it for hunger, raised themselves on the floor, and said, ' Fa-
ther, we should be less miserable if you would eat our own flesh.
[t was you that gave it us. Take it again.' Then I sat still,
in order not to make them unhappier : and that day and the
next we all remained without speaking. On the fourth day,
Gaddo stretched himself at my feet, and said, ' Father, why
won't you help me V and there he died. And as surely as
thou lookest on me, so surely I beheld the whole three die in
the same manner. So I began in my misery to grope about
in the dark for them, for I had become blind ; and three days I
kept calling on them by name, though they were dead ; till fam-
ine did for me what grief had been unable to do."

With these words, the miserable man, his eyes starting from
his head, seized that other wretch again with his teeth, and
ground them against the skull as a dog does with a bone.

O Pisa! scandal of the nations! since thy neighbours are so
slow to punish thee, may the very islands tear themselves up
from their roots in the sea, and come and block up the mouth of
thy river, and drown every soul within thee. What if this Count
Ugolino did, as report says he did, betray thy castles to the
enemy? his children had not betrayed them ; nor ought they to
have been put to an agony like this. Their age was their inno-
cence ; and their deaths have given thee the infamy of a second
Thebes.*

* I should be loath to disturb the inimitable pathos of this story, if there did;
not seem grounda for believing that the poet was too hasty in giving credit to

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 83

The pilgrims passed on, and beheld other traitors frozen up in
swathes of ice, with their heads upside down. Their very tears
had hindered them from shedding more ; for their eyes were en-
crusted with the first they shed, so as to be enclosed with them as
in a crystal visor, which forced back the others into an accumula-
tion of anguish. One of the sufferers begged Dante to relieve him
of this ice, in order that he might vent a little of the burden
which it repressed. The poet said he would do so, provided he
would disclose who he was. The man said he was the friar Al-
berigo, who invited some of his brotherhood to a banquet in order
to slay them.

" What !" exclaimed Dante, " art thou no longer, then, among
the living ?"

" Perhaps I appear to be," answered the friar ; " for the mo-
ment any one commits a treachery like mine, his soul gives up
his body to a demon, who thenceforward inhabits it in the man's
likeness. Thou knowest Branca Doria, who murdered his father-
in-law, Zanche 1 He seems to be walking the earth still, and yet
he has been in this place many years."'*'

" Impossible !" cried Dante ; " Branca Doria is still alive ; he
eats, drinks, and sleeps, like any other man."

*' I tell thee," returned the friar, " that the soul of the man he
slew had not reached that lake of boiling pitch in which thou
sawest him, ere the soul of his slayer was in this place, and his
body occupied by a demon in its stead. But now stretch forth
thy hand, and relieve mine eyes."

Dante relieved them not. Ill manners, he said, were the only
courtesy fit for such a wretch. f

parts of it, particularly the ages of some of his fellow-prisoners, and the guilt
of the archbishop. See the Appendix to this volume.

* This is the most tremendous lampoon, as far as I am aware, in the whole
circle of literature.

t " Cortesia fu lui esser villano." This is the foulest blot which Dante has
cast on his own character in all his poem (short of the cruelties he thinks fit to
attribute to God). It is argued that he is cruel and false, out of hatred to cru-
elty and falsehood. But why then add to the sum of both ? and towards a
man, too, supposed to be suffering eternally? It is idle to discern in such bar-
barous inconsistencies any thing but the writer's own contributions to the stock

84 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

O ye Genoese ! he exclaims, — men that are perversity all
over, and full of every corruption to the core, vi^hy are ye not
swept from the face of the earth ? There is one of you whom
you fancy to be walking about like other men, and he is all the
while in the lowest pit of hell !

" Look before thee," said Virgil, as they advanced : " behold
the banners of the King of Hell."

Dante looked, and beheld something which appeared like a
windmill in motion, as seen from a distance on a dark night. A
wind of inconceivable sharpness came from it.

The souls of those who had been traitors to their benefactors
were here frozen up in depths of pellucid ice, where they were
seen in a variety of attitudes, motionless ; some upright, some
downward, some bent double, head to foot.

At length they came to where the being stood who was once
eminent for all fair seeming.* This was the figure that seemed
tossing its arms at a distance like a windmill.

" Satan," whispered Virgil ; and put himself in front of Dante
to re-assure him, halting him at the same time, and bidding him
summon all his fortitude. Dante stood benumbed, though con-
scious ; as if he himself had been turned to ice. He felt neither
alive nor dead.

The lord of the dolorous empire, each of his arms as big as a
giant, stood in the ice half-way up his breast. He had one head,

of them. The utmost credit for right feeling is not to be given on every occa-
sion to a man who refuses it to every one else.

* " La creatura ch' ebbe il bel sembiante."

This is touching ; but the reader may as well be prepared for a total failure in
Dante's couce|)tion of Satan, especially the Englis'i reader, accustomed to the
sublimity of Milloirs. Griiuting that the Roman Catholic poet intended to
honour the ftiUen ungcl with no sublin)ity, but to render him an object of mere
hate and dread, ho has overdone and degraded the picture into caricature. A
great stupid being, stuck up in ice, with three faces, one of which is yellow,
and three mouilis, each eating a sinner, one of those sinners being Brutus, — is
an object for derision ; and the way in which ho eats these, his everlasting
bonnes-houcliLS, divides derision with disgust. The passage must be given,
otherwise the abstract of the poem would be incomplete ; but I cannot help
thinking it the worst anti-climax ever fallen into by a great poet.

tTHE JOURNEY THROUGH HELL. 85

but three faces ; the middle, vermilion ; the one over the right
shoulder a pale yellow ; the other black. His sails of wings,
huger than ever were beheld at sea, were in shape and texture
those of a bat ; and with these he constantly flapped, so as to
send forth the wind that froze the depths of Tartarus. From his
six eyes the tears ran down, mingling at his three chins with
bloody foam ; for at every mouth he crushed a sinner with his
teeth, as substances are broken up by an engine. The middle
sinner was the worst punished, for he was at once broken and
flayed, and his head and trunk were inside the mouth. It was
Judas Iscariot. Of the other two, whose heads were hanging
out, one was Brutus, and the other Cassius. Cassius was very
large-limbed. Brutus writhed with agony, but uttered not a
word.*

" Night has returned," said Virgil, " and all has been seen.
It is time to depart onward."

Dante then, at his bidding, clasped, as Virgil did, the huge in-
attentive being round the neck ; and watching their opportunity,
as the wings opened and shut, they slipped round it, and so down
his shaggy and frozen sides, from pile to pile, clutching it as they
went ; till suddenly, with the greatest labour and pain, they were
compelled to turn themselves upside down, as it seemed, but in
reality to regain their proper footing ; for they had passed the
centre of gravity, and become Antipodes. Then looking down at
what lately was upward, they saw Lucifer with his feet towards
them ; and so taking their departure, ascended a gloomy vault,

* This silence is, at all events, a compliment to Brutus, especially from a
man like Dante, and the more because it is extorted. Dante, no doubt, hated
all treachery, particularly treachery to the leader of his beloved Roman em-
perors ; forgetting three things ; first, that Caesar was guilty of treachery him-
self to the Roman people ; second, that he, Dante, has put Curio in hell for ad-
vising Caesar to cross the Rubicon, though he has put the crosser amono- the
good Pagans ; and third, that Brutus was educated in the belief that the pun-
ishment of such treachery as Ctesar's by assassination was one of the first of
duties. How differently has Shakspeare, himself an aristocratic rather than
democratic poet, and full of just doubt of the motives of assassins in general,
treated the error of the thoughtful, conscientious, Platonic philosopher I

86 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

till at a distance, through an opening above their heads, they be-
held the loveliness of the stars.*

* At the close of this medley of genius, pathos, absurdity, sublimity, horror,
and revoltingness, it is impossible for any reflecting heart to avoid asking, Cui
bono ? What is the good of it to the poor wretches, if we are to suppose it true ?
and what to the world — except, indeed, as a poetic study and a warning against
degrading notions of God — if we are to take it simply as a fiction ? Theology,
disdaining both questions, has an answer confessedly incomprehensible. Hu-
manity replies: Assume not premises for which you have worse than no proofs.

II.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY.

^rgttmcnt.

Purgatory, in the system of Dante, is a mountain at the Antipodes, on the
top of which is the Terrestrial Paradise, once the seat of Adam and Eve. It
forms the principal part of an island in a sea, and possesses a pure air. Its
lowest region, with one or two exceptions of redeemed Pagans, is occupied by
Excommunicated Penitents and by Delayers of Penitence, all of whom are
compelled to lose time before their atonement commences. The other and
greater portion of the ascent is divided into circles or plains, in which are expi-
ated the Seven Deadly Sins. The Poet ascends from circle to circle with
Virgil and Statins, and is met in a forest on the top by the spirit of Beatrice,
who transports him to Heaven.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY.

When the pilgrims emerged from the opening through which
they beheld the stars, they found themselves in a scene which en-
chanted them with hope and joy. It was dawn : a sweet pure
air came on their faces ; and they beheld a sky of the loveliest
oriental sapphire, whose colour seemed to pervade the whole
serene hollow from earth to heaven. The beautiful planet which
encourages loving thoughts made all the orient laugh, obscuring
by its very radiance the stars in its train ; and among those
which were still lingering and sparkling in the southern horizon,
Dante saw four in the shape of a cross, never beheld by man
since they gladdened the eyes of our first parents. Heaven seem-
ed to rejoice in their possession. O widowed northern pole ! be-
reaved art thou, indeed, since thou canst not gaze upon them !*

* " Dolce color d' oriental zaffiro

Che s' accoglieva nel sereno aspetto
De 1' aer puro infino al primo giro,

A gli occhi miei ricomincif) diletto,
Tosto ch' io usci' Tuor de 1' aura morta
Che m' avea contristati gli occhi e '1 petto.

Lo bel pianeta, ch' ad amar conforta,
Faceva tutto rider 1' oriente,
Velando i Pesci, ch' erano in sua scoria.

Io mi volsi a man destra, e posi mente
AH' altro polo, e vidi quattro stelle
Non viste mai, fuor ch' a la prima gente ;

(ioder pareva '1 ciel di lor fiammelle.
O settentrional vedovo sito,
Poi che private sei di mirar quelle 1"

90 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

The poet turned to look at the north where he had been accus-
tomed to see stars that no longer appeared, and beheld, at his side,
an old man, who struck his beholder with a veneration like that
of a son for his father. He had grey hairs, and a long beard
which parted in two down his bosom ; and the four southern stars

The sweetest oriental sapphire blue,
Which the whole air in its pure bosom had,
Greeted mine eyes, far as the heavens withdrew ;

So that again they felt assured and glad,
Soon as they issued forth from the dead air,
Where every sight and thought had made them sad.

The beauteous star, which lets no love despair,
Made all the orient laugh with loveliness.
Veiling the Fish that glimmered in its hair.

I turned me to the right to gaze and bless.
And saw four more, never of living wight
Beheld, since Adam brought us our distress ;

Heaven seemed rejoicing in their happy light.
O widowed northern pole, bereaved indeed.
Since thou heist had no power to see that sight !

Readers who may have gone thus far with the " Italian Pilgrim's Progress,"
will allow me to congratulate them on arriving at this lovely scene, one of the
most admired in the poem.

This is one of the passages which make the religious admirers of Dante in-
clined to pronounce him divinely inspired ; for how could he otherwise have
seen stars, they eisk us, which were not discovered till after his time, and
which compose the constellation of the Cross ? But other commentators are
of opinion, that the Cross, though not so named till subsequently (and Dante,
we see, gives no prophetic hint about the name), had been seen probably by
Btray navigators. An Arabian globe is even mentioned by M. Artaud (see
Cary), in which the Southern Cross is set down. Mr. Cary, in his note on the
passage, refers to Seneca's prediction of the discovery of America ; most likely
suggested by similar information. " But whatever," he adds, *' may be thought
of this, it is certain that the four stars are here symbolical of the four cardinal
virtues ;" and he refers to canto xxxi., where those virtues are retrospectively
associated with these stars. The symbol, however, is not necessary. Dante
was a very curious inquirer on all subjects, and evidently acquainted with ships
and seamen as well as geography ; and his imagination would eagerly have
seized a magnificent novelty like this, and used it the first opportunity. Co-
lumbus's discovery, as the reader will see, was anticipated by Pulci.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 91

beamed on his flice with such lustre, that his aspect was as radi-
ant as if he had stood in the sun.

" Who are ye ?" said the old man, " that have escaped from
the dreadful prison-house ? Can the laws of the abyss be viola-
ted ? Or has heaven changed its mind, that thus ye are allowed
to come from the regions of condemnation into mine ?"

It was the spirit of Cato of Utica, the warder of the ascent of
purgatory.

The Roman poet explained to his countryman who they were,
and how Dante was under heavenly protection ; and then he
prayed leave of passage of him by the love he bore to the chaste
eyes of his Marcia, who sent him a message from the Pagan cir-
cle, hoping that he would still own her.

Cato replied, that although he was so fond of Marcia while on
earth that he could deny her nothing, he had ceased, in obedience
to new laws, to have any affection for her, now that she dwelt be-
yond the evil river ; but as the pilgrim, his companion, was un-
der heavenly protection, he would of course do what he desired.*
He then desired him to gird his companion with one of the sim-
plest and completest rushes he would see by the water's side, and
to wash the stain of the lower world out of his face, and so take
their journey up the mountain before them, by a path which the
rising sun would disclose. And with these words he disap-
peared.!

The pilgrims passed on, with the eagerness of one who thinks
every step in vain till he finds the path he has lost. The full
dawn by this time had arisen, and they saw the trembling of the

* Generous and disinterested 1 — Cato, the republican enemy of Cassar, and
committer of suicide, is not luckily chosen for his present office by the poet,
who has put Brutus into the devil's mouth in spite of his agreeing with Cato,
and the suicide Piero delle Vigne into hell in spite of his virtues. But Dante
thought Cato's austere manners like his own.

t The girding with the rush (giunco schietto) is supposed by the commen-
tators to be an injunction of simplicity and patience. Perhaps it is to enjoin
sincerity ; especially as the region of expiation has now been entered, and sin-
cerity is the first step to repentance. It will be recollected that Dante's for-
mer girdle, the cord of the Franciscan friars, has been left in the hands of
Fraud.

92 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

sea in the distance.* Virgil tlien dipped his hands into a spot of
dewy grass, where the sun had least affected it, and with the
moisture bathed the face of Dante, who held it out to him, suffused
witJi tears ;f and then they went on till they came to a solitary
shore, whence no voyager had ever returned, and there the loins
of the Florentine were girt with the rush.

On this shore they were standing in doubt how to proceed, —
moving onward, as it were, in mind, while yet their feet were
staying, — when they beheld a light over the water at a distance,
rayless at first as the planet Mars when he looks redly out of the
horizon through a fog, but speedily growing brighter and brighter
with amazing swiftness. Dante had but turned for an instant to
ask his guide what it was, when, on looking again, it had grown
far brighter. Two splendid phenomena, he knew not what, then
developed themselves from it on either side ; and, by degrees,
another below it. The two splendours quickly turned out to be
wings ; and Virgil, who had hitherto watched its coming in si-
lence, cried out, " Down, down, — on thy knees ! It is God's
angel. Clasp thine hands. Now thou shalt behold operancy
indeed. Lo, how he needs neither sail nor oar, coming all this
way with nothing but his wings ! Lo, how he holds them aloft,
using the air with them at his will, and knowing they can never
be weary."

The " divine bird " grew brighter and brighter as he came, so
that the eye at last could not sustain the lustre ; and Dante
turned his to the ground. A boat then rushed to shore which the

* " L' alba vinceva I' ora mattutina
Che fuggia 'nnanzi, si che di lontano
Conobbi il tremolar de la marina."

The lingering shadows now began to flee
Before the whitening dawn, so that mine eyes
Discerned far ofF the trembling of the sea.

*' Conobbi il tremolar de la marina"
is a beautiful verse, both for the picture and the sound.

t This evidence of humility and gratitude on the part of Dante would be
very affecting, if we could forget all the pride and passion he has been shew-
ing elsewhere, and the torments in which he has left his fellow-creatures. With
these recollections upon us, it looks like an overweening piece of self-congratu-
lation at other people's expense.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 93

angel had brought with him, so light that it drew not a drop of
water. The celestial pilot stood at the helm, with bliss written in
his face ; and a hundred spirits were seen within the boat, who,
lifting up their voices, sang the psalm beginning " When Israel
came out of Egypt." At the close of the psalm, the angel bless-
ed them with the sign of the cross, and they all leaped to shore ;
upon which he turned round, and departed as swiftly as he came.
The new-comers, after gazing about them for a while, in the
manner of those who are astonished to see new sights, inquired of
Virgil and his companion the best May to the mountain. Virgil
explained who they were ; and the spirits, pale with astonishment
at beholding in Dante a living and breathing man, crowded about
him, in spite of their anxiety to shorten the period of their trials.
One of them came darting out of the press to embrace him, in a
manner so affectionate as to move the poet to return his warmth ;
but his arms again and as^ain found themselves crossed on his
own bosom, having encircled nothing. The shadow, smiling at
the astonishment in the other's face, drev/ back ; and Dante
hastened as much forward to shew his zeal in the greeting, when
the spirit in a sweet voice recommended him to desist. The Flor-
entine then knew who it was, — Casella, a musician, to whom he
had been much attached. After mutual explanations as to their
meeting, Dante requested his friend, if no ordinance opposed it,
to refresh his spirit awhile with one of the tender airs that used to
charm away all his troubles on earth. Casella immediately began
one of his friend's own productions, commencing with the words,

" Love, tliat delights to talk unto my soul
Of all the wonders of my lady's nature."

And he sang it so beautifully, that the sweetness rang within
the poet's heart while recording the circumstance. The other
spirits listened with such attention, that they seemed to have for-
gotten the very purpose of their coming ; when suddenly the
voice of Cato was heard, sternly rebuking their delay ; and the
whole party speeded in trepidation towards the mountain.*

* " Amor che ne la mente mi ragiona
De la mia donna disiosamente,"
is the beginning of the ode sung by Dante's friend. The incident is beautifully

94 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

The two pilgrims, who had at first hastened with the others, in
a little while slackened their steps ; and Dante found that his
body projected a shadow, while the form of Virgil had none.
When arrived at the foot of the mountain, they were joined by a
second party of spirits, of whom Virgil inquired the way up it.
One of the spirits, of a noble aspect, but with a gaping wound in
his forehead, stepped forth, and asked Dante if he remembered
him. The poet humbly answering in the negative, the stranger
disclosed a second wound, that was in his bosom ; and then, with
a smile, announced himself as Manfredi, king of Naples, who was
slain in battle against Charles of Anjou, and died excommuni-
cated. iVIanfredi gave Dante a message to his daughter Co-
stanza, queen of Arragon, begging her to shorten the consequen-
ces of the excommunication by her prayers ; since he, like the
rest of the party with him, though repenting of his contumacy
against the church, would have to wander on the outskirts of
Purgatory three times as long as the presumption had lasted, un-
less relieved by such petitions from the living.*

Dante went on, with his thoughts so full of this request, that
he did not perceive he had arrived at the path which Virgil asked
for, till the wandering spirits called out to them to say so. The

introduced ; and Casella's being made to select a production from the pen of
the man who asks him to sing, very deUcately implies a graceful cordiality in
the musician's character.

Milton alludes to the passage in his sonnet to Henry Lawes

" Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire.
That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory."

* Manfredi was the natnral son of the Emperor Frederick the Second. " He
was lively and agreeable in his manners," observes Mr. Gary," and delighted in
poetry, music, and dancing. But he was luxurious and ambitious, void of re-
ligion, and in his philosophy an epicurean." Translation of Dante, Smith's
edition, p. 77. Thus King Manfredi ought to have been in a red-hot tomb,
roasting for ever with Epicurus himself, and with the father of the poet's be-
loved friend, Guido Cavalcante: but he was the son of an emperor, and a foe
to the house of Anjou ; so Dante gives him a passport to heaven. There ia
no ground whatever for the repentance assumed in the text.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 95

pilgrims then, witli great difficulty, began to ascend through an
extremely narrow passage ; and Virgil, after explaining to Dante
how it was that in this antipodal region his eastward face beheld
the sun in the north instead of the south, was encouraging him to
proceed manfully in the hope of finding the path easier by de-
grees, and of reposing at the end of it, when they heard a voice
observing, that they would most likely find it expedient to repose
a little sooner. The pilgrims looked about them, and observed
close at hand a crag of a rock, in the shade of which some spir-
its were standing, as men stand idly at noon. Another was sit-
ting down, as if tired out, with his arms about his knees, and his
face bent down between them.*

" Dearest master !" exclaimed Dante to his guide, " what
thinkest thou of a croucher like this, for manful journeying ?
Verily he seems to have been twin-born with Idleness herself."

The croucher, lifting up his eyes at these words, looked hard
at Dante, and said, "Since thou art so stout, push on."

Dante then saw it was Belacqua, a pleasant acquaintance of
his, famous for his indolence.

"That was a good lesson," said Belacqua, " that was given
thee just now in astronomy."

The poet could not help smiling at the manner in which his
acquaintance uttered these words, it was so like his ways of oM.
Belacqua pretended, even in another world, that it was of no use
to make haste, since the angel had prohibited his going higher up
the mountain. He and his companions had to walk round the
foot of it as many years as they had delayed repenting ; unless,
as in the case of Manfredi, their time was shortened by the pray-
ers of good people.

A little further on, the pilgrims encountered the spirits of such
Delayers of Penitence as, having died violent deaths, repented at
the last moment. One of them, Buonconte da Montefeltro, who
died in battle, and whose body could not be found, described
how the devil, having been hindered from seizing him by the
shedding of a single tear, had raised in his fury a tremendous

* The unexpected bit of comedy here ensuing is very remarkable and pleas-
ant. Belacqua, according to an old commentator, was a musician.

96 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

tempest, which sent the body down the river Arno, and buried it

in the mud.*

Another spirit, a female, said to Dante, " Ah ! when thou re-
turnest to earth, and shalt have rested from thy long journey, re-
member me, — Pia. Sienna gave me life ; the Marshes took it
from me. This he knows, who put on my finger the wedding,
ring.""}"

* Buonconte was the son of that Guido da Montefeltro, whose soul we have
seen carried ofF from St. Francis by a devil, for having violated the conditions
of penitence. It is cuiious that both father and son should have been contested
for in this manner.

t This is the most affecting and comprehensive of all brief stories.

" Deh quando tu sarai tomato al mondo,
E riposato de la lunga via,
Seguit6 'I terzo spirito al secondo,

Ricorditi di me che son la Pia :
Siena mi f6 ; disfecemi Maremma ;
Salsi colui che 'nnanellata pria

Disposando m' avea con la sua gemma."

Ah, when thou findest thee again on earth
(Said then a female soul), remember me —
Pia. Sienna was my place of birth,

The Marshes of my death. This knoweth he,
Who placed upon my hand the spousal ring.

" Nello della Pietra," says M. Beyle, in his work entitled De V Amour, " ob
tained in marriage the hand of Madonna Pia, sole heiress of the Ptolomei, thr
richest and most noble family of Sienna. Her beauty, which was the admira
tion of all Tuscany, gave rise to a jealousy in the breast of her husband, that
envenomed by wrong reports and suspicions continually reviving, led to a fright-
ful catastrophe. It is not easy to determine at this day if his wife was altogethei
innocent ; but Dante has represented her as such. Her husband carried her
with him into the marshes of Volterra, celebrated then, as now, for the pestifer-
ous cfTocts of the air. Never would he tell his wife the reason of her banish-
ment into so dangerous a place. His pride did not deign to pronounce either
complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in a deserted tower, of which
I have been to see the ruins on the sea-shore ; he never broke his disdainful si-
lence, never replied to the questions of his youthful bride, never listened to her
entreaties. Ho waited, unmoved by her, for the air to produce its fatal effects.
The vapours of this unwholesome swamp were not long in tarnishing features
the most beautiful, they say, that in that ago had appeared upon earth. In a

THE JOURNEV THROUGH PURGATORY. 97

The majority of this party were so importunate with the Flor-
entine to procure them the prayers of their friends, that he had
as much ditlicuhy to get away, as a winner at dice has to free
himself from the mercenary congratulations of the by-standers.
On resuming their way, Dante quoted to Virgil a passage in the
^neid, decrying the utility of prayer, and begged him to explain
how it was to be reconciled with what they had just heard. Vir-
gil advised him to wait for the explanation till he saw Beatrice,
whom, he now said, he should meet at the top of the mountain.
Dante, at this information, expressed a desire to hasten their prog-
ress ; and Virgil, seeing a spirit looking towards them as they
advanced, requested him to acquaint them with the shortest road.

The spirit, maintaining a lofty and reserved aspect, was as si-
lent as if he had not heard the request ; intimating by his man-
ner that they might as well proceed without repeating it, and
eyeing them like a lion on the watch. Virgil, however, went up
to him, and gently urged it ; but the only reply was a question
as to who they were and of what country. The Latin poet be-
ginning to answer him, had scarcely mentioned the word " Man-
tua,'*' when the stranger went as eagerly up to his interrogator
as the latter had done to him, and said, " Mantua ! My own
country! My name is Sordello." And the compatriots em-
braced.

O degenerate Italy ! exclaims Dante ; land without affections,
without principle, without faith in any one good thing ! here was
a man who could not hear the sweet sound of a fellow-citizen's
voice without feeling his heart gush towards him, and there are
no people now in any one of thy towns that do not hate and tor-
ment one another.

Sordello, in another tone, now exclaimed, " But who are ye ?"

Virgil disclosed himself, and Sordello fell at his feet.*

few months she died. Some chroniclers of those remote times report that
Nello employed the dagger to hasten her end : she died in the marshes
n some horrible manner ; but the mode of her death remained a mystery,
jven to her contemporaries. Nello della Pietra survived, to pass the rest of his
lays in a silence which weis never broken." Hazlitt's Journey throvg/i France
ind Italy, p. 315.
* Sordello was a famous Provencal poet ; with whose writings the world

98 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

Sordello now undertook to accompany the great Roman poet
and his friend to a certain distance on their ascent towards the
penal quarters of the mountain ; but as evening was drawing
nigh, and the ascent could not be made properly in the dark, he
proposed that they should await the dawning of the next day in
a recess that overlooked a flowery hollow. The hollow was a
lovely spot of ground, enamelled with flowers that surpassed the
cxqnisitcst dyes, and green with a grass brighter than emeralds
newly broken.* There rose from it also a fragrance of a thou-
sand different kinds of sweetness, all mingled into one that was
new and indescribable ; and with the fragrance there ascended
the chant of the prayer beginning, " Hail, Queen of Heaven, "f
which was sung by a multitude of souls that appeared sitting on
the flowery sward.

Virgil pointed them out. They were penitent delayers of pen-
itence, of sovereign rank. Among them, however, were spirits
who sat mute ; one of whom was the Emperor Rodolph, who
ought to have attended better to Italy, the garden of the empire ;
and another, Ottocar, king of Bohemia, his enemy, who now com-
forted him ; and another, with a small nose,:j: Philip the Third of
France, who died a fugitive, shedding the leaves of the lily ; he
sat beating his breast ; and with him was Henry the Third of
Navarre, sighing with his cheek on his hand. One was the
father, and one the father-in-law of Philip the Handsome, the bane
of France ; and it was on account of his unworthiness they
grieved.

But among the singers Virgil pointed out the strong-limbed
King of Arragon, Pedro ; and Charles, king of Naples, with his
masculine nose (these two were singing together) ; and Henry

has but lately been made acquainted through the researches of M. Raynouard,
in his Choix des Poesies des Troubadours, &c.

* " Fresco smeraldo in 1' ora che si fiacca."
An exquisite image of newness and brilliancy.

t " Salve, Regina :" the beginning of a Roman-Catholic chant to the Virgin.

X " With nose doprest," says Mr. Cary. But Dante says, literally, "small
nose," — uaseito. So, further on, he says, " masculine nose," — maschio naso.
Ho meant to imply the greater or less determination of character, which the
fiize of that feature is suppo.'^ed to indicate.

Ill

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 99

le Third of England, the king of the simple life, sitting by him-
slf ;* and below these, but with his eyes in heaven, Guglielmo
larquis of Montferrat.

It was now the hour when men at sea think longingly of home,
nd feel their hearts melt within them to remember the day on
•hich they bade adieu to beloved friends ; and now, too, was the
our when the pilgrim, new to his journey, is thrilled with the
ke tenderness, when he hears the vesper-bell in the distance,
•hich seems to mourn for the expiring day.| At this hour of
le coming darkness, Dante beheld one of the spirits in the dow-
ry hollow arise, and after giving a signal to the others to do as

* An English reader is surprised to find here a sovereign for whom he has
;en taught to entertain little respect. But Henry was a devout servant of
le Church.

t " Era gii 1' ora che volge '1 desio
A' naviganti, e intenerisce '1 cuore
Lo di ch' an detto a' dolci amici a Dio ;

E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano
Che paia '1 giorno pianger che si muore."

. famous passage, untiring in the repetition. It is, indeed, worthy to be tho
oice of Evening herself.

'Twas now the hour, when love of home melts through
Men's hearts at sea, and longing thoughts portray
The moment when they bade sweet friends adieu ;

And the new pilgrim now, on his lone way,
Thrills, if he hears the distant vesper-bell,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.

Ivery body knows the line in Gray's Elegy, not imworthily echoed from
•ante's —

" The curfew tolls the knell of parting day."

[othing can equal, however, the tone in the Italian original, — the

" Piia '1 gi6mo piinger che si mu6re."

Jas I why could not the great Tuscan have been superior enough to his per-
)nal griefs to write a whole book full of such beauties, and so have left us a
'ork truly to be called Divine ?

100 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

he did, stretch forth both hands, palm to palm, towards the East,
and with softest emotion commence the hymn beginning,

" Thee before the closing light."*

Upon which all the rest devoutly and softly followed him, keep-
ing their eyes fixed on the heavens. At the end of it they re-
mained, with pale countenances, in an attitude of humble expec-
tation ; and Dante saw the angels issue from the quarter to which
they looked, and descend towards them with flaming swords in
their hands, broken short of the point. Their wings were as
green as the leaves in spring ; and they wore garments equally
green, which the fanning of the wings kept in a state of stream-
ing fluctuation behind them as they came. One of them took his
stand on a part of the hill just over where the pilgrims stood, and
the other on a hill opposite, so that the party in the valley were
between them. Dante could discern their heads of hair, notwith-
standing its brightness ; but their faces were so dazzling as to be
undistinguishable.

" They come from Mary's bosom," whispered Sordello, "to
protect the valley from the designs of our enemy yonder, — the
Serpent."

Dante looked in trepidation towards the only undefended side
of the valley, and beheld the Serpent of Eve coming softly
among the grass and flowers, occasionally turning its head^ and
licking its polished back. Before he could take off* his eyes
from the evil thing, the two angels had come down like falcons,
and at the whirring of their pinions the serpent fled. The
angels returned as swiftly to their stations.

Aurora was now looking palely over the eastern cliff on the
other side of the globe, and the stars of midnight shining over the
heads of Dante and his friends, when they seated themselves for
rest on the mountain's side. The Florentine, being still in the
flesh, lay down for weariness, and was overcome with sleep. In
his sleep he dreamt that a golden eagle flashed down like light-.
ning upon him, and bore him up to the region of fire, where the
heat was so intense that it woke him, staring and looking round
about with a pale face. His dream was a shadowing of the

• «' To lucis ante teiminum ;"— a hymn sung at evening service.

THE JOURNEY THROUvili PURGaTORY. 101

truth. He had actually come to another place, — to the entrance
of Purgatory itself. Sordello had been left behind, Virgil alone
remained, looking him cheerfully in the face. Saint Lucy had
come from heaven, and shortened the fatigue of his journey by
carrying him upwards as he slept, the heathen poet following
them. On arriving where they stood,, the fair saint intimated the
enirance of Purgatory to Virgil by a glance thither of her beau-
tiful eyes, and then vanished as Dante woke.*

The portal by which Purgatory was entered was embedded in
a clitf. It had three steps, each of a different colour ; and on
the highest of these there sat, mute and watching, an angel in
ash-coloured garments, holding a naked sword, which glanced
with such intolerable brightness on Dante, whenever he attempt-
ed to look, that he gave up the endeavour. The angel demanded
who they were, and receiving the right answer, gently bade them
advance.

Dante now saw, that the lowest step was of marble, so white
and clear that he beheld his face in it. The colour of the next
was a deadly black, and it was all rough, scorched, and full of
cracks. The third was of flaming porphyry, red as a man's
blood when it leaps forth under the lancet. f The angel, w^hose
feet were on the porphyry, sat on a threshold which appeared to
be rock-diamond. Dante, ascending the steps, with the encour-
agement of Virgil, fell at the angel's feet, and, after thrice beat-
ing himself on the breast, humbly asked admittance. The angel,
with the point of his sword, inscribed the first letter of the word
peccatum (sin) seven times on the petitioner's forehead ; then,
bidding him pray with tears for their erasement, and be cautious
how he looked back, opened the portal with a silver and a golden

* Lucy, Lucia (supposed to be derived from lux, lucis), is the goddess (I
was almost going to say) who in Roman Catholic countries may be said to pre-
side over light, and who is really invoked in maladies of the eyes. She was
Dante's favourite saint, possibly for that reason among others, for he had once
hurt his eyes with study, and they had been cured. In her spiritual charac-
ter she represents the light of grace.

t The first step typifies consciousness of sin ; the second, horror of it ; the
third, zeal to amend.

102 rUE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

key.* The hinges roared, as they turned, like thunder ; and the
pilgrims, on entering, thought they heard, mingling with the
sound, a chorus of voices singing, " We praise thee, O God I"!
It was like the chant that mingles with a cathedral org^n, when
the words that the choristers utter are at one moment to be distin-
guished, and at another fade away.

Tlie companions continued ascending till they reached a plain.
It stretched as far as the eye could see, and was as lonely as
roads across deserts.

This was the first flat, or table-land, of the ascending grada-
tions of Purgatory, and the place of trial for the souls of the
Proud. It was bordered with a mound, or natural wall, of white
marble, sculptured all over with stories of humility. Dante be-
held among them the Annunciation, represented with so much
life, that the sweet action of the angel seemed to be uttering the
very word, " Hail. !" and the submissive, spirit of the Virgin to
be no less impressed, like very wax, in her demeanour. The
next story was that of David dancing and harping before the ark,
— an action in which he seemed both less and greater than a king.
Michal was looking out upon him from a window, like a lady full
of scorn and sorrow. Next to the story of David was that of the
Emperor Trajan, when he did a thing so glorious, as moved St.
Gregory to gain the greatest of all his conquests — the delivering
of the emperor's soul from hell.

A widow, in tears and mourning, was laying hold of his bridle
as he rode amidst his court with a noise of horses and horsemen,
while the Roman eagles floated in gold over his head. The mis-
erable creature spoke out loudly among them all, crying for ven-
geance on tlie murderers of her sons. The emperor seemed to
say, " Wait till I return."

But she, in the hastiness of her misery, said, " Suppose thou
returnest not?"

" Then my successor will attend to thee," replied the em-
peror.

* Thp keys of St. Peter. Tlie gold is said by the commentators to mean
power to absolve ; the silver, the learning and judgment requisite to use it.

t •' Te Deum laudimus," the well-known hymn of St. Ambrose and St.
Aii"U8tine.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 103

" And what hast tlioii to do with the duties of another man,"
cried she, " if thou attcndest not to thine own ?"

" Now, be of fi^ood comfort," concluded Trajan, " for verily my
duty shall be done before I go ; justice wills it, and pity arrests
me.'"

Dante was proceeding to delight himself further with these
sculptures, when Virgil whispered him to look round and see
what was coming. He did so, and beheld strange figures ad-
vancing, the nature of which he could not make out at first, for
they seemed neither human, nor aught else which he could call
to mind. They were souls of the proud, bent double under enor-
mous burdens.

" O proud, miserable, woe-begone Christians !" exclaims the
poet ; " ye who, in the shortness of your sight, see no reason for
advancing in the right path ! Know ye not that we are worms,
born to compose the angelic butterfly, provided we throw off the
husks that impede our flight ?"*

The souls came slowly on, each bending down in proportion to
his burden. Thev looked like the crouching ficrures in architec-
ture that are used to support roofs or balconies, and that excite
piteous fancies in the beholders. The one that appeared to have
the most patience, yet seemed as if he said, " I can endure no
further."

The sufferers, notwithstanding their anguish, raised their voices
in a paraphrase on the Lord's Prayer, which they concluded with
humbly stating, that they repeated the clause against temptation,
not for themselves, but for those who were yet living.

Virgil, wishing them a speedy deliverance, requested them to
ahew the best way of going up to the next circle. Who it was
that answered him could not be discerned, on account of their all
being so bent down ; but a voice gave them the required direction ;
the speaker adding, that he wished he could raise his eyes, so as

* " Nou v' accorgete voi, che noi siam vermi,
Nati a formar 1' angelica farfalla,
Che vola a giustizia senza schermi ?"

Know you not, we are worms
Born to compose the angelic butterfly,
That flies to heaven when freed from what deforms ?

104 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

to see the living creature that stood near him. He said that his
name was Omberto — that he came of the great Tuscan race of
Aldobrandesco — and that his countrymen, the Siennese, murdered
him on account of his arrogance.

Dante had bent down his own head to listen, and in so doing he
was recognised by one of the sufferers, who, eyeing him as well
as he could, addressed him by name. The poet replied by ex-
claiming, " Art thou not Oderisi, the glory of Agubbio, the mas-
ter of the art of illumination ?"

" Ah !" said Oderisi, " Franco of Bologna has all the glory
now. His colours make the pages of books laugh with beauty,
compared with what mine do.* I could not have owned it while
on earth, for the sin which has brought me hither ; but so it is ;
and so will it ever be, let a man's fame be never so green and
flourishing, unless he can secure a dull age to come after him.
Cimabue, in painting, lately kept the field against all comers, and
now the cry is 'Giotto.' Thus, in song, a new Guido has de-
prived the first of his glory, and he perhaps is born who shall
drive both out of the nest.f Fame is but a wind that changes
about from all quarters. What does glory amount to at best, that
a man should prefer living and growing old for it, to dying in the
days of his nurse and his pap-boat, even if it should last him a
thousand years ? A thousand years ! — the twinkling of an eye. |
Behold this man, who weeps before me ; his name resounded j
once over all our Tuscany, and now it is scarcely whispered in J
his native place. He was lord there at the time that your once

* " Piti ridon le carte *

Che penelleggia Franco Bolognese :
L' onore 6 tutto or suo, e mio in parte."
t The " new Guido" is his friend Guido Cavalcante (now dead) ; the " first"
is Guido Guinicelli, for whose writings Dinte had an esteem ; and the poet,
who is to " chase them from the nest," caccerd di nido (as the not very friend-
ly metaphor states it), is with good reason supposed to be himself! He was
right ; but was the statement becoming ? It was certainly not necessary.
Danto, notwithstanding his friendship with Guido, appears to have had a grudge
against both tlic Cavalcanti, probably for some scorn they had shewn to his
superstition ; for they could be proud themselves ; and the son has the repu-
tation of scepticism, as well as the father. See the DeQameron, Giorn. vi.
Nov. 9.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 105

proud but now loathsome Florence had such a lesson given to its
frenzy at the battle of Arbia."

"And what is his name?" inquired Dante.

" Salvani," returned the limner. "He is here, because he
had the presumption to think that he could hold Sienna in the
hollow of his hand. Fifty years has he paced in this manner.
Such is the punishment for audacity."

" But why is he here at all," said Dante, " and not in the outer
region, among the delayers of repentance ?"

" Because," exclaimed the other, " in the height of his ascend-
ancy he did not disdain to stand in the public place in Sienna,
and, trembling in every vein, beg money from the people to ran-
som a friend from captivity. Do I appear to thee to speak with
mysterious significance ? Thy countrymen shall too soon help
thee to understand me."*

Virgil now called Dante away from Oderisi, and bade him
notice the ground on which they were treading. It was pave-
ment, wrought all over with figures, like sculptured tombstones.
There was Lucifer among them, struck flaming down from
heaven ; and Briareus, pinned to the earth with the thunderbolt,
and, with the other giants, amazing the gods with his hugeness ;
and Nimrod, standing confounded at the foot of Babel ; and
Niobe, with her despairing eyes, turned into stone amidst her
children ; and Saul, dead on his own sword in Gilboa ; and
Arachne, now half spider, at fault on her own broken web ; and
Rehoboam, for all his insolence, flying in terror in his chariot ;
and Alcmseon, who made his mother pay with her life for the or-
nament she received to betray his father ; and Sennacherib, lefl
dead by his son in the temple ; and the head of Cyrus, thrown
by the motherless woman into the goblet of blood, that it might
swill what it had thirsted for ; and Holofernes, beheaded ; and
his Assyrians flying at his death ; and Troy, all become cinders

* This is the passage from which it is conjectured that Dante knew what it
was to " tremble in every vein," from the awful necessity of begging. Mr.
Car}-, with some other commentators, thinks that the " trembling" implies fear
of being refused. But does it not rather mean the agony of the humiliation ?
In Salvani's case it certainly does ; for it was in consideration of the pang to his
pride, that the good deed rescued him from worse punishment.

106 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

and hollow places. Oh ! what a fall from pride was there !
Now, maintain the loftiness of your looks, ye sons of Eve, and
walk with proud steps, bending not your eyes on the dust ye
were, lest ye perceive the evil of your ways.*

" Behold," said Virgil, '' there is an angel coming."

The angel came on, clad in white, with a face that sent trem-
bling beams before it, like the morning star. He shewed the
pilgrims the way up to the second circle ; and then, beating his
wings against the forehead of Dante, on which the seven initials
of sin were written, told him he should go safely, and disap-
peared.

On reaching the new circle, Dante, instead of the fierce wail-
ings that used to meet him at every turn in hell, heard voices
singing, " Blessed are the poor in spirit.""}" As he went, he per-
ceived that he walked lighter, and was told by Virgil that the
angel had freed him from one of the letters on his forehead. He
put his hand up to make sure, as a man does in the street when
people take notice of something on his head of which he is not
aware ; and Virgil smiled.

In this new circle the sin of Envy was expiated. After the
pilgrims had proceeded a mile, they heard the voices of invisible
spirits passing them, uttering sentiments of love and charity ; for
it was charity itself that had to punish envy.

The souls of the envious, clad in sackcloth, sat leaning for

* The reader will have noticed the extraordinary mixture of Paganism and
the Bible in this passage, especially the introduction of such fables as Niobe
and Arachne. It would be difficult not to suppose it intended to work out
some half sceptical purpose, if we did not call to mind the grave authority given
to fables in the poet's treatise on Monarchy, and the whole strange spirit, at once
logical and gratuitous, of the learning of his age, when the acuter the mind,
the subtler became tlie reconcilement with absurdity.

t J^eati pai/peres spiritu. " Blessed are the poor in spirit ; for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven" — one of the beautiful passages of the beautiful sermon
on the Mount. How could the great poet read and admire such passages, and
yet fill his books so full of all which they renounced ? " Oh," say his idola-
ters, " he did it out of his very love for them, and his impatience to see them
triumph." So said the Inquisition. The evil was continued for the sake of
the good which it prevented I The result in the long-run may be so, but not
for the reasons they supposed, or from blindness to the indulgence of their bad
passions.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 107

support and humiliation, partly against the rocky wall of the cir-
cle, and partly on one another's shoulders, after the manner of
beggars that ask alms near places of worship. Their eyes were
sewn up, like those of hawks in training, but not so as to hinder
them from shedding tears, which they did in abundance ; and
they cried, " Mary, pray for us ! — Michael, Peter, and all the
saints, pray for us !"

Dante spoke to them ; and one, a female, lifted up her chin as
a blind person does when expressing consciousness of notice, and
said she was Sapia of Sienna, who used to be pleased at people's
misfortunes, and had rejoiced when her countrymen lost the
battle of Colle. " Sapia was my name,"' she said, " but sapient
I was not,*" for I prayed God to defeat my countrymen ; and
when he had done so (as he had willed to do), I raised my bold
face to heaven, and cried out to him, ' Now do thy worst, for I
fear thee not !' I was like the bird in the fable, who thought the
fine day was to last for ever. What I should have done in my
latter days to make up for the imperfect amends of my repentance,
I know not, if the holy Piero Pettignano had not assisted me with
his prayers. But who art thou that goest with open eyes, and
breathest in thy talk?*'

" Mine eyes," answered Dante, " may yet have to endure the
blindness in this place, though for no long period. Far more do
I fear the sufferings in the one that I have just left. I seem to
feel the weight already upon me."f

* " Sdvia non fui, awegna che Sapia
Fosse chiamata."
The pun is poorer even than it sounds in English ; for, though the Italian
name may possibly remind its readers of sapienza (sapience), there is the differ-
ence of a u in the adjective savia, which is also accented on the first syllable.
It is almost as bad as if she had said in English, " Sophist I found myself,
though Sophia is my name." It is pleasant, however, to see the great satur-
nine poet among the punsters. It appears, from the commentators, that Sapia
was in exile at the time of the battle, but they do not say for what ; probably
from some zeal of faction.

t We are here let into Dante's confessions. He owns to a little envy, but
far more pride :

" Gli occhi, diss' io, mi fieno ancor qui tolti,
Ma picciol tempo ; che poch' 6 1' offesa
Fatta per csser con invidia volti.

108 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

The Florentine then informed Sapia how he came thither,
which, she said, was a great sign that God loved him ; and she
begged his prayers. The conversation excited the curiosity of
two spirits who overheard it ; and one of them, Guido del Duca,
a noble Romagnese, asked the poet of what country he was.
Dante, without mentioning the name of the river, intimated that
he came from the banks of the Arno ; upon which the other
spirit, Rinier da Calboli, asked his friend why the stranger sup-
pressed the name, as though it was something horrible. Guido
said he well might ; for the river, throughout its course, beheld
none but bad men and persecutors of virtue. First, he said, it
made its petty way by the sties of those brutal hogs, the people
of Casentino, and then arrived at the dignity of watering the
kennels of the curs of Arezzo, who excelled more in barking
than in biting ; then, growing unluckier as it grew larger, like
the cursed and miserable ditch that it was, it found in Florence
the dogs become wolves ; and finally, ere it went into the sea, it
passed the den of those foxes, the Pisans, who were full of such
cunning that they held traps in contempt.

" It will be well," continued Guido, " for this man to remem-
ber what he hears ;" and then, after prophesying evil to Florence,
and confessing to Dante his sin of envy, which used to make him
pale when any one looked happy, he added, " This is Rinieri, the
glory of that house of Calboli which now inherits not a spark of
it. Not a spark of it, did I say, in the house of Calboli ? Where
is there a spark in all Romagna ? Where is the good Lizio ? —
where Manardi, Traversaro, Carpigna ? The Romagnese have
all become bastards. A mechanic founds a house in Bologna ! a
Bernardin di Fosco finds his dog-grass become a tree in Faenza !
Wonder not, Tuscan, to see me weep, when I think of the noble
spirits that we have lived with — of the Guidos of Prata, and the
Ugolins of Azzo — of Federigo Tignoso and his band — of the

Troppa b piu la paura ond' 6 sospcsa
L' animu mi:i del tormeiito di sotto :
Che gift lo 'ncarco di li giu mi pesa."

The first confession is singularly ingenuous and modest ; the second, affecting.
It is curious to guess what sort of persons Dante could have allowed himself to
envy — probably those who were more acceptable to women.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 109

Traversaros and Anastagios, families now ruined — and all the
ladies and the cavaliers, the alternate employments and delights
which wrapped us in a round of love and courtesy, where now
there is nothing but ill-will ! O castle of Brettinoro ! why dost
thou not fall ? Well has the lord of Bagnacavallo done, who
will have no more children. Who would propagate a race of
Counties from such blood as the Castrocaros and the Conios ? Is
not the son of Pagrani called the demon ? and would it not be
better that such a son were swept out of the family ? Nay, let
him live to show to what a pitch of villany it has arrived. Ubal-
dini alone is blessed, for his name is good, and he is too old to
leave a child after him. Go, Tuscan — go ; for I would be left
to my tears."

Dante and Virgil turned to move onward, and had scarcely
done so when a tremendous voice met them, splitting the air like
peals of thunder, and crying out, " Whoever finds me will slay
me !" then dashed apart, like the thunder-bolt when it falls. It
was Cain. The air had scarcely recovered its silence, when a
second crash ensued from a ditferent quarter near them, like
thunder when the claps break swiftly into one another. " I am
Aglauros," it said, " that was turned into stone." Dante drew
closer to his guide, and there ensued a dead silence.*

The sun was now in the west, and the pilgrims were journey-
ing towards it, when Dante suddenly felt such a weight of splen-
dour on his eves, as forced him to screen them with both his

* Aglauros, daughter of Cecrops, king of Athens, was turned to stone by
Mercury', for disturbing with her envy his passion for her sister Herse.

The passage about Cain is one of the subliniest in Dante. Truly wonderful
and characteristic is the way in which he has made physical noise and violence
express the anguish of the wanderer's mind. We are not to suppose, I conceive,
that we see Cain. We know he has passed us, by his thunderous and headlong
words. Dante may well make him invisible, for his words are things — veritable
thunderbolts. ^

Cain comes in rapid successions of thunder-claps. The voice of iVglauros
is thunder-claps crashing into one another — broken thunder. This is exceed-
ingly fine also, and wonderful as a variation upon that awful music ; but Cain
is the a.stonishment and the overwhelmingness. If it were not, however, for the
second thunder, we should not have had the two silences ; for I doubt whether
they are not better even than one. At all events, the final silence is tremen-
dous.

110 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

hands. It was an angel coming to shew them the ascent to the
next circle, a way that was less steep than the last. While
mounting, they heard the angel's voice singing behind them,
" Blessed are the merciful ; for they shall obtain mercy !" and on
his leaving them to proceed by themselves, the second letter on
Dante's forehead was found to have been effaced by the splen-
dour.

The poet looked round in wonder on the new circle, where the
sin of Anger was expiated, and beheld, as in a dream, three suc-
cessive spectacles illustrative of the virtue of patience. The
first was that of a crowded temple, on the threshold of which
a female said to her son, in the sweet manner of a mother, " Son,
w^hy hast thou thus dealt with us ? Behold, thy father and I
have sought thee sorrowing :"* — and here she became silent, and
the vision ended. The next was the lord of Athens, Pisistratus,
calmly reproving his wife for wishing him to put to death her
daughter's lover, who, in a transport, had embraced her in public.
" If we are to be thus severe," said Pisistratus, " with those that
lOve us, what is to be done with such as hate ?" The last spec-
tacle was that of a furious multitude shouting and stoning to
death a youth, who, as he fell to the ground, still kept his face
towards heaven, making his eyes the gates through which his
soul reached it, and imploring forgiveness for his murderers. "j"

The visions passed away, leaving the poet staggering as if but
half awake. They were succeeded by a thick and noisome fog,
through which he followed his leader with the caution of a blind
man, Virgil repeatedly telling him not to quit him a moment.
Here they heard voices praying in unison for pardon to the
" Lamb of God, who takcth away the sins of the world." They
were the spirits of the angry. Dante conversed with one of them
on free-will and necessity ; and after quitting him. and issuing by
degrees from the cloud, beheld illustrative visions of anger ; such
as the impious mother, who was changed into the*bird that most
delights in singing ; Haman, retaining his look of spite and rage
on the cross ; and Lavinia, mourning for her mother, who slew
herself for rage at the death of Turnus.:{:

* St. Luke ii. 48. t The stoning of Stephen-

t These illustrative spectacles are not among the best inventions of Dante.

THE JOURNEV THROUGH PURGATORY. Ill

These visions were broken off by a great light, as sleep is
broken : and Dante heard a voice out of it saying, " The ascent
is here." He then, as Virgil and he ascended into the fourth
circle, felt an air on his face, as if caused by the fanning of
wings, accompanied by the utterance of the words, " Blessed are
the peace-makers;" and his forehead was lightened of the third
letter.*

In this fourth circle was expiated Lukewarmness, or defect of
zeal for good. The sufferers came speeding and weeping round
the mountain, making amends for the old indifference by the haste
and fire of the new love that was in them. " Blessed Mary made
haste," cried one, " to salute Elizabeth." " And Csesar," cried
another, " to smite Pompey at Lerida."f " And the disobedient
among the Israelites," cried others, " died before they reached the
promised land." "And the tired among the Trojans preferred
ease in Sicily to glory in Latium." — It was now midnight, and
Dante slept and had a dream.

His dream was of a woman who came to him, having a tongue
that tried ineffectually to speak, squinting eyes, feet whose distor-
tion drew her towards the earth, stumps of hands, and a pallid
face. Dante looked earnestly at her, and his look acted upon her
like sunshine upon cold. Her tongue was loosened ; her feet
made straight ; she stood upright ; her paleness became a lovely
rose-colour ; and she warbled so beautifully, that the poet could
not have refused to listen had he wished it.

" I am the sweet Syren," she said, " who made the mariners

Their introduction is forced, and the instances not always pointed. A murder-
ess, too, of her son, changed into such a bird as tlie nightingale, was not a
happy association of ideas in Homer, where Dante found it ; and I am sur-
prised he made use of it, intimate as he must have been with the less inconsis-
tent story of her namesake, Philomela, in the Metamorphoses.

* So, at least, I conceive, by what appears afterwards ; and I may here add,
once for all, that I have supplied the similar requisite intimations at each suc-
cessive step in Purgator>', the poet seemingly having forgotten to do so. It is
necessary to what he implied in the outset. The whole poem, it is to be re-
membered, is thought to have wanted his final revision.

i What an instance to put among those of haste to do good I But the fame
and accomplishments of Csesar, and his being at the head of our Ghibelline'a
beloved emperors, fairly overwhelmed Dante's boasted impartiality.

112 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

turn pale for pleasure in the sea. I drew Ulysses out of his
course with my song ; and he that harbours with me once, rarely
departs ever, so well I pay him for what he abandons."

Her lips were not yet closed, when a lady of holy and earnest
countenance came up to shame her. " O Virgil !" she cried an-
grily, " who is this ?" Virgil approached, with his eyes fixed
on the lady ; and the lady tore away the garments of the woman,
and shewed her to be a creature so loathly, that the sleeper awoke
with the horror.*

Virgil said, " I have called thee three times to no purpose.
Let us move, and find the place at which we are to go higher."

It was broad day, with a sun that came warm on the shoulders ;
and Dante was proceeding with his companion, when the softest
voice they ever heard directed them where to ascend, and they
found an angel with them, who pointed his swan-like wings up-
ward, and then flapped them against the pilgrims, taking away
the fourth letter from the forehead of Dante. " Blessed are they
that mourn," said the angel, " for they shall be comforted."

The pilgrims ascended into the fifth circle, and beheld the ex-
piators of Avarice grovelling on the ground, and exclaiming, as
loud as they could for the tears that choked them, " My soul hath
cleaved to the dust." Dante spoke to one, who turned out to be
Pope Adrian the Fifth. The poet fell on his knees ; but Adrian
bade him arise and err not. " I am no longer." said he, " spouse
of the Church, here ; but fellow-servant with thee and with all
others. Go thy ways, and delay not the time of my deliver-

ance."

The pilgrims moving onward, Dante heard a spirit exclaim, in
the struggling tones of a woman in child-bed, " O blessed Virgin !
That was a poor roof thou hadst when thou wast delivered of thy
sacred burden. O good Fabricius ! Virtue with poverty was
thy choice, and not vice with riches." And then it told the story
of Nicholas, who, hearing that a father was about to sacrifice the
honour of his three daughters for want of money, threw bags of it
in at his window, containing portions for them all.

* A meisterly allegorv of Worldly Pleasure. But the close of it in the origi-
nal has an inteupity of the revolting, which outrages the last recesses of feeling,
and disgusts us with the denouncer.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 1]3

Dante earnestly addressed this spirit to know who he was ; and
the spirit said it would tell him, not for the sake of help, for which
it looked elsewhere, but because of the shining grace that was in
his questioner, though yet alive.

'• I was root," said the spirit, " of that evil plant which over-
shadows all Christendom to such little profit. Hugh Capet was
I, ancestor of the Philips and Louises of France, offspring of a
butcher of Paris, when the old race of kings was worn out.* We
began by seizing the government in Paris ; then plundered in
Provence ; then, to make amends, laid hold of Poitou, Normandy,
and Gascony ; then, still to make amends, put Conradin to death
and seized Naples ; then, always to make amends, gave Saint
Aquinas his dismissal to Heaven by poison. I see the time at
hand when a descendant of mine will be called into Italy, and the
spear that Judas jousted ivitli\ shall transfix the bowels of Flor-
ence. Another of my posterity sells his daughter for a sum of
money to a Marquis of Ferrara. Another seizes the pope in
Alagna, and mocks Christ over again in the person of his Vicar.
A fourth rends the veil of the temple, solely to seize its money.

* The fierce Hugh Capet, soliloquising about the Virgin in the tones of a
lady in child-bed, is rather too ludicrous an association of ideas. It was for
calling this prince the son of a butcher, that Francis the First prohibited the
admission of Dante's poem into his dominions. Mr. Gary thinks the king might
have been mistaken in his interpretation of the passage, and that " butcher"
may be simply a metaphorical term for the bloodthirstiness of Capet's father.
But when we find the man called, not the butcher, or thai butcher, or butcher
in reference to his species, but in plain local parlance " a butcher of Paris" (un
heccaio di Parigi), and when this designation is followed up by the allusion to
the extinction of the previous dynasty, the ordinary construction of the words
appears indisputable. Dante seems to have had no ground for what his aristo-
cratical pride doubtless considered a hard blow, and what King Francis, in-
deed, condescended to feel as such. He met with the notion somewhere, and
chose to believe it, in order to vex the French and their princes. The spirit
of the taunt contradicts his own theories elsewhere ; for he has repeatedly said,
that the only true nobility is in the mind. But his writings (poetical truth ex-
cepted) are a heap of contradictions.

t Mr. Gary thought he had seen an old romance in which there is a combat
of this kind between Jesus and his betrayer. I have an impression to the
same effect.

114 THE ITALIAN PlLGRlArs PROGRESS.

O Lord, how shall I rejoice to see the vengeance which even
now thou huggest in delight to thy bosom !*

" Of loving and liberal things," continued Capet, " we speak
while it is lifrht ; such as thou heardest me record, when I ad-
dressed myself to the blessed Virgin. But when night comes, we
take another tone. Then we denounce Pygmalion,t the traitor,
the robber, and the parricide, each the result of his gluttonous
love of gold ; and Midas, who obtained his wish, to the laughter
of all time ; and the thief Achan, who still seems frightened at
the wrath of Joshua ; and Sapphira and her husband, whom we
accuse over again before the Apostles ; and Heliodorus, whom
we bless the hoofs of the angel's horse for trampling ;^ and Cras-
sus, on whom we call with shouts of derision to tell us the flavour
of his molten gold. Thus we record our thoughts in the night-
time, now high, now low, now at greater or less length, as each
man is prompted by his impulses. And it was thus thou didst
hear me recording also by day-time, though I had no respondent
near me."

The pilgrims quitted Hugh Capet, and were eagerly pursuing
their journey, when, to the terror of Dante, they felt the whole
mountain of Purgatory tremble, as though it were about to fall
in. The island of Delos shook not so awfully when Latona,
hiding there, brought forth the twin eyes of Heaven. A shout
then arose on every side, so enormous, that Virgil stood nigher to

* " O Signor mio, quando sar6 io lieto
A veder la vendetta che nascosa
Fa dolce 1' ira tua nel tuo segreto !"

The spirit of the blasphemous witticism attributed to another Italian, viz. that
the reason why God prohibited revenge to mankind was its being " too delicate
a morsel for any but himself," is here gravely anticipated as a positive compli-
ment to God by the fierce poet of the thirteenth century, who has been held
up aH a great Christian divine ! God hugs revenge to his bosom with delight!
The Supreme Being confounded with a poor grinning Florentine !

t A ludicrous anti-climax this to modern ears! The allusion is to the Pyg-
malion who was Dido's brother, and who murdered her husband, the priest
Sichu'us, for his riches. Tlie term ** parricide" is here applied in its secondary
Benso of — the murderer of any one to whom we owe reverence.

X Heliodorus was a plunderer of the Temple, thus supematurally punished.
The subject has been nobly treated by Raphael.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 115

his companion, and bade him be of good lieart. " Glory be to
God in the highest," cried the shout ; but Dante could gather the
words only from those who were near him.

It was Purgatory rejoicing for the deliverance of a soul out of
its bounds.*

The soul overtook the pilgrims as they were journeying in
amazement onwards ; and it turned out to be that of Statins,
who had been converted to Christianity in the reign of Domitiun.j-
Mutual astonishment led to inquiries that explained who the other
Latin poet was ; and Statins fell at his master's feet.

Statins had expiated his sins in the circle of Avarice, not for
that vice, but for the opposite one of Prodigality.

An angel now, as before, took the fifth letter from Dante's
forehead ; and the three poets having ascended into the sixth
round of the mountain, were journeying on lovingly together,
Dante listening with reverence to the talk of the two ancients,
when they came up to a sweet-smelling fruit-tree, upon which
a clear stream came tumbling from a rock beside it, and diffusing
itself through the branches. The Latin poets went up to the
tree, and were met by a voice which said, " Be chary of the fruit.
Mary thought not of herself at Galilee, but of the visitors, when
she said, ' They have no wine.' The women of oldest Rome
drank water. The beautiful age of gold feasted on acorns. Its
thirst made nectar out of the rivulet. The Baptist fed on
locusts and wild honey, and became great as you see him in the
gospel."

The poets went on their way ; and Dante was still listening to
the others, when they heard behind them a mingled sound of
chanting and weeping, which produced an effect at once sad and
delightful. It was the psalm, " O Lord, open thou our lips !"
and the chanters were expiators of the sin of Intemperance in
Meats and Drinks. They were condemned to circuit the moun-
tain, famished, and to long for the fruit and waters of the tree in

* A grand and beautiful fiction.

t Readers need hardly be told that there is no foundation for this fancy, ex-
cept in the invention of the churchmen. Dante, in another passage, not neces-
sary to give, confounds the poet Statius who was from Naples, with a rhetori-
cian of the same name from Thoulouse.

116 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

vain. They soon came up with the poets — a pallid multitude,
with hollow eyes, and bones staring through the skin. The
sockets of their eyes looked like rings from which the gems had
dropped.* One of them knew and accosted Dante, who could
not recognise him till he heard him speak. It was Forese Do-
nati, one of the poet's most intimate connexions. Dante, who had
wept over his face when dead, could as little forbear weeping to
see him thus hungering and thirsting, though he had expected to
find him in the outskirts of the place, among the delayers of re-
pentance. He asked his friend how he had so quickly got higher.
Forese said it was owing to the prayers and tears of his good
wife Nella ; and then he burst into a strain of indignation against
the contrast exhibited to her virtue by the general depravity of
the Florentine women, whom he described as less modest than
the half-naked savages in the mountains of Sardinia.

" What is to be said of such creatures ?" continued he. " O
my dear cousin ! I see a day at hand, when these impudent
women shall be fbrbid-den from the pulpit to go exposing their
naked bosoms. What savages or what infidels ever needed that ?
Oh ! if they could see what Heaven has in store for them, their
mouths would be this instant opened wide for howling. "■!■

* " Par^n 1' occhiaje anella senza gemme."

This beautiful and affecting image is followed in the original by one of the
most fantastical conceits of the time. The poet says, that the physiognomist,
who " reads the word omo {homo, man), written in the face of the human be-
ing, might easily have seen the letter m in theirs."

" Chi nel viso de gli uomini legge omo,
Bene ayria quivi conosciuto 1' emme"

The meaning is, that the perpendicular lines of the nose and temples form the
letter m, and the eyes the two o's. The enthusiast for Roman domination
must have been delighted to find that Nature wrote in Latin I

t " Se le svergognate fosser certo

Di quel die 1' ciel veloce loro ammanna,
GiJi per urlare avrian le bocche aperte."

This will remind the reader of the style of that gentle Christian, John Knox,
who, instead of offering his own " cheek to the smiters," delighted to smite the
cheeks of women. Fury was his mode of preaching meekness, and threats of
everlasting howling his reproof of a tune on Sundays. But, it will be said, he

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 117

Forese then asked Dante to explain to liiniself and his aston-
ished fellow-sufrerers how it was that he stood there, a living body
of flesh and blood, casting a shadow with his substance.

" If thou callest to mind," said Dante, '' what sort of life thou
and I led together, the recollection may still grieve thee sorely.
He that walks here before us took me out of that life ; and through
his guidance it is that I have visited in the body the world of the
dead, and am now traversing the mountain which leads us to the
right path."*

After some further explanation, Forese pointed out to his friend,
among the expiators of intemperance. Buonaggiunta of Lucca,
the poet ; and Pope Martin the Fourth, with a face made sharper
than the rest for the eels which he used to smother in wine ; and

looked to consequences. Yes ; and produced the worst himself, both spiritual
and temporal. Let the whisky-shops answer him. However, he helped to
save Scotland from Purgatory : so we must take good and bad together, and
hope the best in the end.

Forese, like many of Dante's preachers, seems to have been one of those
self-ignorant or self-exasperated denouncers, who

" Compound for sins they are inclined to,
By damning those they have no mind to."

He was a glutton, who could not bear to see ladies too little clothed. The de-
facing of '•■ God*s image" in his own person he considered nothing.

* The passage respecting his past life is unequivocal testimony to the fact,
confidently disputed by some, of Dante's having availed himself of the license
of the time ; though, in justice to such candour, we are bound not to think
worse of it than can be helped. The words in the original are :

" Se ti riduci a mente
Qual fosti meco, e quale io teco fui,
Ancor fia grave il memorar presente."

Literally : " If thou recallest to mind what (sort of person) thou wast with me,
and what I was with thee, the recollection may oppress thee still."

His having been taken out of that kind of life by Virgil (construed in the
literal sense, in wliich, among other senses, he has directed us to construe him),
may imply, either that the delight of reading Virgil first made him think of
living in a manner more becoming a man of intellect, or (possibly) that the
Latin poet's description of aEneas's descent into hell turned his thoughts to
religious penitence. Be this as it may, his life, though surely it could at no
time have been of any very licentious kind, never, if we- are to believe Boc-
caccio, became spotless.

118 THE ITALIAN PILGRLM'S PROGRESS.

Ubaldino of Pila, grinding his teeth on air ; and Archbishop Bon-
iface of Ravonna, who fed jovially on his flock ; and Rigogliosi
of Forli, who had had time enough to drink in the other world,
and yet never was satisfied. Buonaggiunta and Dante eyed one
another with curiosity ; and the farmer murmured something
about a lady of the name of Gentucca.

" Thou seemest to wish to speak with me/' said Dante.

" Thou art no admirer, I believe, of my native place," said
Buonaggiunta ; " and yet, if thou art he whom 1 take thee to be,
there is a damsel there shall make it please thee. Art thou not
author of the poem beginning

*' Ladies, that understand the lore of love ?"*

" I am one," replied Dante, " who writes as Love would have
him, heeding no manner but his dictator's, and uttering simply
what he suggests. "•]■

" Ay, that is the sweet new style," returned Buonaggiunta ;
" and I now see what it was that hindered the notary, and Guit-
tone, and myself, from hitting the right natural point." And
here he ceased speaking, looking like one contented to have as-
certained a truth.:}:

* The mention of Gentucca might be thought a compliment to the lady, if
Dante had not made Beatrice afterwards treat his regard for any one else but
herself with so much contempt. (See page 126 of the present volume.)
Under that circumstance, it is hardly acting like a gentleman to speak of her
at all ; unless, indeed, he thought her a person who would be pleased with the
notoriety arising even from the record of a fugitive regard ; and in that case
the good taste of the record would still remain doubtful. The probability
seems to be, that Dante was resolved, at all events, to take this opportunity of
bearding some rumour.

t A celebrated and charming passage :

" lo mi son un, che quando
Amore spira, noto ; e a quel modo
Che detta dentro, vo significando."

I am one that notes
When Love inspires ; and what he speaks I tell
In his own way, embodying but his thoughts.
X Exquisite truth of painting ! and a very elegant compliment to the hand-
Bome nature of Buonaggiunta. Jacopo da Lentino, called the Notary, and

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 119

The whole multitude then, except Forese, skimmed away like
cranes, swift alike through eagerness and through leanness.
Forese lingered a moment to have a parting word with his friend,
and to prophesy the violent end of the chief of his family, Corso,
run away with and dragged at the heels of his horse faster and
faster, till the frenzied animal smites him dead. Having given
the poet this information, the prophet speeded after the others.

The companions now came to a second fruit-tree, to which a
multitude were in vain lifting up their hands, just as children lift
them to a man who tantalises them with shewing something which
he withholds ; but a voice out of a thicket by the road-side
warned the travellers not to stop, telling them that the tree was
an offset from that of which Eve tasted. " Call to mind," said
the voice, " those creatures of the clouds, the Centaurs, whose
feasting cost them their lives. Remember the Hebrews, how they
dropped away from the ranks of Gideon to quench their effemi-
nate thirst."*

The poets proceeded, wrapt in thought, till they heard another
voice of a nature that made Dante start and shake as if he had
been some paltry hackney.

" Of what value is thought," said the voice, " if it lose its
way? The path lies hither."

Dante turned toward the voice, and beheld a shape glowing red
as in a furnace, with a visage too dazzling to be looked upon. It
met him, nevertheless, as he drew nigh, with an air from the fan-
ning of its wings fresh as the first breathing of the wind on a
Mav mornini;, and fragrant as all its flowers ; and Dante lost the
sixth letter on his forehead, and ascended with the two other po-
ets into the seventh and last circle of the mountain.

This circle was all in flames, except a narrow path on the edge
of its precipice, along which the pilgrims walked. A great wind

Fra Guittone of Arezzo, were celebrated verse-writers of the day. The lat-
ter, in a sonnet given by Mr. Cary in the notes to his translation, says he shall
be delighted to hear the trumpet, at the last day, dividing mankind into the
happy and the tormented (sufferers under crudel martire), because an inscrip-
tion will then be seen on his forehead, shewing that he had been a slave to
love ! An odd way for a poet to show his feelings, and a friar his religion !
* Judges vii. 6.

120 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

from outside of the precipice kept the flames from raging beyond
the path ; and in the midst of the fire went spirits expiating the
sin of Incontinence. They sang the hymn beginning " God of
consummate mercy !"* Dante was compelled to divide his atten-
tion between his own footsteps and theirs, in order to move with-
out destruction. At the close of the hymn they cried aloud, " I
know not a man !"t and then recommenced it ; after which they
again cried aloud, saying, " Diana ran to the wood, and drove
Calisto out of it, because she knew the poison of Venus !" And
then again they sang the hymn, and then extolled the memories
of chaste women and husbands ; and so they went on without
ceasing, as long as their time of trial lasted.

Occasionally the multitude that went in one direction met an-
other which mingled with and passed through it, individuals of
both greeting tenderly by the way, as emmets appear to do, when
in passing they touch the antennae of one another. These two
multitudes parted with loud and sorrowful cries, proclaiming the
offences of which they had been guilty ; and then each renewed
their spiritual songs and prayers.

The souls here, as in former circles, knew Dante to be a living
creature by the shadow which he cast : and after the wonted ex-
planations, he learned who some of them were. One was his
predecessor in poetry, Guido Guinicelli, from whom he could not
take his eyes for love and reverence, till the sufferer, who told
him there was a greater than himself in the crowd, vanished
away through the fire as a fish does in water. The greater one
was Arnauld Daniel, the Provencal poet, who, after begging the
prayers of the traveller, disappeared in like manner.

The sun by this time was setting on the fires of Purgatory,

* SummcB Deus clementia. The ancient beginning of a hymn in the
Roman Catholic Church ; now altered, say the commentators, to " Summae
parens ciementijB."

t Virum non cognosco. " Then said Mary unto the angel, How shall this
be, seeing I know not a man?"— ZuA-e i. 34.

The placing of Mary's interview with the angel, and Ovid's story of Ca-
listo, upon apparently the same identical footing of authority, by spirits in all
the sincerity of agonised penitence, is very remarkable. A dissertation, by
some competent antiquary, on the curious question suggested by these anoma-
lieu, would be a welcome novelty in the world of letter.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. l^l

v^hen an angel came crossing the road through them, and then,
tanding on tlie edge of the precipice, with joy in his looks, and
inging, "Blessed arc the pure in heart!" invited tlie three
•octs to plunge into the flames themselves, and so cross the road
D the ascent by which the summit of the mountain was gained.
)ante, clasping his hands, and raising them aloft, recoiled in hor-
or. The tiioughtof all that he had just witnessed made him feel
,s if his own hour of death was come. His companion encour-
.ged him to obey the angel ; but he could not stir. Virgil said,
' Now mark me, son ; this is the only remaining obstacle between
hee and Beatrice ;" and then himself and Statius entering the
ire, Dante followed them.

" I could have cast myself," said he, " into molten glass to
lool myself, so raging was the furnace."

Virgil talked of Beatrice' to animate him. He said, " Me-
hinks I see her eyes beholding us." There was, indeed, a great
ight upon the quarter to which they were crossing ; and out of
he light issued a voice, which drew them onwards, singing,
' Come, blessed of my Father ! Behold, tlie sun is going down,
md the night cometh, and the ascent is to be gained."

The travellers gained the ascent, issuing out of the fire ; and
he voice and the light ceased, and night was come. Unable to
Lscend farther in the darkness, they made themselves a bed, each
)f a stair in the rock ; and Dante, in his happy humility, felt as
f he had been a goat lying down for the night near two shep-
lerds.

Towards dawn, at the hour of the rising of the star of love, he
lad a dream, in which he saw a young and beautiful lady coming
)ver a lea, and bending every now and then to gather flowers ;
md as she bound the flowers into a garland, she sang, " I am
Leah, gathering flowers to adorn myself, that my looks may seem
Dleasant to me in the mirror. But my sister Rachel abides be-
fore the mirror, flowerless ; contented with her beautiful eyes.
To behold is my sister's pleasure, and to work is mine.''*

* An allegory of the Active and Contemplative Life ;— not, I think, a hapr
py one, though beautifully painted. It presents, apart from its terminating
comment, no necessarj' intellectual suggestion ; is rendered, by the comment
itself, hardly consistent with Leah'fl express love of ornament ; and, if it wer^

122 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

When Dante awoke, the beams of the dawn were visible ; and
they now produced a happiness like that of the traveller, who
every time he awakes knows himself to be nearer home. Yirgil
and Statins were already up ; and all three, resuming their way
to the mountain's top, stood upon it at last, and gazed round about
them on the skirts of the terrestrial Paradise. The sun was
sparkling bright over a green land, full of trees and flowers.
Virgil then announced to Dante, that here his guidance terminated,
and that the creature of flesh and blood was at length to be mas-
ter of his own movements, to rest or to wander as he pleased, the
tried and purified lord over himself.

The Florentine, eager to taste his new liberty, left his compan-
ions awhile, and strolled away through the celestial forest, whose
thick and lively verdure gave coolness to the senses in the midst
of the brightest sun. A fragrance came from every part of the
soil ; a sweet unintermitting air streamed against the walker's
face ; and as the full-hearted birds, warbling on all sides, wel-
comed the morning's radiance into the trees, the trees themselves
joined in the concert with a sv/elling breath, like that which rises
among the pines of Chiassi, when Eolus lets loose the south-wind,
and the gathering melody comes rolling through the forest from
bough to bough.*

Dante had proceeded far enough to lose sight of the point at
which he entered, when he found himself on the bank of a rivu-

not for the last sentence, might be taken for a picture of two diiferent forms of
Vanity.

* " Tal, qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie

Per la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi, 1

Quand' Eolo scirocco fuor discioglie."

" Even as from branch to branch
Along the piny forests on the shore

Of Cliiassi, rolls the gathering melody, ,

When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
The dripping south." — Gary.

" Tliis is the wood," says Mr. Cary, " where the scene of Boccaccio's sub-
limest story (taken entirely from Elinaud, as I learn in the notes to the De-
cameron, ediz. Giunti, 1573, p. 62) is laid. See Dec, G. 5, N. 8, and Dry-
den's Theodore and Honoria. Our poet perhaps wandered in it during his
abode with Guido Novello da Polenta." — Translation of Dante, ut sup. p. 121.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 123

let, compared with whose crystal purity the limpidest waters on
earth were clouded. And yet it flowed under a perpetual depth
of shade, which no heam either of sun or moon penetrated.
Nevertlieless the darkness was coloured with endless diversities
of May-blossoms ; and the poet was standing in admiration,
looking up at it along its course, when he beheld something that
took away every other thought ; to wit, a lady, all alone, on the
other side of the water, singing and culling flowers.

'• Ah, lady !" said the poet, " who, to judge by the cordial
beauty in thy looks, hast a heart overflowing with love, be pleased
to draw thee nearer to the stream, that I may understand the
worcls thou singest. Thou remindest me of Proserpine, of the
place she was straying in, and of what sort of creature she
looked, when her mother lost her, and she herself lost the spring-
time on earth."

As a lady turns in the dance when it goes smoothest, moving
round with lovely self-possession, and scarcely seeming to put
one foot before the other, so turned the lady towards the water
over the yellow and vermilion flowers, dropping her eyes gently
as she came, and sino-ino- so that Dante could hear her. Then
when she arrived at the water, she stopped, and raised her eyes
towards him, and smiled, showing him the flowers in her hands,
and shiftino- them with her fino-ers into a display of all their
beauties. Never were such eyes beheld, not even when Venus
herself was in love. The stream was a little stream ; yet Dante
felt it as sreat an intervention between them, as if it had been
Leander's Hellespont.

The lady explained to him the nature of the place, and how
the rivulet was the Lethe of Paradise ; — Lethe, where he stood,
but called Eunoe higher up ; the drink of the one doing away
all remembrance of evil deeds, and that of the other restoring all
remembrance of good.* It was the region, she said, in which
Adam and Eve had lived ; and the poets had beheld it perhaps in
their dreams on Mount Parnassus, and hence imagined their
golden age ; — and at these words she looked at Virgil and Sta-
tins, who by this time had come up, and who stood smiling at her
kindly words.

* Lethe, Forgetfulness ; Eunoe, Well-mindedness.

124 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

Resuming her song, the lady turned and passed up along the
rivulet the contrary way of the stream, Dante proceeding at the
same rate of time on his side of it ; till on a sudden she cried,
" Behold, and listen !" and a light of exceeding lustre came
streaming through the woods, followed by a dulcet melody. The
poets resumed their way in a rapture of expectation, and saw the
air before them glowing under the green boughs like fire. A divine
spectacle ensued of holy mystery, with evangelical and apoca-
lyptic images, which gradually gave way and disclosed a car
brighter than the chariot of the sun, accompanied by celestial
nymphs, and showered upon by angels with a cloud of flowers,
in the midst of which stood a maiden in a white veil, cro\^ed
with olive.

The love that had never left Dante's heart from childhood told
him who it was ; and trembling in every vein, he turned round
to Virgil for encouragement. Virgil was gone. At that moment,
Paradise and Beatrice herself could not requite the pilgrim for
the loss of his friend ; and the tears ran down his cheeks.

" Dante," said the veiled maiden across the stream, " weep not
that Virgil leaves thee. Weep thou not yet. The stroke of a
sharper sword is coming, at which it will behove thee to weep."
Then assuming a sterner attitude, and speaking in the tone of one
who reserves the bitterest speech for the last, she added, " Observe
me well. I am, as thou suspectest, Beatrice indeed ; — Beatrice,
who has. to congratulate thee on deigning to seek the mountain
at last. And hadst thou so long indeed to learn, that here only
can man be happy ?"

Dante, casting down his eyes at these words, beheld his face
in the water, and hastily turned aside, he saw it so full of shame.

Beatrice had the dignified manner of an offended parent ; such
a flavour of bitterness was mingled with her pity.

She held her peace ; and the angels abruptly began singing,
" In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust ;" but went no farther in
the psalm than the words, " Thou hast set my feet in a large
room." The tears of Dante had hitherto been suppressed ; but
when the singing began, they again rolled down his cheeks.

■ Beatrice, in a milder tone, said to the angels, " This man, when
he proposed to himself in his youth to lead a new life, was of a

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 125

trutli so giftctl, that every good liabit ouglit to liave thrived with
him ; but tlie richer the soil, tlic greater peril of weeds. For a
wliile, tlie innocent light of my countenance drew him the right
way ; but when I quitted mortal life, he took away his thoughts
from remembrance of me, and gave himself to others. When I
had risen from flesh to spirit, and increased in worth and beauty,
then did I sink in his estimation, and he turned into otlier paths,
and pursued false images of good that never keep their promise.
In vain I obtained from Heaven the power of interfering in his
behalf, and endeavoured to affect him with it night and day. So
little was he concerned, and into such depths he fell, that nothing
remained but to show him the state of the condemned ; and there-
fore I went to their outer regions, and commended him with tears
to the guide that brought him hither. The decrees of Heaven
would be nought, if Lethe could be passed, and the fruit beyond
it tasted, without any payment of remorse.*

" O thou," she continued, addressing herself to Dante, " who
standest on the other side of the holy stream, say, have I not
spoken truth ?"

Dante was so confused and penitent, that the words failed as
they passed his lips.

" What could induce thee," resumed his monitress, " when I
had given thee aims indeed, to abandon them for objects that could
end in nothing ?"

Dante said, " Thy face was taken from me, and the presence
of false pleasure led me astray."

" Never didst thou behold," cried the maiden, " loveliness like
mine ; and if bliss failed thee because of my death, how couldst
thou be allured by mortal inferiority ? That first blow should
have taught thee to disdain all perishable things, and aspire after
the soul that had gone before thee. How could thy spirit endure

* " Senza alcuuo scotto
Di pciitimcnto."

Literally, scot-free. — " Hcotto," scot ; — " payment for dinner or supper in a
tavern" (says Rubbi, the Petrarchal rather than Uantesque editor of the Par-
naso Italiano, and a very summary genllemai!) ; " here used figuratively,
though it is not u word fit to be employed on serious and grand occasions" (in
cose gravi ed illustri). See his " Dante" in that collection, vol. ii. p. 297.

126 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

to stoop to further chances, or to a childish girl, or any other
fleeting vanity ? The bird that is newly out of the nest may be
twice or thrice tempted by the snare ; but in vain, surely, is the
net spread in sight of one that is older."*

Dante stood as silent and abashed as a sorry child.

" If but to hear me," said Beatrice, " thus afflicts thee, lift up
thy beard, and see what sight can do."

Dante, though feeling the sting intended by the word " beard,"
did as he was desired. The angels had ceased to scatter their
clouds of flowers about the maiden ; and he beheld her, though
still beneath her veil, as far surpassing her former self in love-
liness, as that self had surpassed others. The sight pierced him
with such pangs, that the more he had loved any thing else, the
more he now loathed it ; and he fell senseless to the ground.

When he recovered his senses, he found himself in the hands
of the lady he had first seen in the place, who bidding him keep
firm hold of her, drew him into the river Lethe, and so through
and across it to the other side, speeding as she went like a weav-
er's shuttle, and immersing him when she arrived, the angels all

* The allusion to the childish girl (pargoleita) or any other fleeting vanity,

" O altra vanitii, con si breve uso,"

is not handsome. It was not the fault of the childish girls that he liked them ;
and he should not have taunted them, whatever else they might have been.
What answer could they make to the great poet ?

Nor does Beatrice make a good figure throughout this scene, whether as a
woman or an allegory. If she is Theology, or Heavenly Grace, &c. the
sternness of the allegory should not have been put into female shape ; and
when she is to be taken in her literal sense (as the poet also tells us she is),
her treatment of the poor submissive lover, with leave of Signer Rubbi, is no
better than snubbing; — to say nothing of the vanity with which she pays com-
pliments to her own beauty.

I must, furthermore, beg leave to differ with the poet's thinking it an exalted
symptom on his part to hate every thing he had loved before, out of supposed
compliment to the transcendental object of his affections and his own awakened
merits. All the heights of love and wisdom terminate in charity ; and charity,
by very reason of its knovvii^ the poorness of so many things, hates nothing.
Besides, it is any thing but handsome or high-minded to turn round upon ob-
jects whom we have helped to lower with our own gratified passions, and pre-
tend a right to scorn them.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH PURGATORY. 127

the while siiiijino;, " Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."*
She then delivered liini into the hands of the nyinphs that had
danced about the car, — nymphs on earth, but stars and cardinal
virtues in heaven ; a song burst from the lips of the angels ; and
Faith, Hope, and Charity, calling upon Beatrice to unveil her
face, she did so ; and Dante quenched the ten-years thirst of his
eyes in her inetlable beauty. f

After a while he and Statins were made thoroughly regenerate
with the waters of Eunoe ; and he felt pure^with a new being,
and fit to soar into the stars.

* " Tu asperges me, et mundabor," &.c. " Purge me with hyssop, and I
shall be clean ; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." — Psalm li. 7.
t Beatrice had been dead ten years.

111.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN

^vijumcut.

The Paradise or Heaven of Dante, in whose time the received system of
astronomy was the Ptolemaic, consists of the Seven successive Planets accord-
ing to that system, or the Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, and
Saturn ; of the Eighth Sphere beyond these, or that of the Fixed Stars ; of
the Primum i»Iobile, or First Mover of them all round the moveless Earth ;
and of the Empyrean, or Region of Pure Light, in which is the Beatific Vision.
Each of these ascending spheres is occupied by its proportionate degree of Faith
and Virtue ; and Dante visits each under the guidance of Beatrice, receiving
many lessons, as he goes, on theological and other subjects (here left out), and
being finally admitted, after the sight of Christ and the Virgin, to a glimpse of
the Great I'irst Cause.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN.

It was evening now on earth, and morning on the top of
the hill in Purgatory, when Beatrice having fixed her eyes upon
tlie sun, Dante fixed his eyes upon hers, and suddenly found him-
self in Heaven.

He had been transported by the attraction of love, and Beatrice
was by his side.

The poet beheld from where he stood the blaze of the empy-
rean, and heard the music of the spheres ; yet he was only in
the first or lowest Heaven, the circle of the orb of the moon.

This orb, with his new guide, he proceeded to enter. It had
seemed, outside, as solid, though as lucid, as Diamond ; yet they
entered it, as sunbeams are admitted into water, without dividing
the substance. It now appeared, as it enclosed them, like a pearl,
through the essence of which they saw but dimly ,• and they be-
held many faces eagerly looking at them, as if about to speak,
but not more distinct from the surrounding whiteness than pearls
themselves are from the forehead they adorn.* Dante thought
them only reflected faces, and turned round to see to whom they
belonged, when his smiling companion set him right ; and he en-
tered into discourse with the spirit that seemed the most anxious
to accost him. It was Piccarda, the sister of his friend Forese
Donati, whom he had met in the sixth region of Purgatory. He
did not know her, by reason of her wonderful increase in beauty.

* A curious and happy image.

'• Toman de' nostri visi le postille
Debili si, che perla in bianca fronte
Non vien men tosto a le nostra pupille :

Tali vid' 10 piii facce a parlar pronto."

132 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

She and her associates were such as had been Vowed to a Life
of Chastity and Religion, but had been Compelled by Others to
Break their Vows. This had been done, in Piccarda's instance,
by her brother Corso.* On Dante's asking if they did not long
for a hi^rher state of Bliss, she and her sister-spirits gently smiled ;
and then answered, vv'ith flices as happy as first love,f that they
willed only what it pleased God to give them, and therefore were
truly blest. The poet found by this answer, that every place in
Heaven was paradise, though the bliss might be of different de-
o-rees. Piccarda then shewed him the spirit at her side, lustrous
with all the frlory of the region, Costanza, daughter of the king
of Sicily, who had been forced out of the cloister to become the
wife of the Emperor Henry. Having given him this information,
she began singing Ave Maria; and, while singing, disappeared
with the rest, as substances disappear in water. ij:

A loving will transported the two companions, as before, to the
next circle of Heaven, v»'here they found themselves in the planet

* " Rodolfo da Tossignano, Hist. Seraph. Relig. P. i. p. 138, as cited by
Lonibardi, relates the following legend of Piccarda : ' Her brother Corso, in-
flanicd with rage against his virgin sister, having joined with him Farinata, an
infamous assassin, and twelve other abandoned ruffians, entered the monastery
by a ladder, and carried away his sister forcibly to his own house ; and then,
tearing off her religions habit, compelled her to go in a secular garment to her
nuptials. Before the spouse of Christ came togetlier with her new husband,
she knelt down before a crucifix, and recommended her virginity to Christ.
Soon after, her v/hole body was smJtten with leprosy, so as to strike grief and
horror into the beholders ; and thus, in a iew days, through the divine disposal,
phe passed with a palm of virginity to the Lord. Perhaps (adds the worthy
Franciscan), our poet not being able to certify himself entirely of tliis occur-
rence, has chosen to pass it over discreetly, by making Piccarda say, ' God
knows how, after that, my life was framed.' " — Gary, ut sup. p. 137.

t A lovely simile indeed.

" Tanto beta
Ch' arder parea d' amor nel primo foco.
t Costanza, daughter of Ruggieri, king of Sicily, thus taken out of tlie
monastery, was mother to the Emperor Frederick the Second. " She was
fifty years old or more at the time" (says Mr. Cary, quoting from Muratori and
others) ; " and because it was not credited that she conld have a child at that
age, she was delivered in a pavilion ; and it was given out, that any lady who
pleased was at liberty to see her. Many came and saw her, and the suspicion
ceased." — Translation of Dante, ut sup. p. 137.

THE JOURNEY TIIROLIGII HEAVEN. 133

Mercury, the residence of those who had acted rather out of De-
sire of Fame tlian Love of God. Tlie spirits here, as in the for-
mer Heaven, crowded towards them, as fish in a clear pond crowd
to the hand tiiat oiTers them food. Tlieir eyes sparkled with ce-
lestial joy ; and the more they thought of their joy, the brighter
they grew ; till one of them who addressed the poet became in-
distinguishable for excess of splendour. It was the soul of the
Emperor Justinian. Justinian told him the whole story of the
Roman empire up to his time ; and then gave an account of one
of his associates in bliss, Romeo, who had been minister to Ray-
mond Beranger, Count of Provence. Four daughters had been
born to Raymond Beranger, and every one became a queen ; and
all this had been brought about by Romeo, a poor stranger from
another country. The courtiers, envying Romeo, incited Ray-
mond to demand of him an account of his stewardship, though he
had brought his master's treasury twelve fold for every ten it dis-
bursed. Romeo quitted the court, poor and old ; " and if the
world," said Justinian, "could know the heart such a man must
have had, begging his bread as he went, crust by crust — praise
him as it docs, it v/ould praise him a great deal more."*

" Ilosanna, Holy God of Sabaoth,
Superiiliunining with light of light
The Iiappy fires of those thy Malaholh !"t

Thus beaan sinffinir the soul of the Emperor Justinian ; and
then, turning as he sang, vanished with those about him, like
sparks of fire.

Dante now found himself, before he was aware, in the third
Heaven, or planet Venus, the abode of the Amorous4 He only
knev/ it by the increased loveliness in the face of his com-
pan ion.

The spirits in this orb, who came and went in the light of it

* Probably an allusion to Dante's own wanderings,
t " Ho::anna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth
Superillustrans claritate tu^.
Felices ignes horum Malahoth."
Malahoih ; Hebrew, kingdoms.
■ X The epithet is not too strong, as will be seen by the nature of the inhabi-
tants.

134 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

like sparks in fire, or like voices chanting in harmony with voice,
were spun round in circles of delight, each with more or less
swiftness, according to its share of the beatific vision. Several
of them came sweeping out of their dance towards the poet who
had suniT of Love, among whom was his patron, Charles Martel,
kinn- of Hungary, who shewed him the reason why diversities of
natures must occur in families ; and Cunizza, sister of the tyrant
Ezzelino, who was overcome by this her star when on earth ; and
Folco the Troubadour, whose place was next Cunizza in Heaven ;
and Rahab the harlot, who favoured the entrance of the Jews
into the Holy Land, and whose place was next Folco.* Cunizza
said that she did not at all regret a lot which carried her no
higher, whatever the vulgar might think of such an opinion. She
spoke of the glories of the jewel who was close to her, Folco —
contrasted his zeal with the inertness of her contemptible coun-
trymen — and foretold the bloodshed that awaited the latter from
wars and treacheries. The Troubadour, meanwhile, glowed in
his aspect like a ruby stricken with the sun ; for in heaven joy is
expressed by effulgence, as on earth by laughter. He confessed

* Charles Martel, son of the king of Naples and Sicily, and crowned king
of Hungary', seems to have become acquainted with Dante during the poet's
youth, when the prince met his royal father in the city of Florence. He was
brother of Robert, who succeeded the father, and who was the friend of
Petrarch.

" The adventures of Cunizza, overcome by the influence of her star," says
Cary, " are related by the chronicler Rolandino of Padua, lib. i. cap. 3, in Mu-
ratori, Rer. Ital. Script, toni. viii. p. 173. She eloped from her tirst husband,
Richard of St. Boniface, in the company of Sordello (see Purg. canto vi. and
vii.), with whom she is supposed to have cohabited before her marriage : then
lived with a soldier of Trevigi, whose wife was living at the same time in the
eame city ; and, on his being murdered by her brother the tyrant, was by her
brother married to a nobleman of Braganzo : lastly, when he also had fallen by
the same hand, she, after her brother's death, was again wedded in Verona."
— Translation of Dante, ut sup. p. 147. See what Foscolo sajs of her in the
Discorso sill Tesio, p. 329.

Folco, the gallant Troubadour, here placed between Cunizza and Rahab, is
no other than Folques, bishop of Thoulouse, the persecutor of the Albigenses.
It is of him the brutal anecdote is related, that, being asked, during an indis-
criminate attack on that people, how the orthodox and heterodox were to be
distinguished, he said, " Kill all : God will know his own."

For Rahab, see Joshua, chap. ii. and vi. ; and Hebrews xi. 31.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 135

the lawless fires of his youth, as great (he said) as those of Dido
or Hercules ; but added, tliat he had no recollection of them, ex-
cept a joyous one, not for the fault (which does not come to mind
in heaven), but for the good which heaven brings out of it. Folco
concluded with explaining how Rahab had come into the third
Heaven, and with denouncing the indifference of popes and car-
dinals (those adulterers of the Church) to every thing but ac-
cursed monev-settino;.*

In an instant, before he could think about it, Dante was in the
fourth Heaven, the sun, the abode of Blessed Doctors of the
Church. A band of them came encircling him and his guide,
as a halo encircles the moon, singing a song, the beauty of which,
like jewels too rich to be exported, was not conveyable by ex-
pression to mortal fancy. The spirits composing the band were
those of St. Thomas Aquinas, Albertus Magnus, Gratian the Ben-
edictine, Pietro Lombardo, Solomon, Saint Dionysius the Areopa-
gite, Paul us Orosius, Boetius, Isidore, the Venerable Bede, Rich-
ard of St. Victor, and Sigebert of Gemblours. St. Thomas was
the namer of them to Dante. Their song had paused that he
might speak ; but when he had done speaking, they began re-
suming it, one by one, and circling as they moved, like the wheels
of church clocks that sound one after another with a sweet tink-
ling, when they summon the hearts of the devout to morning
prayer.f

* The reader ueed not be required to attend to the extraordinary theological
disclosures in the whole of the preceding passage, nor yet to consider how
much more they disclose, than theology or the poet might have desired.

t These fifteen personages are chiefly theologians and schoolmen, whose
names and obsolete writings are, for the most part, no longer worth mention.
The same may be said of the band that comes after them.

Dante should not have sot thcin dancing. It is impossible (every respect-
fulness of endeavour notwithstanding) to maintain the gravity of one's imagi-
natidn at the thought of a set of doctors of the Church, Venerable Bede inclu-
ded, wheeling about in giddy rapture like so many dancing derAMses, and keep-
ing time to their ecstatic anilities with voices tinkling like church -clocks. You
may invest them with as much light or other blessed indistinctness as you
please ; the beards and the old ages will break through. In vain theologians
may tell us that our imaginations are not exalted enough. The answer (if
such a charge must be gravely met) is, that Dante's whole Heaven itself is not

136 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

Again they stopped, and again St. Thomas addressed the poet.
He was of the order of St. Dominic ; but with generous grace
he held up the founder of the Franciscans, with his vow of pov-
erty, as the exam.ple of what a pope should be, and reproved the
errors of no order but his own. On the other hand, a new circle
of doctors of the Church making their appearance, and enclosing
the first as rainbow encloses rainbow, rolling round with it in the
unison of a two-fold joy, a voice from the new circle attracted
the poet's ear, as the pole attracts the needle, and Saint Buona-
ventura, a Franciscan, opened upon the praises of St. Dominic,
the lovinf minion of Christianily, the holy wrestler, — benign to
his friends and cruel to his enemies ;* — and so confined his re-
proofs to his own Franciscan order. He then, as St. Thomas had
done with the doctors in the inner circle, named those who con-
stituted the outer : lo wit, Illuminato, and Agostino, and Hugues
of St. Victor, and Petrus Comestor, and Pope John the Twenty-
first, Nathan the Prophet, Chrysostom, Ansel mo of Canterbury,
Donatus who deigned to teach grammar, Raban of Mentz, and
Joachim of Calabria. The two circles then varied their move-
ment by wheeling round one another in counter directions ; and
after they had chanted, not of Bacchus or Apollo, but of three
Persons in One, St. Thomas, who knew Dante's thoughts by in-
tuition, again addressed him, discoursing of mysteries human and
divine, exhorting him to be slow in giving assent or denial to

exalted enough, however wonderful and beantiful in parts. The pchools, and
the forms of Catholic worship, held even his ima?rination down. There is more
heaven in one placid idea of love than in all these dances and tinklings.

* " Benigno a' suoi, ed a' nimici crudo."

Cruel indeed ; — the founder of the Inquisition I The " lovinrr miriion" is Mr.
Gary's excellent tran.slation of " amoroso drutlo.'' But what a minion, and
how lovin^T ! With fire and sword and devilr)% and no wish (of course) to
thrust his own will and pleasure, and bad arguments, down other people's
throats I St. Dominic was a Spaniard. So was Borgia. So was Philip the
Second. There seems to have been an inherent semi-barbarism in the char-
acter of Spain, which it has never got rid of to this day. If it were not for
Cervantes, and some modern patriots, it would hardly appear to belong to the
right European community. Even Lope de Vega was an inquisitor ; and Men-
doza, the entertaining author of Lazarillo de Tonnes, a cruel statesman. Cer-
vantes, however, is enough to sweeten a whole peninsula.

THE JOURiNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 137

propositions without examination, and bidding liim warn people
in general how they presumed to anticipate the divine judgment
as to who should be saved and who not.* The spirit of Solomon
tiicn related how souls could resume their bodies glorified ; and the
two circles uttering a rapturous amen, glowed with such intole-
rable brightness, that the eyes of Beatrice only were able to sus-
tain it. Dante gazed on her with a delight ineffable," and suddenly
found himself in the fifth Heaven.

It was the planet Mars, the receptacle of those who had Died
Fighting for the Cross. In the middle of its ruddy light stood a
cross itself, of enormous dimensions, made of light still greater,
and exhibiting, first, in the body of it, the Crucified Presence,
glittering all over with indescribable flashes like lightning ; and
secondly, in addition to and across the Presence, innumerable
sparkles of the intensest mixture of white and red, darting to and
fro throuirh the whole extent of the crucifix. The movement was
like that of motes in a sunbeam. And as a sweet dinning arises
from the multitudinous touching of harps and viols, before the
ear distinguishes the notes, there issued in like manner from the
whole glittering ferment a harmony indistinct but exquisite,
which entranced the poet beyond all he had ever felt. He heard
even the words, " Arise and conquer," as one who hears and
yet hears not.

On a sudden, with a glide like a ftiUing star, there ran down
from the right horn of the Cross to the foot of it, one of the
lights of this cluster of splendours, distinguishing itself, as it
went, like flame in alabaster.

" O flesh of my flesh !" it exclaimed to Dante ; " O super-
abounding Divine Grace ! when was the door of Paradise ever
twice opened, as it shall have been to thee ?"■}•

Dante, in astonishment, turned to Beatrice, and saw such a

* What a pity the reporter of this advice had not humility enough to apply
il to himself I

t " O sanguis mens, o superinfusa
Gratia Dei, sicut tibi, cui
Bis unquam eoeli jauua reclusa?"

The spirit says this in Latin, as if to veil the compliment to the poet in " tho
obscurity of a learned language." And in truth it is a little strong.

138 THE ITALIAN PILGRIMS PROGRESS.

rapture of delight in her eyes, that he seemed, at that instant, as
if his own had touched the depth of his acceptance and of his
heaven.*

The light resumed its speech, but in words too profound in
their meaning for Dante to comprehend. They seemed to be re-
turning thanks to God. This rapturous absorption being ended,
the speaker expressed in more human terms his gratitude to Bea-
trice ; and then, after inciting Dante to ask his name, declared
himself thus :

" O branch of mine, whom I have long desired to behold, I am
the root of thy stock ; of him thy great-grandsire, who first
brought from his mother the family-name into thy house, and
whom thou sawest expiating his sin of pride on the first circle of
the mountain. Well it befitteth thee to shorten his lonfj sufferinor
with thy good works. Florence,"]" while yet she was confined
within the ancient boundary which still contains the bell that
summons her to prayer, abided in peace, for she was chaste and
sober. She had no trinkets of chains then, no head-tires, no
gaudy sandals, no girdles more worth looking at than the wear-
ers. Fathers were not then afraid of having daughters, for
fear they should want dowries too great, and husbands before
their time. Families were in no haste to separate ; nor had
chamberers arisen to shew what enormities they dared to practise.!
The heights of Rome had not been surpassed by your tower of
Uccellatoio, whose fall shall be in proportion to its aspiring. I
saw Bellincion Berti walking the streets in a leathern girdle fas-
tened with bone ; and his wife come from her lookinsr-slass with-
out a painted face. I saw the Nerlis and the Vecchios contented

* " Che dentro a gli occhi suoi ardeva un riso
Tal, ch' io pensai co' miei toccar lo fondo
De la mia grazia e del mio Paradise." ^

That is, says Lombard!, " I thought my eyes could not possibly be more fa-
voured and imjiaradised" (Pensai che non potessero gli occhi miei essere gra-
ziali ed inii)aradisati niaggiormente) — Variorum edition of Dante, Padua
1822, vol. iii. p. :J73.

■f Here ensues the famous description of those earlier times in Florence
which Dante eulogises at the expense of his own. See the original passage
with another version, in the Appendix.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 139

vith the simplest doublets, and their good dames hard at work at
heir spindles. O happy they ! They were sure of burial in
heir native earth, and none were left desolate by husbands that
oved France better than Italy. One kept awake to tend her
jhild in its cradle, lulling it with the household words that had
bndled her own infancy. Another, as she sat in the midst of
ler family, drawing the flax from the distaff, told them stories of
Croy, and Fiesole, and Rome. It would have been as great a
vonder, then, to see such a woman as Cianghella, or such a man
IS Lapo Salterello, as it would now be to meet with a Cincinnatus
>r a Cornelia.*

" It was at that peaceful, at that beautiful time," continued the
>oet's ancestor, " when we all lived in such good faith and fellow-
hip, and in so sweet a place, that the blessed Virgin vouchsafed
he first sight of me to the cries of my mother ; and there, in
""our old Baptistery, I became, at once. Christian and Cacciaguida.
tly brothers were called Moronto and Eliseo. It was my wife
hat brought thee, from Valdipado, thy family name of Alighieri.

then followed the Emperor Conrad, and he made me a knight
or my good service, and I went with him to fight against the
vicked Saracen law, whose people usurp the fold that remains
ost through the fault of the shepherd. There, by that foul crew,
vas I delivered from the snares and pollutions of the world ; and
o, from the martyrdom, came to this peace.''

Cacciaguida was silent. But his descendant praying to be told
nore of his family and of the old state of Florence, the beatified
oldier resumed. He would not, however, speak of his own pre-
lecessors. He said it would be more becoming to say nothing as
who they were, or the place they came from. All he disclosed

* Bellincion Berti was a noble Florentine, of the house of the Ravignani.
yianghella is said to bave been an abandoned woman, of manners as sliame-
ess as her morals. Lapo Salterelli, one of tlie co-exiles of Dante, and special-
^ hated by him, was a personage who appears to have exhibited the rare coin-
lination of judge and fop. An old commentator, in recording his attention to his
lair, seems to intimate that Dante alludes to it in contrasting him with Ciu-
hmatus. If so, Lapo might have reminded the poet of what Cicero says of
is beloved Capsar ; — that he once saw him scratching the top of his head with
lie tip of his finger, that he might not discompose the locks.

140 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

was, tliat his father and mother lived near the gate San Piero.*,
With recard to Florence, he continued, the number of the inhabi-
tants fit to carry arms was at that time not a fifth of its present!
amount ; but then the blood of the whole city was pure. It hadi
not been mixed up with that of Campi, and Certaldo, and Figghine.
It ran clear in the veins of the humblest mechanic.

" Oh, how much better would it have been," cried the soul of
the old Florentine, " had my countrymen still kept it as it was,
and not brought upon themselves the stench of the peasant knave
out of Aguglione, and that other from Signa, with his eye to a
bribe ! Plad Rome done its duty to the emperor, and so preventec
the factions that have ruined us, Simifonte would have kept its
beggarly upstart to itself; the Conti would have stuck to theii
parish of A.cone, and perhaps the Buondelmonti to Valdigrieve^
Crude mixtures do as much harm to the body politic as to the
natural body ; and size is not strength. The blind bull falls
with a speedier plunge than the blind lamb. One sword ofter
slashes round about it better than five. Cities themselves perish,
See what has become of Luni and of Urbisaglia ; and what wil
soon become of Sinigaglia too, and of Chiusi ! And if cities
perish, what is to be expected of families ? In my time the Uglii
the Catellini, the Filippi, were great names. So were the Albe
richi, the Ormanni, and twenty others. The golden sword oi

* " Chi ei si fiiro, e onde venner quivi,
Pill h tacer che ragionare onesto."

Some think Dante v/as ashamed to speak of these ancestors, from the lowTies
of their origin ; others that he did not choose to make them a boast, for tli
height of it. I suspect, with Lombardi, from his general character, and fron
file willingness he has avowed to make such boasts (see the opening of canti
xvi.. Paradise, in the original), that while he claimed for them a descent fron
Iho Romans (see Inferno, canto xv. 73. &c.), he knew them to be poor ii
fortune, perhaps of humble condition. What follows, in the text of our ab
Btract, about the purity of the old FIon>ntine blood, even in the veins of thi
humblest mechanic, may seem to intimate some corroboration of this ; and ifc
a curious specimen of republican pride and scorn. This horror of one's neigh'
hours is neither good Christianity, nor surely any very good omen of that Ital
ian union, of which " Young Italy" wishes to think Dante such a harbingeijii
All this too, observe, is said in the presence of a vision of Christ on thi
Cross I

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 141

ighthood was then to be seen in the house of Galigaio. The
lumn, Verrey, was then a great thing in the herald's eye.
le Galli, the Sacchetti, were great ; so was the old trunk of the
Ifucci ; so was that of the peculators who now blush to hear
a measure of wheat ; and the Sizii and the Arrigucci were
Lwn in pomp to their civic chairs. Oh, how mighty I saw
m then, and how low has their pride brought them ! Florence
those days deserved her name. She J/oz/m/iec^ indeed; and
: balls of gold were ever at the top of the flower.* And nov/
I descendants of these men sit in priestly stalls and grow fat.
le over-weening Adimari, who are such dragons when their
s run, and such lambs when they turn, were then of note so
le, that Albertino Donato was angry with Bellincion, his father-
law, for making him brother to one of their females. On the
ler hand, thy foes, the Amidei, the origin of all thy tears
ough the just anger which has slain the happiness of thy life,
re honoured in those days ; and the honour was partaken by
lir friends. O Buondelmonte ! why didst thou break thy troth
thy first love, and become wedded to another ? Many who are
N miserable would have been happy, had God given thee to
i river Ema, when it rose against thy first coming to Florence,
t the Arno had swept our Palladium from its bridge, and
)rence was to be the victim on its altar, "f
Cacciasuida was again silent ; but his descendant beo-o-ed him
speak yet a little more. He had heard, as he came through
I nether regions, alarming intimations of the ill fortune that

■ The Column, Verrey (vair, variegated, checkered with argent and azure),
I the Balls or (Palle d' oro), were arms of old families. I do not trouble the
der with notes upon mere family-names, of which nothing else is recorded.

■ An allusion, apparently acquiescent, to the superstitious popular opinion
t the peace of Florence was bound up with the statue of Mars on the old
Ige, at the base of which Buondelmonte was slain.

>Vith this Buondelmonte the dissensions in Florence were supposed to have
t begun. Macchiavelli's account of him is, that he was about to marry a
mg lady of the Amidei family, when a widow of one of the Donati, who
1 designed her own daughter for him, contrived that he should see her ; the
[sequence of which was, that he broke his engagement, and was assassina-
Hisiorie Florentine, lib. ii.

142 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

awaited liim, and he was anxious to know, from so high and cer.s
tain an authority, what it would really be. |

Cacciaguida said, " As Hippolytus was forced to depart frorrj
Athens by the wiles of his cruel step-dame, so must even thoi
depart out of Florence. Such is the wish, such this very mo
ment the plot, and soon will it be the deed, of those, the busines!
of whose lives is to make a traffic of Christ with Rome. Thoi
shalt quit every thing that is dearest to thee in the world. Tha
is the first arrow shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt experi
ence how salt is the taste of bread eaten at the expense of others
how hard is the going up and down others' stairs. But wha
shall most bow thee down, is the worthless and disgustincr com!
pany with whom thy lot must be partaken ; for they shall all tun
against thee, the whole mad, heartless, and ungrateful set. Nev
ertheless, it shall not be long first, before themselves, and no
thou, shall have cause to hang down their heads for shame. Th(
brutishness of all they do, will shew how well it became thee tt
be of no party, but the party of thyself.*

" Thy first refuge thou shalt owe to the courtesy of the grea
Lombard, who bears the Ladder charged with the Holy Bird.-
So benignly shall he regard thee, that in the matter of asking an(
receiving, the customary order of things shall be reversed be

* " Tu lascerai ogni cosa diletta

Pill caramente ; e questo e quelle strale
Che 1' arco de 1' esilio pria saetta.

Tu proverai si come sa di sale
Lo pane altrui, e com' e duro calle
Lo scendere e 'I salir per 1' altrui scale.

E quel che piti ti graveri le spalle,
Sari la compagnia malvagia e scempia
Con la qual tu cadrai in questa valle :

Che tutta ingrata, lutta matta ed empia
Si farii contra te : ma poco appresso
Ella, uon tu, n' avri, rossa la tempia.

Di sua bestialitate il suo processo *
FarJi la pruova, si ch' a te fia belle
Averti fatta parte per te stesso."

t The Roman eagle. These are the arms of the Scaligers of Verona.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 143

Lween you two, and the gift anticipate the request. With him
thou shalt behoki the mortal, born under so strong an influence
Df this our star, that the nations shall take note of him. They
a,re not aware of him yet, by reason of his tender age ; but ere
the Gascon practise on the great Henry, sparkles of his worth
shall break forth in his contempt of money and of ease ; and
^vhen his munificence appears in all its lustre, his very enemies
shall not be able to hold their tongues for admiration.* Look
thou to this second benefactor also ; for many a change of the
lots of people shall he make, both rich and poor ; and do thou
bear in mind, but repeat not, what further I shall now tell thee
Df thy life." Here the spirit, says the poet, foretold many things
which afterwards appeared incredible to their very beholders ; —
and then added : " Such, my son, is the heart and mystery of the
things thou hast desired to learn. The snares will shortly gather
about thee ; but wish not to change places with the contrivers ;
for thy days will outlast those of their retribution."

Again was the spirit silent ; and yet again once more did his
descendant question him, anxious to have the advice of one that
saw so far, and that spoke the truth so purely, and loved him so
well.

" Too plainly, my father," said Dante, " do I see the time com-
ing, when a blow is to be struck me, heaviest ever to the man
that is not true to himself. For which reason it is fit that T so
far arm myself beforehand, that in losing the spot dearest to me
on earth, I do not let my verses deprive me of every other refuge.
Now I have been down below through the region whose grief is
without end ; and I have scaled the mountain from the top of
which I was lifted by my lady's eyes ; and I have come thus far
through heaven, from luminary to luminary ; and in the course
of this my pilgrimage I have heard things which, if I tell again,
may bitterly disrelish with many. Yet, on the other hand, if I
prove but a timid friend to truth, I fear I shall not survive with
the generations by whom the present times will be called times
of old."

The light that enclosed the treasure which its descendant had

* A prophecy of the reuown of Can Grande della Scala, who had received
Dante at his court.

144 THE ITALIAN PILGRIMS PROGRESS.

found in heaven, first flashed at this speech like a golden mirror
af^ainst the sun, and then it replied thus :

" Let the consciences blush at thy words that have reason to
blush. _Do thou, far from shadow of misrepresentation, make
manifest all which thou hast seen, and let the sore places be
galled that deserve it. Thy bitter truths shall carry with them
vital nourishment — thy voice, as the wind does, shall smite loud-
est the loftiest summits ; and no little shall that redound to thy
praise. It is for this reason that, in all thy journey, thou hast
been shewn none but spirits of note, since little heed would have
been taken of such as excite doubt by their obscurity."

The spirit of Cacciaguida now relapsed into the silent joy of
its reflections, and the poet was standing absorbed in the mingled
feelings of his own, when Beatrice said to him, " Change the cur-
rent of thy thoughts. Consider how near I am in heaven to one
that repayeth every wrong."

Dante turned at the sound of this comfort, and felt no longer
any other wish than to look upon her eyes ; but she said, with a
smile, " Turn thee round again, and attend. I am not thy only
Paradise." And Dante again turned, and saw his ancestor pre-
pared to say more.

Cacciaguida bade him look again on the Cross, and he should
see various spirits, as he named them, flash over it like lightning ;
and they did so. That of Joshua, which was first mentioned,
darted along the Cross in a stream. The light of Judas Macca-
beus went spinning, as if joy had scourged it."^ Charlemagne
and Orlando swept away together, pursued by the poet's eyes.
Guglielmo-j- followed, and Rinaldo, and Godfrey of Bouillon, and
Robert Guiscard of Naples ; and the light of Cacciaguida him-
self darted back to its place, and, uttering another sort of voice,

* " Letizia era ferza del paldo,"

+ Supposed to bo one of the early Williams, Princes of Orange ; but it is
doubted whether the First, in the time of Charlemagne, or the Second, who
followed Godfrey of Bouillon. Mr. Gary thinks the former ; and the mention
of his kinsman Rinaldo (Ariosto's Paladin?) seems to confirm his opinion; yet
the situation of the name in the text brings it nearer to Godfrey ; and Rinoardo
(the name of Rinaldo in Dante) might possibly mean *' Raimbaud," the kins-
man and associate of the second William. Robert Guiscard is the Norman
who conquered Naples.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 145

began showing how sweet a singer he too was amidst the glitter-
ing choir.

Dante turned to share the joy with Beatrice, and, by the lovely
paling of her cheek, like a maiden's wiien it delivers itself of the
burden of. a blush,* knew that he was in another and whiter star.
It was the planet Jupiter, the abode of blessed Administrators of
Justice.

Here he beheld troops of dazzling essences, warbling as they
flew, and shaping their flights hither and thither, like birds when
they rise from the banks of rivei-s, and rejoice with one another
in new-found pasture. But the figures into which the flights
were shaped were of a more special sort, being mystical compo-
sitions of letters of the alphabet, now a d, now an i, now an l,
and so on, till the poet observed that they completed the whole
text of Scripture, which says, DUigite justiiiam, qui jiidicatis ier-
rmn — (Love righteousness, ye that be judges of the earth). The
last letter, m, they did not decompose like the rest, but kept it
entire for a while, and glowed so deeply within it, that the silvery
orb thereabout seemed burning with gold. Other lights, with a
song of rapture, then descended like a crown of lilies, on the top
of the letter ; and then, from the body of it, rose thousands of
sparks, as from a sliaken firebrand, and, gradually expanding into
the form of an eagle, the lights which had descended like lilies
distributed themselves over the whole bird, encrusting it with
rubies flashing in the sun.

But what, says the poet, was never yet heard of, written, or
imagined, — the beak of the eagle spoke ! It uttered many minds
in one voice, just as one heat is given out by many embers ; and
proclaimed itself to have been thus exalted, because it united
justice and mercy while on earth.

Dante addressed this splendid phenomenon, and prayed it to
ease his mind of the perplexities of its worldly reason respecting

* Exquisitely beautiful feeling !

" Quale e 11 trasmufure in picciol varco
Di tempo in bianca donna, quando '1 volto
Suo si discarclii di vergogna il carco."

What follows, respecting letters of the alphabet and the Roman eagle, iii in a
very diflerent taste, though mixed with many beauties.

11 ' •

J46 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

the Divine nature and government, and the exclusion from hea-
yen of goodness itself, unless within the Christian pale.

The celestial bird, rousing itself into motion with delight, like
a falcon in the conscious energy of its will and beauty, when,
upon being set free from its hood, it glances above it into the
air, and claps its self-congratulating wings, answered neverthe-
less somewhat disdainfully, that it was impossible for man, in his
mortal state, to comprehend such things ; and that the astonish-
ment he feels at them, though doubtless it would be excusable
under other circumstances, must rest satisfied with the affirma-
tions of Scripture.

The bird then bent over its questioner, as a stork does over
the nestling newly fed when it looks up at her, and then wheel-
ing round, and renewing its warble, concluded it with saying,
" As my notes are to thee that understandest them not, so are the
judgments of the Eternal to thine earthly brethren. None ever
yet ascended into these heavenly regions that did not believe in
Christ, either after he was crucified or before it. Yet many,
who call Christ ! Christ ! shall at the last day be found less near
to him than such as knew him not. What shall the kings of
Islam say to your Christian kings, when they see the book of
judgment opened, and hear all that is set down in it to their dis-
honour ? In that book shall be read the desolation which Albert .
will inflict on Bohemia :* — in that book, the woes inflicted on

* The emperor Albert the First, when he obtained Bohemia for his son
Rodolph. Of the sovereigns that follow, he who adulterated his people's
money, and died by the " hog's teeth" (a wild boar in hunting), is the French
king, Philip the Fourth ; the quarrelling fools of England and Scotland are
Edward the First and Baliol ; the luxurious Spaniard is Ferdinand the Fourth,
said to have killed iiiniself in his youth by intemperance ; the eifeminate Bo-
hemian, Winceslaus the Second ; the " lame wretch of Jerusalem," Charles
the Second of Naples, titular king of Jerusalem ; the cowardly warder of the
Isle of Fire (Sicily), Frederick of the house of Arragon ; his filthy brother and
uncle, James of Arragon and James of Minorca ; the Portuguese (according
to the probable guess of Cary), the rebellious son of King Dionysius ; the Nor-
wegian, Ilaco; and the Dalmatian, Wladislaus, but why thus accused, not
known. Aa to Hungary, its crown was then disputed by rival princes ; Na-
varre was thinking of shakiu|[ off the yoke of France ; and Nicosia and
Famagosta, in Cyprus, were complaining of their feeble sovereign, Henry the
Second.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 147

Paris by that adulterator of his kingdom's money, who shall die
by the hog's teeth : — in that book, the ambition which makes
such mad fools of the Scotch and English kings, that they cannot
keep within their bounds : — in that book, the luxury of the Span-
iard, and the effeminate life of the Bohemian, who neither knows
nor cares for any thing worthy : — in that book, the lame wretch
of Jerusalem, whose value will be expressed by a unit, and his
worthlessness by a million : — in that book, the avarice and cow-
ardice of the warder of the Isle of Fire, in which old Anchises
died ; and that the record may answer the better to his abundant
littleness, the writing shall be in short-hand ; and his uncle's and
his brother's filthy doings shall be read in that book — they who
have made such rottenness of a good old house and two diadems ;
and there also shall the Portuguese and the Norwegian be known
for what they are, and the coiner of Dalmatia, who beheld with
such covetous eyes the Venetian ducat. O blessed Hungary,
if thou wouldst resolve to endure no longer ! — O blessed Na-
varre, if thou wouldst but keep out the Frenchman with thy moun-
tain walls ! May the cries and groans of Nicosia and Famagosta
be an earnest of those happier days, proclaiming as they do the
vile habits of the beast, who keeps so close in the path of the herd
his brethren."

The blessed bird for a moment was silent ; but as, at the going
down of the sun, the heavens are darkened, and then break forth
into innumerable stars which the sun lights up,* so the splen-
dours within the figure of the bird suddenly became more splen-
did, and broke forth into songs too beautiful for mortal to re-
member.

O dulcet love, that dost shew thee forth in smiles, how ardent
was thy manifestation in the lustrous sparkles which arose out
of the mere thoughts of those pious hearts !

After the gems in that glittering figure had ceased chiming
their angelic songs, the poet seemed to hear the murmur of a
river which comes falling from rock to rock, and shews, by the
fulness of its tone, the abundance of its mountain spring ; and as
the sound of the guitar is modulated on the neck of it, and the

* The opinion in th« time of Dante.

148 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

breath of the pipe is accordant to the spiracle from which it is-
sues so the murmuring within the eagle suddenly took voice,
and, risino- througli the neck, again issued forth in words. The
bird now bade the poet fix his attention on its eye ; because, of
all the fires that composed its figure, those that sparkled in the
eye were the noblest. The spirit (it said) which Dante beheld
in the pupil was that of the royal singer who danced before the
ark, now enjoying the reward of his superiority to vulgar dis-
cernment. Of the five spirits that composed the eyebrow, the one
nearest the beak was Trajan, now experienced above all others in
the knowledge of what it costs not to follow Christ, by reason of his
having been in hell before he was translated to heaven. Next to
Trajan wa§ Hezekiah, whose penitence delayed for him the hour of
his death : next Hezekiah, Constantino, though, in letting the pope
become a prince instead of a pastor, he had unwittingly brought de-
struction on the world : next Constantino, William the Good of Si-
cily, whose death is not more lamented than the lives of those who
contest his crown : and lastly, next William, Riphseus the Tro-
jan. " What erring mortal," cried the bird, " would believe it
possible to find Riphceus the Trojan among the blest ? — but so it
is ; and he now knows more respecting the divine grace than
mortals do, though even he discerns it not to the depth."*

The bird again relapsing into silence, appeared to repose on
the happiness of its thoughts, like the lark which, after quiver-
ing and expatiating through all its airy warble, becomes mute and
content, having satisfied its soul to the last drop of its sweetness. f

* All this part about the eagle, who, it seems, is beheld only in profile, and
who bids the poet " mind his eye," in the pupil of which is King David, while
the eyebrow consists of orthodox sovereigns, including Riphaeus the Trojan, is
irresistibly ludicrous. No consideration can or ought to hinder us from laugh-
ing at it. It was mere party-will in Dante to lug it in ; and his perverseness
injured his fancy, as it deserved.

In the next passage the real poet resumes himself, and with what relief to
one's feelings !

t Most beautiful is this simile of the lark :

" Qual lodoletta che 'n aere si spazia
Prima cantando, e poi tace contenta
De r ultima dolcezza che la sazia."

In the PentameroTi and Pentalogia, Petrarch is made to say, " All the

THE JOURNEV THROUGH HEAVEN. 149

But again Dante could not lielp speaking, being astonished to
find Pairans in Heaven ; and once more the celestial fiirure in-
dulgcd liis curiosity. It told him that Trajan had been delivered
from hell, for his love of justice, by the prayers of St. Gregory ;
and that Riphrcus, for the same reason, had been gifted with a
prophetic knowledge of the Redemption ; and then it ended with
a rapture on the hidden mysteries of Predestination, and on the
joy of ignorance itself when submitting to the divine will. The
Iwo blessed spirits, meanwhile, whom the bird mentioned, like
the fingers of sweet lutenist to sweet singer, when they quiver to
his warble as it goes, manifested the delight they experienced by
movements of accord simultaneous as the twinkling of two
eyes/''

Dante turned to receive his own final delight from the eyes of
Beatrice, and he found it, though the customary smile on her face
was no longer there. She told him that her beauty increased
with such intensity at every fresh ascent among the stars, that he
would no longer have been able to bear the smile ; and they
were now in the seventh Heaven, or the planet Saturn, the re-
treat of those who had passed their lives in Holy Contemplation.

verses that ever were written on the nightingale are scarcely worth the beauti-
ful triad oi' this divine poet on the lark [and then he repeats them]. In the
first of them, do jou not see the trembling of her wings against the sky? As
often as I repeat them, my ear is satisfied, my heart (like hers) contented.

" Boccaccio. — I agree with you in the perfect and unrivalled beauty of the
first ; but in the tiiird there is a redundance. Is not conterita quite enough
without che la sazia ? The picture is before us, the sentiment within us; and,
behold, we kick when we are full of manna.

" Petrarch. — I acknowledge the correctness and propriety of your remark ;
and yet beauties in poetry must be examined as carefully as blemishes, and
even more." — p. 92.

Perhaps Duute would have argued that sazia expresses the sa 'ety itself, so
that the very superfluousness becomes a propriety.

* " E come a buon cantor buon citarista
Fa seguitar lo guizzo de la corda
In che pill di piacer lo canto acquista ;

Si, mt'utre che parlC), mi si ricorda,
Ch' io vidi le duo luci benedette,
I'ur come batter d' occhi si concorda,

Con le parole muover le fiammette."

150 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

In this crystal sphere, called after the name of the monarch
who reigned over the Age of Innocence, Dante looked up, and
beheld a ladder, the hue of which was like gold when the sun
glisters it, and the height so great that its top was out of sight ;
and down the steps of this ladder he saw coming such multitudes
of shining spirits, that it seemed as if all the lights of heaven
must have been there poured forth ; but not a sound was in the
whole splendour. It was spared to the poet for the same reason
that he missed the smile of Beatrice. When they came to a cer-
tain step in the ladder, some of the spirits flew off it in circles or
other careers, like rooks when they issue from their trees in the
morning to dry their feathers in the sun, part of them going away
without returning, others returning to the point they left, and
others contenting themselves with flying round about it. One of
them came so near Dante and Beatrice, and brightened with such
ardour, that the poet saw it was done in affection towards them,
and begged the loving spirit to tell them who it was.

" Between the two coasts of Italy," said the spirit, " and not
far from thine own country, the stony mountains ascend into a
ridge so lofty that the thunder rolls beneath it. Catria is its
name. Beneath it is a consecrated cell ; and in that cell I was
called Pietro Damiano.* I so devoted myself to the service of
God, that with no other sustenance than the juice of the olive, I
forgot both heat and cold, happy in heavenly meditation. That
cloister made abundant returns in its season to these granaries of
the Lord ; but so idle has it become now, that it is fit the world
should know its barrenness. The days of my mortal life were
drawing to a close, when I was besought and drawn into wearing
the hat which descends every day from bad head to worse. f St.
Peter and St. Paul came lean and barefoot, getting their bread
where they could ; but pastors now-a-days must be lifted from

* A corrector of clerical abuses, who, thoiTgh a cardinal, and much employed
in public affairs, preferred the simplicity of a private life. He has left writings,
the eloquence of which, according to Tiraboschi, is " worthy of a better age."
Petrarch also makes honourable mention of him. See Cary, ut sup. p. 169-
Dante lived a good while in the monastery of Catria, and is said to have fin-
ished his poem there. — Lomhardi in loc. vol. iii. p. 547.

t The cardinal's hat.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 151

the ground, uiul liuvc usliers going before them, and train-bearers
behind them, and ride upon palfreys covered witli tiieir spreading
mantles, so that two beasts go under one skin.* O Lord, how
long !"

At these words Dante saw more splendours come pourinfr down
the ladder, and wheel round and round, and become at every
wheel more beautifuL The whole dazzling body then gathered
round the indignant speaker, and shouted something in a voice so
tremendous, that the poet could liken it to nothing on earth. The
thunder was so overwhelming, that he did not even hear what
they said.f

Pallid and stunned, he turned in affright to Beatrice, who com-
forted him as a mother comforts a child that wants breath to
speak. The shout was prophetic of the vengeance about to over-
take the Church. Beatrice then directed his attention to a multi-
tude of small orbs, which increased one another's beauty by inter-
changing their splendours. They enclosed the spirits of those
who most combined meditation with love. One of them was
Saint Benedict ; and others Macarius and Romoaldo.ij: The light
of St. Benedict issued forth from among its companions to ad-
dress the poet ; and after explaining how its occupant was unable
farther to disclose himself, inveighed against the degeneracy of
the religious orders. It then rejoined its fellows, and the whole
company clustering into one meteor, swept aloft like a whirlwind.
Beatrice beckoned the poet to ascend after them. He did so,

* " Si che duo bestie van sott' una pelle."

t " Dintorno a questa (voce) venuero e fermarsi,
E fero un grido di si alto suono,
Che non potrebbe qui assomigliarsi :

N6 io lo 'ntesi, si mi vinse il tuono."

Around this voice they flocked, a mighty crowd,
And raised a shout so huge, that earthly wonder
Knoweth no Hkeness for a peal so loud ;

Nor could I hear the words, it spoke such thunder.

If a Longinus had written after Dante, he would have put this passage into his
treatise on the Sublime.

t Benedict, the founder of the order called after his name. Macarius, an
Egj'ptian monk and moralist. Romoaldo, founder of the Camaldoli.

152 THE ITALIAN riLGRIM'S PROGRESS.

gifted with tlie usual virtue by her eyes ; and found himself in
the twin light of the Gemini, the constellation that presided over
his birth. He was now in the region of the fixed stars.

" Tliou art now," said his guide, " so near the summit of thy
prayers, that it behoves thee to take a last look at things below
thee, and see how little they should account in thine eyes."
Dante turned his eyes downwards through all the seven spheres,
and saw the earth so diminutive, that he smiled at its miserable
appearance. Wisest, thought he, is the man that esteems it least ;
and truly worthy he that sets his thoughts on the world to come.
He now saw the moon without those spots in it which made him
formerly attribute the variation to dense ajid rare. He sustained
the brightness of the face of the sun, and discerned all the signs
and motions and relative distances of the planets. Finally, he
saw, as he rolled round with the sphere in which he stood, and
by virtue of his gifted sight, the petty arena, from hill to harbour,
which filled his countrymen with such ferocious ambition ; and
then he turned his eyes to the sweet eyes beside him.*

Beatrice stood wrapt in attention, looking earnestly towards the
south, as if she expected some appearance. She resembled the
bird that sits among the dewy leaves in the darkness of night,

* The reader of English poetry will be reminded of a passage in Cowley ;

" Lo, I mount ; and lo,
How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title shew !

Where shall I find the noble British land 1
Lo, I at last a northern speck espy,
Which in the sea does lie,
And seems a grain o' the sand.
For this will any sin, or bleed?
Of civil wars is this the meed ?
And is it this, alas, which we.
Oh, irony of words ! do call Great Bx'-ittanie ?"

And he afterwards, on reaching higher depths of silence, says very finely, and
with a beautiful intimation of the all-inclusiveness of the Deity by the use of
a singular instead of a plural verb, —

"Where am I now? angels and God is here."

All which follows in Dante, up to the appearance of Saint Peter, is full of
grandeur and loveliness.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 153

yearning for the coming of the morning, that she may again be-
hold her young, and have light by which to seek the food, that
renders her fatioue for thcni a iov. So stood Beatrice, lookinir ;
wiiich caused Dante to watch in the same direction, with the feel-
ings of one that is already possessed of some new delight by the
assuredness of his expectation.*

The quarter on which they were gazing soon became brighter
and brighter, and Beatrice exclaimed, " Behold the armies of the
triumph of Christ !" Her face appeared all fire, and her eyes
so full of love, that the poet could tind no words to express them.

As the moon, when the depths of heaven are serene with her
fulness, looks abroad smiling among her eternal handmaids the
stars, that paint every gulf of the great hollow with beauty ;f so
brightest, above myriads of splendours around it, appeared a sun
which gave radiance to them all, even as our earthly sun gives
light to the constellations.

'' O Beatrice !"' exclaimed Dante, overpowered, " sweet and
beloved guide !"

" Overwhelming," said Beatrice, " is the virtue with which
nothing can compare. What thou hast seen is ihc W'isilom and

* " Come r augello intra 1' amate fronde,
Posato al nido de' suoi dole! nati
La notte che le cose ci nasconde,

Che per veder gVi aspetti desiati,
E per trovar lo cibo onde gli pasca,
In che i gravi labor gli sono aggrati,

Previene '1 tempo in su I' aperta frasca,
E con ardente affetto 11 sole aspetta,
Fiso guardando pur che 1' alba nasca

Cosi la donna niia si stava eretta
E attenta, involta in ver la plaga
Sotto la quale il sol mostra men frelta:

Si che veggcndola io sospcsa e vaga,
Fecimi quale 6 quei che disiando
Altro vorria, e sperando s' appaga."

t *' Quale ne' plenilunii sercni
Trivia ride tra le Ninfe eterne,
Che dipingono '1 ciel per tutti i scni."

154 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

the Power, by whom the path between heaven and earth has been
laid open."*

Dante's soul — like the fire v/hich falls to earth out of the
swollen thunder-cloud, instead of rising -according to the wont of
fire — had grown too great for his still mortal nature ; and he
could afterwards find within him no memory of what it did.

"Open thine eyes," said Beatrice, " and see me now indeed.
Thou hast beheld things that empower thee to sustain my smiling."

Dante, while doing as he was desired, felt like one who has
suddenly waked up from a dream, and endeavours in vain to rec-
ollect it.

" Never," said he, " can that moment be erased from the book
of the past. If all the tongues were granted me that were fed
with the richest milk of Polyhymnia and her sisters, they
could not express one thousandth part of the beauty of that di-
vine smile,^ or of the thorough perfection which it made of the
v/hole of her divine countenance."

But Beatrice said, " Why dost thou so enamour thee of this
face, and lose the sight of the beautiful guide, blossoming beneath
the beams of Christ ? Behold the rose, in which the Word was
made flesh. f Behold the lilies, by whose odour the way of life
is tracked."

Dante looked, and gave battle to the sight with his weak eyes.:}:
As flowers on a cloudy day in a meadow are suddenly lit up
by a gleam of sunshine, he beheld multitudes of splendours ef-
fulgent with beaming rays that smote on them from above, though
he could not discern the source of the effulgence. He had in-
voked the name of the Virgin when he looked ; and the gracious
fountain of the light had drawn itself higher up within the
heaven, to accommodate the radiance to his fliculties. He then
beheld the Virgin herself bodily present,— her who is fairest now
in heaven, as she was on earth ; and while his eyes were being
painted with her beauty,§ there fell on a sudden a seraphic ligln

* lie lias seen Christ in his own iinreflected person.
1 The Virgin Mary.

^ " Mi rendei

A la battaglia de' debili cigli."

§ " Ambo le luci mi dipinse."

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 155

from heaven, which, spinning into a circle as it came, formed a
diadem round licr head, still spinning, and warbling as it spun.
The sweetest melody that ever drew the soul to it on earth would
have seemed like the splitting of a thunder-cloud, compared with
the music that sung around the head of that jewel of Paradise.*

'' I am Angelic Love," said the light, " and I spin for joy of
the womb in which our Hope abided ; and ever, O Lady of
Heaven, must I thus attend thee, as long as thou art pleased to
attend thy Son, journeying in his loving-kindness from sphere to
sphere."

All the other splendours now resounded the name of Mary.
The Virgin began ascending to pursue the path of her Son ;
and Dante, unable to endure her beauty as it rose, turned his
eyes to the angelical callers on the name of Mary, who remained
yearning after her with their hands outstretched, as a babe yearns
after the bosom withdrawn from his lips. Then rising after her
themselves, they halted ere they went out of sight, and sung
" O Queen of Heaven" so sweetly, that the delight never quitted
the air.

A flame now approached and thrice encircled Beatrice, singing
all the while so divinely, that the poet could retain no idea ex-
pressive of its sweetness. Mortal imagination cannot unfold
such wonder. It was Saint Peter, whom she had besought to
come down from his higher sphere, in order to catechise and dis-
course with her companion on the subject of faith.

The catechising and the discourse ensued, and were concluded
by the Apostle's giving the poet the benediction, and encircling
his forehead thrice with his holy light. " So well," says Dante,
" was he pleased with my answers. "f

* " Qualiinque melodia piii dolce suona
Qua giu, e piii a se 1' anima tira,
Parebbe nube che squarciata tuona,
Comparata al sonar di quella lira
Onde si coronava il bel zaffiro
Del quale il cicl piii chiaro s' inzaffira."

t " Benedicendomi caiitando

Tre volte cinse me, si com' io tacqui,
L' Apostolico lume, al cui comando
Io avca detto ; si ncl dir gli piacqui."

156 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

" If ever," continued the Florentine, " the sacred poem to
which heaven and earth have set their hands, and which for
years past has wasted my flesh in the writing, shall prevail
ao-ainst the cruelty that shut me out of the sweet fold in which I
slept like a lamb, wishing harm to none but the wolves that beset
it, — with another voice, and in another guise than now, will I re-
turn, a poet, and standing by the fount of my baptism, assume
the crown that belongs to me ; for I there first entered on the
faith which gives souls to God ; and for that faith did Peter thus
encircle my forehead."*

A flame enclosing Saint James now succeeded to that of Saint
Peter, and after greeting his predecessor as doves greet one an-
other, murmuring and moving round, proceeded to examine the
mortal visitant on the subject of Hope. The examination was

It was this passage, and the one that follows it, which led Foscolo to suspect
that Dante wished to lay claim to a divine mission ; an opinion which has ex-
cited great indignation among the orthodox. See his Discorso sul Testo, ut
sup. pp. 64, 77-90 and 335-338 ; and the preface of the Milanese Editors to
the " Convito" of Dante, — Opere Minori, l2mo, vol ii. p. xvii. Foscolo's con-
jecture seems hardly borne out by the context ; but I think Dante had bold-
ness and self-estimation enough to have advanced any claim whatsoever,
had events turned out as he expected. What man but himself (supposing
him the believer he professed to be) would have thought of thus making him-
self free of the courts of Heaven, and constituting St. Peter his applauding
catechist I

* The verses quoted in the preceding note conclude the twenty-fourth canto
of Paradise ; and those, of which the passage just given is a translation> com-
mence the twenty-fifth :

" Se mai continga, ehe 'I poema sacra
, Al quale ha posto mano e cielo e terra

Si che ni' ha fatto per piii anni macro,

Vinca la crudeltk che fuor mi serra
Del bello ovile ov' io dormi' a^nello
Nimico a' lupi che gli danno guerra ;

Con altra voce omai, con altro vello
Ritornero poeta, ed in sul fonte
Del niio battesmo prender6 '1 capello :

Perocch^ ne la fede che fa conte
L' anime a Dio, quiv' entra' io, e poi
Pietro per lei s\ mi girO la fronte."

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 157

closed amidst resounding anthems of " Let their hope be in
thee;"* and a third apostolic flame ensued, enclosing Saint John,
who completed the ciftechism with the topic of Charity. Dante
acquitted himself with skill throughout ; the spheres resounded
with songs of •' Holy, holy," Beatrice joining in the warble ; and
the poet suddenly found Adam beside him. The parent of the
Imman race knew by intuition what his descendant wished to
learn of him ; and manifesting his assent before he spoke, as an
animal sometimes does by movements and quiverings of the flesh
within its coat, corresponding with its good-will,f told him, that
his fall was not owing to the fruit which he tasted, but to the vio-
lation of the injunction not to taste it ; that he remained in the
Limbo on hell-borders upwards of five thousand years ; and that
the language he spoke had become obsolete before the days of
Nimrod.

The gentle fire of Saint Peter now began to assume an awful
brightness, such as the planet Jupiter might assume, if Mars and
it were birds, and exchanged the colour of their plumage. J Si-
lence fell upon the celestial choristers ; and the Apostle spoke
thus :

" Wonder not if thou seest me change colour. Thou wilt see,
while I speak, all which is round about us colour in like manner.
He who usurps my place on earth, — my place, 1 say, — ay, mine,

* " Sperent in te." Psalm ix. 10. The English version says, " And they
that know thy name will put their trust in thee."

t " Tal volta un animal coverto broo-lia
S\ che 1' alfetto convien che si paia
Per lo seguir che face a lui la 'nvoglia."

A natural, but strange, and surely not sufficiently dignified image for the occa-
sion. It is difficult to be quite content with a former one, in which the greet-
ings of St. Peter and St. James are compared to those of doves murmuring
and sidling round about one another ; though Christian sentiment may warrant
it, if we do not too strongly present the Apostles to one's imagination.

X " Tal ne la sembianza sua divenne,
Qual diverebbe Giove, s' egli e Marte
Fossero augelli e cambiassersi pcnne."

Nobody who opened the Commedia for the first time at this fantastical image
would suppose the author was a great poet, or expect the tremendous passage
that ensues I

158 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

— which before God is now vacant, — has converted the city in
which my dust lies buried into a common-sewer of filth and
blood ; so that the fiend who fell from hence rejoices himself down
there."

At these words of the Apostle the whole face of Heaven was
covered with a blush, red as dawn or sunset ; and Beatrice
changed colour, like a maiden that shrinks in alarm from the re-
port of blame in another. The eclipse was like that which took
place when the Supreme died upon the Cross.

Saint Peter resumed with a voice not less awfully changed
than his appearance :

" Not for the purpose of being sold for money was the spouse
of Christ fed and nourished with my blood, and with the blood of
Linus, — the blood of Cletus. Sextus did not bleed for it, nor
Pius, nor Callixtus, nor Urban ; men, for whose deaths all Chris-
tendom wept. They died that souls might be innocent and go to
Heaven. Never was it intention of ours, that the sitters in the
holy chair should divide one half of Christendom against the
other ; should turn my keys into ensigns of war against the faith-
ful ; and stamp my very image upon mercenary and lying docu-
ments, which make me, here in Heaven, blush and turn cold to
think of. Arm of God, why sleepest thou ? Men out of Gas-
cony and Cahors are even now making ready to drink our blood.
O lofty beginning, to what vile conclusion must thou come ! But
the high Providence, which made Scipio the sustainer of the Ro-
man sovereignty of the world, will fail not its timely succour.
And thou, my son, that for weight of thy mortal clothing must
again descend to earth, see thou that thou openest thy mouth, and
hidest not from others what has not been hidden from thyself."

As wliite and thick as the snows go streaming athwart the air
when the sun is in Capricorn, so the angelical spirits that had
been gathered in the air of Saturn streamed away after the Apos-
tie, as he turned with the other saints to depart ; and the eyes of
Dante followed them till they became viewless.*

« In spite of the nnheavenly nature of invective, of something of a lurking
conceit in the making an eclipse out of a blush, and in the positive bathos, and
I fear almost indecent irrelevancy of the introduction of Beatrice at all on
Buch an occasion, much more under the feeble aspect of one young lady blush-

THE JOURNEY TIIROUOri HEAVEN. 159

The divine eyes of Beatrice recalled him to herself; and at
the same instant the two companions found themselves in the ninth
Heaven or Primum Mobile^ the last of the material Heavens, and
the mover of those beneath it.

Here he had a glimpse of the divine essence, in likeness of a
point of inconceivably sharp brightness enringed with the angelic
hierarchies. All earth, and heaven, and nature, hung from it.
Beatrice explained many mysteries to him connected with that
sight : and then vehemently denounced the false and foolish teach-
ers that quit the authority of the Bible for speculations of their
own, and degrade the preaching of the gospel with ribald jests,
and legends of Saint Anthony and his pig.*

Returning, however, to more celestial thoughts, her face be-
came so full of beauty, that Dante declares he must cease to en-
deavour to speak of it, and that he doubts whether the sight can
ever be thoroughly enjoyed by any save its Maker. f Her look
carried him upward as before, and he was now in the Empyrean,
or region of Pure Light ; — of light made of intellect full of
love ; love of truth, full of joy ; joy, transcendant above all
sweetness.

Streams of living radiance came rushing and flashing round
about him, swathing him with light, as the lightning sometimes
enwraps and dashes against the blinded eyes ; but the light was
love here, and instead of injuring, gave new power to the object
it embraced.

ing for another, — this scene altogether is a very grand one ; and the violence
itself of the holy invective awful.

A curious subject for reflection is here presented. What sort of pope would
Dante himself have made ? Would he have taken to the loving or the hating
side of his genius ? To the St. John or the St. Peter of his own poem ? St.
Francis or St. Dominic? — I am afraid, all things considered, we should have
had in him rather a Gregory the Seventh or Julius the Second, than a Bene-
dict the Eleventh or a Ganganelli. What fine Church-hymns he would have
written I

* She does not see (so blind is even holy vehemence !) that for the same
reason the denouncement itself is out of its place. The preachers brought St.
Anthony and his pig into their pulpits ; she brings them into Heaven I

t " Certo io credo

Che solo il suo fattor tutta la goda."

-sejmu'iiB

-Sr JBii.

5 THEr

ai5

IL ^ram

THT

_asL

JHUs^ MJl^^^ Y THROUGH HEAVEN. 161

mited with the crown, and which ahall be occupied before thou
est tlii« bridal feast, shall be seated tlie soul of the great
enry, who would fain set Italy right beibre sije is prepared for
" The blind waywardness of wiiich ye are sick renders ye
e the bantling wlio, while he is dying of hunger, kicks away
s purse. And Rome is governed by one tliat cannot walk in
le same path with such a man, whatever be the road.^ But
will not long endure him. He will be thrust down into tlie
with Simon Magus ; and his feet, when he arrives there, will
ust down the man of Alagna still lower.'":]:
In tlie form, then, of a white rose tiie blessed multitude of hu-
lan souls lay manifest before the eyes of the poet ; and now he
jserved, that the winged portion of the blest, the angels, who
y up with their wuags nearer to Him that fills them with love,
ime to and fro upon the rose like bees ; now descending into its
u-^om, now streaming back to the source of their affection.
Their faces were all fire, their wings golden, their garments wiiiier
*'ian snow. Whenever they descended on the flower, they went
iiom fold to fold, fanning their loins, and communicating the
•foace and ardour whicii tiiey gathered as they gave. Dante be-
iield all, — every flight and action of the whole winged multitude,
— witiiout let or shadow ; for he stood in the region of light it-
self, and light has no obstacle where it is deservedly vouchsafed.
'• Oh,'" cries the poet, " if the barbarians that came from the
north stood dumb with amazement to behold the magnificence of
Rome, thinking they saw unearthly greatness in tiie Lateran,
what must I have thought, v/ho had thus come from human to
divine, from time to eternity, from the people of Florence to
beings just and sane ?*'

Dante stood, without a wish either to speak or to hear. He felt
like a pilgrim who has arrived within the place of his devotion,

* The Emperor Henry of Luxembourg. Dante's idol ; at the close of whose
brief and inefficient appearance in Italy, his hopes of restoraiiou to liis country
\^ere at an end.

t Pope Clement tlie Fifth. Dante's enemy, Boniface, was now dead, and
of course in Tartarus, iu the red-hot tomb which the poet had prepared for him.

X Boniface himself. Pope Clement's red-hot feet are to thrust down Pope
Boniface into a gulf still liotter. So says tlie gentle Beatrice iu Heaven, and
in the face of all that is angelical !

162 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

and who looks round about him, hoping some day to relate what
he sees. He gazed upwards and downwards, and on every side
round about, and saw movements graceful with every truth of in-
nocence, and faces full of loving persuasion, rich in their own
smiles and in the light of the smiles of others.

He turned to Beatrice, but she was gone ; — gone, as a messen-
ger fi'om herself told him, to resume her seat in the blessed rose,
which the messenger accordingly pointed out. She sat in the
third circle from the top, as far from Dante as the bottom of the
sea is from the region of thunder ; and yet he saw her as plainly
as if she had been close at hand. He addressed words to her of
thanks for all she had done for him, and a hope for her assistance
after death ; and she looked down at him and smiled.

The messenger was St. Bernard. He bade the poet lift his
eyes higher ; and Dante beheld the Virgin Mary sitting above
the rose, in the centre of an intense redness of light, like another
dawn. Thousands of angels were hanging buoyant around her,
each having its own distinct splendour and adornment, and all
were singing, and expressing heavenly mirth ; and she smiled
on them with such loveliness, that joy was i« the eyes of all the
blessed.

At Mary's feet was sitting Eve, beautiful — she that opened the
wound which Mary closed ; and at the feet of Eve was Rachel,
with Beatrice ; and at the feet of Rachel was Sarah, and then
Judith, then Rebecca, then Ruth, ancestress of him out of whose
penitence came the song of the Miserere ;* and so other Hebrew
women, down all the gradations of the flower, dividing, by the
line which they made, the Christians who lived before Christ from
those who lived after ; a line which, on the opposite side of the
rose, was answered by a similar one of Founders of the Church,
at the top of whom was John the Baptist. The rose also was di-
vided horizontally by a step which projected beyond the others,
and underneath which, known by the childishness of their looks
and voices, were the souls of such as were too young to have at-
tained Heaven by assistance of good works.

St. Bernard then directed his companion to look again at the

* David.

THE JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN. 163

/^irgin, and gather from her countenance the power of Ijeholding
he face of Christ as God. Her aspect was flooded with gladness
rom the spirits around her ; while the angel who liad descended
her on earth now hailed her above with '-'■ Ave, Maria !" sing-
Qg till the whole host of Heaven joined in the song. St. Bernard
hen prayed to her for help to his companion's eyesiglit. Bea-
rice, witli others of the blest, was seen joining in the prayer,
heir hands stretched upwards ; and the Virgin, after benignly
Doking on the petitioners, gazed upwards herself, shewing the
i^ay with her own eyes to the still greater vision. Dante then
Doked also, and beheld what he had no words to speak, or memory
3 endure.

He awoke as from a dream, retaining only a sense of sweetness
liat ever trickled to his heart.

Earnestly praying afterwards, however, that grace might be so
ar vouchsafed to a portion of his recollection, as to enable him to
onvey to his fellow-creatures one smallest glimpse of the glory
f what he saw, his ardour was so emboldened by help of the very
nystery at whose sight he must have perished had he faltered,
hat his eyes, unblasted, attained to a perception of the Sum of
nfinitude. He beheld, concentrated in one spot — written in one
olume of Love — all which is diffused, and can become the sub-
set of thought and study throughout the universe — all substance
.nd accident and mode — all so compounded that they become one
ight. He thought he beheld at one and the same time the one-
less of this knot, and the universality of all which it implies ;
•ecause, when it came to his recollection, his heart dilated, and
n the course of one moment he felt ages of impatience to speak
if it.

But thoughts as well as words failed him : and thouorh ever af-
erwards he could no more cease to yearn towards it, than he
:ould take defect for completion, or separate the idea of happiness
rom the wish to attain it, still the utmost he could say of what
le remembered would fall as short of right speech as the sounds
•f an infant's tongue while it is murmuring over the nipple ; for
he more he had looked at that light, the more he found in it to
imaze him, so that his brain toiled with the succession of the as-
onishtnents. He saw, in the deep but clear self-subsistence,

164 THE ITALIAN PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

three circles of three diflcrent colours of the same breadth, one
of them reflecting one of the others as rainbow does rainbow.
and the third consisting of a fire equally breathing from both.*

O eternal Light ! thou that dwellest in thyself alone, thou alone
understandest thyself, and art by thyself understood, and, so un-
derstanding, thou laughest at thyself, and lovest.

The second, or reflected circle, as it went round, seemed to
be painted by its own colours with the likeness of a human face.f

But how this was done, or how the beholder was to express it,:
threw his mind into the same state of bewilderment as the mathe
malician experiences when he vainly pores over the circle to dis-
cover the principle by which he is to square it.

He did, however, in a manner discern it. A flash of light was
vouchsafed him for the purpose ; but the light left him no power
to impart the discernment ; nor did he feel any longer impatient
for the gift. Desire became absorbed in submission, moving in
as smooth unison as the particles of a wheel, with the Love
that is the mover of the sun and the stars.:}:

* The Trinity. t The Incarnation.

t In the Variorum edition of Dante, ut sup. vol. iii. p. 845, we are informed
thai a gentleman of Naples, the Cavaliere Giuseppe de Cesare, was the first to
notice (not long since, I presume) the curious circumstance of Dante's having
terminated the three portions of his poem with the word " stars." He thinks
that it was done as a happy augury of life and renown to the subject. The
literal intention, however, seems to have been to shew us, how all his aspira-
tions terminated.

PULCI;

(Uritical Notice of Ijis £ife anb (Renins.

CRITICAL NOTICE

PULCrS LIFE AND GENIUS,

PuLCi, who is the first genuine romantic poet, in point of time,
after Dante, seems, at first sight, in the juxtaposition, like farce
after tragedy ; and indeed, in many parts of his poem, he is not
only what he seems, but follows his saturnine countryman with a
peculiar propriety of contrast, much of his liveliest banter being
directed against the absurdities of Dante's theology. But hasty
and most erroneous would be the conclusion that he was nothing;
but a banterer. He was a true poet of the mixed order, grave
as well as gay ; had a reflecting mind, a susceptible and most
affectionate heart ; and perhaps was never more in earnest than
when he gave vent to his dislike of bigotry in his most laughable
sallies.

Luigi Pulci, son of Jacopo Pulci and Brigida de' Bardi, was
of a noble family, so ancient as to be supposed to have come from
France into Tuscany with his hero Charlemagne. He was born
in Florence on the 3d of December, 1431, and was the youngest
of three brothers, all possessed of a poetical vein, though it did
not flow with equal felicity. Bernardo, the eldest, was the ear-
liest translator of the Eclogues of Virgil ; and Lucca wrote a
romance called the Ciriffo Cahaneo, and is commended for his
Heroic Epistles. Little else is known of these brothers ; and not
much more of Luigi himself, except that he married a lady of
the name of Lucrezia degli Albizzi ; journeyed in Lombardy
and elsewhere ; was one of the most intimate friends of Lorenzo
de Medici and his literary circle ; and apparently led a life the

168 PULCI.

most delightful to a poet, always meditating some composition
and buried in his woods and gardens. Nothing is known of hi;
latter days. An unpublished work of little credit (Zilioli On tin
Italian Poets), and an earlier printed book, which, according tc
Tiraboschi, is of not much greater (Scardeone Be Antiquitatihm
Urhis Patavince), say that he died miserably in Padua, and was
refused Christian burial on account of his impieties. It is no'
improbable that, during the eclipse of the fortunes of the Medic
family, after the death of Lorenzo, Pulci may have partaken of
its troubles ; and there is certainly no knowing how badly his oi
their enemies may have treated him ; but miserable ends are e
favourite allegation with theological opponents. The Calvinists
affirm of their master, the burner of Servetus, that he died like
a saint ; but I have seen a biography in Italian, which attributed
the most horrible death-bed, not only to the atrocious Genevese,
but to the genial Luther, calling them both the greatest villains
{sceleratissimi) ; and adding, that one of them (I forget which^
was found dashed on the floor of his bedroom, and torn limb from
limb.

Pulci appears to have been slender in person, with small eyes
and a ruddy face. I gather this from the caricature of him in
the poetical paper-war carried on between him and his friend
Matteo Franco, a Florentine canon, which is understood to have
been all in good humour — sport to amuse their friends — a peril-
ous speculation. Besides his share in these verses, he is sup-
posed to have had a hand in his brother's romance, and was
certainly the author of some devout poems, and of a burlesque
panegyric on a country damsel. La Beca, in emulation of the
charming poem La Nencia, the first of its kind, written by that
extraordinary person, his illustrious friend Lorenzo, who, in the
midst of his cares and glories as the balancer of the power of
Italy, was one of the liveliest of the native wits, and wrote songs
for the people to dance to in Carnival time.

The intercourse between Lorenzo and Pulci was of the most
familiar kind. Pulci was sixteen years older, but of a nature
which makes no such differences felt between associates. He
had known Lorenzo from the latter's youth, probably from his
birth — is spoken of in a tone of domestic intimacy by his wife —

HIS LIFE AND GEiNlUS. 169

and is enumerated by him among his companions in a very spe-
cial and cliaracteristic manner in liis poem on Hawking (La Cac-
cia col Falcone), when, calling his fellow-sportsmen about him,
and missing Luigi, one of them says that he has strolled into a
neighbouring wood, to put something which has struck his fancy
into a sonnet :

" ' Luigi Piilci ov' 6, che non si sente ?'

' Egli se n' and6 dianzi in quel boschetto,
Che qualche fantasia ha per lu mente ;
Vorr ii fantasticar forse un sonetto.' "

" And where's Luigi Pulci ? I saw him."

•' Oh, in the wood there. Gone, depend upon it,

To vent some fancy iu his brain — some whim.
That will not let him rest till it's a sonnet."

In a letter written to Lorenzo, when the future statesman, then
in his seventeenth year, was making himself personally acquaint-
ed with the courts of Italy, Pulci speaks of himself as struggling
hard to keep down the poetic propensity in his friend's absence.
*' If you were with me," he says, " I should produce heaps of
sonnets as big as the clubs they make of the cherry-blossoms for
May-day. I am always muttering some verse or other betwixt
my teeth ; but I say to myself, ' My Lorenzo is not here — he
who is my only hope and refuge ;' and so I suppress it." Such
is the first, and of a like nature are the latest accounts we pos-
sess of the sequestered though companionable poet. He prefer-
red one congenial listener who understood him, to twenty critics
that were puzzled with the vivacity of his impulses. Most of the
learned men patronised by Lorenzo probably quarrelled with him
on account of it, plaguing him in somewhat the same spirit, though
in more friendly guise, as the Delia Cruscans and others after-
wards plagued Tasso ; so he banters them in turn, and takes
refuge from their critical rules and common-places in the larger
induljience of his friend Politian and the laughing wisdom of
Lorenzo.

" So che andar dirtito mi bisofjna,
Ch' io non ci mescolassi una bugia,
Che questa non 6 storia da menzogna ;
Che come io csco un passo do la via.

2 70 PULCL

Chi gracchia, chi riprende, e chi rampogna :
Oguim poi mi riesce la pazzia ;
Tanto clx' eletto ho solitaria vita,
Che la turba di questi 6 infiBita.

La mia Accademia uii tempo, o mia Ginnasia,
E stata volentier ne' miei boschetti ;
E puossi ben veder I' AfFrica e 1' Asia :
Vongon le Nmfe con lor canestretti,
E portanmi o narciso o colocasia ;
E cos\ fuggo mille urban dispetti :
Si ch' io non torno a' vostri Areopaghi,
Gente pur serapre di mal dicer vaglii."

" I know I ought to make no dereliction

From the straight path to this side or to that ;
I know the story I relate's no fiction,

And that the moment that I quit some flat,
Folks are all puff, and blame, and contradiction,

And swear I never know what I'd be at ;
In short, such crowds, I find, can mend one's poem,
I live retired, on purpose not to know 'em.

Yes, gentlemen, my only ' Academe,'

My sole ' Gymnasium,' are my woods and bowers ; I

Of Afric and of Asia there I dream ;

And the Nymphs bring me baskets full of flowers,
Arums, and sweet narcissus from the streq,m ;

And thus my Muse escapeth your town-hours ^|

And town-disdains ; and I eschew your bites,
• Judges of books, grim Areopagites." i

He is here jesting, as Foscolo has observed, on the academy in-
stituted by Lorenzo for encouraging the Greek language, doubt-
less with the laughing approbation of the founder, who was some-
times not a little troubled himself with the squabbles of his
literati.

Our author probably had good reason to call his illustrious
friend his " refuge." The Morgante Maggiore, the work which
has rendered the name of Pulci renowned, was an attempt to
elevate the popular and homely narrative poetry chanted in the
streets into tlie dignity of a production that should last. The
age was in a state of transition on all points. The dogmatic
authority of the schoolmen in matters of religion, which pre-

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 171

vailed in the time of Dante, had come to nought before the ad-
vance of knowledge in general, and the inditference of the court
of Rome. The Council of Trent, as Crescimbeni advised the
critics, had not then settled what Christendom was to believe ;
and men, provided they complied with forms, and admitted cer-
tain main articles, were allowed to think, and even in great
measure talk, as they pleased. The lovers of the Platonic phi-
losophy took the opportunity of exalting some of its dreams to an
influence, which at one time was supposed to threaten Christian-
ity itself, and which in fact had already succeeded in affecting
Christian theology to an extent which the scorners of Paganism
little suspect. Most of these Helenists pushed their admiration
of Greek literature to an excess. They were opposed by the
Yirgilian predilections of Pulci's friend, Politian, who had never-
theless universality enough to sympathise with the delight the
other took in their native Tuscan, and its liveliest and most idio-
matic effusions. From all these circumstances in combination
arose, first, Pulci's determination to write a poem of a mixed or-
der, which should retain for him the ear of the many, and at the
same time give rise to a poetry of romance worthy of higher
auditors ; second, his banter of what he considered unessential
and injurious dogmas of belief, in favour of those principles of
the religion of charity which inflict no contradiction on the heart
and understanding ;" third, the trouble which seems to have been
given him by critics, " sacred and profane," in consequence of
these originalities ; and lastly, a doubt which has strangely ex-
isted with some, as to whether he intended to write a serious or
a comic poem, or on any one point was in earnest at all. One
writer thinks he cannot have been in earnest, because he opens
every canto with some pious invocation ; another asserts that the
piety itself is a banter ; a similar critic is of opinion, that to mix
levities with gravities proves the gravities to have been nought,
and the levities all in all ; a fourth allows him to have been seri-
ous in his description of the battle of Roncesvalles, but says he
was laughing in Ift'ftie rest of his poem ; while a fifth candidly
gives up the question, as one of those puzzles occasioned by the
caprices of the human mind, which it is impossible for reasonable
people to solve. Even Sismondi, who was well acquainted with

172

PULCI.

the ao-e in which Pulci wrote, and who, if not a profound, is gen-
erally an acute and liberal critic, confesses himself to be thus
confounded. " Pulci," he says, " commences all his cantos by
a sacred invocation ; and the interests of religion are constantly
interminf^led with the adventures of his story, in a manner capri-
cious and little instructive. We know not how to reconcile this
monkish spirit with the semi-pagan character of society under
Lorenzo di Medici, nor whether we ought to accuse Pulci of
gross bigotry or of profane derision."* Sismondi did not con-
sider that the lively and impassioned people of the south take
what may be called household-liberties with the objects of their
worship greater than northerns can easily conceive ; that levity
of manner, therefore, does not always imply the absence of the
gravest belief; that, be this as it may, the belief may be as grave
on some points as light on others, perhaps the more so for that
reason ; and that, although some poems, like some people, are
altogether grave, or the reverse, there really is such a thing as
tragi-comedy both in the world itself and in the representations
of it. A jesting writer may be quite as much in earnest when
he professes to be so, as a pleasant companion who feels for his
own or for other people's misfortunes, and who is perhaps obliged
to affect or resort to his very pleasantry sometimes, because he
feels more acutely than the gravest. The sources of tears and
smiles lie close to, ay and help to refine one another. If Dante
had been capable of more levity, he would have been guilty of
less melancholy absurdities. If Rabelais had been able to v/eep

* Literature of the South, of Europe, Thomas Roscoe's Translation, vol. ii.
p. 54. For the opinions of other writers, here and elsewhere alluded to, see
Tiraboschi (who is quite frightened at him), Storia della Poesia ItaUana, cap.
V. sect. 25 ; Gravina, who is more so, Della Ragion Poetica (quoted in Gin-
gu6n6, as below) ; Crescimbeni, Commentari Intorno alV Istoria della Poesia,
&.C. lib. vi. cup. 3 (Mathias's edition), and the biographical additions to the
Bame work, 4to, Rome, 1710, vol. ii. part ii. p. 151, where he says that Pulci
was perhaps the " modestest and most temperate writer" of his age (" il piii
modesto e moderato") ; Ginguune, Histoire Litttraire^Italie, torn iv. p. 214 ;
Foscolo, in the Quarterly Review, as further on ; Panizzi on the Romantic
Poetry of the Italians, ditto ; Stebbing, Lives of the Italian Poets, second
edition, vol. i. ; and the first volume of Lives of Literary and Scientific Men,
in Lardner's Cyclopoedia.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 173

as well as to laugh, und to love as well as to be licentious, ho
would have had faith and therefore support in something earnest,
and not have been obliged to place the consummation of all things
in a wine-bottle. People's evcry-day experiences might explain
to them the greatest apparent inconsistencies of Pulci's muse, if
habit itself did not blind them to the illustration. Was nobody
ever present in a well-ordered family, when a lively conversation
having been interrupted by the announcement of dinner, the com-
pany, after listening with the greatest seriousness to a grace de-
livered with equal seriousness, perhaps by a clergyman, resumed
it the instant afterwards in all its gaiety, with the first spoonful
of soup ? Well, the sacred invocations at the beginning of Pul-
ci's cantos were compliances of the like sort with a custom.
They were recited and listened to just as gravely at Lorenzo di
Medici's table ; and yet neither compromised the reciters, nor
were at all associated with the enjoyment of the fare that ensued.
So with regard to the intermixture of grave and gay throughout
the poem. How many campaigning adventures have been writ-
ten by gallant officers, whose animal spirits saw food for gaiety
in half the circumstances that occurred, and who could crack a
jest and a helmet perhaps with almost equal vivacity, and yet be
as serious as the gravest at a moment's notice, mourn heartily
over the deaths of their friends, and shudder with indignation
and horror at the outrages committed in a captured city ? It is
thus that Pulci writes, full no less of feeling than of whim and
mirth. And the whole honest round of humanity not only war-
rants his plan, but in the twofold sense of the word embraces it.

If any thing more were necessary to shew the gravity with
which our author addressed himself to his subject, it is the fact,
related by himself, of its having been recommended to him by
Lorenzo's mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni, a good and earnest wo-
man, herself a poetess, who wrote a number of sacred narratives,
and whose virtues he more than once records with the greatest
respect and tenderness. The Morgante concludes with an ad-
dress respecting tUis lady to the Virgin, and with a hope that her
" devout and sincere" spirit may obtain peace for him in Para-
dise. These are the last words in the book. Is it credible that
expressions of this kind, and employed on such an occasion,

174 PULCI.

could liave had no serious meaning ? or that Lorenzo listened to
such praises of his mother as to a jest ?

I have no doubt that, making allowance for the age in which
he lived, Pulci was an excellent Christian. His orthodoxy, it is
true, was not the orthodoxy of the times of Dante or St. Dominic,
nor yet of that of the Council of Trent. His opinions respect-
ing the mystery of the Trinity appear to have been more like
those of Sir Isaac Newton than of Archdeacon Travis. And as-
suredly he agreed with Origen respecting eternal punishment,
rather than with Calvin and Mr. Toplady. But a man may ac-
cord with Newton, and yet be thought not unworthy of the
" starry spheres." He may think, with Origen, that God in-
tends all his creatures to be ultimately happy,* and yet be con-
sidered as loving a follower of Christ as a " dealer of damnation
round the land," or the burner of a fellow-creature.

Pulci was in advance of his time on more subjects than one.
He pronounced the existence of a new and inhabited world, be-
fore the appearance of Columbus. f He made the conclusion,
doubtless, as Columbus did, from the speculations of more scien-
tific men, and the rumours of seamen ; but how rare are the
minds that are foremost to throw aside even the most innocent
prejudices, and anticipate the enlargements of the public mind !
How many also are calumniated and persecuted for so doing,
whose memories, for the same identical reason, are loved, perhaps
adored, by the descendants of the calumniators ! In a public li-
brary, in Pulci's native place, is preserved a little withered relic,
to which the attention of the visitor is drawn with reverential
complacency. It stands, pointing upwards, under a glass-case,
looking like a mysterious bit of parchment ; and is the finger of
Galileo ; of that Galileo, whose hand, possessing that finger, is
supposed to have been tortured by the Inquisition for writing
what every one now believes. He was certainly persecuted and
imprisoned by the Inquisition. Milton saw and visited him un-
der the restraint of that scientific body in his own house. Yet
Galileo did more by his disclosures of the star&,towards elevating

* Canto XXV. The passage will be found in the present volume,
t Id. And tills also.

HIS LIFE AND CJKNIUS. 175

our ideas of the Creator, than all the so-called saints and polemics
that screamed at one another in the pulpits of East and West.

Like the Commedia of Dante, Pulci's " Commedia" (for such
also in regard to its general cheerfulness,* and probably to its
mediocrity of style, he calls it) is a representative in great mea-
sure of the feeling and knowledge of his time ; and though not
entirely such in a learned and eclectic sense, and not to be com-
pared to that sublime monstrosity in point of genius and power,
is as superior to it in liberal opinion and in a certain pervading
lovingness, as the author's aifectionate disposition, and his coun-
try's advance in civilisation, combined to render it. The editor
of the Parnaso Italiano had reason to notice this engaging per-
sonal character in our author's work. He says, speaking of the
principal romantic poets of Italy, that the reader will " admire
Tasso, will adore Ariosto, but will love Pulci."f And all minds,
in which lovingness produces love, will agree with him.

The Morganie Maggiore is a history of the fabulous exploits
and death of Orlando, the great hero of Italian romance, and of
the wars and calamities brought on his fellow Paladins and their
sovereign Charlemagne by the envy, ambition, and treachery of
the misguided monarch's favourite, Gan of Maganza (Mayence),
Count of Poictiers. It is founded on the pseudo-history of Arch-
bishop Turpin, which, though it received the formal sanction of
the Church, is a manifest forgery, and became such a jest with
the wits, that they took a delight in palming upon it their most
incredible fictions. The title {Morganie the Great) seems to have
been either a whim to draw attention to an old subject, or the re-
sult of an intention to do more with the giant so called than took
place ; for though he is a conspicuous actor in the earlier part of
the poem, he dies when it is not much more than half completed.

* Canto xxvii. stanza 2.

" S' altro ajuto qui non si dimostra,
Sara, pur tragedia la istoria nostra.

Ed io pur commedia pensato avea
Iscriver del niio Carlo finalmente,
Ed Alcuin cosl mi promettea," &c.

+ •• lu Hue tu adorerai I' Ariosto, tu ammirerei 11 Tasso, ma tu amerai il
rulci." — Parn. Ital. vol. ix. p. 344.

176 PULCI.

Orlando, the champion of the faith, is the real hero of it, and
Gan the anti-hero or vice. Charlemagne, the reader hardly
need be told, is represented, for the most part, as a very different
person from what he appears in history. In truth, as Ellis and
Panizzi have shewn, he is either an exaggeration (still iTiisrepre-
sented) of Charles Martel, the Armorican chieftan, who conquer-
ed the Saracens at Poictiers, or a concretion of all the Charleses
of the Carlovingian race, wise and simple, potent and weak.**

The story may be thus briefly told. Orlando quits the €iourt
of Charlemagne in disgust, but is always ready to return fo it
when the emperor needs his help. Th6 best Paladins follow, to
seek him. He meets with and converts the giant Morgante,
whose aid he receives in many adventures, aiTiong which is the
taking of Babylon. The other Paladins, his cousin Rinaldo es-
pecially, have their separate adventures, all more or less mixed
up with the treacheries and thanklessness of . Gan (for they assist
even him), and the provoking trust reposed in him by Charle-
magne ; and at length the villain crowns his infamy by luring
Orlando with most of the Paladins into the pass of Roncesvalles,
where the hero himself and almost all his companions are slain
by the armies of Gan's fellow-traitor, ]\{arsilius, king of Spain.
They die, however, victorious ; and the two royal and noble scoun-
drels, by a piece of prosaical justice better than poetical, are des-
patched like common malefactors with a halter.

There is, perhaps, no pure invention in the whole of this en-
largement of old ballads and chronicles, except the characters of
another giant, and of a rebel angel ; for even Morgante's history,
though told in a very different manner, has its prototype in the
fictions of the pretended archbishop. f The Paladins are well dis-

* Ellis's Specimens of Early English Poetical Romances, vol. ii. p. 287 ;
and Panizzi's Essay on the Romantic Narrative Poetry of the Italians, in his
edition of Boiardo and Ariosto, vol. i. p. 113.

t De Vita Caroli Magni et Rolandi Historia, &c. cap. xviii. p. 39 (Ciam-
pi's edition). The giant in Turpin is named Ferracutus, or Fergus. He was
of the race of Goliath, had the strengtii of forty men, and was twenty cubits
higli. During the suspension of a mortal combat with Orlando, they discuss
the mysteries of the Christian faith, which its champion explains by a variety
of similes and the most beautiful beggings of the question ; after which the
giant stakes the credit of their respective beliefs on the event of their encounter.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 177

linguislicd from one another ; Orlando as foremost alike in prow-
ess and magnanimity, Rinaldo by his vehemence, llicciardetto by
his amours, Astolfo by an ostentatious rashness and self-commit-
tal ; but in all these respects they appear to have been made to
llie autlior's hand. Neither does the poem exhibit any prevailino-
torce of imagery, or of expression, apart from popular idiomatic
j)liraseology ; still less, though it has plenty of infernal mafic,
does it present us with any magical enchantments of the alluring
order, as in Ariosto ; or with love stories as good as Boiardo's, or
t'vcn witli any of the luxuries of landscape and description that
are to be found in both of those poets ; albeit, in the fourteenth
canto, there is a lonij catalomie raisonne of the whole animal crea-
tion, which a lady has worked for Rinaldo on a pavilion of silk
and gold.

To these negative faults must be added the positive ones of too
many trifling, unconnected, and uninteresting incidents (at least
to readers who cannot taste the flavour of the racy Tuscan
idiom) ; great occasional prolixity, even in the best as well as
worst passages, not excepting Orlando's dying speeches ; harsh-
ness in spite of his fluency (according to Foscolo), and even bad
grammar ; too many low or over-familiar forms of speech (so
the graver critics allege, though, perhaps, from want of animal
spirits or a more comprehensive discernment) ; and lastly (to say
nothing of the question as to the gravity or levity of the theol-
ogy), the strange exhibition of whole successive stanzas, contain-
ijig as many questions or affirmations as lines, and commencing
each line with the same words. They meet the eye like palisa-
does, or a file of soldiers, and turn truth and pathos itself into a
jest. They were most likely imitated from the popular ballads.
The following is the order of words in which a young lady thinks
fit to complain of a desert, into which she has been carried away
by a giant. After seven initiatory O's addressed to her friends
and to life in general, she changes the key into E :

" E" questa la mia patria dov' io nacqui?
E' qucsto il mio palagio e '1 mio castello ?
E' questo il iiido ov' alcun tempo giucqui ?
E' questo il padre e *1 mio dolco fratello?

178 PULCI.

E' questo il popol dov' io tanto piacqui ?

E' questo il regno giusto antico e bello ?

E' questo il porto do la mia salute ?

E' questo il premio d' ogui mia virtute ? '

Ove son or le mie purpuree veste ?

Ove son or le gemme e le ricchezze ?

Ove son or gi^ le notturne feste ?

Ove son or le mie delicatezze?

Ove son or le mie compagne oneste ?

Ove son or le fuggite dolcezze?

Ove son or le damigelle mie ?

Ove son, dico ? ome, non son gi^ quie."*

Is this the country, then, where I was born ?
Is this my palace, and my castle this ?
Is this the nest I woke in, every morn ?
Is this my father's and my brother's kiss ?
Is this the land they bred me to adorn ?
Is this the good old bovver of all my bliss?
Is this the haven of my youth and beauty ?
Is this the sure reward of all my duty ?

Where now are all my wardrobes and their treasures ?
Where now arc all my riches and my rights?
Where now are all the midnight feasts and measures ?
Where now are all the delicate delights ?
Where now are all the partners of my pleasures ?
Where now are all the sweets of sounds and sigfhts ?
Where now are all my maidens ever near ?
Where, do I say ? Alas, alas, not here !

There are seven more " where nows," including lovers, and
" proffered husbands," and " romances," and ending with the
startling question and answer. — the counterpoint of the former
close, —

" Ove son 1' aspre selve e i lupi adesso
E gli orsi, e i draghi, e i tigri ? Son qui presso."

Where now are all the woods and forests drear,
Wolves, tigers, bears, and dragons ? Alas, here !

These are all very natural thoughts, and such, no doubt, as
would actually pass tln-ough the mind of the young lady, in the

* Canto xix. st. 21.

IITS LIFE AND GENIUS. 172

candour of desolation ; but the mechanical iteration of her mode
of putting them renders them irresistibly ludicrous. It reminds
us of the wager laid by the poor queen in the play of Richard
the Second, when she overhears the discourse of the gardener :

" My v/retchedness unto a row of pins,
They'll talk of state."

Did Pulci expect his friend Lorenzo to keep a grave face during
the recital of these passages ? Or did he flatter himself that the
comprehensive mind of his hearer could at one and the same
time be amused with the banter of some old song and the pathos
of the new one ?*

* When a proper name happens to be a part of the tautology, the look is
still more extraordinary. Orlando is remonstrating with Riualdo on his being
unseasonably in love :

" Ov' e, Rinaldo, la tna gagliardia?
Ov' 6, Rinaldo, il tuo somnio poterc?
Ov' 6, Rinaldo, il tuo senno di pria ?
Ov' 6, Rinaldo, il tuo antivedere?
Ov' e, Rinaldo, la tua fantasia ?
Ov' b, Rinaldo, 1' arme e '1 tuo destriere ?
Ov' 6, Rinaldo, la tua gloria e fama?
Ov' b, Rinaldo, il tuo core ? a la dama."

Canto xvl. st. 50.

Oh where, Rinaldo, is thy gagliardizo?
Oh where, Rinaldo, is thy might indeed ?
Oh where, Rinaldo, thy repute for wise ?
Oh where, Rinaldo, thy sagacious heed?
Oh where, Rinaldo, thy free-thoughted eyes?
Oh where, Rinaldo, thy good arms and steed?
Oh where, Rinaldo, thy renown and glory?
Oh where, Riualdo, thou ? — In a love-story.

The incessant repetition of the names in the burdens of modem songs is hardly
so bad as this. The single line questions and answers in the Greek drama
were nothing to it. Yet there is a still more extraordinaiy play upon words ia
canto xxiii. st. 49, consisting of the description of a hermitage. It is the only
one of the kind which I remember in the poem, and would have driven some
of our old hunters after alliteration mad with envy : —

La casa cosa parea hretta e brutta,
Vinta dal venio ; e la nalta e la nolle

180 PULCI.

The want both of good love-episodes and of descriptions of
external nature, in the Morgante, is remarkable ; for Pulci's ten-
derness of heart is constantly manifest, and he describes himself
as beins almost absorbed in his woods. That he understood love
well in all its force and delicacy is apparent from a passage con-
nected with this pavilion. The fair embroiderer, in presenting it
to her idol Rinaldo, undervalues it as a gift which his great heart,
nevertheless, will not disdain to accept ; adding, with the true
lavishment of the passion, that " she wishes she could give him
the sun ;" and that if she were to say, after all, that it was her
own hands which had worked the pavilion, she should be wrong,
for Love himself did it. Rinaldo v/ishes to thank her, but is so
struck with her magnificence and affection, that the words die on
his lips. The way also in which another of these loving ad-
mirers of Paladins conceives her affection for one of them, and
persuades a vehemently hostile suitor quietly to withdraw his
claims by presenting him with a ring and a graceful speech, is in

Stilla le stelle, ch' a tetto era tuito :
Del pane appena ne dette ta' dotte :
Pere avea pure,'e qaalche fratta fruita ;
E svina e svena di botto una botte :
Poscia per pesci lasche prese a V esca :
Ma il letto allotta a la. frasca i\x fresca"

This holy hole was a vile thin-hnWt thing,

Blown by the blast ; the night nought else o'erhead

But staring stars the rude roof entering ;

Their sup of supper was no splendid spread ;

Poor pears their fare, and such-like libelling

Of quantum suff. ; — their butt all but ; — bad bread ; —

A fiash of fish instead of flush of flesh ;

Tlieir bed a frisk al-fresco, freezing fresh.

Really, if Sir Philip Sidney and other serious and exquisite gentlemen had not
sometimes taken a positively grave interest in the like pastimes of paronomasia,
one should hardly conceive it possible to meet with them even in tragi-comedy.
Did Pulci find these also in his ballad-authorities ? If his Greek-loving critics
made objections here, they had the advantage of him : unless indeed they too,
hi their Alexandrian predilections, had a sneaking regard for certain shapings
of verse into altars and hatchets, such as have been charged upon Theocritus
himself, and which might bo supposed to warrant any other conceit on occa-
sion.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 181

a taste as liigh as any thing in Boiardo, and superior to the more
animal passion of the love in tlicir great successor.* Yet the
tenderness of Pulci rather shews itself in the friendship of the
Paladins for one another, and in perpetual little escapes of gene-
p reus and alTectionate impulse. This is one of the great charms
of the Morgante. The first adventure in the book is Orlando's
encounter with three giants in behalf of a good abbot, in whom
he discovers a kinsman ; and this goodness and relationship com-
bined move the Achilles of Christendom to tears. Morgante, one
of these giants, who is converted, becomes a sort of squire to his
conqueror, and takes such a liking to him, that, seeing him one
day deliver himself not without peril out of the clutches of a
devil, he longs to go and set free the whole of the other world
from devils. Indeed there is no end to his affection for him. Ri-
naldo and other Paladins, meantime, cannot rest till they have
set out in search of Orlando. Tliey never meet or part with
him without manifesting a tenderness proportionate to their valour,
— the old Homeric candour of emotion. The devil Ashtaroth
himself, who is a great and proud devil, assures Rinaldo, for
whom he has conceived a regard, that there is good feeling {gcn-
tilczza) even in hell ; and Rinaldo, not to hurt the feeling, an-
swers that he has no doubt of it, or of the capability of " friend-
ship" in that quarter ; and he says he is as " sorry to part with
him as with a brother." The passage will be found in our ab-
stract. There are no such devils as these in Dante ; though
Milton has something like them :

" Devil with devil damn'd
Firm concord holds : men only disagree."

It is supposed that the character of Ashtaroth, which is a very

* See, iu the original, the story of Meridiana, canto vii. King Manfredonio
has come in loving hostility against her to endeavour to win her affection by
his prowess. He finds her assisted by the Paladins, and engaged by her own
heart to Uliviero ; and in the despair of his discomfiture, expresses a wish to
die by her hand. Meridiana, with graceful pity, begs Ills acceptance of a
jewel, and recommends him to go home with his army ; to which he griev-
ingly consents. This indeed is beautiful ; and perhaps I ought to have given
an abstract of it, as a specimen of what Pulci could have done in this way, had
he chosen^

182 PULCI.

new and extraordinary one, and does great honour to the daring
goodness of Pulci's imagination, was not lost upon Milton, who
was not only acquainted with the poem, but expressly intimates
the pleasure he took in it.* Rinaldo advises this devil, as Burns
did Lucifer, to '' take a thought and mend." Ashtaroth, who
had been a seraph, takes no notice of the advice, except with a
waving of the recollection of happier times. He bids the hero
farewell, and says he has only to summon him in order to receive
his aid. This retention of a sense of his former angelical dig-
nity has been noticed by Foscolo and Panizzi, the two best
writers on these Italian poems. "j" A Calvinist would call the ex-
pression of the sympathy " hardened." A humanist knows it to
be the result of a spirit exquisitely softened. An unbounded ten-
derness is the secret of all that is beautiful in the serious portion
of our author's genius. Orlando's good-natured giant weeps
even for the death of the scoundrel Margutte ; and the awful
hero himself, at whose death nature is convulsed and the heav-
ens open, begs his dying horse to forgive him if ever he has
wronged it.

A charm of another sort in Pulci, and yet in most instances,
perhaps, owing the best part of its charmingness to its being
connected with the same feeling, is his wit. Foscolo, it is true,
says it is, in general, more severe than refined ; and it is perilous

* " Perhaps it was from that same pohtic drift that the devil whipt St. Je-
rome in a lenten dream for reading Cicero ; or else it was a fantasm bred by
the fever which had then seized him. For had an angel been his discipliner,
unless it were for dwelling too much upon Ciceronianisms, and had chastised
the reading and not the vanity, it had been plainly partial ; first to correct him
for grave Cicero, and not for scurrile Plautus, whom he confesses to have been
reading not long before ; next, to correct him only, and let so many more an-
cient fathers wax old in those pleasant and florid studies without the lash of
such a tutoring apparition ; msomuch that Basil teaches how some good use
may be made of Margites, a sportful poem, not now extant, writ by Homer ;
and why not then of Morgante, an Italian romance much to the same pur-
pose?" — Arcopagitica, a Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, Prose
"Works, folio, 1697, p. 378. I quote the passage as extracted by Mr. Meri-
valo in the preface to his " Orlando in Roncesvalles," — Poems, vol. ii. p. 41.

t Ut sup. p. 222. Foscolo's remark is to be found in his admirable article
on the Narrative and Romantic Poems of the Italians, in the Quarterly Re-
view, vol. xxi. p. 525.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 183

to differ with such a critic on such a point ; for much of it, un-
fortunately, is lost to a foreign reader, in consequence of its de-
pcndance on the piquant old Tuscan idiom, and on popular say-
ings and allusions. Yet I should think it impossible for Pulci in
general to be severe at the expense of some more agreeable qual-
ity ; and I am sure that the portion of his wit most obvious to a
foreigner may claim, if not to have originated, at least to have
been very like the style of one who was among its declared ad-
mirers, — and who was a very polished writer, — Voltaire. It con-
sists in treating an absurdity with an air as if it were none ; or
as if it had been a pure matter of course, erroneously mistaken
for an absurdity. Thus the good abbot, whose monastery is
blockaded by the giants (for the virtue and simplicity of his char-
actor must be borne in mind), after observing that the ancient
fathers in the desert had not only locusts to eat, but manna, which
he has no doubt was rained down on purpose from heaven, la-
ments that the " relishes" provided for himself and his brethren
should have consisted of "showers of stones." The stones,
while the abbot is speaking, come thundering down, and he ex-
claims, " For God's sake, knight, come in, for the manna is fall-
ino- !" This is exactly in the style of the Dictionnaire Philoso-
pliique. So when Margutte is asked what he believes in, and says
he believes in " neither black nor blue," but in a good capon,
" whether roast or boiled," the reader is forcibly reminded of
Voltaire's Traveller, Scarmentado, who, when he is desired by
the Tartars to declare which of their two parties he is for, the
party of the black-mutton or the white-mutton, answers, that the
dish is "equally indifferent to him, provided it is tender." Vol-
taire, however, does injustice to Pulci, when he pretends that in
matters of belief he is like himself, — a mere scoffer. The friend
of Lucrezia Tornabuoni has evidently the tenderest veneration
for all that is good and lovely in the Catholic faith ; and what-
ever liberties he might have allowed himself in professed extrav-
ao;anzas, when an age without Church-authority encouraged them,
and a reverend canon could take part in those (it must be ac-
knowledger!) unseemly " high jinks," he never, in the Morgante,
when speaking in his own person, and not in that of the worst
characters, intimates disrespect towards any opinion which he did

184 PULCI.

not hold to be irrelevant to a right faith. It is observable that
his freest expressions are put in the mouth of the giant Margutte,
the lowest of these characters, who is an invention of the author's,
and a most extraordinary personage. He is the first unmitigated
blackguard in fiction, and is the greatest as well as first. Pulci
is conjectured, with great probability, to have designed him as a
caricature of some real person ; for Margutte is a Greek who, in
point of morals, has been horribly brought up, and some of the
Greek refugees in Italy were greatly disliked for the cynicism
of their manners and the grossness of their lives. Margutte is a
glutton, a drunkard, a liar, a thief, and a blasphemer. He boasts
of having every vice, and no virtue except fidelity ; which is
meant to reconcile Morgante to his company ; but though the lat-
ter endures and even likes it for his amusement, he gives him to
understand that he looks on his fidelity as only securable by the
bastinado, and makes him the subject of his practical jokes. The
respectable giant Morgante dies of the bite of a crab, as if to
shew on what trivial chances depends the life of the strongest.
Margutte laughs himself to death at sight of a monkey putting
his boots on and off; as though the good-natured poet meant at
once to express his contempt of a merely and grossly anti-serious
mode of existence, and his consideration, nevertheless, towards
the poor selfish wretch who had had no better training.

To this wit and this pathos let the reader add a style of singu-
lar ease and fluency, — rhymes often the most unexpected, but
never at a loss, — a purity of Tuscan acknowledged by every
body, and ranking him among the authorities of the language, —
and a modesty in speaking of his own pretensions equalled only
by his enthusiastic extolments of genius in others ; and the read-
er has before him the lively and afiecting, hopeful, charitable,
large-hearted Luigi Pulci, the precursor, and in some respects
exemplar, of Ariosto, and, in Milton's opinion, a poet worth read-
ing for the " good use" that may be made of him. It has been
strangely supposed tliat his friend Politian, and Ficino the Platon-
ist, not merely helped him with their books (as he takes a pride in
telling us), but wrote a good deal of the latter part of the Mor-
gante, particularly the speculations in matters of opinion. As if
(to say nothing of the difference of style) a man of genius, how-

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 185

ever lively, did not go through the gravest reflections in tlio
course of his life, or could not enter into any theological or met-
aphysical question, to which he chose to direct his attention.
Animal spirits themselves are too often but a counterbalance to
the most thoughtful melancholy; and one fit of jaundice or hyp-
ochondria might have enabled the poet to see more visions of the
unknown and the inscrutable in a single day, than perhaps ever
entered the imagination of the elegant Latin scholar, or even the
disciple of Plato.

■

HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

HUMOURS OF GIANTS

Jp Twelve Paladins had the Emperor Charlemagne in his court ;
and the most wise and famous of them was Orlando. It is of
him I am about to speak, and of his friend Morgante, and of Gan
the traitor, who beguiled him to his death in Roncesvalles, where
he sounded his horn so mightily after the dolorous rout.

It was Easter, and Charles had all his court with him in Paris,
making high feast and triumph. There was Orlando, the first
among them, and Ogier the Dane, and Astolfo the Englishman,
and Ansuigi ; and there came Angiolin of Bayonne, and Ulivie-
ro, and the gentle Berlinghieri ; and there was also Avolio and
Avino, and Otho of Normandy, and Richard, and the wise Namo,
and the aged Salamon, and Walter of Monlione, and Baldwin
who was the son of the wretched Gan. The good emperor was
too happy, and oftentimes fairly groaned for joy at seeing all his
Paladins toG-ether.

But Fortune stands watchinjr in secret to baffle our desio-ns.
While Charles was thus hugging himself with delight, Orlando
governed every thing at court, and this made Gan burst with
envy ; so that he began one day talking with Charles after the
following manner : — " Are we always to have Orlando for our
master ? I have thought of speaking to you about it a thousand
times. Orlando has a great deal too much presumption. Here
are we, counts, dukes, and kings, at your service, but not at his ;
and we have resolved not to be governed any longer by one so
much younger than ourselves. You began in Aspramont to give
him to understand how valiant he was, and that he did great
things at that fountain ; whereas, if it had not been for the good
Gerard, I know very well where the victory would have been.
The truth is, he has an eye upon the crown. This, Charles, is

190 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

the worthy who has deserved so much ! All your generals are
afflicted at it. As for me, I shall repass those mountains over
which I came to you with seventy -two counts. Do you take him
for a Mars ?"

Orlando happened to- hear these words as he sat apart, and it
displeased him with the lord of Pontiers that he should speak so,
but much more that Charles should believe him. He would have j
killed Gan, if Uliviero had not prevented him and taken his
sword out of his hand ; nay, he would have killed Charlemagne ;
but at last he went from Paris by himself, raging with scorn and
grief He borrowed, as he went, of Ermillina the wife of Ogier,
the Dane's sword Cortana and his horse Rondel, and proceeded
on his way to Brava. His wife, Alda the Fair, hastened to em-
brace him ; but while she was saying, " Welcome, my Orlando,"
he was going to strike her with his sword, for his head was be-
wildered, and he took her for the traitor. The fair Alda marvel-
led greatly, but Orlando recollected himself, and she took hold of
the bridle, and he leaped from his horse, and told her all that had
passed, and rested himself with her for some days.

He then took his leave, being still carried away by his disdain,
and resolved to pass over into Heathendom ; and as he rode, he
thought, every step of the way, of the traitor Gan ; and so, riding
on wherever the road took him, he reached the coiifines between
the Christian countries and the Pagan, and came upon an abbey,
situate in a dark place in a desert.

Now above the abbey was a great mountain, inhabited by three
fierce giants, one of whom was named Passamonte, another Ala-
bastro, and the third Morgante ; and these giants used to disturb
the abbey by throwing things down upon it from the mountain
with slings, so that the poor little monks could not go out to fetch
wood or water. Orlando knocked, but nobody would open till
the abbot was spoken to. At last the abbot came himself, and
opening the door bade him welcome. The good man told him
the reason of the delay, and said that since the arrival of the
giants they had been so perplexed that they did not know what
to do. "Our ancient fathers in the desert," quoth he, "were
rewarded according to their holiness. It is not to be supposed
that they lived only upon locusts ; doubtless, it also rained man-

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 191

na upon them from heaven ; but hero one is regaled with stones,
which the giants pour on us from the mountain. Tliese are our
nice bits and relishes. The fiercest of the three, Morgante,
plucks up pines and other great trees by the roots, and casts
them on us." While they were talking thus in the cemetery,
there came a stone which seemed as if it would break Rondel's
back.

" For God's sake, cavalier," said the abbot, " come in, for the
manna is falling."

" My dear Abbot," answered Orlando, " this fellow, methinks,
does not wish to let my horse feed ; he wants to cure him of be-
ing restive ; the stone seems as if it came from a good arm."

" Yes," replied the holy father, " I did not deceive you. I
think, some day or other, they will cast the mountain itself
on us."

Orlando quieted his horse, and then sat down to a meal ; after
which he said, " Abbot, I must go and return the present that
has been made to my horse." The abbot with great tenderness
endeavoured to dissuade him, but in vain ; upon which he crossed
him on the forehead, and said, " Go, then ; and the blessing of
God be with you."

Orlando scaled the mountain, and came where Passamonte
was, who, seeing him alone, measured him with his eyes, and
asked him if he would stay with him for a page, promising to
make him comfortable. " Stupid Saracen," said Orlando, " 1
come to you, according to the will of God, to be your death, and
not your foot-boy. You have displeased his servants here, and
are no longer to be endured, dog that you are !"

The giant, finding himself thus insulted, ran in a fuiy to his
weapons ; and returning to Orlando, slung at him a large stone,
which struck him on the head with such force, as not only made
his helmet rinii again, but felled him to the earth. Passamonte
thought he was dead. " What could have brought that paltry
fellow here ?" said he, as he turned away.

But Christ never forsakes his followers. While Passamonte
was going away, Orlando* recovered, and cried aloud, " How
now, giant ? do you fancy you have killed me ? Turn back,
for unless you have wings, your escape is out of the question,

192 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

dog of a renegade !" The giant, greatly marvelling, turned
back ; and stooping to pick up a stone, Orlando, who had Cor-
tana naked in his hand, cleft his skull ; upon which, cursing
Mahomet, the monster tumbled, dying and blaspheming, to the
ground. Blaspheming fell the sour-hearted and cruel wretch ;
but Orlando, in the mean while, thanked the Father and the
Word.

The Paladin went on, seeking for Alabastro, the second giant ;
who, when he saw him, endeavoured to pluck up a great piece
of stony earth by the roots. " Ho, ho !" cried Orlando, " you
too are for throwing stones, are you ?" Then Alabastro took
his sling, and flung at him so large a fragment as forced Orlando
to defend himself, for if it had struck him, he would no more
have needed a surgeon ;* but collecting his strength, he thrust
his sword into the giant's breast, and the loggerhead fell dead.

Now Morgante, the only surviving brother, had a palace made,
after giant's fashion, of earth, and boughs, and shmgles, in which
he shut himself up at night. Orlando knocked, and disturbed
him from his sleep, so that he came staring to the door like a
madman, for he had had a bewildering dream.

" Who knocks there ?" quoth he.

" You will know too soon," answered Orlando; " I am come to
make you do penance for your sins, like your brothers. Divine
Providence has sent me to avenge the wrongs of the monks upon
the whole set of you. Doubt it not ; for Passamonte and Ala-
bastro are already as cold as a couple of pilasters."

" Noble knight," said Morgante, "do me no ill ; but if you
are a Christian, tell me in courtesy who you are."

" I will satisfy you of my faith," replied Orlando ; " I adore
Christ ; and if you please, you may adore him also."

" I have had a strange vision," replied Morgante, with a low
voice : " I was assailed by a dreadful serpent, and called upon
Mahomet in vain ; then I called upon your God who was cruci-

* A common pleasantry in the old romances.—" Galaor went in, and then
the halberders attacked him on one side, and the knight on the other. He
snatched an axe from one, and turned to the knight and smote him, so that he
had no need of a surgeon."— Southey's Amadis of Gaul, vol. i. p. 146.

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 193

fied, and he succoured me, and 1 was delivered from the serpent;
BO I am disposed to become a Cliristian."

" If you keep in tliis mind," returned Orhmdo, " you shall
worship the true God, and come with me and be my companion,
and I will love you with perfect love. Your idols are false and
vain ; the true God is the God of the Christians. Deny tiie un-
just and villanous worship of your Mahomet, and be baptised in
tiie name of my God, who alone is worthy."

*' I am content," said Morgante.

Then Orlando embraced him, and said, " I will lead you to
the abbey."

" Let us go quickly," replied Morgante, for he was impatient
to make his peace with the monks.

Orlando rejoiced, saying, " My good brother, and devout with-
al, you must ask pardon of the abbot ; for God has enliglitened
you, and accepted you, and he would have you practise hu-
mility."

" Yes," said Morgante, " thanks to you, your God shall hence-
forth be my God. Tell me your name, and afterwards dispose
of me as vou will." And he told him that he was Orlando.

" Blessed Jesus be thanked," said the giant, " for I have al-
ways heard you called a perfect knight ; and as I said, I will
follow you all my life long."

And so conversing, they went together towards the abbey ; and
by the way Orlando talked with Morgante of the dead giants, and
sought to comfort him, saying they had done the monks a thousand
injuries, and "our Scripture says the good shall be rewarded and
the evil punished, and we must submit to the will of God. The
doctors of our Church," continued he, " are all agreed, that if
those who are glorified in heaven were to feel pity for their mise-
rable kindred who lie in such horrible confusion in hell, their
beatitude would come to nothing; and this, you see, would plainly
be unjust on the part of God. But such is the firmness of their
faith, that what appears good to him appears good to them. Do
what he may, they hold it to be done :ivell, and that it is impossi-
ble for him to err; so that if their very fathers and mothers
are suffering everlasting punishment, it does not disturb them

JD4 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

fc- ■■■ ■■ " " ' ' " " " '■ ■ ■ 1 1 ■ ■ -■ ■■ — — I ■ I— ■ I ]

an atom. This is the custom, I assure you, in the choirs;
above."'*'

" A word to the wise," said Morgante ; " you shall see if I
grieve for my brethren, and whether or no I submit to the will of
God, and behave myself like an angel. So dust to dust ; and
now let us enjoy ourselves. I will cut off their hands, all four
of them, and take them to these holy monks, that they may be
sure they are dead, and not fear to go out alone into the desert.
They will then be certain also that the Lord has purified me, and
taken me out of darkness, and assured to me the kingdom of

* " Sonsi i nostri dottori accordati,
Pigliando tutti una conclusion e,
Che que' die son nel ciel glorificati,
S' avessin nel pensier compassione
De' miseri parent! che damiati
Son ne lo inferno in gran confusione,
La lor felicity, nulla sarebbe :
E vedi che qui ingiusto Iddio parebbe.

Ma egli anno posto in Gesti ferma spene ;
E tanto pare a lor, quanto a lui pare :
AfFerman cit) ch' e' fa, che facci bene,
E che non possi in nessun modo errare :
Se padre o madre e ne 1' eterne pene,
Di questo non si posson contarbare :
Che quel che place a Dio, sol place a loro :
Questo s' osserva ne 1' eterno coro.

Al savio suol bastar poche parole,
Disse Morgante : tu il potrai vedere,
De' miei fratelli, Orlando, se mi duole,
E s' io m' accorder6 di Dio al volere.
Come tu di che in ciel servar si suole :
Morti co' morti ; or pensiam di godere :
Io vo' tagliar le mani a tutti quanti,
E porteroUe a que' monaci santi."

This doctrine, which is horrible blasphemy in the eyes of natural feeling, is
good reasoning in Catholic and Calvinistic theology. They first make the
Deity's actions a necessity from more barbarous assumption, then square them
according to a dictum of the Councils, then compliment him by laying all that
he has made good and kindly within us mangled and mad at his feet. Mean-
time they think themselves qualified to denounce Moloch and Jugghanaut !

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 19»

heaven." So saying, the giant cut ofl* the hands of his brethren,
and left their bodies to tlie beasts and birds.

They went to the abbey, where the abbot was expecting Orlan-
do in great anxiety ; but the monks not knowing wliat had liap-
pened, ran to the abbot in great haste and alarm, saying, " ^V'ill
you suffer this giant to come in ?" And when the abbot saw
the giant, he changed countenance. Orlando, perceiving him
thus disturbed, made haste and said, " Abbot, peace be with you !
The giant is a Christian ; he believes in Christ, and has renoun-
ced his false prophet, Mahomet." And Morgante shewing the
hands in proof of his faith, the abbot thanked Heaven with great
contentment of mind.

The abbot did much honour to Morgante, comparing him with
St. Paul ; and they rested there many days. One day, wander-
ing over the house, they entered a room where the abbot kept a
quantity of armour ; and INIorgante saw a bow which pleased
him, and he fastened it on. Now there was in the place a great
scarcity of water ; and Orlando said, like his good brother,
"Morgante,! wish you would fetch us some water." "Com-
mand me as you please," said he ; and placing a great tub on
his shoulders, he went towards a spring at which he had been ac-
customed to drink, at the foot of the mountain. Having reached
the spring, he suddenly heard a great noise in the forest. He
took an arrow from the quiver, placed it in the bow, and raising
his head, saw a great herd of swine rushing towards the spring
where he stood. Morgante shot one of them clean through the
head, and laid him sprawling. Another, as if in revenge, ran to-
wards the giant, without giving him time to use a second arrow ;
so he lent him a cuff on the head which broke the bone, and
killed him also ; which stroke the rest seeing fled in haste tlirough
the valley. Morgante then placed the tub full of water upon one
of his shoulders, and the two porkers on the other, and returned
to the abbey which was at some distance, without spilling a
drop.

The monks were delighted to see the fresh water, but still
more the pork ; for there is no animal to whom food comes amiss.
They let their breviaries therefore go to sleep a while, and fell

196 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

heartily to work, so that the cats and dogs had reason to lament
the polish of the bones.

" But why do we stay here doing nothing ?" said Orlando one
day to ]\Iorgante ; and he shook hands with the abbot, and told
him he must take his leave. " I must go," said he, " and make
up for lost time. I ought to have gone long ago, my good father ;
but I cannot tell you what I feel within me, at the content I have
enjoyed here in your company. I shall bear in mind and in
heart with me for ever the abbot, the abbey, and this desert, so
great is the love they have raised m me in so short a time. The
great God, who reigns above, must thank you for me, in his own
abode. Bestow on us your benediction, and do not forget us hi
your prayers."

When the abbot heard the County Orlando talk thus, his heart
melted within him for tenderness, and he said, " Knight, if we
have failed in any courtesy due to your prowess and great gen-
tleness (and indeed what we have done has been but little), pray
put it to the account of our ignorance, and of the place which we
inhabit. We are but poor men of the cloister, better able to re-
gale you with masses and orisons and paternosters, than with din-
ners and suppers. You have so taken this heart of mine by the
many noble qualities I have seen in you, that I shall be witli you
still wherever you go ; and, on the other hand, you will always
be present here with me. This seems a contradiction, but you
are wise, and will take my meaning discreetly. You have saved
the veiy life and spirit within us ; for so much perplexity had
those giants cast about our place, that the way to the Lord among
us was blocked up. May He who sent you into these woods re-
ward the justice and piety by which we are delivered from our
trouble. Thanks be to him and to you. We shall all be discon-
solate at your departure. We shall grieve that we cannot detain
you among us for months and years ; but you do not wear these
weeds ; you bear arms and armour ; and you may possibly
merit as well in carrying those, as in wearing this cap. You
read your Bible, and your virtue has been the means of shewing
the giant the way to heaven. Go in peace then, and prosper,
whoever you may be. I do not seek your name ; but if ever I
am asked who it was that came among us, I shall say that it was

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 197

an angel from God. If there is any armour or other tiling that
you would have, go into the room where it is, and take it."

•' If you have any armour that would suit my companion,"
replied Orlando, '" that I will accept with pleasure."

" Come and see," said the abbot ; and they went to a room
that was full of armour. Morgante looked all about, but could
find nothing large enough, except a rusty breast-plate, which
fitted him marvellously. It had belonged to an enormous giant,
who was killed there of old by Orlando's father, Milo of Angrante.
There was a painting on the wall which told the whole story :
how the giant had laid cruel and long siege to the abbey ; and
how he had been overthrown at last by the great Milo. Orlando
seeing this, said within himself: "O God, unto whom all things
are known, how came Milo here, who destroyed this giant ?"
And reading certain inscriptions which were there, he could no
longer keep a firm countenance, but the tears ran down his
checks.

A\'hen the abbot saw Orlando weep, and his brow redden, and
the liglit of his eyes become child-like for sweetness, he asked
him the reason ; but, finding him still dumb with emotion, he
said, '• I do not know whether you are overpow^ered by admira-
tion of what is painted in this chamber. You must know that I
am of high descent, though not through lawful wedlock. I be-
lieve I may say I am nephew or sister's son to no less a man
than that Rinaldo, who was so great a Paladin in the world,
though my own father was not of a lawful mother. Ansuigi
was his name ; my own, out in the world, was Chiaramonte ;
and this Milo was my father's brother. Ah, gentle baron, for
blessed Jesus' sake, tell me what name is yours !"

Orlando, all clowincr with affection, and bathed in tears, re-
plied, " My dear abbot and cousin, he before you is your Orlan-
do." Upon this, they ran for tenderness into each other's arms,
weeping on both sides with a sovereign afTection, too high to be
expressed. The abbot was so overjoyed, that he seemed as if
he would never have done embracing Orlando. " Bj w^hat for-
tune," said the knight, " do I find you in this obscure place ?
Tell me, my dear abbot, how was it you became a monk, and
did not follow arms, like mvself and the rest of us?"

198 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

" It is the will of God," replied the abbot, hastening to give
his feelings utterance. '•' Many and divers are the paths he
points out for us by which to arrive at his city ; some walk it
with the sword — some with pastoral staff. Nature makes the
inclination different, and therefore there are different ways for
us to take : enough if we all arrive safely at one and the same
place, the last as well as the first. We are all pilgrims through
many kingdoms. We all wish to go to Rome, Orlando ; but we
go picking out our journey through different roads. Such is the
trouble in body and soul brought upon us by that sin of the old
apple. Day and night am I here with ray book in hand — day
and night do you ride about, holding your sword, and sweating
oft both in sun and shadow ; and all to get round at last to the
home from which we departed — I say, all out of anxiety and
hope to get back to our home of old." And the giant hearing
them talk of these things, shed tears also.

The Paladin and the giant quitted the abbey, the one on horse-
back and the other on foot, and journeyed through the desert till
they came to a magnificent castle, the door of which stood open.
They entered, and found rooms furnished in the most splendid
manner — beds covered with cloth of gold, and floors rejoicing in
variegated marbles. There was even a feast prepared in the
saloon, but nobody to eat it, or to speak to them.

Orlando suspected some trap, and did not quite like it ; but
Morgante thought nothing worth considering but the feast.
" Who cares for the host," said he, " when there's such a din-
ner ? Let us eat as much as we can, and bear off the rest, I
always do that when I have the picking of castles."

They accordingly sat down, and being very hungry with their
day's journey, devoured heaps of the good things before them,
eating with all the vigour of health, and drinking to a pitch of
weakness.* They sat late in this manner enjoying themselves,
and then retired for the nieht into rich beds.

* " E furno al bere hifermi, al manfriar sani."

I am not sure that I am right in my construction of this passage. Perhaps
Pulci means to say, that they had the appetites of men in health, and th9
thirst of a fever.

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 199

But what was their astonishment in tlic morning at finding that
they could not get out of the place ! There was no door. All
the entrances had vanished, even to any feasible window.

" We must be dreaming," said Orlando.

" jMy dinner was no dream, I'll swear," said the giant. " A3
for the rest, let it be a dream if it pleases."

Continuing to search up and down, they at length found a
vault with a tomb in it ; and out of the tomb came a voice, say-
ing, " You must encounter with me, or stay here for ever. Lift,
therefore, the stone that covers me."

" Do you hear that ?" said Morgante ; " I'll have him out, if
it's the devil himself. Perhaps it's two devils, Filthy-dog and
Foul-mouth, or Itclfmg and Evil-tail."*

" Have him out," said Orlando, " whoever he is, even were it
as many devils as were rained out of heaven into the centre."

Morgante lifted up the stone, and out leaped, surely enough, a
devil in the likeness of a dried-up dead body, black as a coal.
Orlando seized him, and the devil grappled with Orlando. Mor-
gante was for joining him, but the Paladin bade him keep back.
It was a hard struggle, and the devil grinned and laughed, till the
giant, who was a master of wrestling, could bear it no longer : so
he doubled him up, and, in spite of all his efforts, thrust him back
into the tomb.

" You'll never get out," said the devil, " if you leave me shut
up."

" Why not ?" inquired the Paladin.

" Because your giant's baptism and my deliverance must go
together," answered the devil. " If he is not baptised, you can
have no deliverance ; and if I am not delivered, I can prevent it
still, take my word for it."

Orlando baptised the giant. The two companions then issued
forth, and hearing a mighty noise in the house, looked back, and
saw it all vanished.

"I could find it in my heart," said Morgante, "to go down to
those same regions below, and make all the devils disappear in
like manner. Why shouldn't we do it ? We'd set free all the

* Cagnazzo, Farfarello, Libicocco, and Malacoda ; names of devils in Dante.

200 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

poor souls there. Egad, I'd cut off Minos's tail — I'd pull out
Charon's beard by the roots — make a sop of Phlegyas, and a sup
of Phlegethon — unseat Pluto, — kill Cerberus and the Furies with
a punch of the face a-piece — and set Beelzebub scampering like
a dromedary."

" You might find more trouble than you wot of," quoth Orlando,
' and get worsted besides. Better keep the straight path, than
thrust your head into out-of-the-way places."

Morgante took his lord's advice, and went straightforward with
liim through many great adventures, helping him with loving
good-will as often as he was permitted, sometimes as his pioneer,
and sometimes as his finisher of troublesome work, such as a
slaughter of some thousands of infidels. Now he chucked a spy
into a river — now felled -a rude ambassador to the earth (for he
didn't stand upon ceremony) — now cleared a space round him in
battle with the clapper of an old bell which he had found at the
monastery — now doubled up a king in his tent, and bore him
away, tent and all, and a Paladin with him, because he would not
let the Paladin go.

In the course of these services, the giant was left to take care
of a lady, and lost his master for a time ; but the ofiice being at
an end, he set out to rejoin him, and, arriving at a cross-road, met
with a very extraordinary personage.

This was a giant huger than himself, swarthy-faced, horrible,
brutish. He came out of a wood, and appeared to be journeying
somewhere. Morgante, who had the great bell-clapper in his
hand above-mentioned, struck it on the ground with astonishment,
as much as to say, " Who the devil is this ?" and then set him-
self on a stone by the way-side to observe the creature.

" What's your name, traveller ?" said Morgante, as it came
up.

" My name's Margutte," said the phenomenon. "I. intended
to be a giant myself, but altered my mind, you see, and stopped
half-way ; so that I am only twenty feet or so."

" I'm glad to see you," quoth his brother-giant. " But tell me,
are you Christian or Saracen ? Do you believe in Christ or in
Apollo .?"

" To tell you the truth," said the other, " I believe neither in

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 201

black nor blue, but in a good capon, whether it be roast or boiled.
I believe sometimes also in butter, and, when I can get it, in new
wine, particularly the rough sort ; but, above all, I believe in
wine that's good and old. Mahomet's prohibition of it is all
moonshine. I am the son, you must know, of a Greek nun and
a Turkish bishop ; and the first thing I learned was to play the
fiddle. I used to sing Homer to it. I was then concerned in a
bra\\ 1 in a mosque, in which the old bishop somehow happened to
be killed ; so I tied a sword to my side, and went to seek my
fortune, accompanied by all the possible sins of Turk and Greek.
People talk of the seven deadly sins ; but I have seventy-seven
that never quit me, summer or winter ; by which you may judge
of the amount of my venial ones. I am a gambler, a cheat, a
ruffian, a highwayman, a pickpocket, a glutton (at beef or blows) ;
have no shame whatever ; love to let every body know what I
can do ; lie, besides, about what I can't do ; have a particular
attachment to sacrilege ; swallow perjuries like figs; never give
a farthing to any body, but beg of every body, and abuse them
into the bargain ; look upon not spilling a drop of liquor as the
chief of all the cardinal virtues ; but must own I am not much
given to assassination, murder being inconvenient ; and one thing
I am bound to acknowledge, which is, that I never betrayed a
messmate."

" That's as well," observed Moi'gante ; " because you see, as
you don't believe in any thing else, I'd have you believe in this
bell-clapper of mine. So now, as you have been candid with me,
and I am well instructed in your ways, we'll pursue our journey
together."

The best of giants, in those days, were not scrupulous in their
modes of living ; so that one of the best and one of the worst got
on pretty well together, emptying the larders on the road, and
paying nothing but douses on the chops. When they could find
no inn, they hunted elephants and crocodiles. Morgante, who was
the braver of the two, delighted to banter, and sometimes to cheat,
Margutte ; and he ate up all the fare ; which made the other,
notwithstandinor the credit he j^ave himself for readiness of wit
and tongue, cut a very sorry figure, and seriously remonstrate :
" I reverence you, said Margutte, " in otiier matters ; but in eat-

202 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

ing, you really don't behave well. He who deprives me of my
share at meals is no friend ; at every mouthful of which he robs
me, I seem to lose an eye. I'm for sharing every thing to a nicety,
even if it be no better than a fig."

" You are a fine fellow," said Morgante ; •' you gain upon me
very much. You are ' the master of those who know.' "*

So saying, he made him put some wood on the fire, and per-
form a hundred other offices to render every thing snug ; and
then he slept : and next day he cheated his great scoundrelly com-
panion at drink, as he had done the day before at meat ; and
the poor shabby devil complained ; and Morgante laughed till
he was ready to burst, and again and again always cheated him.

There was a levity, nevertheless, in Margutte, which restored
his spirits on the slightest glimpse of good fortune ; and if he real-
ised a hearty meal, he became the happiest, beastliest, and most
confident of giants. The companions, in the course of their jour-
ney, delivered a damsel from the clutches of three other giants.
She was the daughter of a great lord ; and when she got home,
she did honour to Morgante as to an equal, and put Margutte into
the kitchen, where he was in a state of bliss. He did nothing but
swill, stuff, surfeit, be sick, play at dice, cheat, filch, go to sleep,
guzzle again, laugh, chatter, and tell a thousand lies.

Morgante took leave of the young lady, who made him rich
presents. Margutte, seeing this, and being always drunk and im-
pudent, daubed his face like a Christmas clown, and making up
to her with a frying-pan in his hand, demanded " something for
the cook." The fair hostess gave him a jewel : and the vaga-
bond shewed such a brutal eagerness in seizing it with his filthy
hands, and making not the least acknowledgment, that when they
got out of the house, Morgante was ready to fell him to the earth.
He called him scoundrel and poltroon, and said he had disgraced
him for ever.

" Softly !" said the brute-beast. " Didn't you take me with
you, knowing what sort of fellow I was ? Didn't I tell you I had
every sin and shame under heaven ; and have I deceived you by
the exhibition of a single virtue ?"

* " II maestro di color cho sanno." A jocose application of Dante's praise
of Aristotle.

HUMOURS OF GIANTS. 203

Morgante could not help laughing at a candour of this excess-
ive nature. So they went on their way till they came to a wood,
where they rested themselves by a fountain, and Margutte fell
fast asleep. He had a pair of boots on, which Morgante felt
tempted to draw off, that he might see what he would do on wa-
king. He accordingly did so, and threw them to a little distance
among the bushes. The sleeper awoke in good time, and,. look-
ing and searching round about, suddenly burst into roars of laugh-
ter. A monkey had got the boots, and sat pulling them on and
off, making the most ridiculous gestures. The monkey busied
himself, and the light-minded drunkard laughed ; and at every
fresh gesticulation of the new boot-wearer, the laugh grew louder
and more tremendous, till at length it was found impossible to
be restrained. The glutton had a laughing fit. In vain he
tried to stop himself; in vain his fingers would have loosened the
buttons of his doublet, to give his lungs room to play. They
couldn't do it ; so he laughed and roared till he burst. The snap
was like the splitting of a cannon. Morgante ran up to him, but
it was of no use. He was dead.

Alas ! it was not the only death ; it was not even the most trivial
cause of a death. Giants are big fellows, but Death's a bigger,
though he may come in a little shape. Morgante had succeeded
in joining his master. He helped him to take Babylon ; he kill-
ed a whale for him at sea that obstructed his passage ; he played
the part of a main-sail during a storm, holding out his arms and a
great hide ; but on coming to shore, a crab bit him in the heel ;
and behold the lot of the great giant — he died ! He laughed, and
thought it a very little thing, but it proved a mighty one. " He
made the East tremble," said Orlando ; " and the bite of a crab
has slain him !"

O life of ours, weak, and a fallacy !*

Orlando embalmed his huge friend, and had him taken to Bab-
ylon, and honourably interred ; and after many an adventure, in
which he regretted him, his own days were closed by a far baser,
though not so petty a cause.

How shall I speak of it ? exclaims the poet. How think of

* " O vita nostra, debole e fallace !"

204 HUMOURS OF GIANTS.

the horrible slaughter about to fall on the Christians and their
greatest men, so that not a dry eye shall be left in France ? How
express my disgust at the traitor Gan, whose heart a thousand
pardons from his sovereign, and the most undeserved rescues of
him by the warrior he betrayed, could not shame or soften ?
How mourn the weakness of Charles, always deceived by him,
and always trusting ? How dare to present to my mind the good,
the great, the ever-generous Orlando, brought by the traitor into
the doleful pass of Roncesvalles and the hands of myriads of his
enemies, so that even his superhuman strength availed not to deliver
him out of the slaughter-house, and he blew the blast with his
dying breath; which was the mightiest, the farthest heard, and
the most melancholy sound that ever came to the ears of the un-
deceived ?

Gan was known well to every body but his confiding sove-
reign. The Paladins knew him well ; and in their moments of
indignant disgust often told him so, though they spared him the
consequences of his misdeeds, and even incurred the most frightful
perils to deliver him out of the hands of his enemies. But he
was brave ; he was in favour with the sovereign, who was also
their kinsman ; and they were loyal and loving men, and knew
that the wretch envied them for the greatness of their achieve-
ments, and might do the state a mischief; so they allowed them-
selves to take a kind of scornful pleasure in putting up with him.
Their cousin Malagigi, the enchanter, had himself assisted Gan,
though he knew him best of all, and had prophesied that the in-
numerable endeavours of his envy to destroy his king and coun-
try would bring some terrible evil at last to all Christendom.
The evil, alas ! is at hand. The doleful time has come. It will
be followed, it is true, by a worse fate of the wretch himself; but
not till the valleys of the Pyrenees have run rivers of blood, and
all France is in mourning.

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

Notice.

This is the

" sad and fearful story
Of the Roncesvalles fight ;"

an event which national and religious exaggeration impressed deeply on the
popular mind of Europe. Hence Italian romances and Spanish ballads : hence
the famous peissage in Milton,

" When Charlemain with all his peerage fell
By Fontarabbia :"

hence Dante's record of the dolorosa rotta (dolorous rout) in the Inferno, where
he compares the voice of Nimrod with the horn sounded by the dying Orlando :
hence the peasant in Cervantes, who is met by Don Quixote singing the bat-
tle as he comes along the road in the morning : and hence the song of Roland
actually thundered forth by the army of William the Conqueror as they ad-
vanced against the English.

But Charlemagne did not " fall," as Milton has stated. Nor does Puici
make him do so. In this respect, if in little else, the Italian poet adhered to
the fact. The whole story is a remarkable instance of what can be done by
poetry and popularity towards misrepresenting and aggrandising a petty though
striking adventure. The simple fact was the cutting off the rear of Charle-
magne's army by the revolted Geiscons, as he returned from a successful expe-
dition into Spain. Two or three only of his nobles perished, among whom was
his nephew Roland, the obscure warden of his marches of Brittany. But Charle-
magne was the temporal head of Christendom ; the poets constituted his
nephew its champion ; and hence all the glories and superhuman exploits of
the Orlando of Pulci and Ariosto. The whole assumption of the wickedness
of the Saracens, particularly of the then Saracen king of Spain, whom Pulci's
authority, the pseudo- Archbishop, Turpin, strangely called Marsilius, was noth-
ing but a pious fraud ; the pretended Marsilius having been no less a person
than the great and good Abdoiilrahmaiin the First, who wrested the dominion
of that country out of the hands of the usurpers of his family-rights. Yet so
potent and long-lived are the most extravagant fictions, when genius has put
its heart into them, that to this day we read of the devoted Orlando and his
friends not only with gravity, but with the liveliest emotion.

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

A MISERABLE man am 1, cries the poet ; for Orlando, beyond a
doubt, died in Roncesvalles ; and die therefore he must in my
verses. Ahogether impossible is it to save him. I thought to
make a pleasant ending of this my poem, so that it should be hap-
pier somehow, throughout, than melancholy ; but though Gan
will die at last, Orlando must die before him, and that makes a
tragedy of all. I had a doubt, whether, consistently with the
truth, I could give the reader even that sorry satisfaction ; for at
the beginning of the dreadful battle, Orlando's cousin, Rinaldo,
who is said to have joined it before it was over, and there, as well
as afterwards, to have avenged his death, was far away from the
seat of slaughter, in Egypt ; and how was I to suppose that he
could arrive soon enough in the valleys of the Pyrenees ? But
an angel upon earth shewed me the secret, even Angelo Poli-
ziano, the glory of his age and country. He informed me how
Arnauld, the ProveuQal poet, had written of this very matter, and
brought the Paladin from Egypt to France by means of the won-
derful skill in occult science possessed by his cousin Malagigi —
a wonder to the ignorant, but not so marvellous to those who
know that all the creation is full of wonders, and who have differ-
ent modes of relating the same events. By and by, a great many
things will be done in the world, of which we have no conception
now, and people will be inclined to believe them works of the
devil, when, in fact, they will be very good works, and contribute
to angelical effects, whether the devil be forced to have a hand in
them or not ; for evil itself can work only in subordination to
good. So listen when the astonishment comes, and reflect and
think the best. Meantime, we must speak of another and more

208 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

truly devilish astonishment, and of the pangs of mortal flesh and
blood.

The traitor Gan, for the fiftieth time, had secretly brought the
infidels from all quarters against his friend and master, the Em-
peror Charles ; and Charles, by the help of Orlando, had con-
quered them all. The worst of them, Marsilius, king of Spain,
had agreed to pay the court of France tribute ; and Gan, in spite
of all the suspicions he excited in this particular instance, and his
known villany at all times, had succeeded in persuading his cre-
dulous sovereign to let him go ambassador into Spain, where he
put a final seal to his enormities, by plotting the destruction of his
employer, and the special overthrow of Orlando. Charles was
now old and white-haired, and Gan was so too ; but the^one was
only confirmed in his credulity, and the other in his crimes. The
traitor embraced Orlando over and over again at taking leave,
praying him to write if he had anything to say before the ar-
rangements with Marsilius, and taking such pains to seem loving
and sincere, that his villany was manifest to every one but the
old monarch. He fastened with equal tenderness on Uliviero,
who smiled contemptuously in his face, and thought to himself,
*' You may make as many fair speeches as you choose, but you
lie." All the other Paladins who were present thought the same,
and they said as much to the emperor ; adding, that on no account
should Gan be sent ambassador to Marsilius. But Charles was
infatuated. His beard and his credulity had grown old together.

Gan was received with great honour in Spain by Marsilius.
The king, attended by his lords, came fifteen miles out of Sara-
gossa to meet him, and then conducted him into the city amid
tumults of delight. There was nothing for several days but
balls, and games, and exhibitions of chivalry, the ladies throwing
flowers on the heads of the French knights, and the people shout-
ing " France ! France ! Mountjoy and St. Denis !"

Gan made a speech, " like a Demosthenes," to King Marsilius
in public ; but he made him another in private, like nobody but
himself. The king andJie were sitting in a garden ; they were
traitors both, and began to understand, from one another's looks,
that the real object of the ambassador was yet to be discussed.
Marsilius accordingly assumed a more than usually cheerful and

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 209

confidential aspect ; and, taking his visitor by the hand, said,
" You know the proverb, Mr. Ambassador — ' At dawn, the moun-
tain ; afternoon, the fountain.' Dillerent things at ditferent
liours. So here is a fountain to accommodate us."

It was a very beautiful fountain, so clear that you saw your
face in it as in a mirror ; and the spot was encircled with fruit-
trees that quivered with the fresh air. Gan praised it very
much, contriving to insinuate, on one subject, his satisfaction
with the glimpses he got into another. Marsilius understood
him ; and as he resumed the conversation, and gradually en-
couraged a mutual disclosure of their thoughts, Gan, without
appearing to look him in the face, was enabled to do so by con-
templating the royal visage in the water, where he saw its ex-
pression become more and more what he desired. Marsilius,
meantime, saw the like symptoms in the face of Gan. By de-
grees, he began to touch on that dissatisfaction with Charlemagne
and his court, which he knew was in both their minds : he
lamented, not as to the ambassador, but as to the friend, the inju-
ries which lie said he had received from Charles in the repeated
attacks on his dominions, and the emperor's wish to crown
Orlando king of them ; till at length he plainly uttered his belief,
that if that tremendous Paladin were but dead, good men would
get their rights, and his visitor and himself have all things at
their disposal.

Gan heaved a sigh, as if he was unwillingly compelled to
allow the force of what the king said ; but, unable to contain
himself long, he lifted up his face, radiant with triumphant wick-
edness, and exclaimed, " Every word you utter is truth. Die he
must ; and die also must Uliviero, who struck me that foul blow
at court. Is it treachery to punish atfronts like those ? I have
planned every thing — I have settled every thing already with
their besotted master. Orlando could not be expected to be
brought hither, where he has been accustomed to look for a
crown ; but he will come to the Spanish borders- — to Ronces-
valles — for the purpose of receiving the tribute. Charles will
await him, at no great distance, in St. John Pied de Port. Or-
lando will bring but a small band with him ; you, when you

210 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

meet him, will have secretly your whole army at your back.
You surround him ; and who receives tribute then ?"

The new Judas had scarcely uttered these words, when the
delight of him and his associate was interrupted by a change in
the face of nature. The sky was suddenly overcast ; it thun-
dered and lightened ; a laurel was split in two from head to foot ;
the fountain ran into burning blood ; there was an earthquake,
and the carob-tree under which Gan was sitting, and which was
of the species on which Judas Iscariot hung himself, dropped
some of its fruit on his head. The hair of the head rose in
horror.

Marsilius, as well as Gan, was appalled at this omen ; but on
assembling his soothsayers, they came to the conclusion that the
laurel-tree turned the omen against the emperor, the successor of
tlie Caesars ; though one of them renewed the consternation of
Gan, by saying that he did not understand the meaning of the
tree of Judas, and intimating that perhaps the ambassador could
explain it. Gan relieved his consternation with anger ; the habit
of wickedness prevailed over all considerations ; and the king
prepared to march for Roncesvalles at the head of all his forces.

Gan wrote to Charlemagne, to say how humbly and properly
Marsilius was coming to pay the tribute into the hands of Orlando,
and how handsome it would be of the emperor to meet him half
way, as agreed upon, at St. John Pied de Port, and so be ready
to receive him, after the payment, at his footstool. He added a
brilliant account of the tribute and its accompanying presents.
They included a crown in the shape of a garland which had a
carbuncle in it that gave light in darkness ; two lions of an " im-
measurable length, and aspects that frightened every body ;"
some " lively buffalos," leopards, crocodiles, and giraffes ; arms
and armour of all sorts ; and apes and monkeys seated among the
rich merchandise that loaded the backs of the camels. This im-
aginary treasure contained, furthermore, two enchanted spirits,
called " Floro and Faresse," who were confined in a mirror, and
were to tell the emperor wonderful things, particularly Floro
(for there is nothing so nice in its details as lying) ; and Or-
lando was to have heaps of caravans full of Eastern wealth, and
a hundred while horses, all with saddles and bridles of gold.

THE BATTLE OF ROJN'CESVALLES. 211

There was a beautiful vest, too, for Uliviero, all over jewels,
worth ten thousand " seraffi," or more.

The good emperor wrote in turn to say how pleased lie was
with the ambassador's diligence, and that matters were arranged
precisely as he wished. His court, however, had its suspicions
still. Nobody could believe that Gan had not some new mischief
in contemplation. Little, nevertheless, did they imagine, after tlic
base endeavours he had but lately made against them, that he had.
immediately plotted a new and greater one, and that his object in
briniiiniz Charles into the neighbourhood of Roncesvalles was to
deliver liim more speedily into the hands of TMarsilius, in the event
of the latter's destruction of Orlando.

Orlando, however, did as his lord and sovereign desired. He
went to Roncesvalles, accompanied by a moderate train of war-
riors, not dreaming of the atrocity that awaited him. Gan him-
self, meantime, had hastened on to France before Marsilius, in
order to shew himself free and easy in the presence of Charles,
and secure the success of his plot ; while Marsilius, to make as-
surance doubly sure, brought into the passes of Roncesvalles no
less than three armies, who were successively to fall on the Pa-
ladin, in case of the worst, and so extinguish him with numbers.
He had also, by Gan's advice, brought heaps of wine and good
cheer to be set before his victims in the first instance ; " for that,"
said the traitor, " will render the onset the more effective, the feast-
ers being unarmed ; and, supposing prodigies of valour to await
even the attack of your second army, you will have no trouble
with vour third. One thing, however, I must not forget," added
he ; " mv son Baldwin is sure to be with Orlando ; you must
take care of his life for my sake."

" I give him this vest off my own body," said the king ; " let
him wear it in tlie battle, and have no fear. My soldiers shall
be directed not to touch him."

Gan went away rejoicing to France. He embraced the court
and his sovereign all round, with the air of a man who had
brought them nothing but blessings ; and the old king wept for
very tenderness and delight.

" Something is going on wrong, and looks very black," thought
Malasi<^i, the good wizard : " and Rinaldo is not here, and it is in-

212 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

dispensably necessary that he should be. I must find out where
he is, and Ricciardetto too, and send for them with all speed, and
at any price."

Malagigi called up, by his art, a wise, terrible, and cruel spirit,
named Ashtaroth ; no light personage to deal with — no little spirit,
such as plays tricks with you like a fairy. A much blacker vis-
itant was this.

" Tell me, and tell me truly of Rinaldo," said Malagigi to the
spirit.

Hard looked the demon at the Paladin, and said nothing. His
aspect was clouded and violent. He wished to see whether his
summoner retained all the force of his art.

The enchanter, with an aspect still cloudier, bade Ashtaroth
lay down that look. While giving this order, he also made signs
indicative of a disposition to resort to angrier compulsion ; and
the devil, apprehending that he would confine him in some hateful
place, loosened his tongue, and said, " You have not told me what
you desire to know of Rinaldo."

" I desire to know what he has been doing, and where he is,"
returned the enchanter.

" He has been conquering and baptising the world, east and
west," said the demon, " and is now in Egypt with Ricciardetto."

" And what has Gan been plotting with Marsilius," inquired
Malagigi, " and what is to come of it ?"

" On neither of those points can I enlighten you," said the
devil. "I was not attending to Gan at the time, and we fallen
spirits know not the future. Had we done so, we had not been
so willing to incur the danger of falling. All I discern is,
that, by the signs and comets in the heavens, something dreadful
is about to happen — something very strange, treacherous, and
bloody ; and that Gan has a seat ready prepared for him in hell."

" Within three days," cried the enchanter, loudly, " fetch Ri-
naldo and Ricciardetto into the pass of Roncesvalles. Do it, and
I hereby undertake never to summon thee more."

" Suppose they will not trust themselves with me," said the
spirit.

" Enter Rinaldo's horse, and bring him, whether he trust thee
or not."

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 213

" It shall be done," returned the demon ; " and my serving-
devil Foul-Mouth, or Fire-Ilc<l, shall enter the horse oi Riceim--
detto. Doubt it not. Am I not wise, and thyself power/ul V

There was an earthquake, and Ashtaroth disappeared.

Marsilius has now made his first movement towards the de-
struction of Orlando, by sending before him his vassal-king Blan-
chardin with his presents of wines and other luxuries. The
temperate but courteous hero took them in good part, and distrib-
uted them as the traitor wished ; and then Blanchardin, on pre-
tence of iroinn forward to salute Charlemaene at St. John Pied de
Port, returned and put himself at the head of the second army,
which was the post assigned him by his liege lord. The device
on his Hag was an " Apollo" on a field azure. King Falseron,
whose son Orlando had slain in battle, headed the first army, the
device of which was a black figure of the devil Belphegor on a
dapple-grey field. The third army was under King Balugante,
and had for ensign a Mahomet with golden wings in a field of
red. Marsilius made a speech to them at night, in which he con-
fessed his ill faith^ but defended it on the ground of Charles's
hatred of their religion, and of the example of "Judith and Holo-
fernes." He said that he had not come there to pay tribute, and
sell his countrymen for slaves, but to make all Christendom pay
tribute to them as conquerors ; and he concluded by recommend-
ing to their good-will the son of his friend Gan, whom they would
know by the vest he had sent him, and who was the only soul
among the Christians they were to spare.

This son of Gan, meantime, and several of the Paladins who
were disgusted with Charles's credulity, and anxious at all events
to be with Orlando, had joined the hero in the fated valley ; so
that the little Christian host, considering the tremendous valour
of their lord and his friends, and the comparative inefficiency of
that of the inlidels, were at any rate not to be sold for nothing.
Rinaldo, alas ! the second thunderbolt of Christendom, was des-
tined not to be there in time to save their lives. He could only
avenge the dreadful tragedy, and prevent still worse consequences
to the whole Christian court and empire. The Paladins had in
vain begged Orlando to be on his guard against treachery, and
ocnd for a more numerous body of men. The great heart of the

214 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

Champion of the Faith was unwilling to think the worst as long
as- he could help it. He refused to summon aid that might be
superfluous ; neither would he do any thing but what his liege
lord had desired. And yet he could not wholly repress a misgiv-
ing, A shadow had fallen on his heart, great and cheerful as it
was. The anticipations of his friends disturbed him, in spite of
the face with which he met them. I am not sure that he did not,
by a certain instinctive foresight, expect death itself; but he felt
bound not to encourage the impression. Besides, time pressed ;
the moment of the looked-for tribute was at hand ; and little
combinations of circumstances determine often the greatest events.

King Blanchardin had brought Orlando's people a luxurious
supper ; King Marsilius was to arrive early next day with the
tribute ; and Uliviero accordingly, with the morning sun, rode
forth to reconnoitre, and see if he could discover the peaceful
pomp of the Spanish court in the distance. Guottibuoffi was with
him, a warrior who had expected the very worst, and repeatedly
implored Orlando to believe it possible. Uliviero and he rode up
the mountain nearest them, and from the top of it beheld the first
army of Marsilius already forming in the passes.

" O Guottibuoffi !" exclaimed he, " behold thy prophecies come
true ! behold the last day of the glory of Charles ! Every where
I see the arms of the traitors around us. I feel Paris tremble all
the way through France, to the ground beneath my feet. O
Malagigi, too much in the right wert thou ! O devil Gan, this
then is the consummation of thy good offices !"

Uliviero put spurs to his horse, and galloped back down the
mountain to Orlando.

" Well," cried the hero, " what news ?"

" Bad news," said his cousin ; " such as you would not hear
of yesterday. Marsilius is here in arms, and all the world has
come with him."

The Paladins pressed round Orlando, and entreated him to
sound his horn, in token that he needed help. His only answer
was, to mount his horse, and ride up the mountain with San-
sonetto.

As soon, however, as he cast forth his eyes and beheld what
was round about him, he turned in sorrow, and looked down into

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 215

Roncesvalles, and said, " valley, miserable indeed ! the blood
that is shed in thee this day will colour thy name for ever."

Many of the Paladins had ridden after him, and they again
pressed him to sound his horn, if only in pity to his own people.
He said, "If Caesar and Alexander were here, Scipio and Han-
nibal, and Nebuchadnezzar with all his flags, and Death stared
me in the face with his knife in his hand, never would I sound
my horn for the baseness of fear."

Orlando's little camp were furious against the Saracens. They
armed themselves with the greatest impatience. There was
nothing but lacing of helmets and mounting of horses ; and good
Archbishop Turpin went from rank to rank, exhorting and en-
couraging the warriors of Christ. Accoutrements and habili-
ments were put on the wrong way ; words and deeds mixed in
confusion ; men running against one another out of very absorp-
tion in themselves ; all the place full of cries of " Arm ! arm !
the enemy !" and the trumpets clanged over all against the
mountain-cchoes.

Orlando and his captains withdrew for a moment to consulta-
tion. He fairly groaned for sorrow, and at first had not a word
to say ; so wretched he felt at having brought his people to die
in Roncesvalles.

Uliviero spoke first. He could not resist the opportunity of
comforting himself a little in his despair, with referring to his
unheeded advice.

" You see, cousin," said he, " what has come at last. Would
to God you had attended to what I said ; to what Malagigi said ;
to what we all said ! I told you Marsilius was nothing but an
anointed scoundrel. Yet forsooth, he was to bring us tribute !
and Charles is this moment expecting his mummeries at St. John
Pied de Port ! Did ever any body believe a word that Gan said,
but Charles ? And now you see this rotten fruit has come to a
head ; this medlar has got its crown."

Orlando said nothing in answer to Uliviero ; for in truth he had
nothing to say. He broke away to give orders to the camp ;
bade them take refreshment ; and then addressing both officers
and men, he said, " I confess, that if it had entered my heart to
conceive the king of Spain to be such a villain, never would you

i216 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

have seen this day. He has exchanged with me a thousand
courtesies and good words ; and 1 thought that the worse ene-
mies we had been before, the better friends we had become now.
I fancied every human being capable of this kind of virtue on a
good opportunity, saving, indeed, such base-hearted wretches as
can never forgive their very forgivers ; and of these I certainly
did not suppose him to be one. Let us die, if we must die, like
honest and gallant men ; so that it shall be said of us, it was only
our bodies that died. It becomes our souls to be invincible, and
our glory immortal. Our motto must be, ' A good heart and no
hope.' The reason why I did not sound the horn was, partly be-
cause I thought it did not become us, and partly because our liege
lord could be of little use, even if he heard it. Let Gan have
his glut of us like a carrion crow ; but let him find us under
heaps of his Saracens, — an example for all time. Heaven, my
friends, is with us, if earth is against us. Methinks I see it open
this moment, ready to receive our souls amidst crowns of glory ;
and therefore, as the cliampion of God's church, I give you my
benediction ; and the good archbishop here will absolve you ;
and so, please God, we shall all go to Heaven and be happy."

And with these words Orlando sprang to his horse, crying,
" Away against the Saracens !" but he had no sooner turned his
face than he wept bitterly, and said, " O holy Virgin, think not
of me, the sinner Orlando, but have pity on these thy servants."

Archbishop Turpin did as Orlando said, giving the whole band
his benediction at once, and absolving them from their sins, so
that every body took comfort in the thought of dying for Christ,
and thus they embraced one another, weeping ; and then lance
was put to thigh, and the banner was raised that was won in the
jousting at Aspramont.

And now with a mighty dust, and an infinite sound of horns,
and tambours, and trumpets, which came filling the valley, the
first army of the infidels made its appearance, horses neighing,
and a thousand pennons flying in the air. King Falseron led
them on, saying to his officers, " Now, gentlemen, recollect what
I said. The first battle is for the leaders only ; — and, above all,
let nobody dare to lay a finger on Orlando. He belongs to my-

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 217

self. The revenge of my son's death is mine. I will cut the
man clown that comes between us."

"Now, friends," said Orlando, "every man for liimsclf, and
St. Michael for us all. There is no one here that is not a perfect
kniirjit."

And he might well say it ; for the flower of all France was
there, except Rinaldo and Ricciardctto ; every man a picked man ;
all friends and constant companions of Orlando. There was
Richard of Normandy, and Guottibuoffi, and Uliviero, and Count
Anselm, and Avolio, and Avino, and the gentle Berlinghieri, and
his brother, and Sansonetto, and the good Duke Egibard, and As-
tolfo the Englishman, and Angiolin of Cayona, and all the other
Paladins of France, excepting those two whom I have mentioned.
And so the captains of the little troop and of the great array sat
looking at one another, and singling one another out, as the latter
came on ; and then either side began raising their war-cries, and
the mob of the infidels halted, and the knights put spear in rest,
and ran for a while, two and two in succession, each one against
the other.

Astolfo was the first to move. He ran against Arlotto of Soria ;
and Angiolin then ran against Malducco ; and IMazzarigi the
Renegade came against Avino ; and Uliviero was borne forth by
his horse Rondel, who couldn't stand still, against Malprimo, the
first of the Captains of Falseron.

And now lances began to be painted red, without any brush
but themselves ; and the new colour extended itself to the buck-
lers, and the cuishes, and the cuirasses, and the trappings of the
steeds.

Astolfo thrust his antagonist's body out of the saddle, and his
soul into the other world ; and Angiolin gave and took a terrible
blow with Malducco ; but his horse bore him onward ; and Avino
had something of the like encounter with jMazzarigi ; but Uliviero,
thousfh he received a thrust which hurt him, sent his lance right
through the heart of Malprimo.

Falseron was daunted at this blow. " Verily," thought he,
" this is a miracle." Uliviero did not press on among the Sara-
cens, his wound was too painful ; but Orlando now put himself
and his whole band into motion, and you may guess what an up-

218 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLLES.

roar ensued. The sound of the rattling of the blows and helmets
was as if the forge of Vulcan had been thrown open. Falseron
beheld Orlando coming so furiously, that he thought him a Luci-
fer who had burst his chain, and was quite of another mind than
when he proposed to have him all to himself. On the contrary,
he recommended himself to his gods ; and turning away, begged
for a more auspicious season of revenge. But Orlando hailed
and arrested him with a terrible voice, saying, " O thou traitor !
Was this the end to which old quarrels were made up ? Dost
thou not blush, thou and thy fellow-traitor Marsilius, to have
kissed me on the cheek like a Judas, when last thou wert in

France?"

Orlando had never shewn such anger in his countenance as he
did that day. He dashed at Falseron with a fury so swift, and
at the same time a mastery of his lance so marvellous, that though
he plunged it in the man's body so as instantly to kill him, the
body did not move in the saddle. The hero himself, as he rush-
ed onwards, was fain to see the end of a stroke so perfect, and,
turning his horse back, he touched the carcass with his sword,
and it fell on the instant. They say, that it had no sooner fallen
than it disappeared. People got off their horses to lift up the body,
for it seemed to be there still, the armour being left ; but when
they came to handle the armour, it was found as empty as the
shell that is cast by a lobster. O new, and strange, and porten-
tous event ! proof manifest of the anger with which God regards
treachery.

When the first infidel army beheld their leader dead, such fear
fell upon them, that they were for leaving the field to the Pala-
dins ; but they were unable. Marsilius had drawn the rest of
his forces round the valley like a net, so that their shoulders were
turned in vain. Orlando rode into the thick of them, with Count
Anselm by his side. He rushed like a tempest ; and wherever
he went, thunderbolts fell upon helmets. The Paladins drove
here and there after them^ each making a whirlwind round about
him and a bloody circle. Uliviero was again in the 7Jielee ; and
Walter of Amulion threw himself into it ; and Baldwin roared
like a lion ; and Avino and Avolio reaped the wretches' heads
like a turnip-field : nnd blows blinded men's eyes ; and Arch-

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 219

bishop Turpin himself had changed his crozicr lor a kiiicc, and
chased a new flock before him to the mountains.

Yet what could be done against foes without number ? Multi-
tudes iill up the spaces leil by the dead without stopping. Mar.
silius, from his anxious and raging post, constantly pours them in.
Tlie Paladins are as units to thousands. Why tarry the horses
of Rinaldo and Ricciardetto ?

The horses did not tarry ; but fate had been quicker than en-
chantment. Ashtaroth, nevertheless, had presented himself to Ri-
naldo in Egypt, as though he had issued out of a flash of light-
ning. After telling his mission, and giving orders to hundreds of
invisible spirits round about him (for the air was full of them),
he and Foul-Mouth, his servant, entered the horses of Rinaldo and
Ricciardetto, which began to neigh and snort and leap with the
fiends within them, till otfthey flew through the air over the pyr-
amids, crowds of spirits going like a tempest before them. Ric-
ciardetto shut his eyes at first, on perceiving himself so high in
the air ; but he speedily became used to it, though he looked down
on the sun at last. In this manner they passed the desert, and
the sea-coast, and the ocean, and swept the tops of the Pyrenees,
Ashtaroth talking to them of wonders by the way ; for he was
one of the wisest of the devils, and knew a great many things
which were then unknown to man. He laughed, for instance, as
they went over sea^ at the notion, among other vain fancies,
that nothing was to be found beyond the pillars of Hercules ;
" for," said he, '• the earth is round, and the sea has an even sur-
face all over it ; and there are nations on the other side of the
globe, who walk with their feet opposed to yours, and worship
other eods than the Christians."

" Hah !" said Rinaldo ; " and may I ask whether they can be
saved ?"

" It is a bold tiling to ask," said the devil ; " but do you take
the Redeemer for a partisan, and fancy he died for you only ?
Be assured he died for the whole world. Antipodes and all. Per-
haps not one soul will be left out the pale of salvation at last, but
the whole human race adore the truth, and find mercy. The
Christian is the only true religion ; but Heaven loves all good-
ness that believes honestly, whatsoever the belief may be."

220 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

Rinaldo was mightily taken with the humanity of the devil's
opinions ; but they were now approaching the end of their jour-
ney, and began to hear the noise of the battle ; and he could no
longer think of any thing but the delight of being near Orlando,
and plunging into the middle of it.

" You shall be in the very heart of it instantly," said his bear-
er. ''I love you, and would fain do all you desire. Do not fancy
that all nobleness of spirit is lost among us people below. You
know what the proverb says, ' There's never a fruit, however de-
generate, but will taste of its stock.' I was of a diiferent order

of beings once, and But it is as well not to talk of happy

times. Yonder is Marsilius ; and there goes Orlando. Farewell,
and give me a place in your memory."

Rinaldo could not find words to express his sense of the devil's
good-will, nor that of Foul-Mouth himself. He said : " Ashta-
roth, I am as sorry to part with you as if you were a brother ;
and I certainly do believe that nobleness of spirit exists, as you say,
among your people below. I shall be glad to see you both some-
times, if you can come ; and I pray God (if my poor prayer be
worth any thing) that you may all repent and obtain his pardon ;
for without repentance, you know, nothing can be done for you."

" If I might suggest a favour," returned Ashtaroth, " since you
are so good as to wish to do me one, persuade Malagigi to free me
from his service, and I am yours for ever. To serve you will be
a pleasure to me. You will only have to say, ' Ashtaroth,' and
my good friend here will be with you in an instant."

" I am obliged to you," cried Rinaldo, " and so is my brother.
I will write Malagigi, not merely a letter, but a whole packet-full
of your praises ; and so I will to Orlando ; and you shall be set
free, depend on it, your company has been so perfectly agree-
able."

" Your humble servant," said Ashtaroth, and vanished with his
companion like lightning.

But thev did not jro far.

There was a little chapel by the road-side in Roncesvalles,
which had a couple of bells ; and on the top of that chapel did
the devils place themselves, in order that they might catch the
souls of the infidels as they died, and so carry them off to the in-

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 221

fernal regions. Guess if their wings had plenty to do that day !
Guess if Minos and Rhadamantlius were busy, and Charon sung
in his boat, and Lucifer hugged himself for joy. Guess, also, if
the tables in heaven groaned with nectar and anibrosia, and good
old St. Peter had a dry hair in his beard.

The two Paladins, on their horses, dropped right into the mid-
dle of the Saracens, and began making such havoc about them,
that jMarsilius, who overlooked the fight from a mountain, thought
his soldiers had turned one against the other. He therefore de-
scended in fury with his third army ; and Rinaldo, seeing him
coming, said to Ricciardetto, " We had better be off here, and
join Orlando ;" and with these w^ords, he gave his horse one turn
round before he retreated, so as to enable his sword to make a
bloody circle about him ; and stories say, that he sheared off
twenty heads in the twirl of it. He then dashed through the as-
tonished beholders towards the battle of Orlando, who guessed it
could be no other than his cousin, and almost dropped from his
liorse, out of desire to meet him. Ricciardetto followed Rinaldo ;
and Uliviero coming up at the same moment, the rapture of the
whole party is not to be expressed. They almost died for joy.
After a thousand embraces, and questions, and explanations, and
expressions of astonishment (for the infidels held aloof awhile, to
take breath from the horror and mischief they had undergone),
Orlando refreshed his little band of heroes, and then drew Rinal-
do apart, and said, " O my brother, I feel such delight at seeing
you, I can hardly persuade myself I am not dreaming. Heaven
be praised for it. I have no other wish on earth, now that I see
you before I die. Why didn't you write ? But never mind.
Here you are, and I shall not die for nothing."

" I did write," said Rinaldo, " and so did Ricciardetto ; but
villany intercepted our letters. Tell me what to do, my dear
cousin ; for time presses, and all the world is upon us."

" Gan has brought us here," said Orlando, " under pretence
of receiving tribute from Marsilius — you see of what sort ; and
Charles, poor old man, is waiting to receive his homage at the
town of St. John ! I have never seen a lucky day since you left
us. I believe I have done for Charles more than in duty bound,

222 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

and that my sins pursue me, and I and mine must all perish in
Roncesvalles."

" Look to Marsilius," exclaimed Rinaldo ; " he is right upon
us."

Marsilius was upon them, surely enough, at once furious and
frightened at the coming of the new Paladins ; for his camp, nu-
merous as it was, had not only held aloof, but turned about to fly
like herds before the lion ; so he was forced to drive them back,
and bring up his other troops, reasonably thinking that such
numbers must overwhelm at last, if they could but be kept to-
gether.

Not the less, however, for this, did the Paladins continue to
fight as if with joy. They killed and trampled wheresoevr they
went ; Rinaldo fatiguing himself with sending infinite numbers
of souls to Ashtaroth, and Orlando making a bloody passage
towards Marsilius, whom he hoped to settle as he had done
Falseron.

In the course of this his tremendous progress, the hero struck
a youth on the head, whose helmet was so good as to resist the
blow, but at the same time flew off; and Orlando seized him by
the hair to kill him. " Hold !" cried the youth, as loud as want
of breath could let him ; " you loved my father — I'm Bujaforte."

The Paladin had never seen Bujaforte ; but he saw the like-
ness to the good old Man of the Mountain, his father ; and he let
go the youth's hair, and embraced and kissed him. " O Buja-
forte !" said he ; " I loved him indeed — my good old man ; but
what does his son do here, fighting against his friend ?"

Bujaforte was a long time before he could speak for weeping.
At length he said, " Orlando, let not your noble heart be pained
with ill thoughts of my father's son. I am forced to be here by
my lord and master Marsilius. I had no friend left me in the
world, and he took me into his court, and has brought me here
before I knew what it was for ; and I have made a shew of fight-
ing, but have not hurt a single Christian. Treachery is on every
side of you. Baldwin himself has a vest given him by Mar-
silius, that every body may know the son of his friend Gan,
and do him no injury. See there — look how the lances avoid
him."

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 2t23

''Put your helmet on again," said Orlando, "and beiiave just
as you have done. Never will your father's friend be an enemy
to the son. Only take care not to come across llinaldo."

The hero then turned in fury to look for Baldwin, who was
hasteninix towards him ut that moment with friendliness in his
looks.

" 'Tis strange," said Baldwin ; " I liave done my duty as well
as I could, yet no body will come against me. I have slain right
and left, and cannot comprehend what it is that makes the stoutest
infidels avoid me."

" Take off your vest," cried Orlando, contemptuously, " and
you will soon discover the secret, if you wish to know it. Your
lather has sold us to Marsilius, all but his honourable son."

" If my flither," cried Baldwin, impetuously tearing off the
vest, " has been such a villain, and I escape dying any longer,
by God ! I will plunge this sword through his heart. But I am
no traitor, Orlando ; and you do me wrong to say it. You do
me foul dishonour, and I'll not survive it. Never more shall
you behold me alive."

Baldwin spurred off into the fight, not v.aiting to hear another
word from Orlando, but constantly crying out, " You have done
me dishonour ;" and Orlando was very sorry for what he had
said, for he perceived that the youth was in despair.

And now the fiorht ra7ed bevond all it had done before : and
the Paladins themselves began to fall, the enemy were driven
forward in such multitudes by Marsilius. There was unhorsing
of foes, and re-seating of friends, and great cries, and anguish,
and unceasing labour ; and twenty Pagans went down for one
Christian ; but still the Christians fell. One Paladin disappeared
after another, havinjr too much to do for mortal men. Some
could not make way through the press for very fatigue of killing,
and others were liampered with the falling horses and men.
Sansonetto was thus beaten to earth by the club of Grandonio ;
and \V^alter d'Amulion had his shoulders broken ; and Angiolin
of Bayonxi, having lost his lance, was thrust down by Marsilius,
and Angiolin of Bellonda by Sirionne ; and Berlinghieri and Ot-
tone are gone ; and then Astolfo went, in revenge of whose death
Orlando turned the spot on which he died into a gulf of Saracen

224 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

blood. Rinaldo met the luckless Bujaforte, who had just begun
to explain how he seemed to be fighting on the side which his
father hated, when the impatient hero exclaimed, " He who is
not with me is against me ;" and gave him a volley of such hor-
rible cuffs about the head and ears, that Bujaforte died without
being able to speak another word. Orlando, cutting his way to a
spot in which there was a great struggle and uproar, found the
poor youth Baldwin, the son of Gan, with two spears in his
breast. " I am no traitor now," said Baldwin ; and so saying,
fell dead to the earth ; and Orlando lilted up his voice and wept,
for he was bitterly sorry to have been the cause of his death.
He then joined Rinaldo in the hottest of the tumult ; and all the
surviving Paladins 2:athered about them, includina: Turpin the
archbishop, who fought as hardily as the rest ; and the slaughter
was lavish and horrible, so that the eddies of the wind chucked
the blood into the air, and earth appeared a very see thing-caul-
dron of hell. At length down went Uliviero himself. He had
become blind witli his own blood, and smitten Orlando without
knowing him, who had never received such a blow in his life.

" How now, cousin !" cried Orlando ; •• have you too gone over
to the enemy ?'"'

" O, my lord and master, Orlando,'" cried tlie other, " I ask
your pardon, if I have struck you. I can see notliing — I am
dying. The traitor Arcaliffe has stabbed me in the back ; but I
killed him for it. If you love me. lead my horse into tlie thick ot
them, so tiiat I mav not die unavenged.'"'

" I shall die mvsclf before Ions:." said Orlando, " out of verv
toil and grief; so we will go together. I have lost all hope, all
pride, all wish to live any longer : but not my love for Uliviero.
Come — let us give them a few blows yet ; let them see what you
can do with your dying hands. One faith, one death, one only
wish be ours."

Orlando led his cousin's horse where the press was thickest,
and dreadful was the strength of the dvins: man and of his half-
dying companion. They made a street, through which they pass-
ed out of tlie battle ; and Orlando led his cousin awav to his tent,
and said. " Wait a little till I return, tor I will so and sound the
horn on the hill yonder."

THE IJAriLE OF RONCESVALLl>'. 99i

" 'Tis of no use," said Uliviero ; " and my «p.rit is faijt going,
and desires to be with its l^ord and Saviour.'* He would have
said more, but his words came from him imperfectly, like those
of a man m a dream ; only his cousin gathered that he meant to
commend to him his sister, Orlando's wife, Alda the Fair, of whom
indo<-d the great Paladin had not thought so much in this world
as he might have done. And with these ini[>erfect words he ex-
j»ired.

But Orlando no sooner saw him deafl, than he felt as if he was
left alone on the earth ; and he was quite willing to leave it ;
only he wished that Charles at St. John Pied de Port should hear
how the case stood l>eforc he went ; and so he took up the horn,
and blew it three times with such force that the blood burst out of
his nose and mouth. Turpin says, that at the third blast the horn
broke in two.

In spite of all the noLse of the battle, the sound of the horn broke
over it like a voice out of the other world. They say that bird«
fell dead at it, and that the whole Saracen army drew back in
terror. But fearfuller still was its effect at St. John Pied de Port.
Charlemagne was sitting in the rnidst of his court when the sound
reached him ; and Gan was there. The emperor was t^ie first to
hear it.

" Do you hear that ?" said he to his nobles. " Did you hear
the horn, as I heard it ?"

Upon this they all listened ; and Gan felt his heart misgive him.

The horn sounded the second time.

" What is the meaning of this?" said Charles.

" Orlando is hunting," observed Gan, " and the stag is kill-
ed. He is at the old pastime that he was so fond of in Aspra-
rnonte."

But when the horn sounded yet a third time, and the blast was
one of so dreadful a vehemence, every body looker! at the other,
and then they all looked at Gan in fury. Charles rose from his
Beat. " This is no hunting of the stag," said he. " The sound
goes to my verj' heart, and, I confess, makes rne tremble. I am
awakened out of a great dream. O Gan ! O Gan ! Not for
thee do I blush, but for myself, and for nobody else. O my God,
what is to be done ! But whatever is to be done, must be done

226 IHE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

quickly. Take this villain, gentlemen, and keep him in hard
prison. O foul and monstrous villain ! Would to God I had not
lived to see this day ! O obstinate and enormous folly ! O Mal-
agigi, had I but believed thy foresight ! 'Tis thou wert the wise
man, and I the grey-headed fool."

Ogier the Dane, and Namo and others, in the bitterness of their
grief and anger, could not help reminding the emperor of all which
they had foretold. But it was no time for words. They put the
traitor into prison ; and then Charles, with all his court, took his
way to Roncesvalles, grieving and praying.

It was afternoon when the horn sounded, and half an hour af-
ter it when the emperor set out ; and meantime Orlando had re-
turned to the fight that he might do his duty, however hopeless,
as long as he could sit his horse, and the Paladins were now re-
duced to four ; and though the Saracens suffered themselves to
be mowed down like grass by them and their little band, he found
his end approaching for toil and fever, and so at length he with-
drew out of the fight, and rode all alone to a fountain which he
knew of, where he had before quenched his thirst.

His horse was wearier still than he, and no sooner had its mas-
ter alighted, than the beast, kneeling down as if to take leave, and
to say, '•' I have brought you to your place of rest," fell dead at
his feet. Orlando cast water on him from the fountain, not wish-
ing to believe him dead ; but when he found it to no purpose, he
grieved for him as if he had been a human being, and addressed
him by name in tears, and asked forgiveness if ever he had done
him wrong. They say, that the horse at these words once more
opened his eyes a little, and looked kindly at his master, and so
stirred never more.

They say also that Orlando then, summoning all his strength,
smote a rock near him with his beautiful sword Durlindana, think-
ing to shiver the steel in pieces, and so prevent its falling into the
hands of the enemy ; but though the rock split like a slate, and a
deep fissure remained ever after to astonish the eyes of pilgrims,
the sword remained unhurt.

" O strong Durlindana," cried he, " O noble and worthy sword,
had I known thee from the first as I know thee now, never would
I have been brought to this pass."

THE BArrLE OF ROxNCESVALLES. 22?

And now Riiuildo and Ricciardctto and Turj)in came up, liav-
ing given chase to tlie Saracens till they were weary, and Orlando
gave joyful welcome to his cousin, and they told him how the
battle was won, and then Orlando knelt before Turpin, his face all
in tears, and begged remission of his sins, and confessed them,
and Turpin gave him absolution ; and suddenly a light came
down upon him from heaven like a rainbow, accompanied witli a
sound of music, and an angel stood in the air blessing him, and
then disappeared ; upon which Orlando fixed his eyes on the hilt
of his sword as on a crucifix, and embraced it and said, " Lord,
vouchsafe that I may look on this poor instrument as on the
symbol of the tree upon which Thou sufferedst thy unspeakable
martyrdom !" and so adjusting the sword to his bosom, and em-
bracing it closer, he raised his eyes, and appeared like a creature
seraphical and transfigured ; and in bowing his head he breathed
out his pure soul. A thunder was then heard in the heavens, and
the heavens opened and seemed to stoop to the earth, and a flock
of angels was seen like a white cloud ascending with his spirit,
who were known to be what they were by the trembling of their
wings. The white cloud shot out golden fires, so that the whole
air was full of them ; and the voices of the angels mingled in
song with the instruments of their brethren above, which made an
inexpressible harmony, at once deep and dulcet. The priestly
warrior Turpin, and the two Paladins, and the hero's squire Te-
rigi, who were all on their knees, forgot their own beings, in
following the miracle with their eyes.

It was now the office of that squire to take horse and ride off
to the emperor at St. John Pied de Port, and tell him of all that
had occurred ; but in spite of what he had just seen, he lay for a
time overwhelmed with grief. He then rose, and mounted his
steed, and left the Paladins and the archbishop with the dead
body, who knelt about it, guarding it with weeping love.

The good squire Terigi met the the emperor and his cavalcade
comincr towards Roncesvalles, and alighted and fell on his knees,
telling him the miserable news, and how all his people were
slain but two of his Paladins, and himself, and the good arch-
bishop. Charles for anguish began tearing his while locks ; but
Terigi comforted him against so doing, by giving an account of

228 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

the manner of Orlando's death, and how he had surely gone to
heaven. Nevertheless, the squire himself was broken-hearted
with grief and toil ; and he had scarcely added a denouncement
of the traitor Gan, and a hope that the emperor would appease
Heaven finally by giving his body to the winds, than he said,
" The cold of death is upon me ;" and so he fell dead at the em-
peror's feet.

Charles was ready to drop from his saddle for wretchedness.
He cried out, " Let nobody comfort me more. I will have no
comfort. Cursed be Gan, and cursed this horrible day, and this
place, and every thing. Let us go on, like blind miserable men
that we are, into Roncesvalles ; and have patience if we can, out
of pure misery, like Job, till we do ail that can be done."

So Charles rode on with his nobles ; and they say, that for the
sake of the champion of Christendom and the martyrs that died
with him, the sun stood still in the sky till the emperor had seen
Orlando, and till the dead were buried.

Horrible to his eyes was the sight of the field of Roncesvalles.
The Saracens, indeed, had forsaken it, conquered ; but all his Pala-
dins but two were lefi; on it dead ; and the slaughtered heaps among
which they lay made the whole valley like a great dumb slaugh-
ter-house, trampled up into blood and dirt, and reeking to the heat.
The very trees were dropping with blood ; and every thing, so to
speak, seemed tired out, and gone to a horrible sleep.

Charles trembled to his heart's core for wonder and agony.
After dumbly gazing on the place, he again cursed it with a sol-
emn curse, and wished that never grass might grow within it
again, nor seed of any kind, neither within it, nor on any of its
mountains around with their proud shoulders ; but the anger of
Heaven abide over it for ever, as on a pit made by hell upon
earth.

Then he rode on, and came up to where the body of Orlando
awaited him with the Paladins, and the old man, weeping, threw
himself as if he had been a reckless youth from his horse, and
embraced and kissed the dead body, and said, " I bless thee, Or-
lando. I bless thy whole life, and all that thou wast, and all that
thou ever didst, and thy mighty and holy valour, and the father
that begot thee j and I ask pardon of thee for believing those

THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES. 239

who broiiglit tlicc to thine end. They slitiU have their rcwunl,
O thou beloved one ! But, indeed, it is thou thut livcst, and I
that am worse than dead,"

And now, beliokl a wonder. For the emperor, in the fervour of
his heart and of the memory of what had passed between tliem,
caHed to mind that Orhmdo had promised to give him his sword,
shoukl he die before him ; and he lifted up his voice more brave-
ly, and adjured him even now to return it to him gladly ; and it
pleased God that the dead body of Orlando should rise on its feet,
and kneel as he was wont to do at the feet of his liege lord, and
gladly, and with a smile on its face, return the sword to tlie Em-
peror Charles. As Orlando rose, the Paladins and Turpin knelt
down out of fear and horror, especially seeing him look with a
stern countenance ; but when they saw that he knelt also, and
smiled, and returned the sword, their hearts became re-assured,
and Charles took the sword like his liege lord, though trembling
with wonder and atfection : and in truth he could hardly clench
his fmgers around it.

Orlando was buried in a great sepulchre in Aquisgrana, and
the dead Paladins were all embalmed and sent with majestic cav-
alcades to their respective counties and principalities, and every
Christian was honourably and reverently put in the earth, and
recorded among the martyrs of the Church.

But meantime the flying Saracens, thinking to bury their own
dead, and ignorant of what still awaited them, came back into the
valley, and Rinaldo beheld them with a dreadful joy, and shewed
them to Charles. Now the emperor's cavalcade had increased
every moment ; and they fell upon the Saracens with a new
and unexpected battle, and the old emperor, addressing the sword
of Orlando, exclaimed, " My strength is little, but do thou do thy
duty to thy master, thou famous sword, seeing that he returned it
to me smiling, and that his revenge is in my hands." And so
saying, he met Balugante, the leader of the infidels, as he came
borne along by his frightened horse ; and the old man, raising
the sword with both hands, cleaved him, with a delighted mind, to
the chin.

O sacred Emperor Charles ! O well-lived old man ! Defender
of the Faith ! light and glory of the old time ! thou hast cut oil

PART II. 3

230 THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

the other ear of Malchus, and shewn how rightly thou wert born
into the world, to save it a second time from the abyss.

Again fled the Saracens, never to come to Christendom more :
but Charles went after them into Spain, he and Rinaldo and Ric-
ciardetto and the good Turpin ; and they took and fired Sara-
gossa ; and Marsilius was hung to the carob-tree under which he
had planned his villany with Gan ; and Gan was hung, and
drawn and quartered, in Roncesvalles, amidst the execrations of
the country.

And if you ask, how it happened that Charles ever put faith in
such a wretch, I shall tell you that it was because the good old
emperor, with all his faults, was a divine man, and believed in
others out of the excellence of his own heart and truth. And such
was the case with Orlando himself.

BOIARDO:

Critical Notice of Ijis £ifc aixb ©cuius.

CRITICAL NOTICE

BOIARDO'S LIFE AND GENIUS.

While Puici in Florence was elevating romance out of tlie
street-ballads, and laying the foundation of the chivalrous epic, a
poet appeared in Lombardy (whether inspired by his example is
uncertain) who was destined to carry it to a graver though still
cheerful height, and prepare the way for the crowning glories of
Ariosto. lo some respects he even excelled Ariosto : in all, with
the exception of style, shewed himself a genuine though imma-
ture master.

Little is known of his life, but that little is very pleasant. It
exhibits him in the rare light of a poet who was at once rich, ro-
mantic, an Arcadian and a man of the world, a feudal lord and
an indulgent philosopher, a courtier equally beloved by prince
and people.

]\Iatteo Maria Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, Lord of Arceto,
Casalgrande, (Sec, Governor of Reggio, and Captain of the cita-
del of Modena (it is pleasant to repeat such titles when so adorn-

* The materials for the biogra})liy in this notice liavc been gathered from
Tiraboschi and others, but more immediately from the copious critical memoir
from the pen of Mr. Paiiizzi, in that gentleman's admirable edition of the com-
bined poems of Boiardo and Ariosto, in nine volumes octavo, published by Mr.
Pickerin<T. I have been under obligations to this work in the notice of PuIl-i,
and shall again be so in that of Boiardo's successor; but I must not a third time
run the risk of omitting to give it my thanks (such as they are), and of earnestly
recommending every lover of Italian poetry, who can afford it, to possess him-
self of tills learrned, entertaining, and only satisfactory edition of either of the
Orlanilos. The author writes an Enghsh almost as correct as it is elegant; and
he is as painstaking as he is lively.

234 BOIARDO.

ed), is understood to Imve been born about the year 1434, at
Scandiano, a cas'de at the foot of the Apennines, not far from
Regeio, and famous for its vines.

He was of an ancient family, once lords of Rubiera, and son
of Giovanni, second count of Scandiano, and Lucia, a lady of
a branch of the Strozzi family in Florence, and sister and aunt
of Tito and Erole Strozzi, celebrated Latin poets. His parents
appear to have been wise people, for they gave him an education
that fitted him equally for public and private life. He was even
taught, or acquired, more Greek than was common to the men
of letters of that age. His whole life seems, accordingly, to
have been divided, with equal success, between his duties as a
servant of the dukes of Modena, both military and civil, and the
prosecution of his beloved art of poetry, — a combination of pur-
suits which have been idly supposed incompatible. Milton's
poetry did not hinder him from being secretary to Cromwell, and
an active partisan. Even the sequestered Spenser was a states-
man ; and poets and writers of fiction abound in the political his-
tories of all the great nations of Europe. When a man possess-
es a thorough insight into any one intellectual department (ex-
cept, perhaps, in certain corners of science), it only sharpens his
powers of perception for the others, if he chooses to apply them.

In the year 1469, Boiardo was one of the noblemen who went
to meet the Emperor Frederick the Third on his way to Ferrara,
when Duke Borso of Modena entertained him in that city. Two
years afterwards, Borso, who had been only Marquis of Ferrara,
received its ducal title from the Pope ; and on going to Rome to
be invested with his new honours, the name of our poet is again
found among the adorners of his state. A few days after his re-
turn home this prince died ; and Boiardo, favoured as he had
been by him, appears to have succeeded to a double portion of
regard in the friendship of the new duke, Ercole, who was more
of his own age.

During all this period, from his youth to his prime, our author
varied his occupations with Italian and Latin poetry ; some of it
addressed to a lady of the name of Antonia Caprara, and some
to another, whose name is thought to have been Rosa ; but whe-
ther -these ladies died, or his love was diverted elsewhere, he took

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 235

to wife, ill the year 1472, Taddca Gonzaga, of the noble liouse
of that name, daughter of the Count of NoveHara. In the
course of the same year he is supposed to have begun his
great poem. A popular court favourite, in the prime of life,
marrying and commencing a great poem nearly at one and the
same time, presents an image of prosperity singularly delightful.
By this lady Boiardo had two sons and four daughters. The
vounscr son, Francesco Maria, died in his childhood : but tlie
elder, Camillo, succeeded to his father's title, and left an heir to
it, — the last, I believe, of the name. The reception given to the
poet's bride, when he took her to Scandiano, is said to have been
very splendid.

In the cnsuinor year the duke his master took a wife himself.
She was Eleonora, daughter of the King of Naples: and the
newly-married poet was among the noblemen who were sent to
escort her to Ferrara. For several years afterwards, his time
was probably filled up with the composition of the Orlando In-
7iamoralo, and the entertainments given by a splendid court. He
was appointed Governor of Reggio, probably in 1478. At the
expiration of two or three years he was made Captain of the cit-
adel of Modena ; and in 1482 a war broke out with the Vene-
tians, in which he took part, for it interrupted the progress of
his poem. In 1484 he returned to it; but ten years afterwards
was again and finally interrupted by the unprincipled descent of
the French on Italy under Charles the Eighth ; and in the De-
cember following he died. The Orlando Innamorato was thus
left unfinished. Eight years before his decease the author pub-
lished what he had written of it up to that time, but the first
complete edition was posthumous. The poet was writing when
the French came : he breaks off with an anxious and bitter no-
tice of the interruption, though still unable to deny himself a
last word on the episode which he was relating, and a hope that
lie should conclude it another time.

" Mcntrc chc io canto, o Dio rcdcntorc,
Vcilo r Italia tutta a fiamma c foco,
Per questi Galli, che con gran valore
Vcngon, per disertar non so che loco :

236 BOIARDO.

Per6 vi lascio in questo vano amore

Di Fiordespina ardente poco a poco:
Un' altra volta, se mi iia concesso,
Racconterovvi il tutto per espresso."

But while I sing, mine eyes, great God ! behold

A flaming fire light all the Italian sky,
Brouo"ht by these French, who, with their myriads bold,

Come to lay waste, I know not where or why.
Therefore, at present, I must leave untold

How love misled poor Fiordespina's eye.*
Another time, Fate willing, I shall tell.

From first to last, how every thing befell,

/ Besides the Orlando Innamorato, Boiardo wrote a variety of
prose works, a comedy in verse on the subject of Timon, lyrics
of great elegance, with a vein of natural feeling running through
them, and Latin poetry of a like sort, not, indeed, as classical in
its style as that of Politian and the other subsequent revivers of
the ancient manner, but perhaps not the less interesting on that
account ; for it is difficult to conceive a thorough copyist in style
expressing his own thorough feelings. Mr. Panizzi, if I am not
mistaken, promised the world a collection of the miscellaneous
poems of Boiardo ; but we have not yet had the pleasure of see-
ing them. In his life of the poet, however, he has given several
specimens, both Latin and Italian, which are extremely agreeable.

^s The Latin poems consist of ten eclogues and a few epigrams ;
but the epigrams, this critic tells us, are neither good nor on a fit-
ting subject, being satirical sallies against Nicolo of Este, who
had attempted to seize on Ferrara, and been beheaded. Boiardo
was not of a nature qualified to indulge in bitterness. A man of
his chivalrous disposition probably misgave himself while he was
writing these epigrams. Perhaps he suffered them to escape his
pen out of friendship for the reigning branch of the family. But
it must be confessed, that some of the best-natured men have too
often lost sight of their higher feelings during the pleasure and
pride of composition.

With respect to the comedy of Timon, if the whole of it is writ-

-^ ten as well as the concluding address of the misanthrope (which

* She had taken a damsel m male attire for a man.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 237

Mr. Panizzi has extracted into his pages), it must be very pleas-
ant. Timon conceals a treasure in a tomb, and thinks he has
balHed some knaves who had a design upon it. He therefore
takes leave of his audience with the following benedictions :

'• Pur ho scacciatc qiieste due formiche,
Che raspav;mo 1' oro alia niia buca,
Or vadan pur, che Dio Ic malediche.

Cotal fortuna a casa li conduca.
Clie lor fiacchi le gambe al priiuo passo,
E ncl secondo 1' osso della nuca.

Voi altri, che ascoltate giuso al basso,
Chiedete, se volete alcuna cosa,
Prima ch' io parta, pcrchfe mo vi lasso.

Bench 6 abbia 1' alma irata e disdegnosa,
Da inmusti oltraggi combattuta e vinta,
A voi gift, non 1' avr6 tanto ritrosa.

In me non b pictade al tutto estinta :
Faccia di voi la prova clii gli pare,
Sino alia corda, che mi trovo cinta ;

Gli prester6, volendosi impiccarc."

So ! I've got rid of these two creeping things,
That fain would have scratched up my buried gold.
They're gone; and may the curse of God go with them!
May they reach home just in good time enough
To break their legs at the first step in doors,
And necks i' the second ! — And now then, as to you,
Good audience, — groundlings, — folks who love low places,
You too perhaps would fain get something of me,
Ere I take leave. — Well ; — angered though I be,
Scornful and torn with race at being ground
Into the dust with wrong, I'm not so lost
To all concern and charity for others
As not to be still kind enough to part
With something near to me — something that's wound
About my very self Here, sirs ; mark this ; —

[ Untying the cord round his xcaist.
Let any that would put me to the test.
Take it with all my heart, and hang themselves.

The comedy of Timon, which was chiefly taken from Lucian,
and one, if not more, of Boiardo's prose translations from other

238 EOIARDO.

ancients, were written at the request of Duke Ercole, who was a
great lover of dramatic versions of this kind, and built a theatre
for their exhibition at an enormous expense. These prose trans,
lations consist of Apuleius's Golden Ass, Herodotus (the Duke's
order), the Golden Ass of Lucian, Xenophon's Cyropmdia (not
printed), Emilius Probus (also not printed, and supposed to be
Cornelius Nepos), and Riccobaldo's credulous Historia Univer-
salis, with additions. It seems not improbable, that he also trans-
lated Homer and Diodorus ; and Doni the bookmaker asserts, that
he wrote a work called the Testamento delV Anima (the Soul's
Testament) : but Mr. Panizzi calls Doni " a barefaced impostor ;"
and says, that as the work is mentioned by nobody else, we may
be " certain that it never existed," and that the title was " a for-
gery of the impudent priest."

Nothing else of Boiardo's writing; is known to exist, but a col-
lection of official letters in the archives of Modena, which, accord-
ing to Tiraboschi, are of no great importance. It is difficult to
suppose, however, that they would not be worth looking at. The
author of the Orlando Innamorato could hardly write, even upon
the driest matters of government, with the aridity of a common
clerk. Some little lurking well-head of character or circum-
stance, interesting to readers of a later age, would probably break
through the barren ground. Perhaps the letters went counter to
some of the good Jesuit's theology.

Boiardo's prose translations from the authors of antiquity are
so scarce, that Mr. Panizzi himself, a learned and miscellaneous
reader, says he never saw them.* I am willing to get the only
advantage in my power over an Italian critic, by saying that I
have had some of them in my hands, — brought there by the pleas-
ant chances of the bookstalls ; but I can give no account of them.
A modern critic, quoted by this gentleman (Gamba, Testi di Lin-
gua), calls the version of Apuleius "rude and curious;" but
adds, that it contains " expressions full of liveliness and propri-
ety." By "rude" is probably meant obsolete, and compara-
tively unlearned. Correctness of interpretation and classical

* Crescimbeni himself had not seen the translation from Apuleius, nor, ap-
parently, several others. — Commentari. t^*c. vol. ii. part ii. lib. vii. sect. xi.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 230

nicety of style (as Mr. Panizzi observes) were tlic growths of a
later age.

Nothing is told us by his biographers of tlie person of Boiardo :
and it is not safe to determine a man's phijsiq^uc from his writings,
unless perliaps with respect to the greater or less amount of his
animal spirits ; for the able-bodied may Write effeminately, and
the feeblest supply the defect of corporal stamina witli spiritual.
Portraits, liowever, seem to be extant. IMazzuchelli discovered
that a medal had been struck in the poet's honour ; and in the
castle of Scandiano (though " the halls where knights and ladies
listened to the adventures of the Paladin are now turned into
granaries," and Orlando himself has nearly disappeared from the
outside, wliere he was painted in huge dimensions as if " en-
trusted with the wardenship") there was a likeness of Boiardo
executed by Niccolo dell' Abate, together with tlie principal
events of the Orhindo Innamorato and the J^neid. But part of
these paintings (Mr. Panizzi tells us) were destroyed, and part
removed from the castle to Modena " to save them from certain
loss;'"' and he docs not add whether the portrait was among the
latter.

From anecdotes, however, and from the poet's writings, we
gather the nature of the man ; and this appears to have been
very amiable. There is an aristocratic tone in his poem, when
speaking of the sort of people of whom the mass of soldiers is
wont to consist ; and Foscolo says, that the Count of Scandiano
v/rites like a feudal lord. But common soldiers are not apt to be
the elite of mankind ; neither do we know with how good-natured
a smile the mention of them may have been accompanied. Peo-
ple often give a tone to what they read, more belonging to their
own minds than the author's. All the accounts left us of Boiar-
do, hostile as well as friendly, prove him to have been an indul-
gent and popular man. According to one, he was fond of making
personal inquiries among its inhabitants into the history of his na-
tive place ; and he requited them so generously for their infor-
mation, that it was customary with them to say, when they wished
good fortune to one another, " Heaven send Boiardo to your
house !" There is ^aid to have been a tradition at Scandiano,
that having tried in vain one day, as he was riding out, to dis-

240 BOIARDO.

cover a name for one of his heroes, expressive of his lofty char-
acter, and the word Rodamonie coming into his head, he galloped
back with a pleasant ostentation to his castle, crying it out aloud,
and ordering the bells of the place to be rung in its honour ; to
the astonishment of the good people, who took " Rodamonte" for
some newly-discovered saint. His friend Paganelli of Modena,
who wrote a Latin poem on the Empire of Cupid, extolled the
Governor of Reggio for ranking among the deity's most generous
vassals, — one who, in spite of his office of magistrate, looked with
an indulgent eye on errors to which himself was liable, and who
was accustomed to prefer the study of love-verses to that of the
law. The learned lawyer, his countryman Panciroli, probably
in resentment, as Panizzi says, of this preference, accused him of
an excess of benignity, and of being fitter for writing poems than
punishing ill deeds ; and in truth, as the same critic observes,
•'' he must have been considered crazy by the whole tribe of law-
yers of that age," if it be true that he anticipated the opinion of
Beccaria, in thinking that no crime ought to be punished with death.
The great work of this interesting and accomplished person,
the Orlando Innamorato, is an epic romance, founded on the love
of the great Paladin for the peerless beauty Angelica, whose name
has enamoured the ears of posterity. The poem introduces us to
the pleasantest paths in that track of reading in which Milton has
told us that his " young feet delighted to wander." Nor did he
forsake it in his age.

" Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp,
When Agrican with all his northern powers
Besieged Albracca, as romances tell.
The city of Gallaphrone, from whence to win
The fairest of her sex, Angelica." — Paradise Regained.

The Orlando Innamorato may be divided into three principal
I portions : — the search for Angelica by Orlando and her other
I lovers; the siege of her father's city Albracca by the Tartars;
and that of Paris and Charlemagne by the Moors. These, ho\f-
ever, are all more or less intermingled, and with the greatest
art ; and there are numerous episodes of a like intertexture.
The fairies and fairy-gardens of British romance, and the fabu-
lous glories of the house of Este, now proclaimed for the first

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 241

time, were added by the author to the encliantments of Pulci, to-
gether with a pervading elegance ; and had tlie poem been com-
pleted, we were to have heard again of the traitor Gan of Ma-
ganza, for the purpose of exalting the imaginary founder of that
house, Ruggero.

This resuscitation of the Helen of antiquity, under a more scdu-.
cing form, was an invention of Boiardo's ; so was the subjection
of Charles's hero Orlando to the passion of love ; so, besides the
heroine and her name, was that of other interesting characters
with beautiful names, which afterwards figured in Ariosto. This
inventive faculty is indeed so conspicuous in every part of the
work, on small as well as great occasions, in fairy-adventures
and those of flesh and blood, that although the author appears to
have had both his loves and his fairies suggested to him by our
romances of Arthur and the Round Table, it constitutes, next to
the pervading elegance above mentioned, his chief claim to our
admiration. Another of his merits is a certain tender gallantry,
or rather an honest admixture of animal passion with spiritual,
also the precursor of the like ingenuous emotions in Ariosto ; and
he furthermore set his follower the example, not only of good
breeding, but of a constant heroical cheerfulness, looking with
faith on nature. Pulci has a constant cheerfulness, but not with
S3 much grace and dignity. Foscolo has remarked, that Boiar-
do's characters even surpass those of Ariosto in truth and variety,
and that his Angelica more engages our feelings ;* to which I
will venture to add, that if his style is less strong and complete,
it never gives us a sense of elaboration. I should take Boiardo to
have been the healthier man, though of a less determined will than
Ariosto, and perhaps, on the whole, less robust. You find in Bo-
iardo almost all which Ariosto perfected, — chivalry, battles, com-
bats, loves and graces, passions, enchantments, classical and ro-
mantic fable, eulogy, satire, mirth, pathos, philosophy. It is like
the first sketch of a great picture, not the worse in some respects
for being a sketch ; free and light, though not so grandly colour-
ed. It is the morning before the sun is up, and when the dew is
on the grass. Take the stories which are translated in the pres-

* Article on the Narrative and Romantic Poems of the Italians, in the Quar-
terly Rerieic, No. G2, p. 527.

242 BOIARDO.

ent volume, and you might fancy them all written by Ariosto,
with a difference ; the Death of Agrican perhaps with minuter
touches of nature, but certainly not with greater simplicity and
earnestness. In the Saracen Friends there is just Ariosto's bal-
ance of passion and levity ; and in the story which I have enti-
tled Seeing and Believing, his exhibition of triumphant cunning.
During the lives of Pulci and Boiardo, the fierce passions and
severe ethics of Dante had been gradually giving way to a gent-
ler and laxer state of opinion before the progress of luxury ; and
though Boiardo's enamoured Paladin retains a kind of virtue not
common in any age to the heroes of warfare, the lord of Scan-
diano, who appears to have recited his poem, sometimes to his vas-
sals and sometimes to the ducal circle at court, intimates a smi-
ling suspicion that such a virtue would be considered a little rude
and obsolete by his hearers. Pulci's wandering gallant, Uliviero,
who in Dante's time would have been a scandalous profligate,
had become the prototype of the court-lover in Boiardo's. The
poet, however, in his most favourite cliaracters, retained and rec-
ommended a truer sentiment, as in the instance of the loves of
Brandimart and Fiordelisa ; and there is a graceful cheerfulness
in some of his least sentimental ones, which redeems them from
grossness. I know not a more charming fancy in the whole lov-
ing circle of fairy-land, than the female's shaking her long tress-
es round Mandricardo, in order to furnish him with a mantle,
when he issues out of the enchanted fountain.*

* "E' suoi capelli a se sciolse di testa,
Che n' avea molti la dama gioconda;
Ed, abbracciato il cavalier con festa,
Tutto il coperse de la treccia bionda :
Cosi, nascosi entrambi di tal vesta,
Uscir' di quella fonte e la bell' onda."

Her locks she loosened from her lovely head,
For many and long had that same lady fair ;
And clasping him in mirth as round they spread,
Covered the knight with the sweet shaken hair :
And so, thus both to^rether (Tormented,
They issued from the fount to the fresh air.

Readers of the Faerie Queeiie will here see where Spenser has been, among his
other visits to the Bowers of Bliss.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. ^13

But Boiardo's poein was unfinislied : there are many prosaical
passages in it, many lame and liarsli lines, incorrect and even
ungranuiiatical expressions, trivial images, and, above all, many
Lombard provincialisms, which are not in their nature of a "sig-
nificant or graceful" sort,* and which shocked the fastidious Flor-
entines, the arbiters of Italian taste. It was to avoid these in his
own poetry, that Boiardo's countryman Ariosto carefully studied
the Tuscan dialect, if not visited Florence itself; and the conse-
quence was, that his greater genius so obscured the popularity of
his predecessor, that a remarkable process, unique in the history of
letters, appears to have been thought necessary to restore its perusal.
The facetious Berni, a Tuscan wit full of genius, without omitting
any particulars of consequence, or adding a single story except of
himself, re-cast the whole poem of Boiardo, altering the diction
of almost every stanza, and supplying introductions to the cantos
after the manner of Ariosto ; and the Florentine idiom and unfail-
ing spirit of this re-fashioner's verse (though, what is very curi-
ous, not till after a long ciiance of its being overlooked itself, and
a posthumous editorship which has left doubts on the authority of
the text) gradually effaced almost the very mention of the man's
name who had supplied him with the whole staple commodity of
his book, with all the heart of its interest, and with far the great-
er part of the actual words. The first edition of Berni was pro-
hibited in consequence of its containing a severe attack on the
clergy ; but even the prohibition did not help to make it popular.
The reader may imagine a^ similar occurrence in England, by
supposing that Dryden had re-written the whole of Chaucer, and
that his reconstruction had in the course of time as much surpass-
ed the original in popularity, as his version of the Flower and the
Lenf did, up to the beginning of the present century.

I do not mean to compare Chaucer with Boiardo, or Dryden
with Berni. Fine poet as I think Boiardo, I hold Chaucer to be
a far finer ; and spirited, and in some respects admirable, as are
Dryden's versions of Chaucer, they do not equal that of Boiardo
by the Tuscan. Dryden did not apprehend the sentiment of
Chaucer in any such degree as Berni did that of his original.

* Foscolo, ut sup. p. 528.

244 BOIARDO.

Indeed, Mr. Panizzi himself, to whom the world is indebted both
for the only good edition of Boiardo and for the knowledge of the
most curious facts respecting Berni's rifacimento, declares himself
unable to pronounce which of the two poems is the better one, the
original Boiardo, or the re-modelled. It would therefore not very-
well become a foreigner to give a verdict, even if he were able ;
and I confess, after no little consideration (and apart, of course,
from questions of dialect, which I cannot pretend to look into), I
feel myself almost entirely at a loss to conjecture on which side
the superiority lies, except in point of invention and a certain
early simplicity. The advantage in those two respects unques-
tionably belongs to Boiardo ; and a great one it is, and may not
unreasonably be supposed to settle the rest of the question in his
favour ; and yet Berni's fancy, during a more sophisticate period
of Italian manners, exhibited itself so abundantly in his own witty
poems, his pen at all times has such a charming facility, and he
proved himself, in his version of Boiardo, to have so strong a sym-
pathy with the earnestness and sentiment of his original in his
gravest moments, that I cannot help thinking the two men would
have been each what the other was in their respective times ; —
the Lombard the comparative idler, given more to witty than, se-
rious invention, under a corrupt Roman court ; and the Tuscan
the originator of romantic fictions, in a court more suited to him
than the one he avowedly despised. I look upon them as two
men singularly well matched. The nature of the present work
does not require, and the limits to which it is confined do not per-
mit, me to indulge myself in a comparison between them corrob-
orated by proofs ; but it is impossible not to notice the connexion :
and therefore, begging the reader's pardon for the sorry substitute
of affirmative for demonstrative criticism, I may be allowed to
say, that if Boiardo has the praise of invention to himself, Berni
thoroughly appreciated and even enriched it ; that if Boiardo has
sometimes a more thoroughly charming simplicity, Berni still ap-
preciates it so well, that the difference of their times is sufficient
to restore the claim of equality of feeling ; and finally, that if
Berni strengthens and adorns the interest of the composition with
more felicitous expressions, and with a variety of lively and beau-
tiful trains of thought, you feel that Boiardo was quite capable

HIS LIFE AND Gi:ML\S 'ilS

of them all, and might have done precisely the same had he lived
in Berni's age. in the greater part of the poem the original is
altered in notliing except diction, and often (so at least it seems to
me) for no other reason than the requirements of tiie Tuscan man-
ner. And this is the case with most of the noblest, and even the
liveliest j)assages. My first acquaintance, for example, with the
Orlando Inuamoraio was through the medium of Bcrni ; and on
turning to those stories in his version, which I have translated
from his original for the present volume, I found that every pas-
sage but one, to which I had given a mark of admiration, was the
property of the old poet. That single one, however, was in the
exquisitest taste, full of as deep a feeling as any thing in its com-
pany (I have noticed it in the translated passage). And then, in
the celebrated introductions to his cantos, and the additions to Bo-
iardo's passages of description and character (those about Roda-
monte, for example, so admired by Foscolo), if Berni occasionally
shews a comparative want of faith which you regret, he does it
with a regret on his own part, visible through all his jesting.
Lastly, the sino;ular and indio;nant strength of his execution often
makes up for the trustingness that he was sorry to miss. If I
were asked, in short, which of the two poems I should prefer
keeping, were I compelled to choose, I should first complain of
being forced upon so hard an alternative, and then, with many a
look after Berni, retain Boiardo. Tlie invention is his ; the first
earnest impulse ; the unmisgiving joy ; the primitive morning
breath, when the town-smoke has not polluted the fields, and the
birds are singing their '• wood-notes wild." Besides, after all,
one cannot be sure that Berni could have invented as Boiardo did.
If he could, he would probably have written some fine serious
poem of his own. And Panizzi has observed, with striking and
conclusive truth, that " without Berni the Orlando Innamoraio
will be read and enjoyed ; without Boiardo not even the name of
the poem remains."

Nevertheless this conclusion need not deprive us of either work.
Berni raised a fine polished edifice, copied and enlarged after that
of Boiardo ; — on the other hand, the old house, thank Heaven, re-
mains ; and our best way of settling the question between the two
is, to be glad that we have got both. Let the reader who is rich

246 BOIxiRDO.

in such possessions look upon Berni's as one of his town mansions,
erected in the park-like neighbourhood of some metropolis ; and
Boiardo's as the ancient country original of it, embosomed in the
woods afar off, and beautiful as the Enchanted Castle of Claude —

" Lone sitting by the shores of old romance."

A late amiable man of wit, Mr. Stewart Rose, has given a prose abstract of
Berni's Orlando Innamorato, with occasional versification; but it is hardly more
than a dry outline, and was, indeed, intended only as an introduction to his
Version of the Furioso. A good idea, however, of one of the phases of Berni's
humour may be obtained from the same gentleman's abridgment of the Animali
Parlanti of Casti, in which he has introduced a translation of the Tuscan's
description of himself and of his way of life, out of his additions to Boiardo's
poem. The verses in the prohibited edition of Berni's Orlando, in w^hich he
denounced the corruptions of the clergy, have been published, for the first time
in this country, in the notes to the twentieth canto of Mr. Panizzi's Boiardo.
They have all his peculiar wit, together with a Ladheran earnestness ; and shew
him, as that critic observes, to have been " Protestant at his heart."

Since writing this note I have called to mind that a translation of Berni's
axjcount of hhnself is to be found in Mr. Rose's prose abstract of the Jnnamo'
rato.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

Argument.

Angelica, daughter of Galafron, king of Cathay, the most beautiful of woman-
kind, and a possessor of the art of magic, comes, with her brother ArgaUa, to
the court of Charlemagne under false pretences, in order to carry away his
knights to the country of her father. Her immediate purpose is defeated, and her
brother slain ; but all the knights, Orlando in particular, fall in love with her ;
and she herself, in consequence of drinking at an enchanted fountain, becomes
m love with Rinaldo. On the other hand, Rinaldo, from drinking a neighbour-
ing fountain of a reverse quality, finds his own love converted to loathincr.
Various adventures arise out of these circumstances ; and the fountains are
again drunk, wdth a mutual reversal of their eflects.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

It was the month of May and the feast of Pentecost, and Char-
lemagne had ordained a great jousting, which brought into Paris
an infinite number of people, baptised and infidel ; for there was
truce proclaimed, in order that every knight might come. There
was King Grandonio from Spain, with his serpent's face ; and
Ferragus, with his eyes like an eagle ; and Balugante, the em-
peror's kinsman ; and Orlando, and Rinaldo, and Duke Namo ;
and Astolfo of England, the handsomest of mankind ; and the en-
chanter Malagigi ; and Isoliero and Salamone ; and the traitor
Gan, with his scoundrel followers ; and, in short, the whole flow-
er of the chivalry of the age, the greatest in the world. The ta-
bles at which they feasted were on three sides of the hall, with
the emperor's canopy midway at the top; and at that first table
sat crowned heads ; and down the table on the right sat dukes
and marquises ; and down the table on the left, counts and cava-
liers. But the Saracen nobles, after their doggish fashion, looked
neither for chair nor bench, but preferred a carpet on the floor,
which was accordingly spread for them in the midst.

High sat Charlemagne at the head of his vassals and his Pala-
dins, rejoicing in the thought of all the great men of which they
consisted, and holding the infiJels cheap as the sands which are
scattered by the tempest. To each of his lords, as they drank, he
sent round, by his pages, gifts of enamelled cups of exquisite
workmanship ; and to every body some mark of his princely dis-
tinction ; and so they were all sitting and hearing music, and
feasting off' dishes of gold, and talking of lovely things with low
voices,* when suddenly there came into the hall four enormous

* " Con parlar basso e bei ragionamenti."

250 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

giants, in the midst of whom was a lady, and behind the lady
there followed a cavalier. She was a very lily of the field, and
a rose of the garden, and a morning-star ; in short, so beautiful
that the like had never been seen. There was Galerana in the
hall ; there was Alda, the wife of Orlando ; and Clarice, and
Armellina the kind-hearted, and abundance of other ladies, all
beautiful till she made her appearance ; but after that they seem-
ed nothing. Every Christian knight turned his face that way ;
and not a Pagan remained on the floor, but arose and got as near
to her as he could ; while she, with a cheerful sweetness, and a
smile fit to enamour a heart of stone, began speaking the following
words :

" High-minded lord, the renown of your worthiness, and the-
valour of these your knights, which echoes from sea to sea, en-
courages me to hope, that two pilgrims who have come from the
ends of the world to behold you, will not have encountered their
fatigue in vain. And to the end that I may not hold your atten-
tion too long with speaking, let me briefly say, that this knight
here, Uberto of the Lion, a prince renowned also for his achieve-
ments, has been wrongfully driven from out his dominions ; and
that 1, who was driven out with him, am his sister, whose name
is Angelica. Fame has told us of the jousting this day appoint-
ed, and of the noble press of knights here assembled, and how
your generous natures care not to win prizes of gold or jewels,
or gifts of cities, but only a wreath of roses ; and so the prince
my brother has come to prove his own valour, and to say, that if
any or all of your guests, whether baptised or infidel, choose to
meet him in the joust, he will encounter them one by one, in the
green meadow without the walls, near the place called the Horse-
block of Merlin, by the Fountain of the Pine. And his condi-
tions are these, — that no knight who chances to be thrown shall
have license to renew the combat in any way whatsoever, but
remain a submissive prisoner in his hands ; he, on the other
hand, if himself be thrown, agreeing to take his departure out
of the country with his giants, and to leave his sister, for prize,
in the hands of the conqueror."

Kneeling at the close of these words, the lady awaited the an-
swer of Charlemagne, and every body gazed on her with aston-

THE ADVENTURES OP ANGELICA. "231

ishmcnt. Orlando especially, more than all the rest, felt irre-
sistibly drawi^ towards her, so that his iieart trembled, and ho
changed countenance. But he felt ashamed at the same time ;
and casting his eyes down, he said to himself, " Ah, mad and un-
worthy Orlando ! whither is thy soul being hurried ? I am
drawn, and cannot say nay to what draws me. I reckoned the
whole world as nothing, and now I am conquered by a girl. I
cannot get her sweet look out of my heart. My soul seems to
die within me, at the thought of being without her. It is love
that has seized me, and I feel that nothing will set me free ; —
not strength, nor courage, nor my own wisdom, nor that of any
adviser. I see the better part, and cleave to the worse."*

Thus secretly in his heart did the frank and noble Orlando la-
ment over his new feelings ; and no wonder ; for every knight in
the hall was enamoured of the beautiful stranger, not excepting
even old white-headed Duke Namo. Charlemagne himself did
not escape.

All stood for awhile in silence, lost in the delight of looking at
her. The fiery youth Ferragus was the first to exhibit symp-
toms in his countenance of uncontrollable passion. He refrained

* Video meliora, proboque, (|*c. Writers were now beginning to pride them-
selves on their classical reading. The present occasion, it must be owned, was a
very good one for introducing the passage from Horace. The previous words
have an affecting ingenuousness ; and, indeed, the whole stanza is beautiful :

"lo non mi posso dal cor dipartire

La dolce vista del viso sereno,
Perch' io mi sento senza lei morire,

E '1 spirto a poco a poco venir meno.
Or non mi vale for/a, nb V ardire

Contra d' amor, che m' ha gii\ posto il freno;
N6 mi giova sapcr, ne altrui consiglio :
II meglio veggio, ed al peggior m' appiglio."

Alas ! I cannot, though I shut mine eyes.

Lose the sweet look of that delightful face ;
The very soul within me droops and dies,

To think that I may fail to gain her grace.
No strong limbs now, no valour, will suffice

To burst the spell that roots me to the place :
No, nor reflection, nor advice, nor force ;
I see the better part, and clasp the worse.

252 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

with difficulty from going up to the giants, and tearing her out
of their keeping. Rinaldo also turned as red as fire ; while his
cousin Malagigi the enchanter, who had discovered that the
stranger was not speaking truth, muttered softly, as he looked at
her, " Exquisite false creature ! I will play thee such a trick
for this, as will leave thee no cause to boast of thy visit."

Charlemagne, to detain her as long as possible before him,
made a speech in answer,, in which he talked and looked, and
looked and talked, till there seemed no end of it. At length,
however, the challenge was accepted in all its forms ; and the
lady quitted the hall with her brother and the giants.

She had not yet passed the gates, when Malagigi the enchanter
consulted his books ; and that no means might be wanting to
complete the counteraction of what he suspected, he summoned
to his aid three spirits out of the lower regions. But how serious
his look turned, how his very soul within him was shaken, when
he discovered that the most dreadful disasters hung over Charles
and his court, and that the sister of the pretended Uberto was
daughter of King Galafron of Cathay, a beauty accomplished in
every species of enchantment, and sent there by her father on
purpose to betray them all ! Her brother's name was not Uberto,
but Argalia. Galafron had given him a horse swifter than the
wind, an enchanted sword, a golden lance, also enchanted, which
overthrew all whom it touched,* and a ring of a virtue so extra-
ordinary, that if put into the mouth, it rendered the person in-
visible, and if worn on the finger, nullified every enchantment.
But beyond even all this, he gave him his sister for a companion ;
rightly judging, that every body that saw her would fall into the
proposal of the joust ; and trusting that, at the close of it, she
would bring him the whole court of France into Cathay, prison-
ers in her hands.

* A.pYvpij.ig Myj^aiCTi jxa^^^ov, Kai irixvTa Kparficreis.

" Make war with silver spears, and you'll beat all."

The reader mil note the allegory or not, as he pleases. It is a very good alle-
gory ; but allegory, by the due process of enchantment, becomes matter of fact ;
and it is pleasant to take it as such.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 253

Such, Malagigi discovered, was the plot of the accursed inlidel
hound, Kinii Guhifron.*

Meantime tlic pretended Uherto had returned to his station at
tlie Horseblock of Merlin. He had had a beautiful pavilion
pitched there ; and under this pavilion he lay down awhile to re-
fresh himself with sleep. His sister Angelica lay down also,
but in the open air, under the great pine by the fountain. The
four giants kept watch : and as she lay thus asleep, with her fair
head on the grass, she appeared like an angel come down from
heaven.

By this time Malagigi, borne by one of his demons, had ar-
rived in the same place. He saw the beauty asleep by the flow-
ery water, and the four giants all wide awake ; and he said with-
in his teeth, — " Brute scoundrels^ I will take every one of you
into my net without a blow."

Malagigi took his book, and cast a spell out of it ; and in an
instant the whole four giants were buried in sleep. Then, draw-
ing his sword, he softly approached the young lady, intending to
despatch her as quickly: but seeing her look so lovely as she
slept, he paused, and considered within himself, and resolved to
detain her in the same state by enchantment, so long as it should
please him. Laying down the naked sword in the grass, he again
took his book, and read and read on, and still read on, and fancied
he was locking up her senses all the while in a sleep unwakeable.
But the ring of which I have spoken was on her finger. She had
borrowed it of her brother ; and a superior power rendered all
other magic of no avail. A touch from Malagigi to prove the
force of his spell awoke her, to the magician's consternation,
with a great cry. She fled into the arms of her brother, whom
it aroused; and, by the help of his sister's knowledge of enchant-
ment, Arcalia mastered and bound the magician. The book was
then turned against him, and the place was suddenly filled with
a crowd of his own demons, every one of them crying out to
Ano-elica, '• What commandest thou ?"

" Take this man," said Angelica, " and bear him prisoner to
the great city between Tartary and India, where my father Gal-

* " Rb Galafron, il maledetto cane."
PART IL 4

2M THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

afron is lord. Present him to him in my name, and say it was
I that took him ; and add, that having so taken the master of the
book, I care not for all the other lords of the court of Charle-

magne."

At the end of these words, and at one and the same instant,
the magician was conveyed to the feet of Galafron in Cathay, and
locked up in a rock under the sea.

In due time the enamoured knights, according to agreement,
came to the spot for the purpose of jousting with the supposed
Uberto, each anxious to have the first encounter, particularly Or-
lando, in order that he might not see the beauty carried off by
another. But they were obliged to draw lots ; and thirty other
names appeared before his, the first of which was that of Astolfo
the Englishman.

Now Astolfo was son of the king of England ; and as I
said before, he was the handsomest man in the world. He was
also very rich and well bred, and loved to dress well, and was
as brave as he was handsome ; but his success was not always
equal to his bravery. He had a trick of being thrown from his
horse, a failing which he was accustomed to attribute to accident ;
and then he would mount again, and be again thrown from the
saddle, in the boldest manner conceivable.

This gallant prince was habited, on the present occasion, in
arms worth a whole treasury. His shield had a border of large
pearls ; his mail was of gold ; on his helmet was a ruby as big
as a chestnut ; and his horse was covered with a cloth all over
golden leopards.* He issued to the combat, looking at nobody
and fearing nothing ; and on his sounding the horn to battle, Ar-
galia came forth to meet him. After courteous salutations, the
two combatants rushed together ; but the moment the English-
man was touched with the golden lance, his legs flew over his
head.

" Cursed fortune !'* cried he, as he lay on the grass ; " this is
out of all calculation. But it was entirely owing to the saddle.
You can't but acknowledge, that if I had kept my seat, the beau-

* The lions in the shield of England were leopards in the "olden time," and
it is understood, I believe, ought still to be so, — as Napoleon, with an invidious
pedantry, once permitted himself to be angry enough to inform us.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 255

tiful lady would have been mine. But thus it is when Fortune
chooses to befriend intidels !"*

The four giants, who had by this time been disenchanted out
of their sleep by Angelica, took up the English prince, and put
him in the pavilion. But when he was stripped of his armour,
he looked so handsome, that the lovely stranger secretly took
pity on him, and bade them shew him all the courtesies that cap-
tivity allowed. He was permitted to walk outside by the foun-
tain ; and Angelica, from a dark corner, looked at him with ad-
miration, as he walked up and down in the moonlight. f

The violent Ferragus had the next chance in the encounter,
and was thrown no less speedily than Astolfo ; but he did not so
easily put up with the mischance. Crying out, " What are the
emperor's engagements to me V he rushed with his sword against
Argalia, who, being forced to defend himself unexpectedly, dis-
mounted and set aside his lance, and got so much the worse of
the fight, that he listened to proposals of marriage from Ferragus
to his sister. The beauty, however, not feeling an inclination to
match with so rough and savage-looking a person, was so dis-

* The character of Astolfo, the germ of wJiich is in our own ancient British
romances, appears to have been completed by the lively invention of Boiardo,
and is a curious epitome of almost all which has been discerned in tlie travelled
Englishmen by the envy of poorer and the wit of livelier foreigners. He has
the handsomeness and ostentation of a Buckingham, the wealth of a Beckford,
the generosity of a Carlisle, the invincible pretensions of a Crichton, the self-
commitals and bravery of a Digby, the lucklessness of a Stuart, and the non-
chalance -under diiriculties" of •' Milord- Wkat-lheit^ in Voltaire's Princess of
Babylon, where the noble traveller is discovered philosophically reading the
newspaper in his carriage after it was overturned. English beauty, ever since
the days of Pope Gregory, with his pun about Angles and Angels, has been
greatly admired in the south of Europe — not a little, perhaps, on account of the
general fairness of its complexion. I once heard a fair-faced English gentleman,
who would have been thought rather eiTeminate-looking at home, called an
" Angel" by a lady in Genoa.

t " Stava disciolto, senza guardia alcuna,
Ed intorno a la fonte sollazzava ;
Angelica nel lume de la luna,
Quanto potea nascosa, lo mirava."

There is somethin£ wonderfully soft and lunar in the liquid monotony of the
third line.

•256 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

mayed at the offer, that, hastily bidding her brother meet her
in the forest of Arden, she vanished from tlie sight of both,
by means of the enchanted ring. Argalia, seeing this, took to
his horse of swiftness, and dashed away in the same direction ;
Ferragus, in distraction, pursued Argalia ; and Astolfo, thus left
to himself, took possession of the golden lance, and again issued
forth — not, indeed, with quite his usual confidence of the result,
but determined to run all risks, in any thing that might ensue, for
the sake of the emperor. In fine, to cut this part of the history
short, Charlemagne, finding the lady and her brother gone, or-
dered the joust to be restored to its first intention ; and Astolfo,
who was as ignorant as the others of the treasure he possessed in
the enchanted lance, unhorsed all comers against him like so
many children, equally to their astonishment and his own.

The Paladin Rinaldo now learnt the issue of the fight between
Ferragus and the stranger, and galloped in a loving agony of
pursuit after the fair fugitive. Orlando learnt the disappearance
of Rinaldo, and, distracted with jealousy, pushed forth in like
manner ; and at length all three are in the forest of Arden,
hunting about for her who is invisible.

Now in this forest were two enchanted waters, the one a run-
ning stream, and the other a built fountain ; the first caused
every body who tasted it to fall in love, and the other (so to
speak) to fall out of love ; say, rather, to feel the love turned
into hate. To the latter of these two waters Rinaldo happened
to come ; and being flushed with heat and anxiety, he dismounted
from his horse, and quenched, in one cold draught, both his thirst
and his passion. So far from loving Angelica as before, or hold-
ing her beauty of any account, he became disgusted with its pur-
suit, nay, hated her from the bottom of his heart ; and so, in this
new state of mind, and with feelings of lofty contempt, he re-
mounted and rode away, and happened to come on the bank of
the running stream. There, enticed by the beauty of the place,
which was all sweet meadow-cround and bowers of trees, he
again quitted his saddle, and, throwing himself on the ground,"feU
fast asleep.

Unfortunately for the proud beauty Angelica, or rather in just
punishment for her contempt, her palfrey conducted her to this

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 257

very place. Tho water tempted her to drink, and, dismounting
and tying the animal to one of the trees, she did so, and then
cast her eyes on tlie sleeping Rinaldo. Love instantly seized her,
and she stood rooted to tlie spot.

The meadow round about was all full of lilies of the valley
and wild roses. Angelica, not knowing what to do, at length
plucked a quantity of these, and with her white hand she dropped
them on the face of the sleeper. He woke up ; and seeing who
it was, not only received her salutations with a change of coun-
tenance, but remounting his horse, galloped away through the
thickest part of the forest. In vain the beautiful creature fol-
lowed and called after him ; in vain asked him what she had
done to be so despised, and entreated him, at any rate, to take care
how he went so fast. Rinaldo disappeared, leaving her to wring
her hands in despair ; and she returned in tears to the spot on
which she had found him sleeping. There, in her turn, she her-
self lay down, pressing the spot of earth on which he had lain ;
and so, weeping and lamenting, yet blessing every flower and bit
of grass that he had touched, fell asleep out of fatigue and sor-
row.

As Angelica thus lay, the good or bad fortune of Orlando con-
ducted him to the same place. The attitude in which she was
sleeping was so lovely that it is not even to be conceived, much
less expressed. The very grass seemed to flower on all sides of
her for joy ; and the stream, as it murmured along, to go talking
of love.* Orlando stood gazing like a man who had been trans-
ported to another sphere. " Am I on earth," thought he, " or
am I in paradise ? Surely it is I myself that am sleeping, and
this is my dream."

But his drearn was proved to be none, in a manner which he

* "La qual dormiva in atto tanto adorno,

Che pcnsar non si pu6, non ch' io lo scriva :
Parea che 1' erba a lei fiorisse intorno,
E d' amor ragionasse quella riva,"

Her posture, as she lay, was exquisite
Above all words — nay, thought itself above :
The grass seemed flowering round her In delight,
And the soft river murmuring of love.

258 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

little desired. Ferragus, who had slain Argalia, came up raging
with jealousy, and a combat ensued which awoke the sleeper.
Terrified at what she beheld, she rushed to her palfrey ; and
while the fighters were occupied with one another, fled away
through the forest.

Fast fled the beauty in the direction taken by Rinaldo ; nor
did she cease travelling, by one conveyance or another, till she
reached her own country, whither she had sent Malagigi. Him
she freed from his prison, on condition that he would employ his
art for the purpose of bringing Rinaldo to a palace of hers,
which she possessed in an island ; and accordingly Rinaldo was
inveigled by a spirit into an enchanted barque, which he found
on a sea-shore, and which conveyed him, without any visible
pilot, into Joyous Palace (for so the island was called).

The whole island was a garden, fifteen miles in extent. It
was full of trees a.nd lawns ; and on the western side, close to
the sea, was the palace, built of a marble so clear and polished,
that it reflected the landscape round about. Rinaldo, not know-
ing what to think of his strange conveyance, lost no time in leap-
ing to shore ; upon which a lady made her appearance, who in-
vited him within. The house was a most beautiful house, full of
rooms adorned with azure and gold, and with noble paintings ;
and within as well as without it were the loveliest flowers, the
purest fountains, and a fragrance fit to turn sorrow to joy. The
lady led the knight into an apartment painted with stories, and
opening to the garden through pillars of crystal with golden cap-
itals. Here he found a bevy of ladies, three of whom were
singing in concert, while another played on some foreign instru-
ment of exquisite accord, and the rest were dancing round about
them. When the ladies beheld him coming, they turned the
dance into a circuit round about himself; and then one of them,
in the sweetest manner, said, " Sir knight, the tables are set, and
the hour for the banquet is come :" and with these words they
all drew him, still dancing, across the lawn in front of the apart-
ment, to a table that was spread with cloth of gold and fine linen,
under a bower of damask roses, bv the side of a fountain.*

Four ladies were already seated there, who rose and placed
* Supremely elegant all this appears to me.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 259

Rinaldo at their head, in a chair set with pearls. And truly in-
deed was he astonished. A repast ensued, consisting of viands
the most delicate, and wines as fragrant as they were fine, drinik
out of jewelled cups ; and when it drew towards its conclusion,
harps and lutes were heard in the distance, and one of the ladies
said in the knight's ear, " This house, and all that you see in it,
are yours. For you alone was it built, and the builder is a
queen ; and happy indeed must you think yourself, for she loves
you, and she is the greatest beauty in the world. Her name is
Angelica."

The moment Rinaldo heard the name he so detested, disgust
and wretchedness fell upon his heart, notwithstanding the joys
around him. He started up with a changed countenance, and,
in spite of all that the lady could say, broke off across the garden,
and never ceased hastening till be reached the place where he
landed. He would have thrown himself into the sea, rather than
stay any longer in that island ; but the enchanted barque was still
on the shore. He sprang into it, and attempted instantly to push
off, for he still saw nobody in it but himself; but the barque for
a while resisted his efforts ; till, on his feeling a wish to drown
himself, or to do any thing rather than return to that detested
house, it suddenly loosed itself from its moorings, and dashed
away with him over the sea, as if in a fury.

All night did the pilotless barque dash on, till it reached, in the
morning, a distant shore covered with a gloomy forest. Here
Rinaldo, surrounded by enchantments of a very different sort from
those which he had lately resisted, was entrapped into a pit.

The pit belonged to a castle which was hung with human heads,
and painted red with blood ; and as the Paladin was calling upon
God to help him, a hideous white-headed old v/oman, of a spite-
ful countenance, made her appearance on the edge of the pit, and
told him that he must fight with a monster born of Death and
Desire.

" Be it so," said the Paladin. " Let me but remain armed as
I am, and I fear nothing." For Rinaldo had with him his re-
nowned sword Fusberta.*

* Sometimes called in the romances Frusherta (query, from fourbir, to bur-
nish; ot froisser, to crush?). The meaning does not seem to be known. I

260 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

The old woman laughed in derision. Rinaldo remained in the
den all night, and next day was taken to a place where a portcul-
lis was lifted up, and the monster rushed forth. He was a mix-
ture of hog and serpent, larger than an ox, and not to be looked
at without horror. He had eyes like a traitor, the hands of a
man, but clawed, a beard dabbled with blood, a skin of coarse
variegated colours, too hard to be cut through, and two horns on
his temples, which he could turn on all sides of him at his plea-
sure, and which were so sharp that they cut like a sword.

Rising on his hind-legs, and opening a mouth six palms in
width, this horrible beast fell heavily on Rinaldo, who was never-
theless quick enough to give it a blow on the snout which increas-
ed its fury. Returning the knight a tremendous cuff, it seized
his coat of mail between breast and shoulder, and tore away a
great strip of it down to the girdle, leaving the skin bare. Every
successive rent and blow was of the like irresistible violence ;
and though the Paladin himself never fought with more force and
fury, he lost blood every instant. The monster at length tearing
his sword out of his hand, the Paladin surely began to think that
his last hour was arrived.

Looking about to see what might possibly help him, he observ-
ed overhead a beam sticking out of a wall at the height of some
ten feet. He took a leap more than human ; and reaching the
beam with his hand, succeeded in flinging himself up across it.
Here he sat for hours, the furious brute continually trying to
reach him. Night-time then came on with a clear starry sky and
moonlight, and the Paladin could discern no way of escaping,
when he heard a sound of something, he knew not what, coming
through the air like a bird. Suddenly a female figure stood on
the end of the beam, holding something in her hand towards him,
and speaking in a loving voice.

It was Angelica, come with means for destroying the monster,
and carrying the knight away.

But the moment Rinaldo saw her, desperate as seemed to be
his condition, he renounced all offers of her assistance ; and at

ought to have observed, in the notes to Pulci, that the name of Orlando's sword,
Durlindana (called also Durindana, Durandal, &c.), is understood to mean
Hardrhitter.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 961

length became so exasperated with her good offices, especially
wlicn she opened her arms and olFcred to bear iiim away in them,
that he threatened to cast himself down to the monster if slie did
not jTO away.*

Angelica, saying that she would lose her life rather than dis-
please him, descended from the beam ; and having given the mon-
6ter a cake of wax which fastened up his teeth, and then caught
and fixed him in a set of nooses she had brought for that purpose,
took her miserable departure. Rinaldo upon this got down from
the beam himself; and liaving succeeded, though with the great-
est difhculty, in beating and squeezing the life out of the monster,
dealt such havoc among the people of the castle who assailed him,
that the horrible old woman, whose crimes had made her the crea-
ture's housekeeper, and led her to take delight in its cruelty,
threw herself headlona; from a tower. The Paladin then took his
wav forth, turning his back on the castle and the sea-shore.

Angelica returned to the capital of her father's dominion, Al-
bracca ; and the pertinacity of others in seeking her love being
as great as that of hers for Rinaldo, she found King Galafron, in
a short time, besieged there for her sake, by the fierce Agrican,
kinsj of Tartarv.

In a short time a jealous feud sprang up between the loving
friends Rinaldo and Orlando ; and Angelica, torn with conflicting
emotions, from her dread on her father's account as well as her
own, and her aversion to every knight but her detester, was at
one time compelled to apply to Orlando for assistance, and at an-
other, being afraid that he would have the better of Rinaldo in
combat, to send him away on a perilous adventure elsewhere,
with a promise of accepting his love should he succeed. f Or-
lando went, but not before he had slain Agrican and delivered
Albracca. Circumstances, however, again took him with her to
a distance, as the reader will see, ere he could bring her to per-
form her promise ; and the Paladins in general having again been

* The force of aversion was surely never better imagined than in this scene
of the opened arms of beauty, and the knight's preference of the most odious
death.

t Legalised, I presume, by a divorce from the hero's wife, the fair Alda ; who,

though she is generally designated by that epithet, seems never to have had

much of his attention.

4«

262 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

scattered abroad, it happened that Rinaldo a second time found
himself in the forest of Arden ; and here, without expecting it,
he became an aUered man ; for he now tasted a very different
stream from that which had given him his hate for Angelica ;
namely, the one which had made her fall in love with himself.
He was led to do this by a very extraordinary adventure.

In the thick of the forest he had come upon a mead full of
flowers, in which there was a naked youth, singing in the midst
of three damsels, who were naked also, and who were dancing
round about him. They had bunches of flowers in their hands,
and garlands on their heads ; and as they were thus delighting
themselves, with faces full of love and joy, they suddenly changed
countenance on seeing Rinaldo. "Behold," cried they, "the
traitor ! Behold him, villain that he is, and the scorner of all
delights ! He has fallen into the net at last." With these words
they fell upon him with the flowers like so many furies ; and ten-
der as such scourges might be thought, every blow which the
roses and violets gave him, every fresh stroke of the lilies and
the hyacinths, smote him to the very heart, and filled iiis veins
with fire. The flowers in the hands of the nymphs being ex-
hausted, the youth gave him a blow on the helmet with a tall
garden-lily, which felled him to the earth ; and so, taking him by
the legs, and dragging him over the grass, his conqueror went the
whole circuit of the mead with him, the nymphs taking the veiy
garlands off" their heads, and again scourging him with their white
and red roses.*

At the close of this discipline, which left him more exhausted
than twenty battles, his enemies suddenly developed wings from
their shoulders, the feathers of which were of white and gold and
vermilion, every feather having an eye in it, not like those in the
peacock's feathers, but one full of life and motion, being a female
eye, lovely and gracious. And v.ith these wings they poised
themselves a little, and so sprung up to heaven. "f"

* This violent effect of weapons so extremely gentle is beautifully conceived.

t The "female eye, lovely and gracious," is charmingly painted per se ; but
of this otherwise thoroughly beautiful description I must venture to doubt,
whether living eyes of any sort, instead of those in the peacock's feathers, are
in good taste. The imagination revolts from life misplaced.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 2G3

Tlie Paladin, more dead tlian alive, lay helpless among the
flowers, when a fourth nymph came up to him, of inexpressible
beauty. She told him that he had grievously otlended the naked
youth, who was no other than Love himself; and added, that his
only remedy was to be penitent, and to drink t)f the waters of a
stream hard by, which he would fmd running from the roots of
an olive-tree and a pine. With these \yords, she vanished in her
turn like the rest; and Rinaldo, dragging himself as well as he
could to the olive and pine, stooped down, and greedily drank of
the water. Again and again he drank, and wished still to be
drinking, for it took not only all pain out of his limbs, but all hate
and bitterness out of his soul, and produced such a remorseful and
doating memory of Angelica, that he would fain have galloped
that instant to Cathay, and prostrated himself at her feet. By de-
grees he knew the place ; and looking round about him, and pre-
paring to remount his horse, he discerned a knight and a lady in
the distance. The knight was in a coat of armour unknown to
him, and the lady kneeling and drinking at a fountain, which was
the one that had formerly quenched his own thirst ; to wit, the
Fountain of Disdain.

Alas ! it was Angelica herself; and the knight was Orlando.
She had allowed him to bring her into France, ostensibly for the
purpose of wedding him at the court of Charlemagne, whither the
hero's assistance had been called against Agramant king of the
Moors, but secretly with the object of discovering Rinaldo. Ri-
naldo, behold ! is discovered ; but the fatal averse water has been
drunk, and Angelica now hates him in turn, as cordially as he
detested her. In vain he accosted her in the humblest and most
repentant manner, calling himself the unworthiest of mankind,
and entreating to be allowed to love her. Orlando, disclosing
himself, fiercely interrupted him ; and a combat so terrific en-
sued, that Angelica fled away on her palfrey till she came to a
large plain, in which she beheld an army encamped.

The army was Charlemagne's, who had come to meet Roda-
monte, one of the vassals of Agramant. Angelica, in a tremble,
related how she had left the two Paladins fighting in the wood ;
and Charlemagne, who was delighted to find Orlando so near
hhn, proceeded thither with his lords, and parting the combatants

261 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

by his royal authority, suppressed the dispute between them for
the present, by consigning the object of their contention to the
care of Namo duke of Bavaria, with the understanding that she
was to be the prize of the warrior who should best deserve her
in the approaching battle with the infidels.

[This is the last we hear of Angelica in the unfinished poem
of Boiardo. For the close of her history see its continuation by
Ariosto in the present volume.]

THE DEATH OF AGRICAN.

Argument.

Agrican, king of Tartary, in love with Angelica, and baffled by the prowess
of the unknown Orlando in his attempts to bring the siege of Albracca to a
favourable conclusion, entices him apart from the battle into a wood, in the hope
of killing him in single combat. The combat is suspended by the arrival of
night-time ; and a conversation ensues between the warriors, which is furiously
interrupted by Agrican's discovery of his rival, and the latter's refusal to re-
nounce his love. Agrican is slain ; and in his dying moments requests baptism
at the hand of his conqueror, who, with great tenderness, bestows it.

THE DEATH OF AGRICAN.

The siege of Albracca was going on formidably under the
command of Agrican, and the city of Galafron was threatened
with the loss of the monarch's daughter, Angelica, when Orlan-
do, at his earnest prayer, came to assist him, and changing at
once the whole course of the war, threw the enemy in his turn
into transports of anxiety. Wherever the great Paladin came,
pennon and standard fell before him. Men were cut up and
cloven down, at every stroke of his sword ; and whereas the
Indians had been in full rout but a moment before, and the Tar-
tars ever on their flanks, Galafron himself being the swiftest
among the spurrers away, it was now the Tartars that fled for
their lives ; for Orlando was there, and a band of fresh knights
were about him, and Agrican in vain attempted to rally his troops.
The Paladin kept him constantly in his front, forcing him to at-
tend to nobody else.

The Tartar king, who cared not a button for Galafron and all
his army,* provided he could but rid himself of this terrible
knight (whom he guessed at, but did not know), bethought him of
a stratagem. He turned his horse, and made a show of flying
in despair. Orlando dashed after him, as he desired ; and Agri-
can fled till he reached a green place in a wood, with a fountain
in it.

The place was beautiful, and the Tartar dismounted to refresh
himself at the fountain, but without taking off' his helmet, or lay-
ing aside any of his armour. Orlando was quickly at his back,
crying out, " So bold, and yet such a fugitive ! How could you

* " Che tutti insietne, e 'I suo Rb Galafrone,
Non li stimava quanto un vil bottone."

268 _ THE DEATH OF AGRICAN.

fly from a single arm, and yet think to escape ? When a man
can die with honour, he should be glad to die ; for he may live
and fare worse. He may get death and infamy together."

The Tartar king had leaped on his saddle the moment he saw
his enemy ; and when the Paladin had done speaking, he said in
a mild voice, " Without doubt you are the best knight I ever en-
countered ; and fain would I leave you untouched for your own
sake, if you would cease to hinder me from rallying my people.
I pretended to fly, in order to bring you out of the field. If you
insist upon fighting, I must needs fight and slay you ; but I call
the sun in the heavens to witness, that I would rather not. I
should be very sorry for your death."

The County Orlando felt pity for so much gallantry ; and he
said, "The nobler you shew yourself, the more it grieves me to
think, that in dying without a knowledge of the true faith, you
will be lost in the other world. Let me advise you to save* body
and soul at once. Receive baptism, and go your way in peace."

Agrican looked him in the face, and replied, " I suspect you
to be the Paladin Orlando. If you are, I would not lose this op-
portunity of fighting with you, to be king of Paradise. Talk to
me no more about your things of the other world ; for you will
preach in vain. Each of us for himself, and let the sword be
umpire."

No sooner said than done. The Tartar drew his sword, boldly
advancing upon Orlando ; and a cut and thrust fight began, so long
and so terrible, each warrior being a miracle of prowess, that the
story says it lasted from noon till night. Orlando then, seeing
the stars come out, was the first to propose a respite.

"What are we to do," said he, "now that daylight has left
us?"

Agrican answered readily enough, " Let us repose in this
meadow, and renew the combat at dawn."

The repose was taken accordingly. Each tied up his horse,
and reclined himself on the grass, not far from one another, just
as if they had been friends, — Orlando by the fountain, Agrican
beneath a pine. It was a beautiful clear night ; and as they
talked together before addressing themselves to sleep, the cham-
pion of Christendom, looking up at the firmament, said, " That is

THE DEATH OF AGRICAN. 269

a fine piece of worknmnship, that starry spectacle. God made
it all, — that moon of silver, and those stars of gold, and the light
of day and the sun, — all for the sake of human kind."

" You wish, I see, to talk of matters of faith," said the Tartar.
" Now I may as well tell you at once, that I have no sort of skill
in such matters, nor learning of any kind. 1 never could learn
anything when I was a boy. I hated it so, that I broke the man's
head who was commissioned to teach me ; and it produced such
an elfect on others, that nobody ever afterwards dared so much as
shew me a book. My boyhood was therefore passed as it should
be, in^horsemanship, and hunting, and learning to fight. What is
the good of a gentleman's poring all day over a book ? Prowess
to the knight, and prattle to the clergyman. That is my motto."

" I acknowledge," returned Orlando, " that arms are the first
consideration of a gentleman ; but not at all that he does himself
dishonour by knowledge. On the contrary, knowledge is as great
an embellishment of the rest of his attainments, as the flowers are
to the meadow before us ; and as to the knowledge of his Maker,
the man that is without it is no better than a stock or a stone, or
a brute beast. Neither, without study, can he reach anything
like a due sense of the depth and divineness of the contemplation."

" Learned or not learned," said Agrican, " you might shew
yourself better bred than by endeavouring to make me talk on a
subject on which you have me at a disadvantage. I have frankly
told you what sort of person I am ; and I dare say, that you
for your part are very learned and wise. You will therefore per-
mit me, if you say anything more of such things, to make you
no answer. If you choose to sleep, I wish you good night ; but
if you prefer talking, I recommend you to talk of fighting, or of
fair ladies. And, by the way, pray tell me — are you, or are you
not, may I ask, that Orlando who makes such a noise in the
world ? And what is it, pray, brings you into these parts ?
Were you ever in love ? I suppose you must have been ; for to
be a knight and never to have been in love, would be like being a
man with no heart in his breast."

The County replied, " Orlando I am, and in love I am.*

♦ Bemi has here introduced the touching words, " Would I were not so !"
(Cos! non foss' io !)

270 THE DEATH OF AGRICAN.

Love has made me abandon every thing, and brought me into
these distant regions ; and to tell you all in one word, my heart
is in the hands of the daughter of King Galafron. You have
come against him with fire and sword, to get possession of his
castles and his dominions ; and I have come to help him, for no
object in the world but to please his daughter, and win her beau-
tiful hand. I care for nothing else in existence."

Now when the Tartar king Agrican heard his antagonist speak
in this manner, and knew him to be indeed Orlando, and to be in
love with Angelica, his face changed colour for grief and jeal-
ousy, though it could not be seen for the darkness. His heart
began beating with such violence, that he felt as if he should
have died. " Well," said he to Orlando, " we are to fight when
it is daylight, and one or the other is to be left here, dead on the
ground. I have a proposal to make to you ; nay, an entreaty.
My love is so excessive for the same lady, that I beg you to leave
her to me. I will owe you my thanks, and give up the fight my-
self. I cannot bear that any one else should love her, and I live
to see it. Why, therefore, should either of us perish ? Give
her up. Not a soul shall know it."*

" I never yet," answered Orlando, " made a promise which I
did not keep ; and, nevertheless, I own to you, that were I to
make a promise like that, and even swear to keep it, I should not.
You might as well ask me to tear away the limbs from my body,
and the eyes out of my head. I could as soon live without
breath itself, as cease loving Angelica."

Agrican had scarcely patience enough to let the speaker finish,
ere he leaped furiously on horseback, though it was midnight.
" Quit her," said he, " or die !"

Orlando, seeing the infidel getting up, and not being sure that
he would not add treachery to fierceness, had been hardly less
quick in mounting for the combat. " Never !" exclaimed he.
" I never could have quitted her if I would ; and now I wouldn't
if I could. You must seek her by other means than these."

Fiercely dashed their horses together, in the night-time, on the

* This proposal is in the highest ingenuous spirit of the absurd wilfulness of
passion, thinking that every tiling is to give way before it, not excepting the
same identical wishes in other people.

THE DEATH OF AGRICAN. 271

green mead. Despiteful and terrible were the blows they gave
and took by the moonliglit. There was no need of their looking
out for one another, night-time though it was. Tlieir business
was to take a sharp liced of every movement, as if it iiad been
noon-day.*

Afi-rican fought in a rage : Orlando was cooler. And now the
struiTcle had lasted more than five hours, and dawn began to be
visible, when the Tartar king, furious to find so much trouble
given him, dealt his enemy a blow sharp and violent beyond con-
ception. It cut the shield in two, as if it had been a cheesecake ;
and thongli blood could not be drawn from Orlando, because he
was foted, it shook and bruised him, as if it had started every
joint in his body.

His body only, however ; not a particle of his soul. So dread,
ful was the blow which the Paladin gave in return, that not only
shield, but every bit of mail on the body of Agrican, was broken
in pieces, and three of his left ribs cut asunder.

The Tartar, roaring like a lion, raised his sword with still
greater vehemence than before, and dealt a blow on the Paladin's
helmet, such as he had never yet received from mortal man.
For a moment it took away his senses. His sight failed ; his
ears tinkled ; his frightened horse turned about to fly ; and he was
falling from the saddle, when the very action of falling jerked
his head upwards, and with the jerk he regained his recollection.

" O my God !" thought he, " what a shame is this ! how shall I
ever again dare to face Angelica ! I have been fighting, hour
after hour, with this man, and he is but one, and I call myself
Orlando. If the combat last any longer, I will bury myself in a
monastery, and never look on sword again."

Orlando muttered with his lips closed and his teeth ground to-
gether ; and you might have thought that fire instead of breath
came out of his nose and mouth. He raised his sword Durindana
with both his hands, and sent it down so tremendously on Agri-
can's left shoulder, that it cut through breast-plate and belly-
piece down to the very haunch ; nay, crushed the saddle-bow,
thouo-h it was made of bone and iron, and felled man and horse
to the earth. From shoulder to hip was Agrican cut through his

* Very fine all this, I (bink.

272 THE DEATH OF AGRICAN.

weary soul, and he turned as white as ashes, and felt death upon
him. He called Orlando to come close to him with a gentle
voice, and said, as well as he could, " I believe in Him who died
on the Cross. Baptise me, I pray thee, with the fountain, before
my senses are gone. I have lived an evil life, but need not be
rebellious to God in death also. May He who came to save all
the rest of the world, save me ! He is a God of great mercy."

And he shed tears, did that king, though he had been so lofty
and fierce.

Orlando dismounted quickly, with his own face in tears. He
gathered the king tenderly in his arms, and took and laid him by
the fountain, on a marble cirque which it had ; and then he wept
in concert with him heartily, and asked his pardon, and so bap-
tised him in the water of the fountain, and knelt and prayed to
God for him with joined hands.

He then paused and looked at him ; and when he perceived
his countenance changed, and that his whole person was cold, he
left him there on the marble cirque by the fountain, all armed as
he was, with the sword by his side, and the crown upon his
head.

I think I may anticipate the warm admiration of the reader for the whole
of this beautiful episode, particularly its close. " I think," says Panizzi, " that
Tasso had this passage particularly in \iew when he wrote the duel of Clorinda
and Tancredi, and her conversion and baptism before dying. The whole pas-
sage, from stanza xii. (where Agrican receives his mortal blow) to this, is beau-
tiful ; and the deUcate proceeding of Orlando in leaAdng Agrican's body armed
even with the sword in his hand, is in the noblest spirit of chivalry." — Edition
of Boiardo and Ariosto, vol. iii. pace 357.

The reader will find the original in the Appendix No. I.

In the course of the poem (canto xix. stanza xxvi.) a knight, with the same
noble delicacy, who is in distress for a set of anns, borrows those belonging to
the dead body, with many excuses, and a kiss on its face.

THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

A FAIRY LOVE-TALE.

Prasildo, a nobleman of Babylon, to his great anguish, falls in love with his
friend's wife, Tisbina; and being overheard by her and her husband threatening
to kill himself, the lady, hoping to divert him from his passion by time and ab-
sence, promises to return it on condition of his performing a distant and peril-
ous adventure. He performs the adventure ; and the husband and wife, suppo-
sing that there is no other way of her escaping the consequences, resolve to take
poison ; after which the lady goes to Prasildo's house, and informs him of their
having done so. Prasildo resolves to die with them ; but hearing, in the mean
time, that the apothecary had given them a drink that was harmless, he goes
and tells them of their good fortune ; upon which the husband is so struck with
his generosity, that he voluntarily quits Babylon for life, and the lady marries
the lover. The new husband subsequently hears that his friend's life is in dan-
ger, and quits the wife to go and deliver him from it at the risk of his own,
which he does.

This story, which has resemblances to it in Boccaccio and Chaucer, is told to
Rinaldo while ridincr throuo-h a wood in Asia, with a damsel behind him on the
same horse. He has encracred to combat in her behalf with a band of knights :
and the lady relates it to beguile the way.

The reader is to bear in inind, that the age of chivalry took delight in mooting
points of love and friendship, such as in after times would have been out of the
question ; and that the parties in this story are Mahometans, with whom divorce
was an easy thing, and caused no scandal.

THE S.IRACEN FRIENDS.

Iroldo, a knight of Babylon, had to wife a lady of the name
of Tisbina, whom he loved with a passion equal to that of Tristan
for Iseult ;* and she returned his love with such fondness, that
her thoutjhts were occupied with him from morninff till nicht.
Among other pleasant circumstances of their position, they had a
neighbour who was accounted the greatest nobleman in tiie citv ;
and he deserved his credit, for he spent his great riches in doing
nothing but honour to his rank. He was pleasant in company,
formidable in battle, full of grace in love ; an open-hearted, ac-
complished gentleman.

This personage, whose name was Prasildo, happened to be of a
party one day with Tisbina, who were amusing themselves in a
garden, with a game in which the players knelt down with their
faces bent on one another's laps, and guessed who it was that
struck them. The turn came to himself, and he knelt down to
the lap of Tisbina ; but no sooner was he there, than he expe-
rienced feelings he had never dreamt of ; and instead of trying
to guess correctly, took all the pains he could to remain in the
same position.

These feelings pursued him all the rest of the day, and still
more closely at night. He did nothing but think and sigh, and
find the soft feathers harder than any stone. Nor did he get bet-
ter as time advanced. His once favourite pastime of hunting
now ceased to afford him any delight. Nothing pleased him but
to be giving dinners and balls, to make verses and sing them to
his lute, and to joust and tournay in the eyes of his love, dressed
in the most sumptuous apparel. But above all, gentle and grace-
ful as he had been before, he now became still more gentle and

• The hero and heroine of the famous romance of Tristan de Leonois.

•27G THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

graceful — for good qualities are always increased when a man is
in love. Never in my life did I know them turn to ill in that
case. So, in Prasildo's, you may guess what a super-excellent
person he became.

The passion ^hich had thus taken possession of this gentleman
was not lost upon the lady for want of her knowing it. A mu-
tual acquaintance was always talking to her on the subject, but
to no purpose ; she never relaxed her pride and dignity for a mo-
ment. The lover at last fell ill ; he iiurlv wasted aAvav : and
was so unhappy, that he gave up all his feastings and entertain-
ments. The only pleasure* he took was in a solitary wood, in
wliich he used to plunge himself in order to give way to his grief
and lamentations.

It happened one day, early in the morning, while he was thus
occupied, that Iroldo came into the wood to amuse himself with
bird-catching. He had Tisbina with him; and as they were
coming along, they overheard their neighbour during one of his
paroxysms, and stopped to listen to what he said.

" Hear me," exclaimed he, " ye flowers and ye woods. Hear
to what a pass of wretchedness I am come, since that cruel one
will hear me not. Hear, O sun tliat hast taken away the night
from the heavens, and you, ye stai*s, and thou the departing moon,
hear the voice of my grief for the last time, for exist I can no lon-
ger \ my death is the only way left me to gratify that proud beau-
ty, to whom it has pleased Heaven to give a cruel heart with a
merciful countenance. Fain would I have died in her presence.
It would have comforted me to see her pleased even with that
proof of my love. But I pray, nevertheless, that she may never
know it ; since, cruel as she is, she might blame herself for hav-
ing she^^•n a scorn so extreme ; and I love her so, I would not
have her pained for all her cruelty. Surely I shall love her
even in my grave."

Witli these words, turning pale with his own mortal resolution,
Prasildo drew his sword, and pronouncing the name of Tisbina
more than once witli a loving voice, as though its very sound
would be sufficient to waft liim to Paradise, was about to plunge
tlie steel into his bosom, when tlie lady herself, by leave of her

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 'J77

husband, whose manly visage was all in tears for pity, stood sud-
denly before him.

" Prasildo," said she, " if you love me, listen to me. You
have often told me that you do so. Now prove it. I hapi)en to
be threatened with notiiing less than the loss of life and honour.
Nothing short of such a calamity could have induced me to beg
of you tlie service I am going to request ; since there is no
tjreater shame in the world than to ask favours from those to
whom we have refused them. But I now promise you, that if
you do what I desire, your love shall be returned. I give you my
word for it. 1 give you my honour. On the other side of the
wilds of Barbary is a garden which has a wall of iron. It has
four gates. Life itself keeps one; Death another; Poverty the
third ; the fairy of Riches the fourth. He who goes in at one
gate must go out at the other opposite ; and in the midst of the
garden is a tree, tall as the reach of an arrow, which produces
pearls for blossoms. It is called the Tree of Wealth, and has
fruit of emeralds and boughs of gold. I must have a bough of
that tree, or suffer the most painful consequences. Now, then,
if you love me, I say, prove it. Prove it, and most assuredly I
shall love you in turn, better than ever you loved myself."

What need of saying that Prasildo, with haste and joy, under-
took to do all that she required ? If she had asked the sun and
stars, and the whole universe, he would have promised them.
Quitting her in spite of his love, he set out on the journey with-
out delay, only dressing himself before he left the city in the
habit of a pilgrim.

Now you must know, that Iroldo and his lady had set Prasildo
on that adventure, in the hope that the great distance which he
would have to travel, and the change which it might assist time
to produce, would deliver him from his passion. At all events,
in case this good end was not effected before he arrived at the
garden, they counted to a certainty on his getting rid of it when
he did ; because the fiiry of that garden, which was called the
Garden of Medusa, was of such a nature, that whosoever did
but look on her countenance forgot the reason for his going thi-
ther ; and whoever saluted, touched, and sat down to converse
by her side, forgot all that had ever occurred in his lifetime.

PART TT. 5

•278 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

Away, however, on his steed went our bold lover ; all alone,
or rather with Love for his companion ; and so, riding hard till
he came to the Red Sea, he took ship, and journeyed through
Egypt, and came to the mountains of Barca, where he overtook
an old grey-headed palmer.

Prasildo told the palmer the reason of his coming, and the
palmer told him what the reader has heard about the garden ;
adding, that he must enter by the gate of Poverty, and take no
arms or armour with him, excepting a looking-glass for a shield,
in which the fairy might behold her beauty. The old man gave
him other directions necessary for his passing out of the gate of
Riches ; and Prasildo, thanking him, went on, and in thirty days
found himself entering the garden with the greatest ease, by the
gate of Poverty.

The garden looked like a Paradise, it' was so full of beautiful
trees, and flowers, and fresh grass. Prasildo took care to hold
the shield over his eyes, that he might avoid seeing the fairy
Medusa ; and in this manner, guarding his approach, he arrived
at the Golden Tree. The fairy, who was reclining against the
trunk of it, looked up, and saw herself in the glass. Wonder-
ful was the effect on her. Instead of her own white-and-red
blooming face, she beheld that of a dreadful serpent. The spec-
tacle made her take to flight in terror ; and the lover finding his
object so far gained, looked freely at the tree, and climbed it, and
bore away a bough.*

With this he proceeded to the gate of Riches. It was all of
loadstone, and opened with a great noise. But he passed through
it happily, for he made the fairy who kept it a present of half the
bough ; and so he issued forth out of the garden, with indescriba-
ble joy.

Behold our loving adventurer now on his road home. Every
step of the way appeared to him a thousand. He took the road
of Nubia to shorten the journey ; crossed the Arabian Gulf with

* "Mr. Rose observes, that Medusa may be designed by Boiardo as the ' type
of conscience;' and he is confirmed in his opinion by the circumstance men-
tioned in this canto (12, Ub. i. stan. 39) of Medusa not being able to contemplate
the reflection of her own hideous appearance, though beautiful in the sight of
others. I fully agree with him." — Panizzi, ut sup., vol. iii. p. 333.

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 279

a breeze in his favour ; and travelling by night as well as by day,
arrived one fine morning in Babylon.

No sooner was he there than he sent to tell the object of his
passion how fortunate he had been. He begged her to name her
own place and time for receiving the bough at his hands, taking
care to remind her of her promise ; and he could not help adding,
that he should die if she broke it.

Terrible was the grief of Tisbina at this unlooked-for news.
She threw herself on her couch in despair, and bewailed the hour
she was born. " What on earth am I to do?" cried the wretched
lady ; " death itself is no remedy for a case like this, since it is
only another mode of breaking my word. To think that Prasildo
should return from the garden of Medusa ! who could have sup-
posed it possible ? And yet, in truth, what a fool I was to sup-
pose any thing impossible to love ! O my husband ! little didst
thou think what thou thyself advisedst me to promise !"

The husband was coming that moment towards the room ; and
overhearing his wife grieving in this distracted manner, he en-
tered and clasped her in his arms. On learning the cause of her
affliction, he felt as though he should have died with her on the
spot.

*'Alas!" cried he, "that it should be possible for me to be
miserable while I am so dear to your heart. But you know, O
my soul ! that when love and jealousy come together, the torment
is the greatest in the world. Myself — myself, alas ! caused the
mischief, and myself alone ought to suffer for it. You must keep
your promise. You must abide by the word you have given,
especially to one who has undergone so much to perform what
you asked him. Sweet face, you must. But oh ! see him not
till after I am dead. Let Fortune do with me what she pleases,
so that I be saved from a disgrace like that. It will be a comfort
to me in death to think that I alone, while I was on earth, enjoyed
the fond looking of that lovely face. Nay," concluded the
wretched husband, " I feel as though I should die over again,
if I could call to mind in my grave how you were taken from

me."

Iroldo became dumb for anguish. It seemed to him as if his
very heart had been taken out of his breast. Nor was Tisbina

280 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

less miserable. She was as pale as death, and could hardly
speak to him, or bear to look at him. At length turning her eyes
upon him, she said, " And do you believe I could make my poor
sorry case out in this world without Iroldo ? Can he bear, him-
self, to think of leaving his Tisbina 1 he who has so often said,
that if he possessed heaven itself, he should not think it heaven
without her ? O dearest husband, there is a way to make death
not bitter to either of us. It is to die together. I must only exist
long enough to see Prasildo ! Death, alas ! is in that thought ;
but the same death will release us. It need not even be a hard
death, saving our misery. There are poisons so gentle in their
deadliness, that we need but faint away into sleep, and so, in the
course of a few hours, be delivered. Our misery and our folly
will then alike be ended."

Iroldo assenting, clasped his wife in distraction ; and for a long
time they remained in the same posture, half stifled with grief,
and bathing one another's cheeks with their tears. Afterwards
they sent quietly for the poison ; and the apothecary made up a
preparation in a cup, without asking any questions ; and so the
husband and wife took it. Iroldo drank first, and then endeav-
oured to give the cup to his wife, uttering not a word, and trem-
bling in every limb ; not because he was afraid of death, but
because he could not bear to ask her to share it. At length,
turning away his face and looking down, he held the cup towards
her, and she took it with a chilled heart and trembling hand, and
drank the remainder to the dregs. Iroldo then covered his face
and head, not daring to see her depart for the house of Prasildo ;
and Tisbina, with pangs bitterer than death, left him in solitude.

Tisbina, accompanied by a servant, went to Prasildo, who
could scarcely believe his ears when he heard that she was at the
door requesting to speak with him. He hastened down to shew
her all honour, leading her from the door into a room by them-
selves ; and when he found her in tears, addressed her in the
most considerate and subdued, yet still not unhappy manner,
taking her confusion for bashfulness, and never dreaming what a
tragedy had been meditated.

Finding at length that her grief was not to be done away, he
conjured her by what she held dearest on earth to let him know

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 281

the cause of it ; adding, that he could still die for her sake, if
his death would do her any service. Tisbina spoke at these
words ; and Prasildo then heard what he did not wish to hear.
" I am in your hands," answered she, " while I am yet alive. I
am bound to my word, but I cannot survive the dishonour which
it costs me, nor, above all, the loss of the husband of my heart.
You also, to whose eyes I have been so welcome, must be pre-
pared for my disappearance from the earth. Had my affections
not belonged to another, ungentle would have been my heart not
to have loved yourself, who are so capable of loving ; but (as you
must well know) to love two at once is neither fitting nor in one's
power. It was for that reason I never loved you, baron ; I was
only touched with compassion for you ; and hence the mise-
ries of us all. Before this day closes, I shall have learnt the
taste of death." And without further preface she disclosed to
him how she and her husband had taken poison.

Prasildo was struck dumb with horror. He had thought his
felicity at hand, and was at the same instant to behold it gone for
ever. She who was rooted in his heart, she who carried his life
in her sweet looks, even she was sitting there before him, already,
so to speak, dead.

" It has pleased neither Heaven nor you, Tisbina," exclaimed
the unhappy young man, " to put my best feelings to the proof.
Often have two lovers perished for love ; the world will now behold
a sacrifice of three. Oh, why did you not make a request to me
in your turn, and ask me to free you from your promise ? You
say you took pity on me ! Alas, cruel one, confess that you have
killed yourself, in order to kill me. Yet why ? Never did I
think of giving you displeasure ; and I now do what I would have
done at any time to prevent it, I absolve you from your oath.
Stay, or go this instant, as it seems best to you.'"

A stronger feeling than compassion moved the heart of Tisbina
at these words. " This indeed," replied she, " I feel to be noble;
and truly could I also now die to save you. But life is flitting ;
and how may I prove my regard ?"

Prasildo, who had in good earnest resolved that three instead of
two should perish, experienced such anguish at the extraordinary
position in which he found all three, that even her sweet words

282 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

came but dimly to his ears. He stood like a man stupified ; then
begged of her to give him but one kiss, and so took his leave
without further ado, only intimating that her way out of the
house lay before her. As he spake, he removed himself from her
sight.

Tisbina reached home. She found her husband with his head
covered up as she left him ; but when she recounted what had
passed, and the courtesy of Prasildo, and how he had exacted
from her but a single kiss, Iroldo got up, and removed the cover-
ing from his face, and then clasping his hands, and raising it to
heaven, he knelt with grateful humility, and prayed God to give
pardon to himself, and reward to his neighbour. But before he
had ended, Tisbina sunk on the floor in a swoon. Her weaker
frame was the first to undergo the effects of what she had taken.
Iroldo felt icy chill to see her, albeit she seemed to sleep sweetly.
Her aspect was not at all like death. He taxed Heaven with
cruelty for treating two loving hearts so hardly, and cried out
against Fortune, and life, and Love itself.

Nor was Prasildo happier in his chamber. He also exclaimed
against the bitter tyrant " whom men call Love ;" and protested,
that he would gladly encounter any fate, to be delivered from the
worse evils of his false and cruel ascendency.

But his lamentations were interrupted. The apothecary who
sold the potion to the husband and wife was at the door below,
requesting to speak with him. The servants at first had refused to
carry the message ; but the old man persisting, and saying it was
a matter of life and death, entrance for him into his master's
chamber was obtained.

" Noble sir," said the apothecary, " I have always held you in
love and reverence. I have unfortunately reason to fear that
somebody is desiring your death. This morning a handmaiden
of the lady Tisbina applied to me for a secret poison ; and just
now it was told me, that the lady herself had been at this house.
I am old, sir, and you are young ; and I warn you against the
violence and jealousies of w^omankind. Talk of their flames of
love ! Satan himself burn them, say I, for they are fit for noth-
ing better. Do not be too much alarmed, however, this time : for
in truth I gave the young woman nothing of the sort that she

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 283

asked for, but only a draught so innocent, tliat if you have taken
it, it will cost you but four or five hours' sleep. So, in God's
name, give up the whole foolish sex ; for you may depend on it,
that in this city of ours there are ninety-nine wicked ones among
them to one good."

You may guess how Prasildo's heart revived at these words.
Truly might he be compared to flowers in sunshine after rain ; he
rejoiced through all his being, and displayed again a cheerful
countenance. Hastily thanking the old man, he lost no time in
repairing to the house of his neighbours, and telling them of
their safety : and you may guess how the like joy was theirs.

But behold a wonder ! Iroldo was so struck with the gene-
rosity of his neighbour's conduct throughout the whole of this
extraordinary atfair, that nothing would content his grateful
though ever-grieving heart, but he must fairly give up Tisbina
after all. Prasildo, to do him justice, resisted the proposition as
stoutly as he could ; but a man's powers are ill seconded by an
unwilling heart ; and though the contest was long and handsome,
as is customary between generous natures, the husband adhered
firmly to his intention. In short, he abruptly quitted the city,
declaring that he would never again gee it, and so left his wife to
the lover. And I must add (concluded the fair lady who was
telling the story to Rinaldo), that although Tisbina took his de-
parture greatly to heart, and sometimes felt as if she should die
at the thoughts of il, yet since he persisted in staying away, and
there appeared no chance of his ever doing otherwise, she did,
as in that case we should all do, we at least that are young and
kind, and took the handsome Prasildo for second spouse.*

* " Tisbina," says Panizzi, in a note on this passage. " very wisely acted like
Emilia (in Chaucer), who, when she saw she could not marry Arcita, because
he was killed, thought of marrying Palemone, rather than 'be amayden all hire
Ivf.' It is to be observed, that although she regretted very much what had hap-
pened, and even fainted away, she did not, however, stand on ceremonies, as the
poet says in the next stanza, but yielded immediately, and married Prasildo.
This, at first, I thought to be somewhat inconsistent; but on consideration I
found I was wrong. Tisbina was wrong ; because, having lost Iroldo, she did
not know what Prasildo would do; but so soon as the latter offered to fill up the
place, she nobly and magnanimously resigned herself to her fate." — Ut sup.,
vol. iii. p. 336.

284 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

It might be thought inconsistent in Tisbina, notwithstanding Mr. Panizzi's
pleasantry, to be so wilhng to take another husband, after having poisoned her-
self for the first ; but she seems intended by the poet to exhibit a character of
impulse in contradistinction to permanency of sentiment. She cannot help
shewing pity for Prasildo ; she cannot help poisoning herself for her husband ;
and she cannot help taking his friend, when she has lost him. Nor must it be
forgotten that the husband was the first to break the tie. We respect him more
than we do her, because he was capable of greater self-denial ; but if he him-
self preferred his friend to his love, we can hardly blame her (custom apart) for
following the example.

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 2S5

.J]

PART THE SECOND

The conclusion of this part of the history of Iroldo and Pra-
jildo was scarcely out of the lady's mouth, when a tremendous
i^oice was heard among the trees, and Rinaldo found himself con-
fronting a giant of a frightful aspect, who with a griffin on each
ide of him was guarding a cavern that contained the enchanted
horse which had belonged to the brother of Angelica. A combat
ensued ; and after winning the horse, and subsequently losing
the company of the lady, the Paladin, in the course of his adven-
ures, came upon a knight who lay lamenting in a green place by
a fountain. The knight heeding nothing but his grief, did not
perceive the new comer, who for some time remained looking at
him in silence, till, desirous to know the cause of his sorrow, he
dismounted from his horse, and courteously begged to be informed
of it. The stranger in his turn looked a little while in silence at
Rinaldo, and then told him he had resolved to die, in order to be
rid of a life of misery. And yet, he added, it was not his own
lot which grieved him, so much as that of a noble friend who
would die at the same time, and who had nobody to help him.

The knight, who was no other than Tisbina's husband Iroldo,
then briefly related the events which the reader has heard, and
proceeded to state how he had traversed the world ever since for
two years, when it was his misfortune to arrive in the territories
of the enchantress Falerina, whose custom it was to detain for-
eigners in prison, and daily give a couple of them (a lady and a
cavalier) for food to a serpent which kept the entrance of her
enchanted garden. To this serpent he himself was destined to

286 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

be sacrificed, when Prasildo, the possessor of his wife Tisbina,
hearing of his peril, set out instantly from Babylon, and rode
night and day till he came to the abode of the enchantress, deter-
mined that nothing should hinder him from doing his utmost to
save the life of a friend so generous. Save it he did, and that by
a generosity no less devoted ; for having attempted in vain to
bribe the keeper of the prison, he succeeded in prevailing on the
man to let him substitute himself for his friend ; and he was that
very day, perhaps that very moment, preparing for the dreadful •
death to which he would speedily be brought.

" I will not survive such a friend," concluded Iroldo. " I
know I shall contend with his warders to no purpose ; but let the
wretches come, if they will, by thousands ; I shall fight them to
the last gasp. One comfort in death, one joy I shall at all events
experience. I shall be with Prasildo in the other world. And
yet when I think what sort of death he must endure, even the
release from my own miseries afflicts me, since it will not pre-
vent him from undergoing that horror."

The Paladin shed tears to hear of a case so piteous and affec-
tionate, and in a tone of encouragement offered his services
towards the rescue of his friend. Iroldo looked at him in aston-i
ishment, but sighed and said, " Ah, sir, I thank you with all my
heart, and you are doubtless a most noble cavalier, to be so fear-
less and good-hearted ; but what right have I to bring you to
destruction for no reason and to no purpose ? There is not a man
on earth but Orlando himself, or his cousin Rinaldo, who could
possibly do us any good ; and so I beg you to accept my thanks
and depart in safety, and may God reward you."

" It is true," replied the Paladin, " I am not Orlando ; and yet,
for all that, I doubt not to be able to effect what I propose. Nor
do I offer my assistance out of desire of glory, or of thanks, or
return of any kind ; except indeed, that if two such unparalleled
friends could admit me to be a third, I should hold myself a happy
man. What ! you have given up the woman of your heart, and
deprived yourself of all joy and comfort ; and your friend, on
the other hand, has become a prisoner and devoted to death, for
your sake ; and can I be expected to leave two such friends in a

THE SARACEN FRIENDS. 287

jeopardy so monstrous, and not do all in my power to save them ?
I would rather die first myself, and on your own principle ; I
mean, in order to go with you into a better world."

While they were talking in this manner, a great ill-looking
rabble, upwards of a thousand strong, made their appearance,
carrying a banner, and bringing forth two prisoners to die. The
wretches were armed after their disorderly fashion ; and the
prisoners each tied upon a horse. One of these hapless persons
too surely was Prasildo ; and the other turned out to be the dam-
sel N\ ho had told Rinaldo the story of the friends. Having been
deprived of the Paladin's assistance, her subsequent misadven-
tures had brought her to this terrible pass. The moment Rinaldo
beheld her, he leaped on his horse, and dashed among the villains.
The sight of such an onset was enough for their cowardly hearts.
The whole posse fled before him with precipitation, all except the
leader, who was a villain of gigantic strength ; and him the Pala-
din, at one blow, clove through the middle. Iroldo could not
speak for joy, as he hastened to release Prasildo. He was forced
to give him tears instead of words. But when speech at length
became possible, the two friends, fervently and with a religious
awe, declared that their deliverer must have been divine and not
human, so tremendous was the death-blow he had given the ruf-
fian, and such winged and contemptuous slaughter he had dealt
among the fugitives. By the time he returned from the pursuit,
their astonishment had risen to such a pitch, that they fell on
their knees and worshipped him for the Prophet of the Saracens,
not believing such prowess possible to humanity, and devoutly
thanking him for the mercy he had shewn them in coming thus
visibly from heaven. Rinaldo for the moment was not a little
disturbed at this sally of enthusiasm ; but the singular good faith
and simplicity of it restored him to himself; and with a smile be-
tween lovingness and humility he begged them to lay aside all
such fancies, and know him for a man like themselves. He
then disclosed himself for the Rinaldo of whom they had spoken,
and made such an impression on them with his piety, and his at-
tributing what had appeared a superhuman valour to nothing but
his belief in the Christian religion, that the transported friends

288 THE SARACEN FRIENDS.

became converts on the spot, and accompanied him thenceforth
as the most faithful of his knights.

The story tells us nothing fiirther of Tisbina, though there can be no doubt
that Boiardo meant to give us the conclusion of her share in it ; for the two
knights take an active part in the adventures of their new friend Rinaldo.
Perhaps, however, the discontinuance of the poem itself was lucky for the au-
thor, as far as this episode was concerned ; for it is difficult to conceive in what
maimer he would have wound it up to the satisfaction of the reader.

SEEING AND BELIEVING.

Argument.

A lady has two suitors, a young and an old one, the latter of whom wins her
against her inclinations by practising the artifice of Hippomanes in his race with
Atalanta. Being very jealous, he locks her up in a tower; and the youth, who
continued to be her lover, makes a subterraneous passage to it ; and pretending
to have married her sister, invites the old man to his house, and introduces his
own wife to him as the bride. The husband, deceived, but still jealous, facili-
tates their departure out of the country, and returns to his tower to find liimself
deserted.

This story, like that of the Saracen Friends, is told by a damsel to a knight
while riding in his company ; with this difference, that she is the heroine of it
herself She is a damsel of a nature still lighter than the former; and the
reader's sympathy with the trouble she brings on herself^ and the way she gets
out of it, will be modified accordingly. On the other hand, nobody can respect
the foolish old man with his unwarrantable marriage ; and the moral of Boiardo's
story is still useful for these " enlightened times," though conveyed with an air
of levity.

In addition to the classics, the poet has been to the Norman fablers for his
story. The subterranean passage has been more than once repeated in ro-
mance ; and the closing incident, the assistance given by the husband to his
^vife's elopement, has been imitated in the farce of Lionel and Clarissa.

SEEING AND BELIEVING.

My father (said the damsel) is King of the Distant Islands,
where the treasure of the earth is collected. Never was greater
wealth known, and I was heiress of it all.

But it is impossible to foresee what is most to be desired for us
in this world. I was a king's daughter, I was rich, I was hand-
some, I was lively ; and yet to all those advantages I owed my
ill- fortune.

Among other suitors for my hand there came two on the same
day, one of whom was a youth named Ordauro, handsome from
head to foot ; the other an old man of seventy, whose name was
Folderico. Both were rich and of noble birth ; but the greybeard
was counted extremely wise, and of a foresight more than human.
As I did not feel in want of his foresight, the youth was far more
to my taste ; and accordingly I listened to him with perfect good-
will, and gave the wise man no sort of encouragement.

I was not at liberty, however, to determine the matter ; my
father had a voice in it ; so, fearing what he would advise, I
thought to secure a good result by cunning and management. It
is an old observation, that the craft of a woman exceeds all other
craft. Indeed, it is Solomon's own saying. But now-a-days peo-
ple laugh at it ; and I found to my cost that the laugh is just. I
requested my father to proclaim, first, that nobody should have
me in marriage who did not surpass me in swiftness (for I was a
damsel of a mighty agility) ; and secondly, that he who did sur-
pass me should be my husband. He consented, and I thought
my happiness secure. You must know, I have run down a bird,
and caught it with my own hand.

Well, both my suitors came to the race ; the youth on a large

292 SEEING AND BELIEVING.

war-horse, trapped with gold, which curvetted in a prodigious
manner, and seemed impatient for a gallop ; the old man on a
mule, carrying a great bag at his side, and looking already tired
out.. They dismounted on the place chosen for the trial, which
was a meadow. It was encircled by a world of spectators ; and
the greybeard and myself (for his age gave him the first chance)
only waited for the sound of the trumpet to set off.

I held my competitor in such contempt, that I let him get the
start of me, on purpose to make him ridiculous ; but I was not
prepared for his pulling a golden apple out of his bag, and throw-
ing it as far as he could in a direction different from that of the
goal. The sight of a curiosity so tempting was too much for my
prudence ; and it rolled away so roundly, and to such a distance,
that I lost more time in reaching it than I looked for. Before I
overtook the old gentleman, he threw another apple, and this again
led me a chase after it. In short, I blush to say, that, resolved as
I was to be tempted no further, seeing that the end of our course
was now at hand, and my marriage with an old man instead of a
young man was out of the question, he seduced me to give chase
to a third apple, and fairly reached the goal before me. I wept
for rage and disgust, and meditated every species of unconjugal
treatment of the old fox. What right had he to marry such a
child as I was ? I asked myself the question at the time ; I asked
it a thousand times afterwards ; and I must confess, that the more
I have tormented him, the more the retaliation delights me.

However, it was of no use at the moment. The old wretch
bore me off to his domains with an ostentatious triumph ; and
then, his jealousy misgiving him, he shut me up in a castle on a
rock, where he endeavoured from that day forth to keep me from
the sight of living being. You may judge what sort of castle it
was by its name — Altamura (lofty wall). It overlooked a desert I
on three sides, and the sea on the fourth ; and a man might as
well have flown as endeavoured to scale it. There was but one
path up to the entrance, very steep and difficult ; and when you
were there, you must have pierced outwork afler outwork, and
picked the lock of gate after gate. So there sat I in this delicious
retreat, hopeless, and bursting with rage. I called upon death
day and night, as my only refuge. I had no comfort but in see-

SEEING AND BELIEVING. 293

ing my keeper mad with jealousy, even in that desolate spot. I
think he was jealous of the very flies.

JMy handsome youth, Ordauro, however, had not forgotten me;
no, nor even given me up. Luckily he was not only very clever,
but rich besides ; without which, to be sure^ his brains would not
have availed him a pin. What does he do, therefore, but take a
house in the neighbourhood on the sea-shore ; and while my tor-
mentor, in alarm and horror, watches every movement, and thinks
him coming if he sees a cloud or a bird, Ordauro sets people se-
cretly to work night and day, and makes a subterraneous passage
up to the very tower !

Guess what I felt when I saw him enter ! Assuredly I did not
shew him the face which I shewed Folderico. I die with joy
this moment to think of my delight. As soon as we could dis-
course of any thing but our meeting, Ordauro concerted measures
for my escape ; and the greatest difficulty being surmounted by
the subterraneous passage, they at last succeeded. But our ene-
my gave us a frightful degree of trouble.

There was no end of the old man's pryings, peepings, and pre-
cautions. He left me as little as possible by myself; and he had
all the coast thereabouts at his command, together with the few
boats that ever touched it.

Ordauro, however^ did a thing at once the most bold and the
most ingenious. He gave out that he was married ; and inviting
my husband to dinner, who had heard the news with transport,
presented me, to his astonished eyes, for the bride. The old man
looked as if he would have died for rage and misery.

" Horrible villain !" cried he, " what is this ?"

Ordauro professed astonishment in his turn.

" What !" asked he ; " do you not know that the princess,
your lady's sister, is wonderfully like her, and that she has done
me the honour of becoming my wife ? I invited you in order to
do honour to yourself, and so bring the good families together."

'' Detestable falsehood !" cried Folderico. " Do you think I'm
blind, or a born idiot ? But I'll see to this business directly ;
and terrible shall be my revenge."

So saying, he flung out, and hastened, as fast as age would let
him, to the room in the tower, where he expected to find me not.

294 SEEING AND BELIEVING.

But there he did find me : — there was I, sitting as if nothing had
happened, with my hand on my cheek, and full of my old mel-
ancholy.

" God preserve me !" exclaimed he ; " this is astonishing in-
deed ! Never could I have dreamt that one sister could be so
like another ! But is it so, or is it not ? I have terrible sus-
picions. It is impossible to believe it. Tell me truly," he con-
tinued ; " answer me on the faith of a daring woman, and you
shall get no hurt by it. Has any one opened the portals for you
to-day ? Who was it ? How did you get out ? Tell me the
truth, and you shall not suffer for it ; but deceive me, and there
is no punishment that you may not look for."

It is needless to say how I vowed and protested that I had
never stirred ; that it was quite impossible ; that I could not have
done it if I would, &c. I took all the saints to witness to my
veracity, and swore I had never seen the outside of his tremen-
dous castle.

The monster had nothing to say to this ; but I saw what he
meant to do — I saw that he would return instantly to the house
of Ordauro, and ascertain if the bride was there. Accordingly,
the moment he turned the key on me, I flew down the subterra-
neous passage, tossed on my new clothes like lightning, and sat
in my lover's house as before, waiting the arrival of the panting
old gentleman.

" Well," exclaimed he, as soon as he set eyes upon me,
" never in all my life — no — I must allow it to be impossible —
never can my wife at home be the lady sitting here."

From that day forth the old man, whenever he saw me in Or-
dauro's house, treated me as if I were indeed his sister-in-law,
though he never had the heart to bring the two wives together, for
fear of old recollections. Nevertheless, this state of things was
still very perilous ; and my new husband and myself lost no time
in considering how we should put an end to it by leaving the
country. Ordauro resorted, as before, to a bold expedient. He
told Folderico that the air of the sea-coast disagreed with him ;
and the old man, whose delight at getting rid of his neighbour
helped to blind him to the deceit, not only expedited the move-
ment, but offered to see him part of the way on his journey !

SEEING AND BELIEVING. 295

The ofTer was accepted. Six miles he rode forth with us the
stupid old man ; and then, takinor his leave, to return home', we
pushed our horses like lightning, and so left him to tear his hair
and his old beard with cries and curses, as soon as he opened the
door of his tower.

ARIOSTO:

CfTritical Notice of l)is £ife anh <3cnim.

CRITICAL NOTICE

ARIOSTO'S LIFE AND GENIUS.*

The congenial spirits of Piilci and Boiardo may be said to
have attained to their height in the person of Ariosto, upon the
principle of a transmigration of souls, or after the fashion of that
hero in romance, who was heir to the bodily strengths of all wliom
he conquered.

Lodovico Giovanni Ariosto was born on the 8th of September,
1474, in the fortress at Reggio, in Lombardy, and was the son of
Niccolo Ariosto, captain of that citadel (as Boiardo had been),
and Daria Maleguzzi, whose family still exists. The race was
transplanted from Bologna in the century previous, when Obizzo
the Third of Este, Marquess of Ferrara, married a lady belong-
ing to it, whose Christian name was Lippa. Niccolo Ariosto,
besides holding the same office as Boiardo had done, at Modena
as well as at Reggio, was master of the household to his two suc-
cessive patrons, the Dukes Borso and Ercole. He was also em-

* The materials for this notice have been chiefly collected from the poet's own
writings (rich in autobiographical intimation) and from his latest editor Panizzi.
I was unable to see this writer's principal authority, Baruflaldi, till I corrected
the proofs and the press was waiting ; otherwise I might have added two or
three more particulars, not, however, of any great consequence. Panizzi is, as
usual, copious and to the purpose ; and has, for the first time I believe, critically
proved the regularity and connectedness of Ariosto's plots, as well as the hol-
lowness of the pretensions of the house of Este to be considered patrons of
literature. It is only a pity that his Life of Ariosto is not better arranged. I
have, of course, drawn my own conclusions respecting particulars, and some-
times have thought I had reason to differ with those who have preceded me ; but
not, I hope, with a presumption unbecoming a foreigner.

300 ARIOSTO.

ployed, like him, in diplomacy ; and was made a count by the
Emperor Frederick the Third, though not, it seems, with re-
mainder to his heirs.

Lodovico was the eldest of ten children, five sons and five
daughters. During his boyhood, theatrical entertainments were
in great vogue at court, as we have seen in the life of Boiardo ;
and at the age of twelve, a year after the decease of that poet
(who must have been well known to him, and probably encour-
aged his attempts), his successor is understood to have dramatised,
after his infant fashion, the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, and to
have got his brothers and sisters to perform it. Panizzi doubts
the possibility of these precocious private theatricals ; but con-
sidering what is called " writing" on the part of children, and
that only one other performer was required in the piece, or at
best a third for the lion (which some little brother might have
" roared like any sucking-dove"), I cannot see good reason for
disbelieving the story. Pope was not twelve years old when he
turned the siege of Troy into a play, and got his school- fellows to
perform it, the part of Ajax being given to the gardener. Man is
a theatrical animal [^wov fiijxriTiK6v^, and the instinct is developed at
a very early period, as almost every family can witness that has
taken its children to the " playhouse."

At fifteen the young poet, like so many others of his class, was
consigned to the study of the law, and took a great dislike to it.
The extreme mobility of his nature, and the wish to please his
father, appear to have made him enter on it willingly enough
in the first instance ;* but as soon as he betrayed symptoms of
disgust, Niccolo, whose affairs were in a bad way, drove him
back to it with a vehemence which must have made bad worse, f
At the expiration of five years he was allowed to give it up.

* See in his Latin poems the lines beginning,

" Hffic me verbosas suasit perdiscere leges."

De Diversis Amoribus.
t " Mio padre mi caccib con spiedi e lancie," &c.

Satira vi.

There is some appearance of contradiction in this passage and the one referred
to in the preceding note ; but I tliink the conclusion in the text the probable
one, and that he was not compelled to study the law in the first instance. He

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 301

There is reason to believe tliat Ariosto was " theatricalising"
during no little portion of this time ; for, in his nineteenth year,
he is understood to have been taken by Duke Ercole to Pavia
and to Milan, either as a writer or performer of comedies, proba-
bly both, since the courtiers and ducal family themselves occa-
sionally appeared on the stage ; and one of the poet's brothers
mentions his having frequently seen him dressed in character.*

On being delivered from the study of the law, the young poet
appears to have led a cheerful and unrestrained life for the next
four or five years. He wrote, or began to write, the comedy of
the Cassaria ; probably meditated some poem in the style of
Boiardo^ then in the height of his fame ; and he cultivated the
Latin language, and intended to learn Greek, but delayed, and
unfortunately missed it in consequence of losing his tutor. Some
of his happiest days were passed at a villa, still possessed by the
Maleguzzi family, called La Mauriziana, two miles from Reggio.
Twenty-five years afterwards he called to mind, with sighs, the
pleasant spots there which used to invite him to write verses ;
the garden, the little river, the mill, the trees by the water-side,
and all the other shady places in which he enjoyed himself during
that sweet season of his life " betwixt April and May."f To
complete his happiness, he had a friend and cousin, Pandolfo
Ariosto, who loved every thing that he loved, and for whom he
augured a brilliant reputation.

But a dismal cloud was approaching. In his twenty-first year
he lost his father, and found a large family left on his hands in
narrow circumstances. The charge was at first so heavy, espe-
cially when aggravated by the death of Pandolfo, that he tells us
he wished to die. He took to it manfully, however, in spite of
these fits of gloom ; and he lived to see his admirable efforts
rewarded ; his brotliers enabled to seek their fortunes, and his
sisters properly taken care of. Two of them, it seems, had be-
come nuns. A third married ; and a fourth remained long in his
house. It is not known what became of the fifth.

sjieaks more than once of his father's memory with great tenderness, particularly
in the lines on his death, entitled Dt Nkolao Areosto.

* His brother Gabriel expressly mentions it in his prologue to the Scholastica.

t " G\k mi fur dolci inviti," &c. — Satira v.

TART 11. 6

302 ARIOSTO.

In these family-matters the anxious son and brother was occu-
pied for three or four years, not, however, without jecreating
himself with his verses, Latin and Italian, and recording his
admiration of a number of goddesses of his youth. He men-
tions, in particular, one of the name of Lydia, who kept him
often from " his dear mother and household," and who is proba-
bly represented by the princess of the same name in the Orlando,
punished in the smoke of Tartarus for being a jilt and coquette.*
His friend Bembo, afterwards the celebrated cardinal, recommend-
ed him to be blind to such little immaterial points as ladies' infi-
delities. But he is shocked at the advice. He was far more of
Othello's opinion than Congreve's in such matters ; and declared,
that he would not have shared his mistress's good-will with Jupi-
ter himself.f

Towards the year 1504, the poet entered the service of the
unworthy prince. Cardinal Ippolito of Este, brother of the new
Duke of Ferrara, Alfonso the First. His eminence, who had
been made a prince of the church at thirteen years of age by the
infamous Alexander the Sixth (Borgia), was at this period little
more than one-and -twenty ; but he took an active part in the
duke's affairs, both civil and military, and is said to have made
himself conspicuous in his father's lifetime for his vices and bru-
tality. He is charged with having ordered a papal messenger to
be severely beaten for bringing him some unpleasant despatches :
which so exasperated his unfortunate parent, that he was exiled
to Mantua ; and the marquess of that city, his brother-in-law, was
obliged to come to Ferrara to obtain his pardon. But this was a
trifle compared with what he is accused of having done to one of
his brothers. A female of their acquaintance, in answer to a
speech made her by the reverend gallant, had been so unlucky
as to say that she preferred his brother Giulio's eyes to his emi-
nence's whole body : upon which the monstrous villain hired two

* See, in the present volume, the beginning of Astolfo's Journey to the Moon.
t " Me potius fugiat, nullis molHta querelis,

Dum simulet reliquos Lydia dura procos.
Parte carere omni malo, quam admittere qucraquam
In partem. Cupiat Juppiter ipse, negem."

Ad Petrum Bembum.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 303

ruffians to put out his brother's eyes ; some say, was present at
the attempt. Attempt only it fortunately turned out to be, at
least in part ; the opinion being, that the sight of one of the eyes
was preserved.*

Party-spirit- l^^s so much to do with stories of princes, and
princes are so little inr a condition to notice them, that, on the
principle of not condemning a man till he has been heard in his
defence, an honest biographer would be loath to credit these hor-
rors of Cardinal Ippolito, did not the violent nature of the times,
and the general character of the man, even with his defenders,
incline him to do so. His being a soldier rather than a church-
man was a fault of the age, perhaps a credit to the man, for he
appears to have had abilities for war, and it was no crime of his
if he was put into the church when a boy. But his conduct to
Ariosto shewed him coarse and selfish ; and those who say all
they can for him admit that he was proud and revengeful, and
that nobody regretted him when he died. He is said to have had
a taste for mathematics, as his brother had for mechanics. The
truth seems to be, that he and the duke, who lived in troubled
times, and had to exert all their strength to hinder Ferrara from
becoming a prey to the court of Rome, were clever, harsh men,
of no grace or elevation of character, and with no taste but for
war ; and if it had not been for their connexion with Ariosto, no-
body would have heard of them, except while perusing the annals
of the time. Ippolito might have been, and probably was, the
ruffian which the anecdote of his brother Giulio represents him ;
but the world would have heard little of the villany, had he not
treated a poet with contempt.

The admirers of our author may wonder how he could become
the servant of such a man, much more how he could praise him
as he did in the great work which he was soon to begin writing.

* Panizzi, on the authority of Guicciardini and others, Giulio and another
brother (Fcrrante) afterwards conspired against Alfonso and Ippolito, and, on
the failure of their enterprise, were sentenced to be imprisoned for life. Fer-
rante died in confinement at the expiration of thirty-four years; GiuHo, at the
end of fifty-three, was pardoned. He came out of prison on horseback, dressed
according to the fashion of the time when he was arrested, and "greatly excited
the curiosity of the people." — Idem, vol. i. p. xii.

304 ARIOSTO.

But Ariosto was the son of a man who had passed his life in the
service of the family ; he had probably been taught a loyal blind-
ness to its defects ; gratuitous panegyrics of princes had been the
fashion of men of letters since the time of Augustus ; and the poet
wanted help for his relatives, and was of a nature to take the
least show of favour for a virtue, till he had learnt, as he unfor-
tunately did, to be disappointed in the substance. It is not known
what his appointment was under the cardinal. Probably he was
a kind of gentleman of all work ; an officer in his guards, a com-
panion to amuse, and a confidential agent for the transaction of
business. The employment in which he is chiefly seen is that of
an envoy, but he is said also to have been in the field of battle ;
and he intimates in his Satires, that household attentions were
expected of him which he was not quick to ofier, such as pulling
off his eminence's boots, and putting on his spurs.* It is certain
that he was employed in very delicate negotiations, sometimes to
the risk of his life from the perils of roads and torrents. Ippo-
lito, who was a man of no delicacy, probably made use of him on
every occasion that required address, the smallest as well as
greatest, — an interview with 9, pope one day, and a despatch to a
dog-fancier the next.

His great poem, however, proceeded. It was probably begun
before he entered the cardinal's service ; certainly was in progress
during the early part of his engagement. This appears from a
letter written to Ippolito by his sister the Marchioness of Mantua,
to whom he had sent Ariosto at the beginning of the year 1509 to
congratulate her on the birth of a child. She gives her brother
special thanks for sending his message to her by " Messer Ludo-
vico Ariosto," who had made her, she says, pass two delightful
days, with giving her an account of the poem he was writing.^

* " Che debbo fare io qm '\

Agli usatti, agli spron (perch' io son grande)
Non mi posso adattar, per pome o trarne."

Satira ii.
t " Per la lettera de la S. V. Reverendiss. et a bocha da Ms. Ludovico Ariosto
ho inteso quanta leticia ha conceputa del felice parto mio : il che mi 6 stato
summamente grato, cussi Io ringrazio de la visitazione, et particolarmente di
havermi mandato 11 dicto Ms. Ludovico, per che ultra che mi sia stato acetto, re-
presentando la persona de la S. V. Reverendiss. lui anche per conto suo mi ha

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. :J05

Isabella was the name of this princess ; and the grateful poet did
not forget to embalm it in his verse.*

Ariosto's latest biographer, Panizzi, thinks he never served un-
der any other leader than the cardinal ; but I cannot help being
of opinion with a former one, wliom he quotes, that he once took
arms under a captain of the name of Pio, probably a kinsman of
his friend Alberto Pio, to whom he addresses a Latin poem. It
was probably on occasion of some early disgust with the cardinal ;
but I am at a loss to discover at what period of time. Perhaps,
indeed, he had the cardinal's permission, both to quit his service,
and return to it. Possibly he was not to quit it at all, except ac-
cording to events ; but merely had leave given him to join a party
in arms, who were furthering Ippolito's own objects. Italy was
full of captains in arms and conflicting interests. The poet might
even, at some period of his life, have headed a troop under another
cardinal, his friend Giovanni de' Medici, afterwards Leo the
Tenth. He had certainly been with him in various parts of
Italy ; and might have taken part in some of his bloodless, if not
his most military, equitations.

Be this as it may, it is understood that Ariosto was present at
the repulse given to the Venetians by Ippolito, when they came
up the river Po against Ferrara towards the close of the year
1509 ; though he was away from the scene of action at his sub-
sequent capture of their flotilla, the poet having been despatched
between the two events to Pope Julius the Second on the delicate
business of at once appeasing his anger with the duke for resist-
ing his allies, and requesting his help to a feudatary of the church.
Julius was in one of his towering passions at first, but gave way
before the address of the envoy, and did what he desired. But
Ariosto's success in this mission was nearly being the death of
him in another ; for Alfonso having accompanied the French the
year following in their attack on Vicenza, where they committed
cruelties of the same horrible kind as have shocked Europe with-

addutta gran satisfazionc, havcndomi cum la narratione dc 1' opera che compone
iacto passar questi due giorni non solum senza fastidio, ma cum placer gran-
dissimo." — Tiraboschi, Storia ddla Poesia Jtaliana, Matthias' edition, vol. iii.
p. 197.

♦ Orlando JTurioso, canto xxix. st. 29.

306 ARIOSTO.

in a few months past,* the poet's tongue, it was thought, might be
equally efficacious a second time ; but Julius, worn out of pa-
tience with his too independent vassal, who maintained an alli-
ance with the French when the pope had ceased to desire it, was
to be appeased no longer. He excommunicated Alfonso, and
threatened to pitch his envoy into the Tiber ; so that the poet
was fain to run for it, as the duke himself was afterwards, when
he visited Rome to be absolved. Would Julius have thus treated
Ariosto, could he have foreseen his renown ? Probably he would.
The greater the opposition to the will, the greater the will itself.
To chuck an accomplished envoy into the river would have been
much ; but to chuck the immortal poet there, laurels and all, in
the teeth of the amazement of posterity, would have been a temp-
tation irresistible.

It was on this occasion that Ariosto, probably from inability to
choose his times or modes of returning home, contracted a cough,
which is understood to have shortened his existence ; so that Ju-
lius may have killed him after all. But the pope had a worse
enemy in his own hosom — his violence — which killed himself in
a much shorter period. He died in little more than two years
afterwards ; and the poet's prospects were all now of a very dif-
ferent sort — at least he thought so; for in March, 1513, his friend
Giovanni de' Medici succeeded to the papacy, under the title of
Leo the Tenth.

Ariosto hastened to Rome, among a shoal of visitants, to con-
gratulate the new pope, perhaps not without a commission from
Alfonso to see what he could do for his native country, on which
the rival Medici family never ceased to have designs. The poet
was full of hope, for he had known Leo under various fortunes ;
had been styled by him not only a friend, but a brother ; and
promised all sorts of participations of his prosperity. Not one of
them came. The visitor was cordially received. Leo stooped
from his throne, squeezed his hand, and kissed him on both his
cheeks ; but " at night," says Ariosto, " I went all the way to
the Sheep to get my supper, wet through." All that Leo gave
him was a " bull," probably the one securing to him the profits

* See the horrible account of the suffocated Vicentine Grottoes, in Sismondi,
Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, &c. vol. iv. p. 48.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 307

of his Orlando ; and the poet's friend Bil)biena — wit, cardinal,
and kinsman of Berni — facilitated the bull, but the receiver dis-
charged the fees. He did not get one penny by promise, pope,
or friend.* He complains a little, but all in good humour ; and
good-naturedly asks what he was to expect, when so many hun-
gry kinsmen and partisans were to be served first. Well and
wisely asked too, and with a superiority to his fortunes which
Leo and Bibbiena might have envied.

It is thought probable, however, that if the poet had been less
a friend to the house of Este, Leo would have kept his word with
him, for their intimacy had undoubtedly been of the most cordial
description. But it is supposed that Leo was afraid he should
have a Ferrarese envoy constantly about him, had he detained
Ariosto in Rome. The poet, however, it is admitted, was not a
good hunter of preferment. He could not play the assenter, and
bow and importune : and sovereigns, however friendly they may
have been before their elevation, go the way of most princely
flesh when they have attained it. They like to take out a man's
gratitude beforehand, perhaps because they feel little security in
it afterwards.

The elevation to the papacy of the cheerful and indulgent son
of Lorenzo de' Medici, after the troublous reign of Julius, was
hailed with delight by all Christendom, and nowhere more so than
in the pope's native place, Florence. Ariosto went there to see
the spectacles ; and there, in the midst of them, he found himself
robbed of his heart by the lady whom he afterwards married.
Her name was Alessandra Benucci. She was the widow of one
of the Strozzi family, whom he had known in Ferrara, and he had
long admired her. The poet, who, like Petrarch and Boccaccio,

♦ " Piegossi a me dalla beata sede ;
La mano e poi le gote anibe mi prese,
E 11 santo bacio in amendue mi diede.

Di mezza quclla bolla anco cortese
Mi fu, della quale ora il mio Bibbiena
Espedito ra' ha il resto alle mic spese.

Indi col seno e con la falda piena
Di spome, ma di pioggia molle e brutto,
La notte andai sin al Montone a cena." Sat. iv.

3j^^^^ ARIOSTO.

has recorded the day on which he fell in love, which was that of
St. John the Baptist (the showy saint-days of the south offer spe-
cial temptations to that effect), dwells with minute fondness on
the particulars of the lady's appearance. Her dress was black
silk, embroidered with two grape-bearing vines intertwisted ; and
" between her serene forehead and the path that went dividing in
two her rich and golden tresses," was a sprig of laurel in bud.
Her observer, probably her welcome if not yet accepted lover,
beheld something very significant in this attire ; and a mysterious
poem, in which he records a device of a black pen feathered with
gold, which he wore embroidered on a gown of his own, has been
supposed to allude to it. As every body is tempted to make his
guess on such occasions, I take the pen to have been the black-
haired poet himself, and the golden feather the tresses of the lady.
Beautiful as he describes her, with a face full of sweetness, and
manners noble and engaging, he speaks most of the charms of her
golden locks. The black gown could hardly have implied her
widowhood : the allusion would not have been delicate. The
vine belongs to dramatic poets, among whom the lover was at that
time to be classed, the Orlando not having appeared. Its duplifi-
cation intimated another self; and the crowning laurel was the
success that awaited the heroic poet and the conqueror of the
lady's heart.*

The marriage was never acknowledged. The husband was in
the receipt of profits arising from church-offices, which putlhim
into the condition of the fellow of a college with us, who cannot
marry so long as he retains his fellowship : but it is proved to
have taken place, though the date of it is uncertain. Ariosto, in
a satire written three or four years after his falling in love, says
/ he never intends either to marry or to take orders ; because, if
he takes orders, he cannot marry ; and if he marries, he cannot
take orders — that is to say, must give up his semi-priestly emol-
uments. This is one of the falsehoods which the Roman Catholic
religion thinks itself warranted in tempting honest men to fall
into ; thus perplexing their faith as to the very roots of all faith,
and tending to maintain a sensual hypocrisy, which can do

* See canzone the first, " Non so s' io potrb," &c. ; and the capitoh beginning
" Delia mia negra penna in fregio d' oro."

HIS LIFE AND GEMUS. 309

no good to tlie strongest minds, and must terribly injure the
weak.

Ariosto's love for this lady I take to have been one of the
causes of dissatisfaction between him and the cardinal. " For-
tunately for the poet," as Panizzi observes, Ippolito was not al-
ways in Ferrara. He travelled in Italy, and he had an arch-
bishopric in Hungary, the tenure of which compelled occasional
residence. His company was not desired in Rome, so that he
was seldom there. Ariosto, however, was an amusing compan-
ion ; and the cardinal seems not to have liked to go anywhere
without him. In the year 1515 he was attended by the poet part
of the way on a journey to Rome and Urbino ; but Ariosto fell
ill, and had leave to return. He confesses that his illness W£is
owing to an anxiety of love ; and he even makes an appeal to the
cardinal's experience of such feelings ; so that it might seem he
was not afraid of Ippolito's displeasure in that direction. But the
weakness which seltish people excuse in themselves becomes a
" very different thing" (as they phrase it) in another. The ap-
peal to the cardinal's experience might only have exasperated
him, in its assumption of the identity of the case. However, the
poet was, at all events, left this time to the indulgence of his love
and his poetry ; and in the course of the ensuing year, a copy of
the first edition of the Orlando Furioso, in forty cantos, was put
into the hands of the illustrious person to whom it was dedicated.

The words in which the cardinal was pleased to express him-
self on this occasion have become memorable. " Where the
devil. Master Lodovick," said the reverend personage, " have
you picked up such a parcel of trumpery ?" The original term
is much stronger, aggravating the insult with indecency. There
is no equivalent for it in English ; and I shall not repeat it in
Italian. " It is as low and indecent," says Panizzi, " as, any in
the language." Suffice it to say that, although the age was not
scrupulous in such matters, it was one of the last words befitting
the lips of the reverend Catholic ; and that, when Ippolito of
Este (as Ginguene observes) made that speech to the great poet,
" he uttered — prince, cardinal, and mathematician as he was —
an impertinence."*

* Hiatoire LUtiraire, t&c. vol. iv. p. 335.

310 ARIOSTO.

Was the cardinal put out of temper by a device which ap-
peared in this book ? On the leaf succeeding the title-page was
the privilege for its publication, granted by Leo in terms of the
most flattering personal recognition.* So far so good; unless
the unpoetical Este patron was not pleased to see such interest
taken in the book by the tasteful Medici patron. But on the back
of this leaf was a device of a hive, with the bees burnt out of it
for their honey, and the motto " Evil for good" [Pro dono malum).
Most biographers are of opinion that this device was aimed at the
cardinal's ill return for all the sweet words lavished on him and
his house. If so, and supposing Ariosto to have presented the
dedication-copy in person, it would have been curious to see the
faces of the two men while his Eminence was looking at it.
Some will think that the goodnatured poet could hardly have
taken such an occasion of displaying his resentment. But the
device did not express at whom it was aimed : the cardinal need
not have applied it to himself if he did not choose, especially as
the book was full of his praises ; and goodnatured people will not
always miss an opportunity of covertly inflicting a sting. The
device, at all events, shewed that the honey-maker had got worse
than nothing by his honey ; and the house of Este could not say
they had done any thing to contradict it.

I think it probable that neither the poet's device nor the car-
dinal's speech were forgotten, when, in the course of the next year,
the parties came to a rupture in consequence of the servant's re-

* " Singularis tua et pervetus erga nos familiamque nostrum observantia,
egregiaque bonarum artium et litterarum doctrina, atque in studiis mitioribus,
prjEsertimque poetices elegans et praeclarum ingenium, jure prope suo a nobis
exposcere videntur, ut quae tibi usui futurse sint, justa praesertim et honesta
petenti, ea tibi liberaliter et gratiose concedamus. Quamobrem," &c. "On the
same page," says Panizzi, " are mentioned the privileges granted by the king of
France, by the repubUc of Venice, and other potentates;" so that authors, in
those days, appear to have been thought worthy of profiting by their labours,
wherever they contributed to the enjoyment of mankind.

Leo's privilege is the one that so long underwent the singular obloquy of
being a bull of excommunication against all who objected to the poem ! a mis-
conception on the part of some ignorant man, or misrepresentation by some
malignant one, which affords a remarkable warning against taking things on
trust from one writer after another. Even Bayle (see the article " Leo X." in
his Dictionary) suffered his inclinations to bUnd his vigilance.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 311

fusing to attend his master into Hungary. Ariosto excused him-
self on account of the state of his health and of his family. He
said that a cold climate did not agree with him ; that his chest
was atfected, and could not bear even the stoves of Hungary ; and
that he could not, in common decency and humanity, leave his
mother in her old age, especially as all the rest of the family were
away but his youngest sister, whose interests he had also to take
care of. But Ippolito was not to be appeased. The public have
seen, in a late female biography, a deplorable instance of the un-
feelingness with which even a princess with a reputation for re-
ligion could treat the declining health and unwilling retirement
of a poor slave in her service, fifty times her superior in every
thing but servility. Greater delicacy was not to be expected of
the military priest. The nobler the servant, the greater the de-
sire to trample upon him and keep him at a disadvantage. It is
a grudge which rank owes to genius, and which it can only wave
when its possessor is himself" one of God Almighty's gentlemen."
I do not mean in point of genius, which is by no means the high-
est thing in the world, whatever its owners may think of it ; but
in point of the highest of all things, which is nobleness of heart.
I confess I think Ariosto was wrong in expecting what he did of
a man he must have known so well, and in complaining so much
of courts, however good-humouredly. A prince occupies the sta-
tion he does, to avert the perils of disputed successions, and not
to be what his birth cannot make him — if nature has not supplied
the materials. Besides, the cardinal, in his quality of a mechan-
ical-minded man with no taste, might with reason have complain,
ed of his servant's attending to poetry when it was " not in his
bond ;" when it diverted from the only attentions which his em-
ployer understood or desired. Ippolito candidly confessed, as
Ariosto himself tells us, that he not only did not care for poetry,
but never gave his attendant one stiver in patronage of it, or for
any thing whatsoever but going his journeys and doing as he was
bidden.* On the other hand, the cardinal's payments were sorry

,♦ " Apollo, tua mcrc6, tua mcrce, santo
CoUcgio delle Muse, io non mi trovo
Tanto per voi, ch' io possa farmi un nianto :

312 ARIOSTO.

ones ; and the poet might with justice have thought, that he was
not bound to consider them an equivalent for the time he was ex-
pected to give up. The only thing to have been desired in this
case was, that he should have said so ; and, in truth, at the close
of the explanation which he gave on the subject to his friends at
court, he did — boldly desiring them, as became him, to tell the
cardinal, that if his eminence expected him to be a " serf" for
what he received, he should decline the bargain ; and that he
preferred the humblest freedom and his studies to a slavery so
preposterous.*

The truth is, the poet should have attached himself wholly to
the Medici. Had he not adhered to the duller house, he might
have led as happy a life with the pope as Pulci did with the pope's
father ; perhaps have been made a cardinal, like his friends Bem-
bo and Sadolet. But then we might have lost the Orlando.

The only sinecure which the poet is now supposed to have re-
tained, was a grant of twenty-five crowns every four months on
the episcopal chancery of Milan : so, to help out his petty income,
he proceeded to enter into the service of Alfonso, which shews
that both the brothers were not angry with him. He tells us,
that he would gladly have had no new master, could he have
helped it ; but that, if he must needs serve, he would rather serve
the master of every body else than a subordinate one. At this
juncture he had a brief prospect of being as free as he wished ;

E se '1 signor m' ha dato onde far novo
Ogni anno mi potrei piti d' un mantello,
Che mi abbia per vol dato, non approvo.

Egli r ha detto." Satira ii.

* " Se avermi dato onde ogni quattro mesi
Ho venticinque scudi, nb si fermi,
Che molte volte non mi sien contesi,

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

Non gli lasciate aver questa credenza : •

Ditegli, che pit tosto ch' esser servo,
TorrC) la povertade in pazienza,"

Satira ii.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 813

tor an uncle died Jeaving a large landed property still known as
the Ariosto lands (Lc Ariostc) ; but a conyent demanded it on the
part of one of their brotherhood, who was a natural son of this
gentleman ; and a more formidable and ultimately successful claim
was advanced in a court of law by the Chamber of tlie Duchy of
Ferrara, the first judge in the cause being the duke's own stew-
ard and a personal enemy of the poet's, Ariosto, therefore, while
the suit was going on, was obliged to content himself with his fees
from Milan and a monthly allowance which he received from the
duke of " about thirty-eight shillings," together with provisions
for three servants and two horses. He entered the duke's service
in the spring of 1518, and remained in it for the rest of his life.
But it was not so burdensome as that of the cardinal ; and the
consequence of the poet's greater leisure was a second edition of
the Fun'oso, in the year 1521, with additions and corrections ;
still, however, in forty cantos only. It appears, by a deed of
agreement,* that the work was printed at the author's expense ;
that he was to sell the bookseller one hundred copies for sixty
livres (about 51. I2s.) on condition of the book's not being sold at
the rate of more than sixteen sous {Is. 8d.) ; that the author was
not to give, sell, or allow to be sold, any copy of the book at
Ferrara, except by the bookseller ; that the bookseller, after dis-
posing of the hundred copies, was to have as many more as he
chose on the same terms ; and that, on his failing to require a
further supply, Ariosto was to be at liberty to sell his volumes to
whom he pleased. " With such profits," observes Panizzi, " it
was not likely that the poet would soon become independent :"
and it may be added, that he certainly got nothing by the first edi-
tion, whatever he may have done by the second. He expressly
tells us, in the satire which he wrote on declining to go abroad
with Ippolito, that all his poetry had not procured him money
enough to purchase a cloak. f Twenty years afterwards, when
he was dead, the poem was in such request, that, between 1542
and 1551, Panizzi calculates there must have been a sale of it in
Europe to the amount of a hundred thousand copies.:}:

♦ Panizzi, vol. i. p. 29. The atrrcemcnt itself is in Baruffaldi.
t See the lines before quoted, beginning " Apollo, tua mercfe."
t Bibliographical Xoiiccs of Editions of Ariosto, prefixed to his first vol. p. 51.

314 ARIOSTO.

! The second edition of the Furioso did not extricate the author
from very serious difficulties ; for the next year he was compelled
to apply to Alfonso, either to relieve him from his necessities, or
permit him to look for some employment more profitable than the
ducal service. The answer of this prince, who was now rich,
but had always been penurious, and who never laid out a farthing,
if he could help it, except in defence of his capital, was an ap-
pointment of Ariosto to the government of a district in a state of
taiarchy, called Garfagnana, which had nominally returned to his
rule in consequence of the death of Leo, who had wrested it from
him. It was a wild spot in the Apennines, on the borders of the
Ferrarese and papal territories. Ariosto was there three years,
and is said to have reduced it to order : but, according to his own
account, he had very doubtful work of it. The place was over-
run with banditti, including the troops commissioned to suppress
them. It required a severer governor than he was inclined to be ;
and Alfonso did not attend to his requisitions for supplies. The
candid and goodnatured poet intimates that the duke might have
given him the appointment rather for the governor's sake than the
people's ; and the cold, the loneliness and barrenness of the place,
and, above all, his absence from the object of his affections, op-
pressed him. He did not write a verse for twelve months ; he
says he felt like a bird moulting.* The best thing got out of it
was an anecdote for posterity. The poet was riding out one day
with a few attendants — some say walking out in a fit of absence
of mind — when he found himself in the midst of a band of out-
laws, who, in a suspicious manner, barely suffered him to pass.
A reader of Mrs. Radclilfe might suppose them a band of condoU
tieri, under the command of some profligate desperado ; and such
perhaps they were. The governor had scarcely gone by, when

* " La novitk del loco e stata tanta,

C ho fatto come augel che muta gabbia,
Che molti giorni resta che non canta."

For the rest of the above particulars see the fifth satire, beginning " II \'igesi-
mo giorno di Febbraio." I quote the exordium, because these compositions are
differently numbered in different editions. The one I generally use is that
of Molini — Poesie Varie di Lodovico Ariosto, con Annotazioni. Firenze, l2mo.
1824.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 315

the leader of the hand, discovcrinsr \vl,o he was, ciime ridin"- back
witli iinich earnestness, and making his obeisance to the poet, said,
that he never sliould have allowed him to pass in that manner had
he known him to be the Signor Ludovico Ariosto, author of the
Orlando Furioso ; that his own name was Filippo Pacchione (a
celebrated personage of his order) ; and that his men and himself,
so far from doing the signor displeasure, would have the honour
of conducting him back- to his castle. " And so they did," says
Baretti, " entertaining him all along the way with the various ex-
cellences they had discerned in his poem, and bestowing upon it
the most rapturous praises/"*

On his return from Garfagnana, Ariosto is understood to have
made several journeys in Italy, either with or without the duke
his master; some of them to Mantua, where it has been said that
he was crowned with laurel by the Emperor Charles the Fifth.
But the truth seems to be, that he only received a laureate diplo-
ma : it does not appear that Charles made him any other gift.
His majesty, and the whole house of Este, and the pope, and all
the other Italian princes, left that to be done by the imperial gen-
eral, the celebrated Alfonso Davallos, Marquess of Vasto, to whom
he was sent on some mission by the Duke of Ferrara, and who
settled on him an annuity of a hundred golden ducats ; " the only
reward," says Panizzi, " which we find to have been conferred
on Ariosto expressly as a poet."'}' Davallos was one of the con-

* Italian Library, p. 52. I quote Baretti, because he speaks with a corres-
ponding enthusiasm. He calls the incident " a very rare proof of the irresisti-
ble powers of poetry, and a noble comment on the fables of Orpheus and
Ainphion," &c. The words "noble comment" might lead us to fancy that
Johnson had made some such remark to him while relating the story in Bolt
Court. Nor is the former part of the sentence unlike him: "A very rare proof,
sir, of the irresistible powers of poetry, and a noble comment," &c. Johnson,
notwithstanding his classical predilections, was likely to take much interest in
Ariosto on account of his universality and the heartiness of his passions. Ho
had a secret regard for '■ wildness" of all sorts, provided it came within any pale
of the sympathetic. He was also fond of romances of chivalry. On one occa-
sion he selected the history of Felixmarte of Hyrcania as his course of reading
during a visit.

t The deed of gift sets forth the interest which it becomes princes and com-
manders to take in men of letters, particularly poets, as heralds of their fame,
and consequently the special fitness of the illustrious and superexccUcnt poet

316 ARIOSTO.

querors of Francis the First, young and handsome, and himself a
writer of verses. The grateful poet accordingly availed himself
of his benefactor's accomplishments to make him, in turn, a pres-
ent of every virtue under the sun. Cassar vi^as not so liberal,
Nestor so wise, Achilles so potent, Nireus so beautiful, nor even
Ladas, Alexander's messenger, so swift.* Ariosto was now verg-
ing towards the grave ; and he probably saw in the hundred
ducats a golden sunset of his cares.

Meantime, however, the poet had built a house, which, although
small, was raised with his own money ; so that the second edition
of the Orlando may have realized some profits at last. He re-
corded the pleasant fact in an inscription over the door, which has
become celebrated :

* Parva, sed apta mihi ; sed nulli obnoxia ; sed non
Sordida ; parta meo sed tamen sere domus."

Small, yet it suits me ; is of no offence ;
Was built, not meanly, at my own expense.

What a pity (to compare great things with small) that he had
not as long a life before him to enjoy it, as Gil Bias had with his
own comfortable quotation over his retreat at Lirias !f

The house still remains ; but the inscription unfortunately be-
came effaced ; though the following one remains, which was ad-
ded by his son Virginio :

"Sic domus hsec Areostea
Propitios habeat decs, olim ut Pindarica."

Dear to the gods, whatever come to pass,
Be Ariosto's house, as Pindar's was.

This was an anticipation — perhaps the origin — of Milton's son-

Lodovico Ariosto for receiving from Alfonso Davallos, Marquess of Vasto, the
irrevocable sum of, &c. &c. Panizzi has copied the substance of it from Ba-
ruffaldi, vol. i. p. 67.

♦ Orlando Furioso, canto xxxiii. st. 28.

t "Inveni portum: spes et fortuna, valete;
Sat me lusistis ; ludite nunc alios."

My port is found: adieu, ye freaks of chance j
The dance ye led me, now let others dance.

HIS LIFE AxXD GENIUS. 317

net about his own house, addressed to " Captains and Collonels,"
during the civil war.*

Davallos made the poet his generous present in the October of
the year 1531 ; and in the same month of the year followino- the
Orlando was publislied as it now stands, with various insertions
throughout, chiefly stories, and six additional cantos. Cardinal
Ippolito had been dead some time ; and the device of the beehive
was exchanged for one of two vipers, with a hand and pair of
shears cutting out their tongues, and the motto, " Thou hast pre-
ferred ill-will to good" (Dilexisti maliiiam super henignitatem).
The allusion is understood to have been to certain critics whose
names have all perished, unless Sperone (of whom we shall hear
more by and by) was one of them. The appearance of this edi-
tion was eagerly looked for ; but the trouble of correcting the
press, and the destruction of a theatre by fire which had been
built under the poet's direction, did his health no good in its rapid-
ly declining condition ; and after suffering greatly from an ob-
struction, he died, much attenuated, on the sixth day of June,
1533. His decease, his fond biographers have told us, took place
"about three in the afternoon;" and he was " aged fifty-eight
years, eight months, and twenty-eight days." His body, accord-
ing to his direction, was taken to the church of the Benedictines
during the night by four men, with only two tapers, and in the
most private and simple manner. The monks followed it to the
grave out of respect, contrary to their usual custom.

So lived, and so died, and so desired humbly to be buried, one
of the delights of the world.

His son Yirginio had erected a chapel in the garden of the
house built by his father, and he wished to have his body removed
thither ; but the monks would not allow it. The tomb, at first a
very humble one, was subsequently altered and enriched several
times ; but remains, I believe, as rebuilt at the beginning of the
century before last by his grand-nephew, Ludovico Ariosto, with
a bust of the poet, and two statues representing Poetry and

Glory.

* " The great Eniathian conqueror bade spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground," &c.

318 ARIOSTO.

Ariosto was tall and stout, with a dark complexion, bright black
eyes, black and curling hair, aquiline nose, and shoulders broad
but a little stooping. His aspect was thoughtful, and his gestures
deliberate. Titian, besides painting his portrait, designed that
which appeared in the woodcut of the author's own third edition of
his poem, which has been copied into Mr. Panizzi's. It has all
the look of truth of that great artist's vital hand ; but, though
there is an expression of the genial character of the mouth, not-
withstanding; the exuberance of beard, it does not suo-gest the
sweetness observable in one of the medals of Ariosto, a wax im-
pression of which is now before me ; nor has the nose so much
delicacy and grace.*

The poet's temperament inclined him to melancholy, but his in-
tercourse was always cheerful. One biographer says he was
strong and healthy — another, that he was neither. In all proba-
bility he was naturally strong, but weakened by a life full of
emotion. He talks of growing old at forty-four, and of having
been bald for some time.f He had a cough for many years be.
fore he died. His son says he cured it by drinking good old wine.
Ariosto says that " vin fumoso" did not agree with him ; but that
might only mean wine of a heady sort. The chances, under such
circumstances, were probably against wine of any kind ; and
Panizzi thinks the cough was never subdued. His physicians
forbade him all sorts of stimulants with his food.ij:

* This medal is inscribed "Ludovicus Ariost. Poet." and has the bee-hive on
the reverse, with the motto " Pro bono malum." Ariosto was so fond of this
device, that in his fragment called the Five Cantos (c. v. st. 2G), the Paladin
Rinaldo wears it embroidered on his mantle.

t " lo son de' dieci il primo, e vecchio fatto
Di quaranta quattro anni, e U. capo calvo
Da un tempo in qua sotto il cuffiotto appiatto."

Satira ii.
X "II vin fumoso, a me vie piii interdetto
Che '1 tosco, costi a inviti si tracanna,.
E sacrilegio h non ber molto, e schietto.

(He is speaking of the wines of Hungary, and of the hard drinking expected
of strangers in that country.)

Tutti Ii cibi son con pepe e canna,
Di amomo e d' altri aromati, che tutti
Come nocivi il medico mi danna."

Satira ii.

HIS LIFE AND GKMUS. 311)

His temper and liabits were those of a man wliolly given up to
love and poetry. In his youth he was volatile, and at no time
without what is called some " aflliir of the heart.'' Every wo-
man attracted him who had modesty and agreeablcness ; and as,
at the same time, he was very jealous, one migiit imafrinc that
his wife, who had a right to be equally so, would have led no easy
lite. But it is evident he could practise very generous self-
denial ; and probably the married portion of his existence, sup-
posing Alcssandra's sweet countenance not to have belied her,
was happy on both sides. He was beloved by his family, which
is never the case with the unamiable. Amonij his friends were
most of the great names of the age, including a world of ladies,
and the whole graceful court of Guidobaldo da Montefeltro, duke
of Urbino, for wiiich Catiglione wrote his book of the GeniJeman
(Tl Cortegtano). Raphael addressed him a sonnet, and Titian
painted his likeness. He knew Vittoria Colonna, and Veronica
da Gambora, and Giulia Gonzaga (whom the Turks would have
run away with), and Ippolita Sforza, the beautiful blue-stocking,
who set Bandello on writing his novels, and Bembo, and Flami-
nio, and Berni, and Molza, and Sannazzaro, and the Medici fam-
ily, and Vida, and Macchiavelli ; and nobody doubts that he
might have shone at the court of Leo the brightest of the bright.
But he thought it " better to enjoy a little in peace, than seek
after much with trouble."* He cared for none of the pleasures
of the great, except building, and that he was content to satisfy in
Cowley's fashion, with " a small house in a large garden." He
was plain in his diet, disliked ceremony, and was frequently ab-
sorbed in thought. His indignation was roused by mean and
brutal vices ; but he took a large and liberal view of human na-
ture in general ; and, if he was somewhat free in his life, must
be pardoned for the custom of the times, for his charity to others,
and for the genial disposition which made him an enchanting poet.
Above all, he was an affectionate son ; lived like a friend with
his children ; and, in spite of his tendency to pleasure, supplied
the place of an anxious and careful father to his brothers and sis-
ters, who idolized him.

* Pigna, I Romanzi, p. 119.

320 ARIOSTO.

" Ornabat pietas et grata modeslia vatem,"
wrote his brother Gabriel,

" Sancta fides, dictique memor, munitaque recto
Justitia, et nullo patientia victa labore,
Et constans virtus animi, et dementia mitis,
Ambitione procul pulsa fasttisquc tumore ;
Credere uti posses natum felicibus horis,
Felici fulgente astro Jovis atque Diones."*

Devoted tenderness adorn'd the bard,

And grateful modesty and grave regard

To his least word, and justice arm'd with right,

And patience counting every labour light,

And constancy of soul, and meekness too,

That neither pride nor worldly wishes knew.

You might have thought him born when there concur

The sweet star and the strong, Venus and Jupiter.

His son Virginio, and others, have left a variety of anecdotes
corroborating points in his character. I shall give them all, for
they put us into his company.

It is recorded, as an instance of his reputation for honesty,
that an old kinsman, a clergyman, who was afraid of being poi-
soned for his possessions, would trust himself in no other hands ;
but the clergyman was his own grand-uncle and namesake, prob-
ably godfather ; so that the compliment is not so very great.

In his youth he underwent a long rebuke one day from his fa-
ther without saying a word, though a satisfactory answer was in
his power ; on which his brother Gabriel expressing his surprise,
he said that he was thinking all the time of a scene in a comedy
he was writing, for which the paternal lecture afforded an excel-
lent study.

He loved gardening better than he understood it ; was always
shifting his plants, and destroying the seeds, out of impatience to
see them germinate. He was rejoicing once on the coming up
of some " capers," which he had been visiting every day to see
how they got on, when it turned out that his capers were elder-
trees !

* Epicedium on his brother's death. It is reprinted (perhaps for the first
time since 1582) in Mr. Panizzi's Appendix to the Life, in his first volume,
1*. clxi.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 321

He was perpetually altering his verses. Ilis manuscripts are
full of corrections. He wrote the exordium of the Orlando over
and over again ; and at last could only be satisfied with it in pro-
portion as it was not his own ; that is to say, in proportion as it
came nearer to the beautiful passage in Dante from which his
ear and his feelings had caught it.*

He, however, discovered that correction was not always im-
provement. He used to say, it was with verses as with trees. A
plant naturally well growing might be made perfect by a little
delicate treatment ; but over-cultivation destroyed its native
grace. In like manner, you might perfect a happily-inspired
verse by taking away any little fault of expression ; but too great
a polish deprived it of the charm of the first conception. It was
like over-training a naturally graceful child. If it be wondered
how he who corrected so much should succeed so well, even to
an appearance of happy negligence, it is to be considered that
the most impulsive writers often put down their thoughts too
hastily, then correct, and re-correct them in the same impatient
manner ; and so have to bring them round, by as many steps, to
the feeling which they really had at first, though they were too
hasty to do it justice.

Ariosto would have altered his house as often as his verses, but
did not find it so convenient. Somebody wondering that he con-
tented himself with so small an abode, when he built such mag-
nificent mansions in his poetry, he said it was easier to put words
together than blocks of stone. "j"

* "Le donnc, i cavalier, 1' arme, gli amori,
Le cortcsic, le audaci imprese, io canto,"

is Anosto's commencement ;

Ladies, and cavaliers, and loves, and arms,
And courtesies, and daring deeds, I sing.

In Dante's Purgatory (canto xiv.), a noble Romagnese, lamenting the degene-
racy of his country, calls to mind with graceful and touchii.j regret,

•' Le donne, i cavalier, gli afTanni e gli agi,
Che inspiravano amore e cortesia."

The ladies and the knights, the cares and leisures,
Breathing around them love and courtesy.

t The original is much pithier, but I cannot find equivalents for the allitcra-

333 AHIOSTO.

He liked Virgil ; commended the style of TibuUus ; did not
care for Propertius ; but expressed high approbation of Catullus
and Horace. I suspect his favourite to have been Ovid. His son
says he did not study much, nor look after books ; but this may
have been in his decline, or when Virginio first took to observing
him. A different conclusion as to study is to be drawn from the
corrected state of his manuscripts, and the variety of his knowl-
edge ; and with regard to books, he not only mentions the libra-
ry of the Vatican as one of his greatest temptations to visit
Rome, but describes himself, with all the gusto of a book-worm,
as enjoying them in his chimney-corner.*

To intimate his secrecy in love-matters, he had an inkstand
with a Cupid on it, holding a finger on his lips. I believe it is
still in existence. ■]■ He did not disclose his mistresses' names, as
Dante did, for the purpose of treating them with contempt ; nor,
on the other hand, does he appear to have been so indiscriminate-
ly gallant as to be fond of goitres. :j: The only mistress of whom
he complained he concealed in a Latin appellation ; and of her
he did not complain with scorn. He had loved, besides Alessan-
dra Benucci, a lady of the name of Ginevra ; the mother of one
of his children is recorded as a certain Orsolina ; and that of the

tion. He said, " Porvi le pietre e porvi le parole non 6 il medesimo." — Pigna,
p. 119. According to his son, however, his remark was, that " palaces could be
made in poems without money." He probably expressed the same thing in dif-
ferent ways to different people.

* Vide Sat. iii. " ]Mi sia un tempo," &c. ; and the passage in Sat. vii. begin-
ning " Di libri antiqui."

t The inkstand which Shelley saw at Ferrara (Essays and Letters, p. 149)
could not have been this ; probably his eye was caught by a wrong one. Doubts
also, after what we know of the tricks practised upon visitors of Stratford-upon-
Avon, may unfortunately be entertained of the "plain old wooden piece of fur-
niture," the arm-chair. Shelley describes the handwriting of Ariosto as "a
small, firm, and pointed character, expressing, as he should say, a strong and
keen, but circumscpoed energy of mind." Every one of Shelley's words is
always worth consideration ; but handwritings are surely equivocal testimonies
of character; they depend so much on education, on times and seasons and
moods, conscious and unconscious wills, &c. What would be said by an auto-
graphist to the strange old, ungraceful, slovenly handwriting of Shakspeare 1

t See vol. i. of the present work, pp. 16, 118, and 126.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 323

Other was named Maria, and is understood to liave been a gov-
erness in his fatlicr's family.*

He ate fast, and of whatever was next liim, often beginning
with the bread on tlie table before the dishes came ; and he would
fmish his dinner with another bit of bread. " Appctiva le rape,"
says his good son ; videlicet, he was fond of turnips. In his fourth
Satire, he mentions as a favourite dish, turnips seasoned with vin-
egar and boiled ?uusl (sapa), which seems, not unjustifiably, to
startle Mr. Panizzi.f He cared so little for good eating, that he
said of himself, he should have done very well in the days when
people lived on acorns. A stranger coming in one day at the
dinner-hour, he ate up what was provided for both ; saying after-
wards, when told of it, that the gentleman should have taken care
of himself. This does not look very polite ; but of course it was
said in jest. His son attributed this carelessness at table to ab-
sorption in his studies.

He carried this absence of mind so far, and was at the same
time so good a pedestrian, that Virginio tells us he once walked
all the way from Carpi to Ferrara in his slippers, owing to his
havincr strolled out of doors in that direction.

The same biographers who describe him as a brave soldier,
add, that he was a timid horseman and seaman ; and indeed he
appears to have eschewed every kind of unnecessary danger. It
was a maxim of his to be the last in going out of a boat. I know
not what Orlando would have said to this ; but there is no doubt
that the good son and brother avoided no pain in pursuit of his
duty. He more than once risked his life in the service of govern-
ment from the perils of travelling among war-makers and ban-
ditti. Imagination finds something worthy of itself on great oc-
casions, but is apt to discover the absurdity of staking existence
on small ones. Ariosto did not care to travel out of Italy. He
preferred, he says, going round the earth in a map ; visiting coun-

♦ Baruflaldi, 1807; p. 105.

t " In casa mia mi sa meglio una rapa
Ch' io cuoca, e cotta s' un stccco m' inforco,
E mondo, e spargo poi di aceto e sapa,

Che air altrui mensa tordo, starno, o porco
SclvafTjrio."

324 ARIOSTO.

tries without having to pay innkeepers, and ploughing harmless
seas without thunder and lightning.*

His outward religion, like the one he ascribed to his friend
Cardinal Bembo, was " that of other people." He did not think
it of use to disturb their belief: yet excused rather than blamed
Luther, attributing his heresy to the necessary consequences of
mooting points too subtle for human apprehension. f He found it
impossible, however, to restrain his contempt of bigotry ; and
like most great writers in Catholic countries, was a derider of the
pretensions of devotees, and the discords and hypocrisies of the
convent. He evidently laughed at Dante's figments about the
other world ; not at the poetry of them, for that he admired, and
sometimes imitated, but at the superstition and presumption. He
turned the Florentine's moon into a depository of nonsense ; and
found no hell so bad as the hearts of tyrants. The only other
people he put into the infernal regions are ladies who were cruel
to their lovers ! He had a noble confidence in the intentions of
his Creator ; and died in the expectation of meeting his friends
asrain in a higher state of existence.

Of Ariosto's four brothers, one became a courtier at Naples,
another a clergyman, another an envoy to the Emperor Charles
the Fifth ; and the fourth, who was a cripple and a scholar, lived
with Lodovico, and celebrated his memory. His two sons, whose

* " Chi \'Uole andare," &:c. Satira iv.
t " Se Nicoletto o Fra Martin fan segno

D' infedele o d' eretico, ne accuse

II saper troppo, e men con lor mi sdegno:

Perchfe salendo lo intelletto in suso
Per veder Dio, non de' parerci strano
Se talor cade giu cieco e confuso."

Salira vi.

This satire was addressed to Bembo. The cardinal is said to have asked a visitor
from Germany whether Brother Martin really believed what he preached ; and
to have expressed the greatest astonishment when told that he did. Cardinals
were then what augurs were in the time of Cicero — wondering that they did
not burst out a-laughing in one another's faces. This was bad ; but inquisitors
are a million times worse. By the Nicoletto here mentioned by Ariosto in com-
pany with Luther, we are to understand (according to the conjecture of IMolini)
a Paduan professor of the name of Niccol6 Vernia, who was accused of hold-
ing the Pantheistic opinions of Averroes.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 325

names were Virginio and Gianbattista, and who were illcgitimato
(the reader is always to bear in mind the more indulgent customs
of Italy in matters of this nature, especially in the poet's time),
became, the first a canon in the cathedral of Ferrara, and the
other an officer in the army. It does not appear that he had any
other children.

Ariosto's renown is wholly founded on the Orlando FunosOy
though he wrote satires, comedies, and a good deal of miscellane-
ous poetry, all occasionally exhibiting a master-hand. The com-
edies, however, were unfortunately modelled on those of the an-
cients ; and the constant termination of the verse with trisyl-
lables contributes to render them tedious. What comedies might
he not have written, had he given himself up to existing times
and manners !*

The satires are rather good-natured epistles to his friends,
written with a charming ease and straightforwardness, and con-
taining much exquisite sense and interesting autobiography.

On his lyrical poetry he set little value ; and his Latin verse
is not of the best order. Critics have expressed their surprise at
its inferiority to that of contemporaries inferior to him in genius ;
but the reason lay in the very circumstance. I mean, that his
large and liberal inspiration could only find its proper vent in his
own language ; he could not be content with potting up little del-
icacies in old-fashioned vessels.

The Orlando Furioso is, literally, a continuation of the Orfctn-
do Innamorato ; so much so, that the story is not thoroughly intelli-
gible without it. This was probably the reason of a circumstance
that would be otherwise unaccountable, and that was ridiculously

* Take a specimen of this leap-frog versification from the prologue to the
Cassaria : —

" Q,uesta commedia, ch' oggi rscitdtavi
Sari, se nol sapete, fe la Cassaria,
Ch' un altra volta, gia. vent' anni pdssano,
Veder si fece sopra qucsti piilpiti
Ed allora assai piacque a tutto il pdpolo,
Ma non ne ripost6 giJi. degno premio,
Che data in preda a gl' importuni ed dvidi
Stampator fu," &c.

This through five comedies in five acts !
1 PART n. 7

326 ARIOSTO.

charged against him as a proof of despairing envy by the despair,
ing envy of Sperone ; namely, his never having once mentioned the
name of his predecessor. If Ariosto had despaired of equalling
Boiardo, he must have been hopeless of reaching posterity, in which
case his silence must have been useless ; and, in any case, it is
clear that he looked on himself as the continuator of another's nar-
ration. But Boiardo was so popular when he wrote, that the very
silence shews he must have thought the mention of his name super-
fluous. Still it is curious that he never should have alluded to it in
the course of the poem. It could not have been from any dislike to
the name itself, or the family ; for in his Latin poems he has eu-
logised the hospitality of the house of Boiardo.*

The Furioso continued not only what Boiardo did, but what he
intended to do ; for as its subject is Orlando's love, and knight-
errantry in general, so its object was to extol the house of Este,
and deduce it from its fabulous ancestor Ru^ijiero. Orlando is
the open, Ruggiero the covert hero ; and almost all the incidents
of this supposed irregular poem, which, as Panizzi has shewn, is
one of the most regular in the world, go to crown with triumph
and wedlock the originator of that unworthy race. This is done
on the old groundwork of Charlemagne and his Paladins, of the
treacheries of the house of Gan of Maganza, and of the wars of
the Saracens against Christendom. Bradamante, the Amazonian
intended of Ruggiero, is of the same race as Orlando, and a great
overthrower of infidels. Ruggiero begins with being an infidel
himself, and is kept from the wars, like a second Achilles, by
the devices of an anxious guardian, but ultimately fights, is con-
verted, and marries ; and Orlando all the while slays his thou-
sands, as of old, loves, goes mad for jealousy, is the foolishest
and wisest of mankind (somewhat like the poet himself) ; and
crowns the glory of Ruggiero, not only by being present at his
marriage, but putting on his spurs with his own hand when he
goes forth to conclude the war by the death of the king of
Algiers.

The great charm, however, of the Orlando Furioso is not in
its knight-errantry, or its main plot, or the cunning interweave-
ment of its minor ones, but in its endless variety, truth, force,

♦ In the verses entitled Bacchi Statua.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 321

and animal spirits ; in its fidelity to actual nature while it keeps
within the hounds of the probahle, and its no less enchanting ver-
isimilitude during its wildest sallies of imagination. At one mo-
ment we are in the midst of flesh and blood like ourselves ; a4 the
next with fairies and goblins ; at the next in a tremendous battle or
tempest ; then in one of the loveliest of solitudes ; then liearino- a
tragedy, then a comedy ; then mystified in some enchanted pal-
ace ; then riding, dancing, dining, looking at pictures ; then
again descending to the depths of the earth, or soaring to the
moon, or seeing lovers in a ijlade, or witnessing the extravajrances
of the great jealous hero Orlando ; and the music of an enchant-
ing style perpetually attends us, and the sweet face of Angelica
glances here and there like a bud : and there are gallantries of
all kinds, and stories endless, and honest tears, and joyous bursts
of laughter, and bsardings for all base opinions, and no bigotry,
and reverence for whatsoever is venerable, and candour exqui-
site, and the happy interwoven names of " Angelica and Medoro,"
young for ever.

But so great a work is not to be dismissed with a mere rhap-
sody of panegyric. Ariosto is inferior, in some remarkable
respects, to his predecessors Pulci and Boiardo. His characters,
for the most part, do not interest us as much as theirs by their
variety and good fellowship ; he invented none as Boiardo did,
with the exception, indeed, of Orlando's, as modified by jealousy;
and he has no passage, I think, equal in pathos to that of the
struggle at Roncesvalles ; for though Orlando's jealousy is pa-
thetic, as well as appalling, the effects of it are confined to one
person, and disputed by his excessive strength. Ariosto has
taken all tenderness out of Angelica, except that of a kind of
boarding-school first love (which, however, as hereafter intimated,
may have simplified and improved her general effect), and he has
omitted all that was amusing in the character of Astolfo. Knight-
errantry has fallen off a little in his hands from its first youthful
and trusting freshness ; more sophisticate times are opening upon
us ; and satire more frequently and bitterly interferes. The
licentious passages (though never gross in words, like those of his
contemporaries,) are not redeemed by sentiment as in Boiardo ;
and it seems to me, that Ariosto hardly improved so much as he

328 ARIOSTO.

might have done upon his predecessor's imitations of* the classics.
I cannot help thinking that, upon the whole, he had better have
left them alone, and depended entirely on himself. Shelley says,
he has too much fighting and " revenge,"* — which is true ; but
the revenge was only among his knights. He was himself (like
my admirable friend) one of the most forgiving of men ; and the
fighting was the taste of the age, in which chivalry was still
flourishing in the shape of such men as Bayard, and ferocity in
men like Gaston de Foix. Ariosto certainly did not anticipate,
any more than Shakspeare did, that spirit of human amelioration
which has ennobled the present age. He thought only of reflect-
ing nature as he found it. He is sometimes even as uninteresting
as he found other people ; but the tiresome passages, thank God,
all belong to the house of Este ! His panegyrics of Ippolito
and his ancestors recoiled on the poet with a retributive dulness.
^ But in all the rest there is a wonderful invigoration and en-
largement. The genius of romance has increased to an extraor-
dinary degree in power, if not in simplicity. Its shoulders have
grown broader, its voice louder and more sustained ; and if it has
lost a little on the sentimental side, it has gained prodigiously, not
only in animal vigour, but, above all, in knowledge of human na-
ture, and a brave and joyous candour in shewing it. The poet
takes a universal, an acute, and, upon the whole, a cheerful
view, like the sun itself, of all which the sun looks on ; and
readers are charmed to see a knowledge at once so keen and so
happy. Herein lies the secret of Ariosto's greatness ; which is
great, not because it has the intensity of Dante, or the incessant
thought and passion of Shakspeare, or the dignified imagination
of Milton, to all of whom he is far inferior in sustained excellence,
but because he is like very Nature herself. Whether great,
small, serious, pleasurable, or even indiflerent, he still has the
life, ease, and beauty of the operations of the daily planet. Even
where he seems dull and commonplace, his brightness and orig-
inality at other times make it look like a good-natured conde-
scension to our own common habits of thought and discourse ; as
though he did it but on purpose to leave nothing unsaid that

* Essays and Letters, ut sup. vol. ii. p. 125,

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 329

could bring him witliin the category of ourselves. His charm-
ing manner intimates that, instead of taking thought, he chooses
to take pleasure with us, and compare old notes ; and we arc de-
lighted that he does us so much honour, and makes, as it were,
Ariostos of us all. He is Shakspearian in going all lengths
with Nature as he found her, not blinking the fact of evil, yet
finding a " soul of goodness" in it, and, at the same time, never
compromising the worth of noble and generous qualities. His
young and handsome Medoro is a pitiless slayer of his enemies ;
but they were his master's enemies, and he would have lost his
life, even to preserve his dead body. His Orlando, for all his
wisdom and greatness, runs mad for love of a coquette, who
triumphs over warriors and kings, only to fall in love herself
with an obscure lad. His kings laugh with all their hearts,
like common people; his mourners weep like such unaffected
children of sorrow, that they must needs '• swallow some of their
tears."* His heroes, on the arrival of intelligence that excites
them, leap out of bed and write letters before they dress, from
natural impatience, thinking nothing of their " dignity." When
Astolfo blows the magic horn which drives every body out of the
castle of Atlantes, '• not a mouse" stays behind ; — not, as Hoole
and such critics think, because the poet is here writing ludicrous-
ly, but because he uses the same image seriously, to give an idea
of desolation, as Shakspeare in Hamlet does to give that of si-
lence, when "not a mouse is stirring." Instead of being mere
comic writing, such incidents are in the highest epic taste of
the meeting of extremes, — of the impartial eye with which Na-
ture regards high and low. So, give Ariosto his hippogriff, and
other marvels with which he has enriched the stock of romance,
and Nature takes as much care of the verisimilitude of their ac-
tions, as if she had made them herself. His hippogriff returns,
like a common horse, to the stable to which he has been accus-

♦ " Le lacrime scendcan tra gigli e r6se,

L&. dove avvien ch' alcunc s6 n' inghiozzi."

Canto xii. st. 94.
Wliich has been well translated by Mr. Rose :

" And between rose and lily, from her eyes
Tears fall so fast, she needs must swallow some."

330 ARIOSTO.

tomed. His enchanter, who is gifted with the power of surviving
decapitation and pursuing the decapitator so long as a fated hair
remains on his head, turns deadly palo in the face when it is
scalped, and falls lifeless from his horse. His truth, indeed, is so
genuine, and at the same time his style is so unaffected, sometimes
so familiar in its grace, and sets us so much at ease in his company,
that the familiarity is in danger of bringing him into contempt
with the inexperienced, and the truth of being considered old and
obvious, because the mode of its introduction makes it seem an
old acquaintance. When Voltaire was a young man, and (to
Anglicise a favourite Gallic phrase) fancied he had profounded
every thing deep and knowing, he thought nothing of Ariosto.
Some years afterwards he took him for the first of grotesque
writers, but nothing more. At last he pronounced him equally
"entertaining and sublime, and humbly apologised for his error."
Foscolo quotes this passage from the Dictionnaire PhUosophique ;
and adds another from Sir Joshua Reynolds, in which the painter
speaks of a similar inability on his own part, when young, to en-
joy the perfect nature of Raphael, and the admiration and aston-
ishment which, in his riper years, he grew to feel for it."*"

The excessive " wildness" attributed to Ariosto is not wilder
than many things in Homer, or even than some things in Virgil
(such as the transformation of ships into sea-nymphs). The reason
why it has been thought so is, that he rendered them more pop-
ular by mixing them with satire, and thus brought them more
universally into notice. One main secret of the delight they
give us is their being poetical comments, as it were, on fancies
and metaphors of our own. Thus, we say of a suspicious man,
that he is suspicion itself; Ariosto turns him accordingly into an
actual being of that name. We speak of the flights of the poets ;
Ariosto makes them literally flights — flights on a hippogriff, and
to the moon. The moon, it has been said, makes lunatics ; he
accordingly puts a man's wits into that planet. Vice deforms
beauty ; therefore his beautiful enchantress turns out to be an
old hag. Ancient defeated empires are sounds and emptiness ;

* Essay on the Nai-raiive and Romantic Poems of the Italians, in the Quar-
terly Review, vol. xxi.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS, 331

therefore the Assyrian and Persian monarchies hccome, in his
limbo of vanities, a heap of positive bladders. Youth is head-
strong, and kissing goes by favour ; so Angelica, queen of Catliay,
and beauty of tiie world, jilts warriors and kings, and marries a
common soldier.

And what a creature is this Angelica ! what effect has she not
had upon the world in spite of all her faults, nay, probably by
very reason of them ! I know not whether it has been remarked
before, but it appears to me, that the charm which every body
has felt in the story of Angelica consists mainly in that very fact
of her being nothing but a beauty and a woman, dashed even
with coquetry, which renders her so inferior in character to most
heroines of romance. Her interest is founded on nothinij exclu-
sive or prejudiced. It is not addressed to any special class.
She might or might not have been liked by this person or that ;
but the world in general will adore her, because nature has made
them to adore beauty and the sex, apart from prejudices right or
wrong. Youth will attribute virtues to her, whether she has
them or not ; middle-age be unable to help gazing on her; old-
age dote on her. She is womankind itself in form and substance;
and that is a stronger thing, for the most part, than all our fig-
ments about it. Two musical names, " Angelica and Medoro,"'
have become identified in the minds of poetical readers with the
honeymoon of youthful passion.

The only false and insipid fiction I can call to mind in the Or-
lando Furioso is that of the " swans" who rescue " medals" from
the river of oblivion (canto xxxv.). It betrays a singular forget-
fulness of the poet's wonted verisimilitude ; for what metaphor
can reconcile us to swans taking an interest in medals ? Pop-
ular belief had made them singers; but it was not a wise step to
convert them into antiquaries.

Ariosto's animal spirits^ and the brilliant hurry and abundance
of his incidents, blind a careless reader to his endless particular
beauties, which, though he may too often " describe instead of
paint" (on account, as Foscolo says, of his writing to the many),
shew that no man could paint better when he chose. The bo-
soms of his females " come and go, like the waves on the sea-

333 ARIOSTO.

coast in summer airs."* His witches draw the fish out of the
water

" With simple words and a pure warbled spell. "t

He borrows the word " painting" itself, like a true Italian and
friend of Raphael and Titian, to express the commiseration in
the faces of the blest for the sufferings of mortality :

" Dipinte di pietade il viso pio."t
Their pious looks painted with tenderness.

Jesus is very finely called, in the same passage, " il sempiterno
Amante," the eternal Lover. The female sex are the

" Scliiera gentil che pur adorna il mondo."§
The gentle bevy that adorns the world.

He paints cabinet pictures like Spenser, in isolated stanzas, with
a pencil at once solid and light ; as in the instance of the charm-
ing one that tells the story of Mercury and his net ; how he
watched the Goddess of Flowers as she issued forth at dawn with
her lap full of roses and violets, and so threw the net over her
"one day," and " took her ;"

" im di lo prcsse."Il

But he does not confine himself to these gentle pictures. He
has many as strong as Michael Angelo, some as intense as Dante.
He paints the conquest of America in five words :

" Vecjgio da dicce cacciar mille."ir

I see thousands
Hunted by tens.

He compares the noise of a tremendous battle heard in the neigh-
bourhood to the sound of the cataracts of the Nile :

* " Vengono e van, come onda al primo margo
Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte."

Canto vii. st. 14.

t " Con semplici parole e puri incanti."

Canto vi. st. 38.
+ Canto xiv. st. 79. § Canto xxviii. st. 98.

II Canto XV. St. 57. U Id. st. 23,

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 333

" un alto suon ch' a quel s' accorda
Con chc i vicin' cadendo il Nil assorda."*

He " scourges" ships at sea with tempests — say rather the " mis-
erable seamen ;" while night-time grows blacker and blacker on
the "exasperated waters. "f

When Ilodomont has plunged into the thick of Paris, and is
carrying every thing before him (" like a serpent that has newly
cast his skin, and goes shaking his three tongues under his eyes
of fire"), he makes this tremendous hero break the middle of the
palace-gate into a huge " window," and look through it with a
countenance which is suddenly beheld by a crowd of faces as pale
as death :

"E dciitro fatto 1' ha tanta fincstra,
Chc ben vederc c vcduto esscr puote
Dai visi iinpressi di color di morte t

The whole description of Orlando's jealousy and growing mad.
ness is Shaksperian for passion and circumstance, as the reader
may see even in the prose abstract of it in this volume ; and his
sublimation of a suspicious king into suspicion itself (which it also
contains) is as grandly and felicitously audacious as any thing
ever invented by poet. Spenser thought so ; and has imitated
and emulated it in one of his own finest passages. Ariosto has
not the spleen and gall of Dante, and therefore his satire is not so
tremendous ; yet it is very exquisite, as all the world have ac-
knowledged in the instances of the lost things found in the moon,
and the angel who finds Discord in a convent. He does not take
things so much to heart as Chaucer. He has nothing so pro-
foundly pathetic as our great poet's Griselda. Yet many a gen-
tle eye has moistened at the conclusion of the story of Isabella ;
and to recur once more to Orlando's jealousy, all who have ex-
perienced that passion will feel it shake them. I have read some-
where of a visit paid to Voltaire by an Italian gentleman, who re-
cited it to him, and who (being moved perhaps by the recollection
of some passage in his own history) had the tears all the while
pouring down his cheeks.

♦ Canto xvi. st. 5C. t Canto xviii. st. 142.

J Canto xvii. st. 12.

334 ARIOSTO.

Such is the poem which the gracious and good Cardinal Ippo-
lito designated as a " parcel of trumpery." It had, indeed, to
contend with more slights than his. Like all originals, it was obli-
ged to wait for the death of the envious and the self-loving, before
it acquired a popularity which surpassed all precedent. Foscolo
says, that Macchiavelli and Ariosto, " the two writers of that age
who really possessed most excellence, were the least praised du-
ring their lives. Bembo was approached in a posture of adora-
tion and fear ; the infamous Aretino extorted a fulsome letter of
praises from the great and the learned.''* He might have added,
that the writer most in request " in the circles" was a gentleman
of the name of Bernardo Accolti, then called the Unique, now
never heard of. Ariosto himself eulogised him among a shoal of
writers, half of whose names have perished ; and who most like-
ly included in that half the men who thought he did not praise
them enough. For such was the fact ! I allude to the charming
invention in his last canto, in which he supposes himself welcomed
home after a long voyage. Gay imitated it very pleasantly in
an address to Pope on the conclusion of his Homer. Some of
the persons thus honoured by Ariosto were vexed, it is said, at
not being praised highly enough ', others at seeing so many praised
in their company ; some at being left out of the list ; and some
others at being mentioned at all ! These silly people thought it
taking too great a liberty ! The poor flies of a day did not know
that a god had taken them in hand to give them wings for eter-
nity. Happily for them the names of most of these mighty per-
sonages are not known. One or two, however, took care to make
posterity laugh. Trissino, a very great man in his day, and the
would-be restorer of the ancient epic, had the face, in return for
the poet's too honourable mention of him, to speak, in his own
absurd verses, of " Ariosto, with that Furioso of his, which pleases
the vulgar :"

" L' Ariosto
Con quel Furioso suo che place al volgo."

^^ His poem," adds Panizzi, " has the merit of not having pleased
any body."-]- A sullen critic, Sperone (the same that afterwards

* Essay, as above, p. 534. t Boiardo and Ariosto, vol. iv, p. 318.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 335

plagued Tasso), was so disappointcil at being left out, that he be-
came the poet's bitter enemy. He talked of Ariosto taking him-
self for a swan and " dying like a goose" (the allusion was to
the fragment he left called the Five Cantos). What has become
of the swan Sperone ? Bernardo Tasso, Torquato's father, mad?,
a more reasonable (but which turned out to be an unfounded)
coiiiplaint, that Ariosto had established a precedent which poets
would find inconvenient. And Macchiavelli, like the true genius
he was, expressed a goodnatured and flattering regret that his
iriend Ariosto liad left him out of his list of congratulators, in a
work which was " fine throughout," and in some places wonder-
ful.'**

The great Galileo knew Ariosto nearly by heart. f
He is a poet whom it may require a certain amount of animal
spirits to relish thoroughly. The air of his verse must agree
with you before you can perceive all its freshness and vitality.
But if read with any thing like Italian sympathy, with allowance
for times and manners, and with a sense as well as admittance of
the different kinds of the beautiful in poetry (two very diflierent
things), you will be almost as much charmed with the " divine
Ariosto" as his countrymen have been for ages.

♦ jLi/e, in Panizzi, p. ix.

t Opere di Galileo, Padova, 1744, vol. i. p. Ixxii. .

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

Argument.

Part I. — Angelica flies frcm the camp of Charlemagne into a wood, where
she meets with a number of her suitors. Description of a beautiful natural
bower. She claims the protection of Sacripant, who is overthrown, in passing,
by an unknown warrior that turns out to be a damsel. Rinaldo comes up, and
AngeUca flies from both. She meets a pretended hermit, who takes her to some
rocks in the sea, and casts her asleep by magic. They are seized and carried
off by some mariners from the isle of Ebuda, where she is exposed to be de-
voured by an ore, but is rescued by a knight on a winged horse. He descends
with her into a beautiful spot on the coast of Brittany, but suddenly misses both
horse and lady. He is lured, with the other knights, into an enchanted palace,
whither Angelica comes too. She quits it, and again eludes her suitors.

Part II. — Cloridan and Medoro, two Moorish youths, after a battle with the
Christians, resolve to find the dead body of their master, King Dardinel, and
bury it. They kill many sleepers as they pass through the enemy's camp, and
then discover the body ; but are surprised, and left for dead themselves. Me-
doro, however, survives his friend, and is cured of his wounds by Angelica,
who happens to come up. She falls in love with and marries him. Account
of their honeymoon in the woods. They quit them to set out for Cathay, and
see a madman on the road.

Part III. — When the lovers had quitted their abode in the wood, Orlando, by
chance, arrived there, and saw every where, all round him, in-doors and out-of-
doors, inscriptions of '• Angelica and Medoro." He tries in vain to disbelieve
his eyes ; finally, learns the whole story from the owner of the cottage, and
loses his senses. What he did in that state, both in the neighbourhood and afar
off, where he runs naked through the country. His arrival among his brother
Paladins ; and the result.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA

(continued by ariosto from boiardo.*)

PART THE FIRST.
ANGELICA AND HER SUITORS.

Angelica, not at all approving her consignment to the care of
Namo by Charlemagne, for the purpose of being made the prize
of the conqueror, resolved to escape before the battle with the
Pagans. She accordingly mounted her palfrey at once, and fled
with all her might till she found herself in a wood.

Scarcely had she congratulated herself on being in a place of
refuge, when she met a warrior full armed, whom with terror she
recognised to be the once-loved but now detested Rinaldo. He
had lost his horse, and was looking for it. Angelica turned her
palfrey aside instantly, and galloped whithersoever it chose to
carry her, till she came to a river-side, where she found another of
her suitors, Ferragus. She called loudly upon him for help.
Rinaldo had recognised her in turn ; and though he was on foot,
she knew he would be coming after her.

Come after her he did. A tight between the rivals ensued ;
and the beauty, taking advantage of it, again fled away — fled
like the fawn, that, having seen its mother's throat seized by a
wild beast, scours through the woods, and fancies herself every
instant in the jaws of the monster. Every sweep of the wind in
the trees — every shadow across her path — drove her with sudden

* Sec p. 'A2 of the present volume.

340 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

starts into the wildest cross-roads ; for it made her feel as if Ri-
naldo was at her shoulders.*

Slackening her speed by degrees, she wandered afterwards she
knew not whither, till she came, next day, to a pleasant wood that
was gently stirring with the breeze. There were two streams in
it, which kept the grass always green ; and when you listened,
you heard them softly running among the pebbles with a broken
murmur.

Thinking herself secure at last, and indeed feeling as if she
were now a thousand miles off from Rinaldo — tired also with her
long journey, and with the heat of the summer sun — she here
determined to rest herself. She dismounted ; and having re-
lieved her horse of his bridle, and let him wander away in the
fresh pasture, she cast her eyes upon a lovely natural bower,
formed of wild roses, which made a sort of little room by the
water's side. The bower beheld itself in the water ; trees en-
closed it overhead, on the three other sides ; and in the middle
was room enough to lie down on the sward ; while the whole was
so thickly trellised with the leaves and branches, that the sun-
beams themselves could not enter, much less any prying sight.
The place invited her to rest ; and accordingly the beautiful
creature laid herself down, and so gathering herself, as it were,
together, went fast asleep. "j*

* " Fugge tra selve spaventose e scure,
Per lochi inabitati, ernii e selvaggi.
II mover de le frondi e di verzure

Che di cerri sentia, d' olmi e di faggi,
Fatto le avea con subite paure

Trovar di quh e di \h strani viaggi ;
Ch' ad ogni ombra veduta o in monte o in valle
Temea Rinaldo aver sempre alle spalle."

Canto i. st. 33.

t " Ecco non lungi un bel cespuglio vede

Di spin iioriti e di vermiglie rose,
Che de le liquide onde al specchio siede,

Cliiuso dal Sol fra 1' alte quercie ombrose;
Cosi vote nel mezo, che concede

Fresca stanza fra 1' ombre piu nascose :
E la foglie coi rami in modo e mista,
Che '1 Sol non v' entra, non che minor vista.

THE ADVEXTURES OP ANGELICA. 341

She had not slept long when she was awakened by the tramp-
ling of a horse ; and getting up, and looking cautiously through
the trees, she perceived a cavalier, who dismounted from his
steed, and sat himself down by the water in a mclanciioly pos-
ture. It was Sacripant, king of Circassia, one of her lovers,
wretched at the thought of having missed her in the camp of
King Charles. Angelica loved Sacripant no more than the rest ;
but, considering him a man of great conscientiousness, she thought
he would make her a good protector while on her journey home.
She therefore suddenly appeared before him out of the bower,
like a goddess of the woods, or Venus herself, and claimed his
protection.

Never did a mother bathe the eyes of her son with tears
of such exquisite joy, when he came home after news of his
death in battle, as the Saracen king beheld this sudden appari-
tion with its divine face and beautiful manners.* He could not
help clasping her in his arms ; and very different intentions were
coming into his head than those for which she had given him
credit, when the noise of a second warrior thundering through
the woods made him remount his horse and prepare for an en-
counter. The stranger speedily made his appearance, a person-
age of a gallant and fiery bearing, clad in a surcoat white as
snow, with a white streamer for a crest. He seemed more bent
on havinjj the wav cleared before him than anxious about the
manner of it ; so couching his lance as he came, while Sacri-
pant did the like with his, he dashed upon the Circassian with
such violence as to cast him on the ground \ and though his own
horse slipped at the same time, he had it up again in an instant

Dentro letto vi fan tener' erbette,

Ch' invitano a posar chi s' appresenta.
La bella donna in mezo a quel si mette ;

Ivi si scorca, et ivi s' addormenta." St. 37.

An exquisite picture !
♦ And how lovely is this !

" E fuor di quel cespuglio oscuro e cieco
Fa di se bella et improvvisa mostra,
Come di selva o fuor d' ombroso speco

Diana in scena, o Citerea si mostra," &c. St. 52.

342 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

with his spurs ; and so, continuing his way, was a mile off be-
fore the Saracen recovered from his astonishment.

As the stunned and stupid ploughman, who has been stretched
by a thunderbolt beside his slain oxen, raises himself from the
ground after the lofty crash, and looks with astonishment at the
old pine-tree near him which has been stripped from head to foot,
with just such amazement the Circassian got up from his down-
fall, and stood in the presence of Angelica, who had witnessed it.
Never in his life had he blushed so red as at that moment.

Angelica comforted him in sorry fashion, attributing the dis-
aster to his tired and ill-fed horse, and observing that his enemy
had chosen to risk no second encounter ; but, while she was talk-
ing, a messenger, with an appearance of great fatigue and anx-
iety, came riding up, who asked Sacripant if he had seen a
knight in a white surcoat and crest.

" He has this instant,'' answered the king, " overthrown me,
and galloped away. Who is he ?"

" It is no Ae," replied the messenger. '■ The rider who has
overthrown you, and thus taken possession of whatever glory you
may have acquired, is a damsel ; and she is still more beautiful
than brave. Bradamante is her illustrious name."

And Vv^ith these words the horseman set spurs to his horse, and
left the Saracen more miserable than before. He mounted An-
gelica's horse without a word, his own having been disabled ; and
so, taking her up behind him, proceeded on the road in continued
silence.*

They had just gone a couple of miles, when they again heard
a noise, as of some powerful body in haste ; and in a little while,
a horse without a rider came rushing towards them, in golden
trappings. It was Rinaldo's horse, Bayardo.f The Circassian,

* How admirable is the suddenness, brevity, and force of this scene ! And it
is as artful and dramatic as off-hand ; for this Amazon, Bradamante, is the fu-
ture heroine of the warlike part of the poem, and the beauty from whose mar-
riage with Ruggiero is to spring the house of Este. Nor Avithout her appear-
ance at this moment, as Panizzi has shewn (vol. i. p. cvi.), could a variety of
subsequent events have taken place necessary to the greatest interests of the
story. All the previous passages in romance about Amazons are nothing com-
pared wdth this flash of a thunderbolt.

t From bayard, old French ; bay-colour.

THE ADVExNTLRES OF ANGELICA. 1^3

dismounting, thougiit to seize it, but was welcomed with a curvet,
which made him beware how he hazarded somethinir worse. The
horse then went straight to Angelica in a way as caressing as a
dog ; for he remembered how she fed him in Albracca at the
time when she was in love with his ungracious master : and the
beauty recollected Bayardo with equal pleasure, for she had need
of him. Sacripant, however, watched his opportunity, and
mounted the horse ; so that now the two companions had each a
separate steed. They were about to proceed more at their ease,
when again a great noise was heard, and Rinaldo himself was
seen coming after them on foot, threatening the Saracen with
furious gestures, for he saw that he had got his horse ; and he
recognised, above all, in a rage of jealousy, the lovely face beside
him. Angelica in vain implored the Circassian to fly with her.
He asked if she had forgotten the wars of Albracca, and all
which he had done to serve her, that thus she supposed him afraid
of another battle.

Sacripant endeavoured to push Bayardo against Rinaldo ; but
the horse refusing to fight his master, he dismounted, and the two
rivals encountered each other with their swords. At first they
went through the whole sword-exercise to no effect ; but Rinaldo,
tired of the delay, raised the terrible Fusberta,* and at one blow
cut through the other's twofold buckler of bone and steel, and
benumbed his arm. Angelica turned as pale as a criminal going
to execution ; and, without farther waiting, galloped off through
the forest, looking round every instant to see if Rinaldo was upon
her.

She had not gone far when she met an old man who seemed to
be a hermit, but was in reality a magician, coming along upon
an ass. He was of venerable aspect, and seemed worn out with
age and mortifications ; yet, when he beheld the exquisite face
before him, and heard the lady explain how it was she needed his
assistance, even he, old as he really was, began to fancy himself
a lover, and determined to use his art for the purpose of keeping
his two rivals at a distance. Taking out a book, and reading a
little in it, there issued from the air a spirit in likeness of a ser-

* His famous sword, vide p. 27.

344 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

vant, whom he sent to the two combatants with directions to give
them a false account of Orlando's having gone otF to France
with Angelica. The spirit disappeared ; and the magician jour-
neying with his companion to the sea-coast, raised another, who
entered Angelica's horse, and carried her, to her astonishment
and terror, out to sea, and so round to some lonely rocks. There,
to her great comfort at first, the old man rejoined her ; but his
proceedings becoming very mysterious, and exciting her indigna-
tion, he cast her into a deep sleep.

It happened, at this moment, that a ship was passing by the
rocks, bound upon a tragical commission from the island of
Ebuda. It was the custom of that place to consign a female
daily to the jaws of a sea-monster, for the purpose of averting the
wrath of one of their gods ; and as it was thought that the god
would be appeased if they brought him one of singular beauty,
the mariners of the ship seized with avidity on the sleeping An-
gelica, and carried her off, together with the old man. The
people of Ebuda, out of love and pity, kept her, unexposed to the
sea-monster, for some days ; but at length she was bound to the
rock where it was accustomed to seek its food ; and thus, in tears
and horror, with not a friend to look to, the delight of the world
expected her fate. East and west she looked in vain ; to the
heavens she looked in vain ; every where she looked in vain.
That beauty which had made King Agrican come from the Cas-
pian gates, with half Scythia, to find his death from the hands of
Orlando ; that beauty which had made King Sacripant foi-get both
his country and his honour ; that beauty which had tarnished the
renown and the wisdom of the great Orlando himself, and turned
the whole East upside down, and laid it at the feet of loveliness,
has now not a soul near it to give it the comfort of a word.

Leaving our heroine a while in this condition, I must now tell
you that Ruggiero, the greatest of all the infidel warriors, had
been presented by his guardian, the magician Atlantes, with two
wonderful gifts ; the one a shield of dazzling metal, which blinded
and overthrew every one that looked at it ; and the other an ani-
mal which combined the bird with the quadruped, and was called
the Hippogriff, or grifiin-horse. It had the plumage, the wings,
head, beak, and front-legs of a griffin, and the rest like a horse.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 'Mb

It was not made by enchantment, but was a creature of a natural
kind found but very rarely in the Ripha?an mountains, far on the
other side of the Frozen Sea.*

With these gifts, liigh mounted in the air, the you no- ward of
Atlantes was now making the grandest of grand tours. He had
for some time been confined by the magician in a castle, in order
to save him from the dangers threatened in his horoscope. From
this he had been set free by the lady with whom he was destined
to fall in love ; he had then been inveigled by a wicked fairy into
her tower, and set free by a good one ; and now he was on his
travels through the world, to seek his mistress and pursue knight-
ly adventures.

Casting his eyes on the coast of Ebuda, the rider of the hippo-
griff beheld the amazing spectacle of the lady tied to the rock ;
and struck with a beautv whicii reminded him of her whom he
loved, he resolved to deliver her from a peril which soon became
too manifest.

A noise was heard in the sea ; and the huge monster, the Ore,
appeared half in the water, and half out of it, like a ship which
drags its way into port aftef a long and tempestuous voyage. f It
seemed a huge mass without form except the head, which had

* To richness and rarity, how much is added by remoteness ! It adds distance
to the other difficulties of procuring it.

t " Ecco apparir lo smisurato mostro
Mezo ascoso ne 1' onda, e mezo sorto.
Come sospinto suol da Borea o d' Ostro
Venir lungo navilio a pigliar porto."

Canto X. St. 100.

Improved from Ovid, Metamorph. Hb. iv. 706 :

X " Ecce velut navis prsefixo concita rostro

Sulcat aquas, juvenuni sudantibus acta lacertis ;
Sic fera," &c.

As when a galley with sharji beak comes fierce,
Ploughing the waves with many a sweating oar.

Ovid is brisker and more obviously to the purpose ; but Ariosto gives the pon-
derousness and dreary triumph of the monster. The comparison of the fly and
the mastiff is in the same higher and more epic taste. The classical reader need
not be told that the whole ensuing passage, as far as the combat is concerned, is
imitated from Ovid's story of Perseus and Andromeda.

346 THE ADVENTURES OP ANGELICA.

eyes sticking out, and bristles like a boar. Ruggiero, who had
dashed down to the side of Angelica, and attempted to encourage
her in vain, noAV rose in the air ; and the monster, whose atten-
tion was diverted by a shadow on the water of a couple of great
wings dashing round and above him, presently felt a spear on his
neck ; but only to irritate him, for it could not pierce the skin.
In vain Ruggiero tried to do so a hundred times. The combat
was of no more effect than that of the fly with the mastiff, when
it dashes against his eyes and mouth, and at last comes once too
often within the gape of his snapping teeth. The ore raised such
a foam and tempest in the waters with the flapping of his tail,
that the knight of the hippogriff hardly knew whether he was in
air or sea. He beijan to fear that the monster would disable the
creature's wings ; and where would its rider be then ? He there-
fore had recourse to a weapon which he never used but at the last
moment, when skill and courage became of no service : he un-
veiled the magic shield. But first he flew to Angelica, and put
on her finger the ring; which neutralized its elTect. The shield
blazed on the water like another sun. The ore, beholding it, felt
it smite its eyes like lightning ; and rolling over its unwieldy
body in the foam which it had raised, lay turned up, like a dead
fish, insensible. But it was not dead ; and Ruggiero was so long
in making ineffectual efforts to pierce it, that Angelica cried out
to him for God's sake to lelease her while he had the opportunity,
lest the monster should revive. " Take me v/ith you," she said ;
"drown me ; any thing, rather than let me be food for this horror."

The knight released her instantly. He set her behind him on
the winged horse, and in a few minutes was in the air, transport-
ed with having deprived the brute of his delicate supper. Then,
turning as he went, he imprinted on her a thousand kisses. He
had intended to make a tour of Spain, which was not far off; but
he now altered his mind, and descended with his prize into a love-
ly spot on the coast of Brittany, encircled with oaks full of night-
ingales, with here and there a solitary mountain.

It was a little green meadow with a brook.* Ruggiero look-
ed about him with transport, and was preparing to disencumbei

* " Sul lito un bosco era di querce ombrose,
Dove ogn' or par che Filomena piagna ;

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 347

himself of his hot armour, when tlie blushing beauty, casting her
eyes downwards, belield on lier fmwr the identical lUiKnc r'mcr
wliicli her futlier had given her wlicn she first entered Christen-
dom, and which had delivered her out of so many dangers. If
put on the finger only, it neutralized all enchantment ; but put
into the mouth, it rendered the wearer invisible. It had been
stolen from her, and came into the hands of a good fairy, wlio
gave it to Ruggiero, in order to deliver him from the wiles of a
bad one. Falsehood to the good fairy's friend, his own mistress
Bradamante, now rendered him unworthy of its possession ; and
at the moment when he thought Angelica his own beyond re-
demption, she vanished out of his sight. In vain he knew the
secret of the ring, and the possibility of her being still present —
the certainty, at all events, of her not being very far off. He ran
hither and thither like a madman, hoping to clasp her in his arms,
and embracinfT nothinsr but the air. In a little while she was dis-
tant far enough ; and Ruggiero, stamping about to no purpose in
a rage of disappointment, and at length resolving to take horse,
perceived he had been deprived, in the mean time, of his hippogriff.
It had loosened itself from the tree to which he had tied it, and
taken its own course over the mountains. Thus he had lost horse,
ring, and lady, all at once.*

Pursuing his way, with contending emotions, through a valley
between lofty woods, he heard a great noise in the thick of them.
He rushed to see what it was ; and found a giant combating with

Ch' in mezo avea un pratel con una fonte,
E quinci e quLndi un solitario monte.

Quivi il bramoso cavalier ritenne

L' audace corso, e ncl pratel disease."

St. 113.

What a landscape ! and what a charni beyond painting he has put into it with
his nifrhtinfales ! £ind then what fiomrcs besides ! A knitrht on a winged steed
descending with a naked beauty into a meadow in the thick of woods, with
"here and there a soUtary mountain." Tlie mountains make no formal circle;
they keep their separate distances, with their various intervals of hght and shade.
And what a heart of solitude is given to the meadow by the loneliness of these
its waiters aloof!

* Nothing can be more perfectly wrought up than this sudden change of cir-
cumstances .

348 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

a young knight. The giant got the better of the knight ; and
having cast him on the ground, unloosed his hehxiet for the pur-
pose of slaying him, when Ruggiero, to his horror, beheld in the
youth's face that of his unworthily-treated mistress Bradamante.
He rushed to assault her enemy ; but the giant, seizing her in
his arms, took to his heels ; and the penitent lover followed him
with all his might, but in vain. The wretch was hidden from
his eyes by the trees. At length Ruggiero, incessantly pursuing
him, issued forth into a great meadow, containing a noble man-
sion ; and here he beheld the giant in the act of dashing through
the gate of it with his prize.

The mansion was an enchanted one, raised by the anxious old
guardian of Ruggiero for the purpose of enticing into it both the
youth himself, and all from whom he could experience danger in
the course of his adventures. Orlando had just been brought
there by a similar device, that of the apparition of a knight car-
rying off Angelica ; for the supposed Bradamante was equally a
deception, and the giant no other than the magician himself.
There also were the knights Ferragus, and Brandimart, and
Grandonio, and King Sacripant, all searching for something they
had missed. They wandered about the house to no purpose ;
and sometimes Rugijiero heard Bradamante callingr him ; and
sometimes Orlando beheld Angelica's face at a window.*

At length the beauty arrived in her own veritable person. She
was again on horseback, and once more on the look-out for a
knight who should conduct her safely home — whether Orlando or
Sacripant she had not determined. The same road which had
brought Ruggiero to the enchanted house having done as much
for her, she now entered it invisibly by means of the ring.

Finding both the knights in the place, and feeling under the
necessity of coming to a determination respecting one or the other,

* To feel the complete force of this picture, a reader should have been in the
South, and beheld the like sudden apparitions, at open windows, of ladies looking
forth in dresses of beautiful colours, and with faces the most interestincr. I re-
member a vision of this sort at Carrara, on a bright but not too hot day (I fancied
that the marble mountains there cooled it). It resembled one of Titian's wo-
men, with its broad shoulders, and boddice and sleeves differently coloured
from the petticoat ; and seemed literally framed in the unsashed window. But
I am digressing.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. :U9

Angelica made up her mind in favour of King Sacripant, whom
she reckoned to be more at her disposal. Contriving therefore to
meet him bv himself, she took the rini^ out of her mouth, and
suddenly appeared before him. He had hardly recovered from
his amazement, when Ferragus and Orlando himself came up ;
and as Angelica now was visible to all, she took occasion to de-
liver them from the enchanted house by hastening before them
into a wood. They all followed of course, in a frenzy of anx-
iety and delight ; but the lady being perplexed with the presence
of the whole three, and recollecting that she had again obtained
possession of her ring, resolved to trust her safe conduct to invis-
ibility alone ; so, in the old fashion, she left them to new quarrels
by suddenly vanishing from their eyes. She stopped, neverthe-
less, a while to laugh at them, as they all turned their stupified
faces hither and thither ; then suffered them to pass her in a
blind thunder of pursuit ; and so, gently following at her leisure
on the same road, took her way towards the East.

It was a long journey, and she saw many places and people,
and was now hidden and now seen, like the moon, till she came
one day into a forest near the walls of Paris, where she beheld a
youth lying wounded on the grass, between two companions that
were dead.

PART n.

350 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

PART THE SECOND.

ANGELICA AND MEDORO.

Now, in order to understand who the youth was that Angelica
found lying on the grass between the two dead companions, and
how he came to be so lying, you must know that a great battle
had been fought there between Charlemagne and the Saracens, in
which the latter were defeated, and that these three people be-
longed to the Saracens. The two that were slain were Dardinel,
king of Zumara, and Cloridan, one of his followers ; and the
wounded survivor was another, whose name was Medoro. Clo-
ridan and Medoro had been loving and grateful servants of Dar-
dinel, and very fast friends of one another ; such friends, indeed,
that on their own account, as well as in honour of what they
did for their master, their history deserves a particular mention.

They were of a lowly stock on the coast of Syria, and in all
the various fortunes of their lord had shewn him a special at-
tachment. Cloridan had been bred a huntsman, and was the
robuster person of the two. Medoro was in the first bloom of
youth, with a complexion rosy and fair, and a most pleasant as
well as beautiful countenance. He had black eyes, and hair
that ran into curls of gold ; in short, looked like a very angel
from heaven.

These two were keeping anxious watch upon the trenches of
the defeated army, when Medoro, unable to cease thinking of the
master who had been left dead on the field, told his friend that he
could no longer delay to go and look for his dead body, and bury
it. " You," said he, " will remain, and so be able to do justice
to my memory, in case I fail."

Cloridan, though he delighted in this proof of his triend's
noble-heartedness, did all he could to dissuade him from so peril-

THE ADVENTURES OK ANGELICA. 351

ous an enterprise ; but Medoro, in the fervour of his gratitude for
benefits conferred on him by liis lord, was immovable in his deter-
mination to die or to succeed ; and Cloridan, seeing tiiis, deter-
mined to go with him.

They took their way accordingly out of the Saracen camp,
and in a short time found themselves in that of the enemv. The
Christians had been drinking over-night for joy at their victory,
and were buried in wine and sleep. Cloridan halted a moment,
and said in a whisper to his friend, " Do you see this ? Ought 1
to lose such an opportunity of revenging our beloved master ?
Keep watch, and I will do it. Look about you, and listen on
every side, while I make a passage for us among these sleepers
with my sword."

Without waiting an answer, the vigorous huntsman pushed
into the first tent before him. It contained, among other occu-
pants, a certain Alpheus, a physician and caster of nativities,
who had prophesied to himself a long life, and a death in the
bosom of his family. Cloridan cautiously put the sword's point
in his throat, and there was an end of his dreams. Four other
sleepers were despatched in like manner, without time given
them to utter a syllable. After them went another, who had en-
trenched himself between two horses ; then the luckless Grill,
who had made himself a pillow of a barrel which he had emp-
tied. He was dreaming of opening a second barrel, but, alas,
was tapped himself. A Greek and a German followed, who had
been playing late at dice ; fortunate, if they had continued to do
so a little longer ; but they never counted a throw like this
among their chances.

By this time the Saracen had grown ferocious with his bloody
work, and went slaughtering along like a wild beast among sheep.
Nor could Medoro keep his own sword unemployed ; but he dis-
dained to strike indiscriminately — he was choice in his victims.
Among these was a certain Duke La Brett, who had his lady fast
asleep in his arms. Shall I pity them ? That will I not. Sweet
was their fated hour, most happy their departure ; for, embraced
as the sword found them, even so, I believe, it dismissed them into
the other world, loving and enfolded.

Two brothers were slain next, sons of the Count of Flanders,

352 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

and newly-made valorous knights. Charlemagne had seen them
turn red with slaughter in the field, and had augmented their
coat of arms with his lilies, and promised them lands beside in
Friesland. And he would have bestowed the lands, only Medoro
forbade it.

The friends now discovered that they had approached the
quarter in which the Paladins kept guard about their sovereign.
They were afraid, therefore, to continue the slaughter any fur-
ther ; so they put up their swords, and picked their way cau-
tiously through the rest of the camp into the field where the battle
had taken place. There they experienced so much difficulty in
the search for their master's body, in consequence of the horrible
mixture of the corpses, that they might have searched till the
perilous return of daylight, had not the moon, at the close of a
prayer of Medoro's, sent forth its beams right on the spot where
the king was lying. Medoro knew him by his cognizance, argent
and gules. The poor youth burst into tears at the sight, weeping
plentifully as he approached him, only he was obliged to let his
tears flow without noise. Not that he cared for death — at that
moment he would gladly have embraced it, so deep was his af-
fection for his lord ; but he was anxious not to be hindered in his
pious office of consigning him to the earth.

The two friends took up the dead king on their shoulders, and
were hasting away with the beloved burthen, when the white-
ness of dawn began to appear, and with it, unfortunately, a troop
of horsemen in the distance, right in their path.

It was Zerbino, prince of Scotland, with a party of horse. He
was a warrior of extreme vigilance and activity, and was return-
ing to the camp after having been occupied all night in pursuing
such of the enemy as had not succeeded in getting into their en-
trenchments.*

* Ariosto elsewhere represents him as the handsomest man in the world ; say-
ing of him, in a line that has become famous,

"Natura il fece, e poi roppe la stampa."

Canto X. St. 84.

— Nature made him, and then broke the mould.
(The word is generally printed ruppe; but I use the primitive text of Mr. Pan-

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 353

((

My friend," exclaimed the huntsman, " we must e'en take to
our heels. Two living people must not be sacrificed to one who
is dead."

With these words he let go his share of the burden, taking for
granted that the friend, whose life as well as his own he was
thinking to secure, would do as he himself did. But attached as
Cloridan had been to his master, Medoro was far more so. He
accordingly received the whole burden on his shoulders. Clori-
dan meantime scoured away, as fast as feet could carry him,
thinking his companion was at his side : otherwise he would soon-
er have died a hundred times over than have left him.

In the interim, the party of the Scottish prince had dispersed
themselves about the plain, for the purpose of intercepting the two
fugitives, whichever way they went ; for they saw plainly they
were enemies, by the alarm they shewed.

There was an old forest at hand in those days, which, besides
being thick and dark, was full of the most intricate cross-paths,
and inhabited only by game. Into this Cloridan had plunged.
Medoro, as well as he could, hastened after him ; but hampered
as he was with his burden, the more he sought the darkest and
most intricate paths, the less advanced he found himself, especial-
ly as he had no acquaintance with the place.

On a sudden, Cloridan having arrived at a spot so quiet that he
became aware of the silence, missed his beloved friend. " Great
God !" he exclaimed, " what have I done ? Left him I know not
where, or how !" The swift runner instantly turned about, and,
retracing his steps, came voluntarily back on the road to his own
death. As he approached the scene where it was to take place,
he began to hear the noise of men and horses ; then he discern-
ed voices threatening ; then the voice of his unhappy friend ;
and at length he saw him, still bearing his load, in the midst of
the whole troop of horsemen. The prince was commanding them
to seize him. The poor youth, however, burdened as he was,
rendered it no such easy matter ; for he turned himself about like
a wheel, and entrenched himself, now behind this tree, and now

nizzi's edition.) Boiardo's handsomest man, Astolfo, was an Englishman; Ari-
osto's is a Scotciiman. See, in the present volume, the note on the character
of Astolfo, p. 23.

354 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

behind that. Finding this would not do, he laid his beloved bur-
den on the ground, and then strode hither and thither, over and
round about it, parrying the horsemen's endeavours to take him
prisoner. Never did poor hunted bear feel more conflicting emo-
tions, when, surprised in her den, she stands over her offspring
with uncertain heart, groaning with a mingled sound of tenderness
and rage. Wrath bids her rush forward, and bury her nails in
the flesh of their enemy ; love melts her, and holds her back in
the middle of her fury, to look upon those whom she bore.*

Cloridan was in an agony of perplexity what to do. He longed
to rnsh forth and die with his friend ; he longed also still to do
what he could, and not to let him die unavenged. He therefore
halted a while before he issued from the trees, and, putting an
arrov/ to his bow, sent it well-aimed among the horsemen. A
Scotsman fell dead from his saddle. The troop all turned to see

* " Come orsa, che 1' alpestre cacciatore

Ne la pietrosa tana assalita abbia,
Sta sopra i figli con incerto core,

E freme in suono di piet&, e di rabbia :
Ira la 'nvita e natural furore

A spiegar 1' ugne, e a insanguinar le labbia ;
Amor la 'ntenerisce, e la ritira
A riguardare a i figli in mezo 1' ira."

Like as a bear, whom men in mountains start
In her old stony den, and dare, and goad,

Stands o'er her children with uncertain heart,
And roars for rage and sorrow in one mood :

Anger impels her, and her natural part,
To use her nails, and bathe her lips in blood ;

Love melts her, and, for all her angry roar.

Holds back her eyes to look on those she bore.

This stanza in Ariosto has become famous as a beautifiil transcript of a beautiful
passage in Statius, which, indeed, it surpasses in style, but not in feeling, es-
pecially when we consider with whom the comparison originates :

" Ut lea, quam saevo foetam pressere cubili
Venantes Numidae, natos erecta superstat
Mente sub incerta, torvum ac miserabile frendens :
Ilia quidem turbare globos, et frangere morsu
Tela queat ; sed prolis amor crudelia vincit
Pectora, et in media catulos circumspicit ira."

Thebais, x. 414.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 355

whence the arrow came ; and as they were raging and crying
out, a second stuck in the throat of tlie loudest.

" This is not to be borne," cried the prince, pushing his horse
towards Medoro ; " you shall sutler for this." And so speaking,
he thrust his hand into the golden locks of the youth, and dragged
him violently backwards, intending to kill him ; but when he
looked on his beautiful face, he couldn't do it.

Tiie youth betook himself to entreaty. " For God's sake, sir
knight !" cried he, " be not so cruel as to deny me leave to bury
my lord and master. He was a king. I ask nothing for myself
— not even my life. I do not care for my life. I care for noth-
ing but to bury my lord and master."

These words were spoken in a manner so earnest, that the
good prince could feel nothing but pity ; but a ruffian among the
troop, losing sight even of respect for his lord, thrust his lance
into the poor youth's bosom right over the prince's hand. Zer-
bino turned with indignation to smite him, but the villain, seeing
what was coming, galloped off; and meanwhile Cloridan, think-
ing that his friend was slain, came leaping full of rage out of the
wood, and laid about him with his sword in mortal desperation.
Twenty swords were upon him in a moment ; and perceiving
life flowing out of him, he let himself fall down by the side of
his friend.* .__— —

* This adventure of Cloridan and Medoro is imitated from the Nisus and
Eurvalus of Virgil, An Italian critic, quoted by Panizzi, says, that the way
in wliich Cloridan exposes himself to the enemy is inferior to the Latiji poet's
famoxxs

" Me, me (adsum qui feci), in me convertite ferrum."

Me, me ('tis I who did the deed), slay me.

And the reader will agree with Panizzi, that he is right. The circumstance,
also, of Eurjalus's bequeathing his aged mother to the care of his prince, in
case he fliils in his enterprise, is very touching ; and the main honour, both of
the invention of the whole episode and its particulars, remains with Virgil.
On the other hand, the enterprise of the friends in the Italian poet, which is
that of burying their dead master, and not merely of communicating with an
absent general, is more atTecting, though it may be less patriotic ; the inability
of Zerbino to kill him, when he looked on his face, is extremely so ; and, as
Panizzi has shewn, the adventure is made of importance to the whole story of
the poem, and is not simply an episode, like that in the iEneid. It serves, too,
in a very particular manner to introduce INIedoro worthily to the aflection of

356 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

The Scotsmen, supposing both the friends to be dead, now took
their departure ; and Medoro indeed would have been dead before
long, he bled so profusely. But assistance of a very unusual
sort was at hand.

A lady on a palfrey happened to be coming by, who 'observed
signs of life in him, and was struck with his youth and beauty.
She was attired with great simplicity, but her air was that of a
person of high rank, and her beauty inexpressible. In short, it
was the proud daughter of the lorjj of Cathay, Angelica herself.
Finding that she could travel in safety and independence by
means of the magic ring, her self-estimation had risen to such a
height, that she disdained to stoop to the companionship of the
greatest man living. She could not even call to mind that such
lovers as the County Orlando or King Sacripant existed : and it
mortified her beyond measure to think of the affection she had
entertained for Rinaldo.

" Such arrogance," thought Love, " is not to be endured."
The little archer with the wings put an arrow to his bow, and
stood waiting for her by the spot where Medoro lay.

Now, when the beauty beheld the youth lying half dead with
his wounds, and yet, on accosting him, found that he lamented
less for himself than for the unburied body of the king his mas-
ter, she felt a tenderness unknown before creep into every par-
ticle of her being ; and as the greatest ladies of India were ac-
customed to dress the wounds of their knights, she bethought her
of a balsam whicli she had observed in coming along; and so,
looking about for it, brought it back with her to the spot, together
with a herdsman whom she had met on horseback in search of
one of his stray cattle. The blood was ebbing so fast, that the
poor youth was on the point of expiring ; but Angelica bruised
the plant between stones, and g^athered the juice into her delicate
hands, and restored his strength with infusing it into the wounds ;
so that, in a little while, he was able to get on the horse belong-
ing to the herdsman, and be carried away to the man's cottage.
He would not quit his lord's body, however, nor that of his

Angelica ; for, mere female though she be, we should hardly have gone along
with her passion as we do, in a poem of any seriousness, had it been founded
merely on his beauty.

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 357

friend, till he had seen them laid in the ground. He then went
with the lady, and she took up her abode with him in the cottage,
and attended him till he recovered, loving him more and more
day by day ; so that at length she fairly told him as much, and
he loved her in turn ; and the king's daughter married the lowly-
born soldier.

O County Orlando ! O King Sacripant ! That renowned val-
our of yours, say, what has it availed you ? That lofty honour,
tell us, at what price is it rated ? What is the reward ye have
obtained for all your services ? Shew us a single courtesy which
the lady ever vouchsafed, late or early, for all that you ever suf-
fered in her behalf.

O King Agrican ! if you could return to life, how hard would
you think it to call to mind all the repulses she gave you — all the *
pride and aversion and contempt with which she received your
advances !

O Ferragus ! O thousands of others too numerous to speak of,
who performed thousands of exploits for this ungrateful one,
what would you all think at beholding her in the arms of the
courted boy !

Yes, Medoro had the first gathering of the kiss off the lips of
Angelica — those lips never touched before — that garden of roses
on the threshold of which nobody ever yet dared to venture.
The love was headlong and irresistible ; but the priest was called
in to sanctify it ; and the brideswoman of the daughter of Cathay
was the wife of the cottager.

■ ' The lovers remained upwards of a month in the cottage. An-
gelica could not bear her young husband out of her sight. She
was for ever gazing on him, and hanging on his neck. In-doors
and out-of-doors, day as well as night, she had him at her side.
In the morning or evening they wandered forth along the banks
of some stream, or by the hedge- rows of some verdant meadow.
In the middle of the day they took refuge from the heat in a
grotto that seemed made for lovers ; and wherever, in their wan-
derings, they found a tree fit to carve and write on, by the side
of fount or river, or even a slab of rock soft enough for the pur.
pose, there they were sure to leave their names on the bark or
marble ; so that, what with the inscriptions in-doors and out-of-

358 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

doors (for the walls of the cottage displayed them also), a visitor
of the place could not have turned his eye in any direction with-
out seeing the words

" ANGELICA AND MEDORO

written in as many different ways as true-lovers' knots could
run.*

Having thus awhile enjoyed themselves in the rustic solitude,
the Queen of Cathay (for in the course of her adventures in
Christendom she had succeeded to her father's crown) thought it
time to return to her beautiful empire, and complete the triumph
of love by crowning Medoro king of it.
^ She took leave of the cottagers with a princely gift. The
islanders of Ebuda had deprived her of every thing valuable
but a rich bracelet, which, for some strange, perhaps supersti-
tious, reason, they left on her arm. This she took off, and made
a present of it to the good couple for their hospitality ; and so
bade them farewell.

The bracelet was of inimitable workmanship, adorned with
gems, and had been given by the enchantress Morgana to a
favourite youth, who was xescued from her wiles by Orlando.
The .youth, in gratitude, bestowed it on his preserver ; and the
hero had humbly presented it to Angelica, who vouchsafed to
accept it, not because of the giver, but for the rarity of the gift.

The happy bride and bridegroom, bidding farewell to France,
proceeded by easy journeys, and crossed the mountains into
Spain, where it was their intention to take ship for the Levant.
Descending the Pyrenees, they discerned the ocean in the dis-

* Canto xix. st. 34, &c. All the world have felt this to be a true picture of
first love. The inscription may be said to be that of every other pair of lovers
that ever existed, who knew how to write their names.

How musical, too, are the words " Angelica and Medoro!" Boiardo invented
the one ; Ariosto fotmd the match for it. One has no end to the pleasure of
repeating them. All hail to the moment when I first became aware of their
existence, more than fifty years ago, in the house of the gentle artist Benjamin
West ! (Let the reader indulge me with tliis recollection.) I sighed vidth plea-
sure to look on them at that time ; I sigh now, with far more pleasure than
pain, to look back on them, for they never come across me but with delight ; j
and poetry is a world in which nothing beautifbl ever thoroughly forsakes us, '

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 359

tance, and had now reached the coast, and were proceeding by the
water-side along the higli road to Barcelona, when they beheld a
miserable-looking creature, a madman, all over mud and dirt,
lying naked in the sands. He had buried himself half inside
them for shelter from the sun ; but having observed the lovers as
they came along, he leaped out of his hole like a dog, and came
raff in o; against them.

But, before I proceed to relate who this madman was, I must
return to the cottage which the two lovers had occupied, and
recount what passed in it during the interval between their bid-
ding it adieu and their arrival in this place.

360 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

PART THE THIRD.

THE JEALOUSY OF ORLANDO.

During the course of his search for Angelica, the County
Orlando had just restored two lovers to one another, and was pur-
suing a Pagan enemy to no purpose through a wild and tangled
wood, when he came into a beautiful spot by a river's side, which
tempted him to rest himself from the heat. It was a small
meadow, full of daisies and butter-cups, and surrounded with
trees. There was an air abroad, notwithstanding the heat, which
made the shepherds glad to sit without their jerkins, and receive
the coolness on their naked bodies : even the hard-skinned cattle
were glad of it ; and Orlando, who was armed cap-a-pie, was
delighted to take off his helmet, and lay aside his buckler, and
repose awhile in the midst of a scene so refreshing. Alas ! it
was the unhappiest moment of his life.

Casting his eyes around him, while about to get off his horse,
he observed a handwriting on many of the trees which he thought
he knew. Riding up to the trees, and looking more closely, he
was sure he knew it ; and in truth it was no other than that of
his adored mistress Angelica, and the inscription one of those
numerous inscriptions of which I have spoken. The spot was
one of the haunts of the lovers while they abode in the shep-
herd's cottage. Wherever the County turned his eyes, he be-
held, tied together in true-lovers' knots, nothing but the words

" ANGELICA AND MEDORO.

All the trees had them — his eyes could see nothing else ; and
every letter was a dagger that pierced his heart.

The unhappy lover tried in vain to disbelieve what he saw.

THE ADVENTURKS OF ANGELICA. 361

He endeavoured to compel himself to think that it was some other
Angelica who iiad written the words ; but he knew the hand-
writing too well. Too often had he dwelt upon it, and made
himself familiar with every turn of the letters. He then strove
to fancy that " Mcdoro" was a feigned name, intended for him-
self; but he felt that he was trying to delude himself, and that
the more he tried, the bitterer was his conviction of the truth.
He was like a bird fixing itself only the more deeply in the lime
in which it is cauirht, bv strucrrrlinjr and beatino- its winiis.

Orlando turned his horse away in his anguish, and paced it
towards a grotto covered with vine and ivy, which he looked into.
The grotto, both outside and in, was full of the like inscriptions.
It was the retreat the lovers were so fond of at noon. Their
names were written on all sides of it, some in chalk and coal,*
others carved with a knife.

The wretched beholder got off his horse and entered the grotto.
The first thing that met his eyes was a larger inscription in the
Saracen lover's own handwriting and tongue — a language whicli
the slayer of the infidels was too well acquainted with. The
words were in verse, and expressed the gratitude of the " poor
Medoro," the writer, for having had in his arms, in that grotto,
the beautiful Angelica, daughter of King Galafron, whom so
many had loved in vain. The writer invoked a blessing on every
part of it, its shades, its waters, its flowers, its creeping plants ;
and entreated every person, high and low, who should chance to
visit it, particularly lovers, that they would bless the place like-
wise, and take care that it was never polluted by foot of herd.

Thrice, and four times, did the unhappy Orlando read these
words, trying always, but in vain, to disbelieve what he saw.
Every time he read, they appeared plainer and plainer ; and
every time did a cold hand seem to be wringing the heart in his
bosom. At length he remained with his eyes fixed on the stone,
seeinir nothing more, not even the stone itself. He felt as if his
wits were leaving him, so abandoned did he seem of all comfort.

♦ " Scritti, qual con carbonc e qual con gesso."

Canto xxiii. st. 106.

Ariosto did not mind soiling the beautiful fingers of Angelica with coal and
chalk. He knew that Love did not nund it.

362 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

Let those imagine what he felt who have experienced the same
emotions — who know, by their own sufferings, that this is the
grief which surpasses all other griefs. His head had fallen on
his bosom ; his look was deprived of all confidence ; he could not
even speak or shed a tear. His impetuous grief remained within
him by reason of his impetuosity — like water which attempts to
rush out of the narrow-necked bottle, but which is so compressed
as it comes, that it scarcely issues drop by drop.

Again he endeavoured to disbelieve his eyes — to conclude that
somebody had wished to calumniate his mistress, and drive her
lover mad, and so had done his best to imitate her handwriting.
With these sorry attempts at consolation, he again took horse,
the sun having now given way to the moon, and so rode a little
onward, till he beheld smoke rising out of the tops of the trees,
and heard the barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle. By
these signs he knew that he was approaching a village. He en-
tered it, and going into the first house he came to, gave his horse
to the care of a youth, and was disarmed, and had his spurs of
gold taken off, and so went into a room that was shewn him with-
out demanding either meat or drink, so entirely was he filled
with his sorrow.

Now it happened that this was the very cottage into which
Medoro had been carried out of the wood by the loving Angelica.
There he had been cured of his wounds — there he had been
loved and made happy — and there, wherever the County Orlando
turned his eyes, he beheld the detested writing on the walls, the
windows, the doors. He made no inquiries about it of the people
of the house : he still dreaded to render the certainty clearer than
he would fain suppose it.

But the cowardice availed him nothing ; for the host seeing
him unhappy, and thinking to cheer him, came in as he was get-
ting into bed, and opened on the subject of his own accord. It
was a story he told to every body who came, and he was accus-
tomed to have it admired ; so with littl-^^eface he related all the
particulars to his new guest — how th^^outh had been left for
dead on the field, and how the lady had found him, and had him
brought to the cottage- — and how she fell in love with4iim as he
grew well — and how she could be content with nothing but mar-

THE ADVENTURES OP ANGELICA. 303

rying him, though she was daughter of the greatest king of the
East, and a queen herself. At tlie conclusion of his narrative,
the good man produced the bracelet which had been given him
by Angelica, as evidence of the truth gf all that he had been
savino;.

This was the final stroke, the last fatal blow, given to the poor
hopes of Orlando by the executioner, Love. He tried to conceal
his misery, but it was no longer to be repressed ; so finding the
tears rush into his eves, he desired to be alone. As soon as the
man had retired, he let them flow in passion and agony. In vain
he attempted to rest, much less to sleep. Every part of the bed
appeared to be made of stones and thorns.

At length it occurred to him, that most likely they had slept
in that very bed. He rose instantly, as if he had been lying on
a serpent. The bed, the house, the herdsman, every thing about
the place, gave him such horror and detestation, that, without
waiting for dawn, or the liglit of moon, he dressed himself, and
went forth and took his horse from the stable, and galloped on-
wards into the middle of the woods. There, as soon as he found
himself in the solitude, he opened all the flood-gates of his grief,
and gave way to cries and outcries.

But he still rode on. Day and night did Orlando ride on,
weeping and lamenting. He avoided towns and cities, and made
his bed on the hard earth, and wondered at himself that he could
weep so long.

" These," thought he, " are no tears that are thus poured forth.
They are life itself, the fountains of vitality ; and I am weeping
and dying both. These are no sighs that I thus eternally exhale.
Nature could not supply them. They are Love himself storming
in my heart, and at once consuming me and keeping me alive
"with his miraculous fires. No more — no more am I the man I
seem. He that was Orlando is dead and buried. His uno;rate-
ful mistress has slain him. I am but the soul divided from his
body — doomed to wander j[[^fe in this misery, an example to those
that put their trust in love."

For the wits of the County Orlando were going ; and he wan-
dered all night round and round in the wood, till he came back to
the grotto where Medoro had written his triumphant verses. Mad-

364 THE ADVENTURES OP ANGELICA.

ness then indeed fell upon him. Every particle of his being
seemed torn up with rage and fury ; and he drew his mighty
sword, and hewed the grotto and the writing, till the words flew in
pieces to the heavens. Woe to every spot in the place in which
were written the names of " Angelica and Medoro." Woe to the
place itself: never again did it afford refuge from the heat of day
to sheep or shepherd ; for not a particle of it remained as it was.
With arm and sword Orlando defaced it all, the clear and gentle
fountain included. He hacked and hewed it inside aud out, and
cut down the branches of the trees that hung over it, and tore away
the ivy and the vine, and rooted up great bits of earth and stone,
and filled the sweet water with the rubbish, so that it was never
clear and sweet again ; and at the end of his toil, not having sat-
isfied or being able to satisfy his soul with the excess of his vio-
lence, he cast himself on the ground in rage and disdain, and lay
groaning towards the heavens.

On the ground Orlando threw himself, and on the ground he
remained, his eyes fixed on heaven, his lips closed in dumbness ;
and thus he continued for the space of three days and three
nights, till his frenzy had mounted to such a pitch, that it turned
against himself. He then arose in fury, and tore off mail and
breastplate, and every particle of clothing from his body, till hu-
manity was degraded in his heroical person, and he became na-
ked as the beasts of the field.

In this condition, and his wits quite gone, sword was forgotten
as well as shield and helm ; and he tore up fir-tree and ash, and
began running through the woods. The shepherds hearing the
cries of the strong man, and the crashing of the boughs, came
hastening from all quarters to know what it was ; but when he
saw them he gave them chase, and smote to death those whom he
reached, till the whole country v/as up in arms, though to no pur-
pose ; for they wei'e seized with such terror, that while they
threatened and closed after him, they avoided him. He entered
cottages, and tore away the food from the tables ; and ran up the
craggy hills and down into the valleys ; and chased beasts as
well as men, tearing the fawn and the goat to pieces, and stuffing
their flesh into his stomach with fierce will.

Raging and scouring onwards in this manner, he arrived one

one

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA. 3G5

day at a bridge over a torrent, on which the fierce Rodoinont had
fixed himself for tlie purpose of throwing any one that attempted
to pass it into the water. It was a very narrow bridge, with
scarcely room for two horses. But Orlando took no heed of its
narrowness. He dashed right forwards against man and steed,
and forced the champion to wrestle with him on foot ; and, wind-
ing himself about him with hideous strength, he leaped backwards
with him into the torrent, where he left him, and so mounted the
opposite bank, and again rushed over the country. A more ter-
rible bridge than this was in his way — even a precipitous pass of
frightful height over a valley ; but still he scoured onwards,
throwing over it the agonised passengers that dared, in their ig-
norance of his strength, to oppose him ; and so always rushing
and raging, he came down the mountains by the sea-side to Bar-
celona, where he cast his eyes on the sands, and thought, in his
idiot mind, to make himself a house in them for coolness and re-
pose ; and so he grubbed up the sand, and laid himself down in
it : and this was the terrible madmau whom Ansjelica and Medo-
ro saw looking at them as they were approaching the city.

Neither of them knew him, nor did he know Angelica ; but,
with an idiot laugh, he looked at her beauty, and liked her, and
came horribly towards her to carry her away. Shrieking, she
put spurs to her horse and fled ; and Medoro, in a fury, came af-
ter the pursuer and smote him, but to no purpose. The great
madman turned round and smote the other's horse to the ground,
and so renewed his chase after Angelica, who suddenly regained
enough of her wits to recollect the enchanted ring. Instantly she
put it into her lips and disappeared ; but in her hurry she fell
from her palfrey, and Orlando forgot her in the instant, and,
mounting the poor beast, dashed off with it over the country till it
died : and so at last, after many dreadful adventures by flood and
field, he came running into a camp full of his brother Paladins,
who recognised him with tears ; and, all joining their forces, suc-
ceeded in pulling him down and binding him, though not without
many wounds ; and by the help of these friends, and the special
grace of the apostle St. John (as will be told in another place),
the wits of the champion of the church were restored, and he be-

366 THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.

came ashamed of that passion for an infidel beauty which the
heavenly powers had thus resolved to punish.

But Angelica and Medoro pursued the rest of their journey in
peace, and took ship on the coast of Spain for India ; and there
she crowned her bridegroom King of Cathay.

The description of Orlando's jealousy and growing madness is reckoned om
of the finest things in Italian poetry ; and very fine it surely is — as strong as
the hero's strength, and sensitive as the heart of man. The circumstances art
heightened, one after the other, with the utmost art as well as nature. There
is a scriptural awfulness in the account of the hero's becoming naked ; and the
violent result is tremendous. I have not followed Orlando into his feats of
ultra-supernatural strength. The reader requires to be prepared for them bj
the whole poem. Nor are they necessary, I think, to the production of the best
effect ; perhaps would hurt it in an age unaccustomed to the old romances.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON,

The Paladin Astolfo ascends on the hippogriff to the top of one of the moun-
tains at the source of the Nile, called the Mountains of the Moon, where he
discovers the Terrestrial Paradise, and is welcomed by St. John the Evangelist.
The Evangelist then conveys him to the Moon itself, where he is shewn all the
things that have been lost on earth, among which is the Reason of Orlando,
who had been deprived of it for loving a Pagan beauty. Astolfo is favoured
with a singular discourse by the Apostle, and is then presented with a vial con-
taining the Reason of his great brother Paladin, which he conveys to earth.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.

When the hippogrifF loosened itself from the tree to which
Ruggiero had tied it in the beautiful spot to which he descended
with Angelica,* it soared away, like the faithful creature it was,
to the house of its own master, Atlantes the magician. But not
long did it remain there — no, nor the house itself, nor the magi-
cian ; for the Paladin Astolfo came with a mighty horn given
him by a greater magician, the sound of which overthrew all
such abodes, and put to flight whoever heard it ; and so the
house of Atlantes vanished, and the enchanter fled ; and the
Paladin took possession of the griffin-horse, and rode away with
it on farther adventures.

One of these was the deliverance of Senapus, king of Ethiopia,
from the visitation of the dreadful harpies of old, who came in-
festing his table as they did those of ^neas and Phineus. Astol-
fo drove them with his horse towards the sources of the river Nile,
in the Mountains of the Moon, and pursued them with the hip-
pogriff till they entered a great cavern, which, by tlie dreadful
cries and lamentings that issued from the depths within it, the
Paladin discovered to be the entrance from earth to Hell.

The daring Englishman, whose curiosity was excited, resolved
to penetrate to the regions of darkness. " What have I to fear ?"
thought he ; " the horn will assist me, i[ I want it. I'll drive the
triple-mouthed dog out of the way, and put Pluto and Satan to
flight."t

Astolfo tied the hippogriff' to a tree, and pushed forward in
spite of a smoke that grew thicker and thicker, offending liis
eyes and nostrils. It became, however, so exceedingly heavy

* See p. 116.
t Ariosto is here imitating Puici, and bearding Dante. See vol. i. p. 200.

370 ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.

and noisome, that he found it would be impossible to complete his
enterprise. Still he pushed forward as far as he could, especially
as he began to discern in the darkness something that appeared to
stir with an involuntary motion. It looked like a dead body
which has hung up many days in the rain and sun, and is waved
unsteadily by the wind. It turned out to be a condemned spirit
in this first threshold of Hell, sentenced there, with thousands of
others, for having been cruel and false in love. Her name was
Lydia, and she had been princess of the country so called.*
Anaxarete was among them, who, for her hard-heartedness, be-
came a stone ; and Daphne, who now discovered how she had
erred in making Apollo "run so much ;" and multitudes of other
women ; but a far greater number of men — men being worthier
of punishment in offences of love, because women are proner to
believe. Theseus and Jason were among them ; and Amnon, the
abuser of Tamar ; and he that disturbed the old kingdom of
Latinus."]"

Astolfo would fain have gone deeper into the jaws of Hell, but
the smoke grew so thick and palpable, it was impossible to move a
step farther. Turning about, therefore, he regained the entrance ;
and having refreshed himself in a fountain hard by, and re-
mounted the hippogriff, felt an inclination to ascend as high as he
possibly could in the air. The excessive loftiness of the moun-
tain above the cavern made him think that its top could be at no
great distance from the region of the Moon ; and accordingly he
pushed his horse upwards, and rose and rose, till at length he

* I know of no story of a cruel Lydia but the poet's own mistress of that
jirane, whom I take to be the lady here "shadowed forth." See Life, p. 114.

t The story of Anaxarete is in Ovid, lib. xiv. Every body knows that of
Dtiphne, wlio made Apollo, as Ariosto says, " run so much" (correr tanto).
Theseus and Jason are in hell, as deserters of Ariadne and Medea ; Amnon, for
the atrocity recorded in the Bible (2 Samuel, chap, xiii.); and ^neas for inter-
fering with Turnus and Lavinia, and taking possession of places he had no
right to. It is delightful to see the great, generous poet going upon grounds
of reason and justice in the teeth of the trumped-up rights of the "pious
iEneas," that shabby deserter of Dido, and canting prototype of Augustus.
He turns the tables, also, with brave candour, upon the tyrannical claims of the
titronger sex to privileges which they deny the other; and says, that there are
more faithless men in Hell than faithless women ; which, if personal infidelity
sends people there, most undovibtcdly is the case beyond all comparison.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THR MOON. 371

found liimself on its table-land. It exhibited a region of celestial
beauty. The ilowers were like beds of precious stones for col-
our and brightness ; the grass, if you could have brought any to
earth, would have been found to surpass emeralds ; and the trees,
whose leaves were no less beautiful, were in fruit and flower at
once. Birds of as many colours were singing in the branches ;
the murmuring rivulets and dumb lakes were more limpid than
crystal : a sweet air was for ever stirring, which reduced tiie
warmth to a gentle temperature ; and every breath of it brouglit
an odour from flowers, fruit-trees, and herbage all at once, which
nourished the soul with sweetness.*

In the middle of this lonely plain was a palace radiant as fire.
Astolfo rode his horse round about it, constantly admiring all he
saw, and fllled with increasing astonishment ; for he found that
the dwelling was thirty miles in circuit, and composed of one
entire carbuncle, lucid and vermilion. What became of the
boasted wonders of the world before this ? The world itself, in
the comparison, appeared but a lump of brute and fetid matter. j-

As the Paladin approached the vestibule, he was met by a
venerable old man, clad in a white gown and red mantle, whose
beard descended on his bosom, and whose aspect announced him
as one of the elect of Paradise. It was St. John the Evangelist,
who lived in that mansion with Enoch and Elijah, the only three
mortals who never tasted death ; for the place, as the saint in-
formed him, was the Terrestrial Paradise ; and the inhabitants
were to live there till the angelical trumpet announced the com-
ine of Christ " on the white cloud." The Paladin, he said, had

♦ " Che di soiiviti 1' alma notriva" is beautiful ; but the passage, as a whole,
is not well iimtated from the Terrestrial Paradise of Dante. It is not bad in
itself, but it is very inferior to the one that suggested it. See vol. i. p. 122, &c.
Ariosto's Terrestrial Paradise was at home, among the friends who loved him,
and whom he made happy.

t This is better; and the house made of one jewel thirty miles in circuit is an
extravagance that becomes reasonable on reflection, aflbrding a just idea of
what might be looked for among the endless planetary wonders of Nature,
which confound all our relative ideas of size and splendour. The "lucid ver-
miUon" of a structure so enonnous, and under a sun so pure, presents a gor-
geous spectacle to the imagination. Dante himself, if he could have forgiven
the poet his animal spirits and views of the Moon so different from his own,
might have stood in admiration before an abode at once so luscious and so vast.

372 ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.

been allowed to visit it, by the favour of God, for the purpose of
fetching away to earth the lost wits of Orlando, which the cham-
pion of the Church had been deprived of for loving a Pagan, and
which had been attracted out of his brains to the neighbouring
sphere, the Moon.

Accordingly, after the new friends had spent two days in dis-
course, and meals had been served up, consisting of fruit so
exquisite that the Paladin could not help thinking our first parents
had some excuse for eating it,* the Evangelist, when the Moon
arose, took him into the car which had borne Elijah to heaven ;
and four horses, redder than fire, conveyed them to the lunar
world.

The mortal visitant was amazed to see in the Moon a world re-
sembling his own, full of wood and water, and containing even
cities and castles, though of a different sort from ours. It was
strange to find a sphere so large which had seemed so petty afar
off; and no less strange was it to look down on the world he had
left, and be compelled to knit his brows and look sharply before
he could well discern it, for it happened at the time to want

light.t

But his guide did not leave him much time to look about him.
He conducted him with due speed into a valley that contained, in
one miraculous collection, whatsoever had been lost or wasted on
earth. I do not speak only (says the poet) of riches and domin-
ions, and such like gratuities of Fortune, but of things also
which Fortune can neither grant nor resume. Much fame is
there which Time has withdrawn — infinite prayers and vows
which are made to God Almighty by us poor sinners. There lie

* " De' frutti a lui del Paradise diero,

Di tal sapor, ch' a suo giudizio, sanza
Scusa non sono i due primi parenti,
Se pur quel fur si poco ubbidienti."

Canto ixxiv. st. 60.

t Modern astronomers differ very much both with Dante's and Ariosto's
Moon; nor do the "argent fields" of Milton appear better placed in our mys-
terious sateUite, with its no-atmosphere and no-water, and its tremendous preci-
pices. It is to be hoped (and believed) that knowledge will be best for us
all in the endj for it is not always so by the way. It displaces beautiful igno-
rances.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON. M'A

the tears and tlie sighs of lovers, the hours lost in pastimes, the
leisures of the dull, and the intentions of the lazy. As to desires,
they are so numerous that they shadow the whole place. Astolfo
went round among the dillerent licaps, asking wliat they were.
His eyes were first struck with a huge one of bladders which
seemed to contain mighty sounds and the voices of multi-
tudes. These he found were the Assyrian and Persian monarch-
ies, together with tliose of Greece and Lydia.* One heap was
nothing but hooks of silver and gold, which were the presents, it
seoms, made to patrons and great men in hopes of a return.
Another consisted of snares in the shape of garlands, the manu-
facture of parasites. Others were verses in praise of great lords,
all made of crickets which had burst themselves with sinfrinc.
Chains of gold he saw there, which were pretended and unhappy
love-matches ; and eagles' claws, which were deputed authorities ;
and pairs of bellows, which were princes' favours ; and over-
turned cities and treasuries, being treasons and conspiracies ; and
serpents with female faces, that were coiners and thieves ; and all
sorts of broken bottles, which were services rendered in misera-
ble courts. A great heap of overturned soupf he found to be
alms to the poor, which had been delayed till the giver's death.
He then came to a great mount of flowers, which once had a
sweet smell, but now a most rank one. This (with submission)
was the present which the Emperor Constantine made to good
Pope Sylvester.:]: Heaps of twigs he saw next, set with bird-

* Very fine and scornful, I think, this. Mighty monarchies reduced to
actual bladders, which, little too as they were, contamed big sounds.

t Such, I suppose, as was given at convent-gates.

t The pretended gift of the palace of St. John Lateran, the foundation of
the pope's temporal sovereignty. This famous passage was quoted and trans-
lated by Milton.

" Di varii liori ad un gran monte passa
Ch' ebbe gii buon odore, or putia forte.
Questo era il dono (se per6 dir lece)
Che Constantino al buon Silvestro fece."

Canto xxxiv. st. 80.

The lines were not so bold in the first edition. They stood thus :

" Ad un monte di rose e gigli passa,
Ch' ebbe gii buon odore, or putia forte,
PART II. y

374 ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.

lime, which, dear ladies, are your charms. In short there was
no end to what he saw. Thousands and thousands would not
complete the list. Every thing was there which was to be met
with on earth, except folly in the raw material, for that is never
exported.*

There he beheld some of his own lost time and deeds ; and yet,
if nobody had been with him to make him aware of them, never
would he have recognised them as his."j"

They then arrived at something, which none of us ever prayed
God to bestow, for we fancy we possess it in superabundance ; yet
here it was in greater quantities than any thing else in the place
— I mean, sense. It was a subtle fluid, apt to evaporate if not
kept closely ; and here accordingly it was kept in vials of greater
or less size. The greatest of them all was inscribed with the fol-
lowing words : " The sense of Orlando." Others, in like manner,
exhibited the names of the proper possessors ; and among them
the frank-hearted Paladin beheld the greater portion of his own.
But what more astonished him, was to see multitudes of the vials

Ch' era corrotto ; e da Giovanni intese,

Che fu un gran don ch' un gran signor mal spese."

"He came to a mount of lilies and roses, that once had a sweet smell, but now
stank with corruption ; and he understood fronl John that it was a great gift
which a great lord ill expended." .

The change of these lines to the stronger ones in the third edition, as they
now stand, served to occasion a charge against Ariosto of having got his privi-
lege of publication from the court of Rome for passages which never existed,
and which he afterwards basely introduced ; but, as Panizzi observes, the third
edition had a privilege also; so that the papacy put its hand, as it were, to
these very lines. This is remarkable ; and doubtless it would not have oc-
curred in some other ages. The Spanish Inquisition, for instance, erased it,
though the holy brotherhood found no fault with the story of Giocondo.

* " Sol la pazzia non v' 6, poca ne assai ;
Che sta quh giu, nb se ne parte mai."

St. 78.

t Part of this very striking passage is well translated by Harrington :

" He saw some of his own lost time and deeds,
And yet he knew them not to be his own."

I have heard these Unes more than once repeated with touching eaarnestness by
Charles Lamb.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON. 375

almost full to the stopper, which bore the names of men whom he
had supposed to enjoy their senses in perfection. Some had lost
them for love, others for glory, others for riches, others for hopes
from great men, others for stupid conjurers, for jewels, for paint-
ings, for all sorts of whims. There was a heap belonging to
sophists and astrologers, and a still greater to poets.*

Astolfo, with leave of the " writer of the dark Apocalypse,"
took possession of his own. He had but to uncork it, and set it
under his nose, and the wit shot up to its place at once. Turpin
acknowledges that the Paladin, for a long time afterwards, led the
life of a sage man, till, unfortunately, a mistake which he made
lost him his brains a second time.f

The Evangelist now presented him with the vial containing the
wits of Orlando, and the travellers quitted the vale of Lost Trea-
sure. Before they returned to earth, however, the good saint
shewed his guest other curiosities, and favoured him with many a
sage remark, particularly on the subject of poets, and the neglect
of them by courts. He shewed him how foolish it was in princes
and other great men not to make friends of those who can immor-
talise them ; and observed, with singular indulgence, that crimes
themselves might be no hindrance to a good name with posterity,
if the poet were but feed well enough for spices to embalm the
criminal. He instanced the cases of Homer and Virgil.

*' You are not to take for granted," said he, " that ^Eneas was
so pious as fame reports him, or Achilles and Hector so brave.
Thousands and thousands of warriors have excelled them ; but
their descendants bestowed fine houses and estates on great wri-
ters, and it is from their honoured pages that all the glory has pro-
ceeded. Augustus was no such religious or clement prince as the
trumpet of Virgil has proclaimed him. It was his good taste in
poetry that got him pardoned his iniquitous proscription. Nero
himself might have fared as well as Augustus, had he possessed
as much wit. Heaven and earth might have been his enemies to

* Readers need not have the points of tliis exquisite satire pointed out to
them. In noticing it, I only mean to enjoy it in their company — particularly
the passage about the men accounted wisest, and the emphatic " I mean, sense"
(lo dico, 11 senno).
t Admirable lesson to frailty !

376 ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.

no purpose, had he known how to keep friends with good authors.
Homer makes the Greeks victorious, the Trojans a poor set, and
Penelope undergo a thousand wrongs rather than be unfaithful to
her husband ; and yet, if you would have the real truth of the
matter, the Greeks were beaten, and the Trojans the conquerors,

and Penelope was a .* See, on the other hand, what infamy

has become the portion of Dido. She was honest to her heart's
core ; and yet, because Virgil was no friend of hers, she is look-
ed upon as a baggage.

" Be not surprised," concluded the good saint, " if I have ex-
pressed myself with warmth on this subject. I love writers, and
look upon their cause as my own, for I was a writer myself when
I lived among you ; and I succeeded so well in the vocation, that
time and death will never prevail against me. Just therefore is
it, that I should be thankful to my beloved Master, who procured
me so great a lot. I grieve for writers who have fallen on evil
times — men that, with pale and hungry faces, find the doors of
courtesy closed against all their hardships. This is the reason
there are so few poets now, and why nobody cares to study. Why
should he study ? The very beasts abandon places where there
is nothing to feed them."

At these words the eyes of the blessed old man grew so inflam-
ed with anger, that they sparkled like two fires. But he presently
suppressed what he felt ; and, turning with a sage and gracious
smile to the Paladin, prepared to accompany him back to earth
with his wonted serenity.

He accordingly did so in the sacred car : and Astolfo, after re-
ceiving his gentle benediction, descended on his hippogriff* from
the mountain, and, joining the delighted Paladins with the vial, his
wits were restored, as you have heard, to the noble Orlando.

The figure which is here cut by St. John gives this remarkable satire a most
remarkable close. His association of himself with the fraternity of authors was

* I do not feel warranted in injuring the strength of the term here made use
of by the indignant apostle, and yet am withheld from giving it in all its force
by the delicacy, real or false, of the times. I must therefore leave it to be sup-
plied by the reader according to the requirements of his own feelings.

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON. 377

thought a Uttle " strong" by Ariosto's contemporaries. Tlie lesson read to the
house of Este is obvious, and could hardly have been j>leasant to men reputed
to be such "criminals" themselves. Nor can Ariosto, in this passage, be reck-
oned a very flattering or conscientious pleader for his brother-poets. Resent-
ment, and a good jest, seemed to have conspired to make him forget what was
due to himself.

The orifrinal of St. John's remarks about Augustus and the ancient poets
must not be omitted. It is exquisite of its kind, both in matter and style.
Voltaire has quoted it somewhere with rapture.

" Non fu si santo n6 benigno Augusto

Come la tuba di Virgilio suona :
L' aver avuto in poesia buon gusto

I^a proscrizioti iniqua gli perdona.
Nessun sapna se Neron fosse ingiusto,

N6 sua fama saria forse men buona,
Avesse avuto e terra e ciel nimici,

Se o"li scrittor sapea tcnersi amici.

Omero Agamennon vittorioso,

E fe' i Trojan parcr vili et inerti;
E che Penelopea fida al suo sposo

Da i prochi mille oltraggi avea sofferti :
E, se tu vuoi che '1 ver non ti sia ascoso,

Tutta al contrario 1' istoria converti :
Che i Grcci rotti, e che Troia vittrice,
E che Penelopea fu meretricc.

Da r altra parte odi che fama lascia

Elissa, ch' ebbe il cor tanto pudico;
Che riputata viene una bagascia,

Solo perchfe Maron non le fu amico."

Canto XXXV. st. 26.

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

PART in.

Argument.

The Duke of Albany, pretending to be in love with a damsel in the service of
Ginevra, Princess of Scotland, but desiring to marry the princess herself, and
not being able to compass his design by reason of her being in love with a
gentleman from Italy named Ariodante, persuades the damsel, in his revenge,
to personate Ginevra in a balcony at night, and so make her lover believe that
she is false. Ariodante, deceived, disappears from court. News is brought of
his death ; and his brother Lurcanio publicly denounces Ginevra, who, accord-
ing to the laws of Scotland, is sentenced to death for her supposed lawless
passion. Lurcanio then challenges the unknown paramour (for the duke's
face had not been discerned in the balcony) ; and Ariodante, who is not dead,
is fighting him in disguise, when the Paladin Rinaldo comes up, discloses the
whole aff&ir, and slays the deceiver.

ARIODANTE AND GINEYRA.*

CiLiiiLE^iAGNE had suflercd a great defeat at Paris, and the
Paladin Rinaldo was sent across the Channel to ask succours of
the King of England ; but a tempest arose ere he could reach
the coast, and drove him northwards upon that of Scotland, where
he found himself in the Caledonian Forest, a place famous of old
for kniglitly adventure. Many a clash of arms had been heard
in its shady recesses — many great things had been done there by
knights from all quarters, particularly the Tristans and the
Launcelots, and the Gawains, and others of the Round Table of
Kino- Arthur.

Rinaldo, bidding the ship await him at the town of Berwick,
plunged into the forest with no other companion than his horse
Bayardo, seeking the wildest paths he could fmd, in the hope of
some strange adventure. f He put up, for the first day, at an
abbey which was accustomed to entertain the knights and ladies
that journeyed that way ; and after availing himself of its hospi-
tality, he inquired of the abbot and his monks if they could direct
him where to find what he looked for. They said that plenty of
adventures were to be met with in the forest ; but that, for the

* The main point of this story, the personation of Gincvra by one of her
ladies, has been repeated by many writers — among others by Shakspeare, in
Much Ado about Nothing. The circmnstance is said to have actually occurred
in Ferrara, and in Ariosto's own time. Was Ariosto himself a party 1 " Ario-
dante" almost includes his name ; and it is certain that he was once in love
with a lady of the name of Ginevra.

t Rinaldo is an ambassador, and one upon very urgent business; yet he
halts by the way in search of adventures. This has been said to be in the true
taste of knight-errantry ; and in one respect it is so. We may imagine, how-
ever, that the ship is wind-bound, and that he meant to return to it on change
of weather. The Caledonian Forest, it is to be observed, is close at hand.

382 ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

most part, they remained in as much obscurity as the spots in
which they occurred. It would be more becoming his valour,
they thought, to exert itself where it would not be hidden ; and
they concluded with telling him of one of the noblest chances for
renown that ever awaited a sword. The daughter of their king
was in need of a defender against a certain baron of the name of
Lurcanio, who sought to deprive her both of life and reputation.
He accused her of having been found in the arms of a lover with-
out the license of the priest ; which, by the laws of Scotland, was
a crime only to be expiated at the stake, unless a champion could
be found to disprove the charge before the end of a month. Un-
fortunately the month had nearly expired, and no champion yet
made his appearance, though the king had promised his daughter's
hand to anybody of noble blood who should establish her inno-
cence ; and the saddest part of the thing was, that she was ac-
counted innocent by all the world, and a very pattern of modesty.

While this horrible story was being told him, the Paladin fell
into a profound state of thought. After remaining silent for a lit-
tle while, at the close of it he looked up, and said, " A lady then,
it seems, is condemned to death for having been too kind to one
lover, while thousands of our sex are playing the gallant with
whomsoever they please, and not only go unpunished for it, but
are admired ! Perish such infamous injustice ! The man was a
madman who made such a law, and they are little better who
maintain it. I hope in God to be able to shew them their error."

The good monks agreed, that their ancestors were very un-
wise to make such a law, and kings very wrong who could, but
would not, put an end to it. So, when the morning came, they
speeded their guest on his noble purpose of fighting in the lady's
behalf A guide from the abbey took him a short cut through
the forest towards the place where the matter was to be decided ;
but, before they arrived, they heard cries of distress in a dark
quarter of the forest, and, turning their horses thither to see what
it was, they observed a damsel between two vagabonds, who were
standing over her with drawn swojds. The moment the wretches
saw the new comer, they fled ; and Rinaldo, after re-assuring the
damsel, and requesting to know what had brought her to a pass
so dreadful, made his guide take her up on his horse behuid him,

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA. 38S

in order that they might lose no more time. The damsel, who
was very beautiful, could not speak at first, for the horror of
what she had expected to undergo ; but, on Rinaldo's repeating
his request, she at length found words, and, in a voice of frreat
humility, began to relate her story.

But before she begins, the poet interferes with an impatient re-
mark. — " Of all the creatures in existence," cries he, " whether
they be tame or wild, whether they are in a state of peace or of
war, man is the only one that lays violent hands on the female of
his species. The bear otfers no injury to his ; the lioness is safe
by the side of the lion ; the heifer has no fear of the horns of
the bull. What pest of abomination, what fury from hell, has
come to disturb, in this respect, the bosom of human kind ? Hus-
band and wife deafen one another with injurious speeches, tear
one another's faces, bathe the genial bed with tears, nay, some-
times with bloodshed. In my eyes the man who can allow him-
self to give a blow to a woman, or to hurt even a hair of her
head, is a violater of nature, and a rebel against God ; but to
poison her, to strangle her, to take the soul out of her body with
a knife, — he that can do that, never will I believe him to be a
man at all, but a fiend out of hell with a man's face."*

Such must have been the two villains who fled at the sight of
Rinaldo, and who had brought the woman into this dark spot to
stifle her testimony for ever.

But to return to what she was going to say. —

" You are to know, sir," she began, " that I have been from
my childhood in the service of the king's daughter, the princess
Ginevra. I grew up with her ; I was held in lionour, and I led

* All honour and glor}^ to the manly and loving poet !

'■ Lavezzuola," says Panizzi, "doubts the conjugal concord of beasts, more
particularly of bears. ' Ho letto presso degno autore un orso aver cavato im
occhio ad un orsa con la zampa.' (I have read in an author worthy of credit,
that a bear once deprived a she-bear of an eye with a blow of his paw.) The
reader may choose between Ariosto and this nameless author, which of them is
to be believed. I, of course, am for my poet." — Vol. i. p. 84. I am afraid,
however, that Lavezzuola is right. Even turtle-doves are said not to be always
the models of tenderness they are supposed to be. Brutes have even devoured
their offspring. The violence is most probably owing (at least in excessive
cases) to some unnatural condition of circumstances.

384 ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

a happy life, till it pleased the cruel passion of love to envy me
my condition, and make me think that there was no being on
earth to be compared to the Duke of Albany. He pretended to
love me so much, that, in return, I loved him with all my heart.
Unable, by degrees, to refuse him anything, I let him into the
palace at night, nay, into the room which of all others the prin-
cess regarded as most exclusively her own ; for there she kept
her jewels, and there she was accustomed to sleep during inclem-
ent states of the weather. It communicated with the other
sleeping-room by a covered gallery, which looked out to some
lonely ruins ; and nobody ever passed that way, day or night.

" Our intercourse continued for several months ; and, finding
that I placed all my happiness in obliging him, he ventured to
disclose to me one day a design he had upon the princess's hand ;
nay, did not blush to ask my assistance in furthering it. Judge
how I set his wishes above my own, when I confess that I under-
took to do so. It is true, his rank was nearer to the princess's
than to mine ; and he pretended that he sought the alliance mere-
ly on that account ; protesting that he should love me more than
ever, and that Ginevra would be little better than his wife in
name. But, God knows, I did it wholly out of the excess of my
desire to please him.

"Day and night I exerted all my endeavours to recommend
him to the princess. Heaven is my witness that I did it in real
earnest, however wrong it was. But my labour was to no pur-
pose, for she was in love herself. She returned in all its warmth
the passion of a most accomplished and valiant gentleman, who
had come into Scotland with a younger brother from Italy, and
who had made himself such a favourite with every body, my
lover included, that the king himself had bestowed on him titles
and estates, and put him on a footing with the greatest lords of
the land.

" Unfortunately, the princess not only turned a deaf ear to all
I said in the duke's favour, but grew to dislike him in proportion
to my recommendation ; so that, finding there was no likelihood
of his success, his own love was secretly turned into hate and
rage. He studied, little as I dreamt he could be so base, how he
could best destroy her prospect of happiness. He resorted, for

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA. 385

this purpose, to a most crafty expedient, which I, poor fool, took
for nothing but what he feigned it to be. He pretended that a
wiiini had come into his head for seeming to prosper in his suit,
out of a kind of revenge for his not being able to do so in reality ;
and, in order to indulge this whim, he requested me to dress my-
self in the identical clothes which the princess put otV when she
went to bed that night, and then to appear in them at my usual
post in tiie balcony, and so let down the ladder as though I were
her very self, and receive him into my arms.

'• I did all that he desired, mad fool that I was ; and out of the
part which I played has come all this mischief. I have intimated
to you that the duke and Ariodante (for such was the other's
name) had been good friends before Ginevra preferred him to
mv false lover. Pretendinfr therefore to be still his friend, and
entering on the subject of a passion which he said he had long en-
tertained for her, he expressed his wonder at finding it interfered
with by so noble a gentleman, especially as it was returned by
the princess with a fervour of which the other, if he pleased,
might have ocular testimony.

" Greatly astonished at this news was Ariodante. He had re-
ceived all the proofs of his mistress's affection which it was pos-
sible for chaste love to bestow, and with the greatest scorn re-
fused to believe it ; but as the duke, with the air of a man who
could not help the melancholy communication, quietly persisted
in his story, the unhappy lover found himself compelled, at any
rate, to let him afford those proofs of her infidelity which he as-
serted to be in his power. The consequence was, that Ariodante
came with his brother to the ruins I spoke of; and there the two
were posted on the night when I played my unhappy part in the
balcony. He brought Lurcanio with him (that was the brother's
name), because he suspected that the duke had a design on his
life, not conceiving what he alleged against Ginevra to be possible.
Lurcanio, however, was not in the secret of his brother's engage-
ment with the princess. It had been disclosed hitherto neither
to him nor to any one, the lady not yet having chosen to divulge
it to the king himself. Ariodante, therefore, requested his brother
to take his station at a little distance, out of sight of the palace,

386 ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

and not to come to him unless he should call : ' otherwise, my
dear brother/ concluded he, ' stir not a step, if you love me.'

" ' Doubt me not,' said Lurcanio ; and, with these words, the
latter entrenched himself in his post.

" Ariodante now stood by himself, gazing at the balcony, — the
only person visible at that moment in all the place. In a few
minutes the Duke of Albany appeared below it, making the sig-
nal to which I had been accustomed ; and then I, in my horrible
folly, became visible to the eyes of both, and let down the ladder.

'' Meantime Lurcanio, beginning to be very uneasy at the mys-
terious situation in which he found himself, and to have the most
alarming fears for his brother, had cautiously picked his way
after him at a little distance ; so that he also, though still hidden
in the shade of the lonely houses, perceived all that was going on.

" I was dressed, as I had undertaken to be, in the identical
clothes which the princess had put off that night ; and as I was
not unlike her in air and figure, and wore the golden net with
red tassels peculiar to ladies of the royal family, and the two
brothers, besides, were at quite sufficient distance to be deceived,
I was taken by both of them for her very self. The duke impa-
tiently mounted the ladder ; I received him as impatiently in my
arms ; and circumstances, though from very different feelings,
rendered the caresses that passed between us of unusual ardour.

" You may imagine the grief of Ariodante. It rose at once to
despair. He did not call out ; so that, had not his brother followed
him, still worse would have ensued than did ; for he drew his
sword, and was proceeding in distraction to fall upon it, when
Lurcanio rushed in and stopped him. 'Miserable brother!' ex-
claimed he, ' are you mad ? Would you die for a woman like
this ? You see what a wretch she is. I discern all your case
at once, and, thank God, have preserved you to turn your sword
where it ought to be turned, against the defender of such a pat-
tern of infamy."

" Ariodante put up his sword, and suffered himself to be led
away by his brother. He even pretended, in a little while, to be
able to review his condition calmly, but not the less had he se-
cretly resolved to perish. Next day he disappeared, nobody
knew whither ; and about eight days afterwards, news was se-

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA. 387

cretly brought to Ginevra, by a pilgrim, tliat he had thrown liim-
self from a headland into the sea.

" ' I met him by chance,' said the pilgrim, ' and we happened
to be standing on the top of the headland, conversing, when he
cried out to me, ' Relate to the princess what you beheld on part-
ing from me ; and add, that the cause of it was my having seen
too much. Happy had it been for me had I been blind!' And
with these words,' concluded the pilgrim, ' he leaped into the sea
below, and was instantly buried beneath it.'

" The princess turned as pale as death at this story, and for a
while remained stupitied. But, alas ! what a scene was it my
I fate to witness, when she found herself in her chamber at night,
able to give way to her misery. She tore her clothes, and her
very flesh, and her beautiful hair, and kept repeating the last
words of her lover with amazement and despair.

The disappearance of Ariodante, and a rumour which trans-
pired of his having slain himself on account of some hidden an-
guish, surprised and afllicted the whole court. But his brother
Lurcanio evinced more and more his impatience at it, and let
fall the most terrible words. At length he entered the court when
the king was holding one of his fullest assemblies, and laid open,
as he thought, the whole matter ; setting forth how his unhappy
brother had secretly, but honourably, loved the princess ; how
she had professed to love him in return ; and how she had grossly
deceived him, and played him impudently false before his own
eyes. He concluded with calling upon her unknown paramour
to come forth, and shew reasons against him with his sword why
she ought not to die.

*' I need not tell you what the king suffered at hearing this
'strange and terrible recital. He lost no time in sharply investi-
gating the truth of the allegation ; and for this purpose, among
other proceedings, he sent for the ladies of his daughter's cham-
ber. You may judge, sir, — especially as, I blush to say it, I still
loved the Duke of Albany, — that I could not await an examina-
tion like that. I hastened to meet the duke, who was as anxious
to get me out of the way as I was to go ; and to this end profess-
ing the greatest zeal for my security, he commissioned two men

to convey me secretly to a fortress he possessed in this forest.

388 ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

"Tis at no great distance from the place where Heaven sent you
to my deliverance. You saw, sir, how little those wretches in-
tended to take me anywhere except to my grave ; and by this
you may judge of the agonies and shame I have endured in know-
ing what a dupe I have been to one of the crudest of men. But
thus it is that Love treats his most faithful servants."

The damsel here concluded her story ; and the Paladin, re-
joicing at having become possessed of all that was required to
establish the falsehood of the duke, proceeded with her on his road
to St. Andrews, where the lists had been set up for the determi-
nation of the question. The king and his court were anxiously
praying at that instant for the arrival of some champion to fight
with the dreaded Lurcanio ; for the month, as I have stated, was
nearly expired, and this terrible brother appeared to have the bu-
siness all his own way ; so that the stake was soon to be looked
for at which the hapless Ginevra was to die.

Fast and eagerly the Paladin rode for St. Andrews, with his
squire and the trembling damsel, who was now agitated for new
reasons, though the knight gave her assurances of his protection.
They were not far from the city when they found people talking
of a champion who had certainly arrived, but whose name
was unknown, and his face constantly concealed by his visor.
Even his own squire, it seems, did not know him ; for the man had
but lately been taken into his service. Rinaldo, as soon as he
entered the city, left the damsel in a place of security, and then
spurred his horse to the scene of action, when he found the accu-
ser and the champion in the very midst of the fight. The Pala-
din, whose horse, notwithstanding the noise of the combat, had
been heard coming like a tempest, and whose sudden and heroical
appearance turned all eyes towards him, rode straight to the royal
canopy, and, begging the king to stop the combat, disclosed the
whole state of the matter, to the enchantment of all present, ex-
cept the Duke of Albany ; for the villain himself was on horse-
back there in state as grand constable, and had been feasting his
miserable soul with the hope of seeing Ginevra condemned. The
combatants were soon changed. Instead of Lurcanio and the un-
known champion (whom the new comer had taken care to extol
for his generosity), it was the Paladin and the Duke that were op-

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA. 389

posed, and horribly did the latter's lieart fail him. But he had
no remedy. Fight he must. Rinaldo, desirous to make short
work of him, took his station with fierce delight ; and at the tliird
sound of the trumpets, the Duke was forced to couch his spear
and meet him at full charge. Sheer went the Paladin's ashen
start' throujTh the false bosom, sendinij the villain to the earth eiirht
feet beyond the saddle. The conqueror dismounted instantly, and
unlacing the man's helmet, enabled the king' to hear his dying
confession, which he had hardly finished when life forsook him.
Rinaldo then took off his own helmet ; and the king, who had seen
the great Paladin before, and who felt more rejoiced at his daugh-
ter's deliverance than if he had lost and regained his crown, lifted
up his hands to heaven, and thanked God for having honoured her
innocence with so illustrious a defender.

The other champion, who, in the mean time, had been looking
on through the eyelets of his visor, was now entreated to disclose
his own face. He did so with peculiar emotion, and king and all
recognised with transport the face of the loved, and, as it was
supposed, lost Ariodante, The pilgrim, however, had told no
falsehood. The lover had indeed thrown himself into the sea, and
disappeared from the man's eyes ; but (as oftener happens than
people suppose) the death which was desired when not present
became hated when it was so ; and Ariodante, lover as he was,
rising at a little distance, struck out lustily for the shore, and
reached it.* He felt even a secret contempt for his attempt to
kill himself; yet putting up at an hermitage, became interested
in the reports concerning the princess, whose sorrow flattered, and
whose danger, though lie could not cease to think her guilty, af-
flicted him. He grew exasperated with the very brother he loved,
when he found that Lurcanio pursued her thus to the death ; and
on all these accounts he made his appearance at the place of com-
bat to fight him, though not to slay. His purpose was to seek his
own death. He concluded that Ginevra would then see who it
was that had really loved her, while his brother would mourn the
rashness which made him pursue the destruction of a woman.

* Tills is quite in Ariosto's high and bold taste for truth under all circumstan-
ces. A less great and unraisgiving poet would have had the lover picked up by
a fisherman.

390 ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.

" Guilty she is," thought he, " but no such guilt can deserve so
cruel a punishment. Besides, I could not bear that she should
die before me. She is still the woman I love, still the idol of my
thoughts. Right or wrong, I must die in her behalf."

With this intention he purchased a suit of black armour, and
obtained a squire unknown in those parts, and so made his ap-
pearance in the lists. What ensued there I need not repeat ; but
the king was so charmed with the issue of the whole business,
with the resuscitation of the favourite whom he thought dead, and
the restoration of the more than life of his beloved daughter, that,
to the joy of all Scotland, and at the special instance of the great
Paladin, he made the two lovers happy without delay ; and the
bride brought her husband for dowry the title and estates of the
man who had wronged him.

SUSPICION.

SUSPICION.*

It is impossible to conceive a nobler thing in the world than a
just prince — a thoroughly good man, who shuns no part of the
burden of his duty, though it bend him double ; who loves and
cares for his people as a father does for his children, and who is
almost incessantly occupied in their welfare, very seldom for his
own.

Such a man puts himself in front of dangers and difficulties in
order that he may be a shield to others ; for he is not a merce-
nary, taking care of none but himself when he sees the wolf
coming ; he is the right good shepherd, staking his own life in
that of his flock, and knowing the faces of every one of them,
just as they do his own.

Such princes, in times of old, were Saturn, Hercules, Jupiter,
and others — men who reigned gently, yet firmly, equal to all
chances that came, and worthy of the divine honours that awaited
them. For mankind could not believe that they quitted the world

* This daring and grand apologue is not in the Purioso, but in a poem which
Ariosto loft unlinished, and which goes under the name of the Five Cantos.
The fragment, though bearing marks of want of correction, is in some re-
spects a beautiful, and altogether a curious one, especially as it seems to have
been written after the Furioso ; for it touclies in a remarkable manner on sev-
eral points of morals and politics, and contains on extravagance wilder than
any tiling iii Puici, — a whale inhabited by knights ! It was most hkcly for
these reasons that his friend Bembo and others advised him to suppress it.
Was it written in his youth 1 The apologue itself is not one of the least
daring attacks on the Borgias and such scoundrels, who had just then afflicted
Italy.

Did Ariosto, by the way, omit jVIacchiavelli in his list of the friends who
hailed the close of his great poem, from not knowing what to make of his book
entitled the Prince ? It has perplexed all the world to this day, and is not un-
likely to have made a particularly unpleasant impression on a mind at once so
candid and humane as Ariosto's.

394 SUSPICION.

in the same way as other men. They thought they must be
taken up into heaven to be the lords of demigods.

When the prince is good, the subjects are good, for they always
imitate their masters ; or at least, if the subjects cannot attain to
this height of virtue, they at least are not as bad as they would
be otherwise ; and, at all events, public decency is observed.
Oh, blessed kingdoms that are governed by such hearts ! and oh,
most miserable ones that are at the mercy of a man without jus-
tice, a fellow-creature without feelings !

Our Italy is full of such, who will have their reward from the
pens of posterity. Greater wretches never appeared in the shapes
of Neros and Caligulas, or any other such monsters, let them
have been who they might. I enter not into particulars ; for it
is always better to speak of the dead than the living ; but I must
say, that Agrigentum never fared worse under Phalaris, nor
Syracuse under Dionysius, nor Thebes in the hand of the bloody
tyrant Eteocles, even though all those wretches were villains by
whose orders every day, without fault, without even charge, men
were sent by dozens to the scaffold or into hopeless exile.

But they are not without torments of their own. At the core
of their own hearts there stands an inflicter of no less agonies.
There he stands every day and every moment — one who was
born of the same mother with Wrath, and Cruelty, and Rapine,
and who never ceased tormenting his infant brethren before they
saw the light. His name is Suspicion.*

Yes, Suspicion ; — the crudest visitation, the worst evil spirit
and pest that ever haunted with its poisonous whisper the mind of
human being. This is their tormentor by excellence. He does
not trouble the poor and lowly. He agonises the brain in the
proud heads of those whom fortune has put over the heads of their
fellow-creatures. Well may the man hug himself on his free-
dom who fears nobody because nobody hates him. Tyrants are

♦ A tremendous fancy this last !

" Sta lor la pena, de la qual dicea

Che nacque quando la brutt' Ira nacque,

La Crudeltade, e la Rapina rea ;
E quantunque in un ventre con lor giacque,

Di tormentarle raai non rinianea."

SUSPICION. 395

in perpetual tear. They never cease thinking of the mortal re-
venge taken upon tormentors of their species openly or in secret.
The fear wliich all men feel of the one single wretch, makes tiie
single wretch afraid of every soul among them.

Hear a story of one of these miserables, which, wliatever you
may think of it, is true to the letter ; such letter, at all events, as
is written upon the hearts of his race. He was one of the first
who took to the custom of wearing beards ; for, great as he was,
he had a fear of the race of barbers ! He built a tower in his
palace, guarded by deep ditches and thick walls. It had but one
drawbridge and one bay-window. There was no other opening ;
so that the very light of day had scarcely -admittance, or the in-
mates a place to breathe at. In this tower he slept ; and it was
his wife's business to put a ladder down for him when he came
in. A dog kept watch at the drawbridge ; and except the dog
and the wife, not a soul was to be discerned about the place.
Yet he had such little trust in her, that he always sent spies to
look about the room before he withdrew for the night.

Of what use was it all ? The woman herself killed him with
his own sword, and his soul went straight to hell.

Rhadamanthus, the judge there, thrust him under the boiling
lake, but was astonished to find that he betrayed no symptoms of
anguish. He did not weep and howl as the rest did, or cry out,
" I burn, I burn !" He evinced so little suffering, that Rhada-
manthus said, " I must put this fellow into other quarters." Ac-
cordingly, he sent him into the lowest pit, where the torments are
bevond all others.

Nevertheless, even here he seemed to be under no distress.
At length they asked him the reason. The wretch then candidly
acknowledged, that hell itself had no torments for him, compared
with those which suspicion had given him on earth.

The safjcs of hell laid their heads together at this news.
Amelioration of his lot on the part of a sinner was not to be
thought of in a place of eternal punishment ; so they called a
parliament together, the result of which was an unanimous con-
clusion, that the man should be sent back to earth, and consigned
to the torments of suspicion for ever.

He went ; and the earthly fiend re-entered his being anew with

396 SUSPICION.

a subtlety so incorporate, that their two natures were identified,
and he became Suspicion itself. Fruits are thus engrafted on
wild stocks. One colour thus becomes the parent of many,
when the painter takes a portion of this and of that from his
palette in order to imitate flesh.

The new being took up his abode on a rock by the sea-shore, a
thousand feet high, girt all about with mouldering crags, which
threatened every instant to fall. It had a fortress on the top, the
approach to which was by seven drawbridges, and seven gates,
each locked up more strongly than the other ; and here, now this
moment, constantly thinking Death is upon him. Suspicion lives
in everlasting terror. He is alone. He is ever watching. He
cries out from the battlements, to see that the guards are awake
below, and never does he sleep day or night. He wears mail
upon mail, and mail again, and feels the less safe the more he puts
oh ; and is always altering and strengthening everything on gate,
and on barricade, and on ditch, and on wall. And do whatever
he will, he never seems to have done enough.

Great poet, and good man, Ariosto ! your terrors are better than Dante's ; for
they warn, as far as warning can do good, and they neither afflict humanity
nor degrade God.

Spenser has imitated this subUme piece of pleasantry ; for, by a curious inter-
mixture of all which the mind can experience from such a fiction, pleasant it is
in the midst of its sublimity, — laughable with satirical archness, as well as grand
and terrible in the climax. The transformation in Spenser is from a jealous
man mto Jealousy. His wife has gone to live with the Satyrs, and a villain
has stolen his money. The husband, in order to persuade his wife to return,
steals into the horde of the Satyrs, by mixing with their flock of goats, — as
Norandino does in a passage imitated from Homer by Ariosto. The wife flatly
refuses to do any such thing, and the poor wretck is obliged to steal out again.

" So soon as he the prison-door did pass.
He ran as fast as both his feet could bear,
And never looked who behind him was,
Nor scarcely who before. Like as a bear
That creeping close among the hives, to rear
An honeycomb, the wakeful dogs espy,
And him assailing, sore his carcass tear,
" That hardly he away with life does fly,

Nor stays till safe himself he see from jeopardy.

SUSPICION. 397

Nor stay'd he till he came unto the place
Where late his treasure he entombed had ;
Where, when he found it not (for Troinpart hase
Had it purloined for his master bad),
With extreme fury he became quite mad,
And ran away — ran with himself away ;
That who so strangely had him seen bestad,
With upstart hair and staring eyes' dismay,
From Limbo-lake him late escaped sure would say.

High over hills and over dales he fled,
As if the wind him on his wings had borne ;
Nor bank nor bush could stay him, when he sped
His nimble feet, as treading still on thorn ;
Grief and Despite, and Jealousy, and Scorn,
Did all the way him follow hard behind ;
And he himself himself loath'd so forlorn,
So shamefully forlorn of womankind.
That, as a snake, still lurkfed in liis wounded mind.

Still fled he forward, looking backward still ;
Nor stay'd his flight nor fearful agony
Till that he came unto a rocky hill
Over the sea suspended dreadfully,
That living creature it would terrify
To look a-down, or upward to the height :
From thence he threw himself dispiteously,
All desperate of his fore-damnfed spright,
That seem'd no help for him was lefl in living sight.

But through long anoruish and self-murd'ring thought,
He was so wasted and forpinfed quite,
That all his substance was consumed to nought.
And nothing left but like an airy sprite ;
That on the rocks he fell so flit and light.
That he thereby received no hurt at all ;
But chancfed on a craggy clitT to light ;
Whence he with crooked claws so long did crawl,
That at the last he found a cave with entrance small.

Into the same he creeps, and thenceforth there
Resolved to build. his baleful mansion.
In dreary darkness, and continual fear
Of that rock's fall, which ever and anon
Threats with huge ruin hiiu to f.dl upon,
That he dare never sleep, but that one eye
Still ope he keeps for that occasion j

398 SUSPICION.

Nor ever rests he in tranquillity,
The roaring billows beat his bower so boisterously.

Nor ever is he wont on aught to feed
But toads and frogs, his pasture poisonous,
Which in his cold complexion do breed
A filthy blood, or humour rancorous,
Matter of doubt and dread suspicious,
That doth with cureless care consume the heart,
Corrupts the stomach with gall vicious,
Cross-cuts the liver with internal smart,
And doth transfix the soul with death's eternal dart.

Yet can he never die, but dying lives,
And doth himself with sorrow new sustain.
That death and life at once unto him gives,
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain ;
There dwells he ever, miserable swain.
Hateful both to himself and every wight ;
Where he, through privy grief and horror vain,
Is waxen so deformed, that he has quite
Forgot he was a man, and Jealousy is hight."

Spenser's picture is more subtly wrought and imaginative than Ariosto's;
but it removes the man farther from ourselves, except under very special circum-
stances. Indeed, it might be taken rather for a picture of hypochondria than
jealousy, and under that aspect is very appalling. But nothing, under more
obvious circumstances, comes so dreadfully home to us as Ariosto's poor wretch
feeling himself " the less safe the more he puts on," and calling out dismally
from his tower, a thousand feet high, to the watchers and warders below to see
that all is secure.

ISABELLA.

ISABELLA.*

RoDOMONT, King of Algiers, was the fiercest of all the enemies
of Christendom, not out of love for iiis own fiiith (for he had no
piety), but out of hatred to those that opposed him. He had now
quarrelled, however, with his friends too. He had been rejected
by a lady, in favour of the Tartar king, Mandricardo, and mor-
tified by the publicity of the rejection before his own lord para-
mount, Agraniante, the leader of the infidel armies. He could
not bear the rejection ; he could not bear tlie sanction of it by
his liege lord ; he resolved to quit the scene of warfare and re-
turn to Africa ; and, in the course of his journey thither, he had
come into the south of France, where, observing a sequestered
spot that suited his humour, he changed his mind as to going
home, and persuaded himself he could live in it for the rest of his
life. He accordingly took up his abode with his attendants in a
chapel, which had been deserted by its clergy during the rage
of war.

This vehement personage was standing one morning at the
door of the chapel in a state of unusual thoughtfulness, when he
beheld coming towards him, through a path in the green meadow
before it, a lady of a lovely aspect, accompanied by a bearded
monk. They were followed by something covered with black,
which they were bringing along on a great horse.

Alas ! the lady was the widow of Zerbino, the Scottish prmce,

* The ingenious martyrdom in lliis story, wliich has been told by other wri-
ters of fiction, is taken from an alleged fact related in Barbaro's treatise De He
Uxoria. It is said, indeed, to have been actually resorted to more than once ;
and possibly may have been so, even from a knowledge of it ; for what is more
natural with heroical minds than that the like outrages should produce the like
virtues ? But the colouring of Ariosto's narration is peculiarly his own ; and
his apostrophe at the close beautiful.

402 ISABELLA.

who spared the life of Medoro, and who now himself lay dead
under that pall. He had expired in her arms from wounds in-
flicted during a combat with Mandricardo ; and she had been
thrown by the loss into such anguish of mind that she would
have died on his sword but for the intervention of the hermit now
with her, who persuaded her to devote the rest of her days to
God in a nunnery. She had now come into Provence with the
good man for that purpose, and to bury the corpse of her husband
in the chapel which they were approaching.

Though the lady seemed lost in grief, and was very pale, and
had her hair all about the ears, and though she did nothing but
weep and lament, and looked in all respects quite borne down
with her misery, nevertheless she was still so beautiful that love
and grace appeared to be indestructible in her aspect. The mo-
ment the Saracen beheld her, he dismissed from his mind all the
determinations he had made to hate and detest

The gentle bevy, that adorns the world.

He was bent solely on obtaining the new angel before him. She
seemed precisely the sort of person to make him forget the one
that had rejected him. Advancing, therefore, to meet her with-
out delay, he begged, in as gentle a manner as he could assume,
to know the cause of her sorrow.

The lady, with all the candour of wretchedness, explained
who she was, and how precious a burden she was conveying to
its last home, and the resolution she had taken to withdraw from
a vain world into the service of God. The proud pagan, who
had no belief in a God, much less any respect for restraints or
fidelities of what kind soever, forgot his assumed gravity when
he heard this determination, and laughed outright at the simplicity
of such a proceeding. He pronounced it, in his peremptory way,
to be foolish and frivolous ; compared it with the miser who, in
burying a treasure, does good neither to himself nor any one
else : and said that lions and serpents might indeed be shut up
in cages, but not things lovely and innocent.

The monk, overhearing these observations, thought it his duty
to interfere. He calmly opposed all which the other asserted,

ISABELLA, 4o:j

and then proceeded to set forth a repast of spiritual consolation
not at all to the Saracen's taste. The fierce warrior interrupted
the preacher several times ; told him that he had notiiin«r to do
"svith the lady, and that the sooner he returned to his cell the bet-
ter ; but the hermit, nothing daunted, went on with his advice
till his antagonist lost all .patience. He laid hands on his sacred
person ; seized him by the beard ; tore away as much of it as he
grasped ; and at length worked himself up into such a pitch of
fury, that he griped the good man's throat with all the force of a
pair of pincers, and, swinging him twice or thrice round, as one
might a doij, flung him olf the headland into the sea.

What became of the poor creature I cannot say. Reports arc
various. Some tell us that he was found on the rocks, dashed all
to pieces, so that you could not distinguish foot from head ; others,
that he fell into the sea at the distance of three miles, and perish-
ed in consequence of not knowing how to swim, in spite of the
prayers and tears that he addressed to Heaven ; others again af-
firm, that a saint came and assisted him, and drew him to shore
before people's eyes. I must leave the reader to adopt which of
these accounts he looks upon as the most probable.

The Pagan, as soon as he had thus disposed of the garrulous
hermit, turned towards Isabella (for that was the lady's name),
and with a face somewhat less disturbed, began to talk to her in
the common language of gallantry, protesting that she was his
life and soul, and that he should not know what to do without
her ; for the sweetness of her appearance mollified even him ;
and indeed, with all his violence, he would rather have possessed
her by fair means than by foul. He therefore flattered himself
that, by a little hypocritical attention, he should dispose her to
return his inclinations.

On the other hand, the poor disconsolate creature, who, in a coun-
try unknown to her, and a place so remote from help, felt like a
mouse in the cat's claws, began casting in her mind by what possi-
ble contrivance she could escape from such a wretch with honour.
She had made up her mind to perish by her own hand, rather than
be faithless, however unwillingly, to the dear husband that had
died in her arms : but the question was, how she could protect her-
self from the pagan's violence, before she had secured the means

PART in. 3

404 ISABELLA.

of so doing ; for his manner was becoming very impatient, am
his speeches every moment less and less civil.

At length an expedient occurred to her. She told him, that ii
he would promise to respect her virtue, she would put him ii
possession of a secret that would redound far more to his honou
and glory, than any wrong which he could inflict on the innocent
She conjured him not to throw away the satisfaction he wouh
experience all the rest of his life from the consciousness of havinc
done right, for the sake of injuring one unliappy creature. " Ther(
were thousands of her sex," she observed, " with cheerful as wel
as beautiful faces, who might rejoice in his aiFection ; whereas
the secret she spoke of was known to scarcely a soul on eartl
but herself."

She then told him the secret ; which consisted in the prepara.
tion of a certain herb boiled with ivy and rue over a fire of cypress-
wood, and squeezed into a cup by hands that had never dont
haian. The juice thus obtained, if applied fresh every month
had the virtue of rendering bodies invulnerable. Isabella saic
she had seen the herb in the neighbourhood, as she came along
and that she would not only make the preparation forthwith, bu^
let its effects be proved on her own person. She only stipulated
that the receiver of the gift should swear not to offend her puritj
in deed or word.

The fierce infidel took the oath immediately. It delighted hiii
to think that he should be enabled to have his fill of war anc
slaughter for nothing ; and the oath was the more easy to him,
inasmuch as he had no intention of keeping it.

The poor Isabella went into the fields to look for her miracu-
lous herb, still, however, attended by the Saracen, who woulc
not let her go out of his sight. She soon found it ; and thee
going with him into his house, passed the rest of the day and the
whole night in preparing the mixture with busy solemnity, — Ro-
domont always remaining with her.

The room became so hot and close with the fire of cypress-
wood, that the Saracen, contrary to his lav/ and indeed to his habits,
indulged himself in drinking ; and the consequence was, that, as
soon as it was morning, Isabella lost no time in proving to him
the success of her operations. " Now," she said, " you shall be

ISABELLA. 405

convinced liow mncli in earnest I have been. You shall see all
the virtue of this blessed preparation. I have only to bathe my-
self thus, over the head and neck, and if you then strike nie with
all your force, as though you intended to cut otFmy head, — which
you must do in good earnest, — you will see tiic wonderful re-
sult."

With a glad and rejoicing countenance the paragon of virtue
held forth her neck to the sword ; and the bestial pagim, giving
way to his natural violence, and heated perhaps beyond all
thought of a suspicion with his wine, dealt it so fierce a blow, that
the head leaped from the shoulders.

Thrice it bounded on the ground where it fell, and a clear
voice was heard to come out of it, calling the name of " Zerbino,"
doubtless in joy of the rare way which its owner had found of
escaping from the Saracen.

O blessed soul, that heldest thy virtue and thy fidelity dearer
to thee than life and youth ! go in peace, thou soul blessed and
beautiful. If any words of mine could have force in them suffi-
cient to endure so long, hard would I labour to give them all the
worthiness that art can bestow, so that the world might rejoice in
tliy name for thousands and thousands of years. Go in peace,
and take thy seat in the skies, and be an example to womankind
of faith beyond all weakness.

TASSO:

Critical Notice of l)is £ife anb (Scnitxs.

CRITICAL NOTICE

TASSO'S LIFE AND GENIUS.*

The romantic poetry of Italy having risen to its highest and
apparently its most lawless pitch in the Orlando Furioso, a re-
action took place in the next age in the Jerusalem Delivered. It
did not hurt, however, the popularity of Ariosto. It only in-
creased the number of poetic readers ; and under the auspices,

* My authorities for this notice are, Black's Life of Tasso (2 vols. 4to, 1810),
his original, Serassi, Vita di Tarquato Tasso (do. 1790), and the works of the
poet in the Pisan edition of Professor Rosini (33 vols. 8vo, 1832). I have been
indebted to nothing in Black which I have not ascertained by reference to the
Italian biographer, and quoted notliing stated by Tasso himself but from the
works. Black's Life, which is a free version of Serassi's, modified by the
translator's own opinions and criticism, is elegant, industrious, and interesting.
Serassi's was the first copious biography of the poet founded on original docu-
ments ; and it deserved to be translated by Mr. Black, though servile to the
house of Este, and, as might be expected, far from being always ingenuous.
Among other instances of tliis v^Titer's want of candour is the fact of his having
been the discoverer and suppresser of the manuscript review of Tasso by Gali-
leo. The best sxmimary account of the poet's life and writings which I have
met with is Gingu^ne's, in the fifth volume of his Histoirc Ldtteraire, &c. It
is written with liis usual grace, vivacity, and acuteness, and contains a good
notice of the Tasso controversy. As to the Pisan edition of the works, it is
the completest, I believe, in point of contents ever pubhshed, comprises all the
controversial criticism, and is, of course, very useful ; but it contains no life
except Manso's (now known to be very inconclusive), has got a heap of feeble
variorum comments on the Jerusalem, no notes worth speaking of to the rest
of the works, and notwithstanding the claim in the title-page to the merit of a
" better order," has left the correspondence in a deplorable state of irregularity,
as well as totally without elucidation. The learned Professor is an agreeable wri-
ter, and, I believe, a very pleasant man, but he certainly is a provoking editor.

410

TASSO.

or rather the control, of a Luther-fearing Church, produced, if not
as classical a work as it claimed to be, or one, in the true sense
of the word, as catholic as its predecessor, yet certainly a far
more Roman Catholic, and at the same time very delightful fic-
tion. The circle of fabulous narrative was thus completed, and
a link formed, though in a very gentle and qualified manner, both
with Dante's theocracy and the obvious regularity of the Mneid^
the oldest romance of Italy.

The author of this epic of the Crusades was of a family so no-
ble and so widely diifusedy that, under the patronage of the em-
perors and the Italian princes, it flourished in a very remarkable
manner, not only in its own country, but in Flanders, Germany^
and Spain. There was a Tasso once in England, ambassador of
Philip the Second ; another, like Cervantes, distinguished himself
at the battle of Lepanto ; and a third gave rise to the sovereign
German house of Tour and Taxis. Taxus is the Latin of Tasso«
The Latin word, like the Italian, means both a badger and a>
yew-tree ; and the family in general appear to have taken it in
the former sense. The animal is in their coat of arms. But the
poet, or his immediate relatives, preferred being more romantical-
ly shadowed forth by the yew-tree. The parent stock of the race
was at Bergamo in Lombardy ; and here was born the father of
Tasso, himself a poet of celebrity, though his fame has been
eclipsed by that of his son.

Bernardo Tasso, author of many elegant lyrics, of some vol-
umes of letters, not uninteresting but too florid, and of the Ama-
digi, an epic romance now little read, was a man of small prop-
erty, very honest and good-hearted, but restless, ambitious, and
with a turn for expense beyond his means. He attached himself
to various princes, with little ultimate advantage, particularly ta
the unfortunate Sanseverino, Prince of Salerno, whom he faith-
fully served for many years. The prince had a high sense of
his worth, and would probably have settled him in the wealth
and honours he was qualified to adorn, but for those Spanish op-
pressions in the history of Naples which ended in the ruin of both
master and servant. Bernardo, however, had one happy interval
of prosperity ; and during this, at the age of forty-six, he married
Porzia di Rossi, a young lady of a rich and noble family, with a

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 411

claim to a handsome dowry. He spent some delightful years
with her at Sorrento, a spot so charming as to have been con-
sidered the habitation of the Sirens ; and here, in the midst of liis
orange-trees, his verses, and the breezes of an aromatic coast, he
had three children, the eldest of whom was a daughter named
Cornelia, and the youngest the autliorof the Jerusalem Delivered .
The other child died young. The house distinguished by tlie
poet's birth was restored from a dilapidated condition by order of
Joseph Bonaparte when King of Naples, and is now an hotel.

Torquato Tasso was born March the 11th, 1544, nine years
after the death of Ariosto, who was intimate with his father. He
was very devoutly brought up ; and grew so tall, and became so
premature a scholar, that at nine, he tells us, he miglit have been
taken for a boy of twelve. At eleven, in consequence of the
misfortunes of his father, who had been exiled with the Prince of
Salerno, he was forced to part from his mother, who remained at
home to look after a dowry which she never received. Her
brothers deprived her of it ] and in two years' time she died,
Bernardo thought by poison. Twenty-four years afterwards her
illustrious son, in the midst of his own misfortunes, remembered
with sighs the tears with which the kisses of his poor mother
were bathed when she was forced to let him go.*

* In the beautiful fragment beginning, O del grancV Apennino :

" Me dal sen della madre empia fortuna
Pargoletto divelse. Ah ! di que' baci,
Ch' clla bagnO di lagrime dolcnti,
Con sospir mi rimembra, e degli ardenti
Prcghi, che sen portar 1' aure fugaci,
Ch' io giunger non dovea piii volto a volto
Fra quelle braccia accolto
Con nodi cosl stretti e si tcnaci.
Lasso ! e seguii con mal sicure piante,
Q.ual Ascanio, o Camilla, il padre errante."

Me from my mother's bosom my hard lot
Took when a child. Ahis ! though all these years
I have been used to sorrow,
I sigh to think upon the floods of tears
Which bathed her kisses on that doleful morrow :
I sigh to think of all the prayers and cries
She wasted, straining me with lifted eyes;

412 TAS SO.

The little Torquato following, as he says, like another Ascanius,
the footsteps of his wandering father, joined Bernardo in Rome.
After two years' study in that city, partly under an old priest
who lived with them, the vicissitudes of the father's lot took away
the son first to Bergamo, among his relations, and then to Pesaro,
in the duchy of Urbino, where his education was associated for
nearly two years with that of the young prince, afterwards Duke
Francesco Maria the Second (della Rovere), who retained a re-
gard for him through life. In 1559 the boy joined his father in
Venice, where the latter had been appointed secretary to the
Academy 5 but next year he was withdrawn from these pleasing va-
rieties of scene by the parental delusion so common in the history
of men of letters — the study of the law ; which Bernardo intended
him to pursue henceforth in the city of Padua. He accordingly
arrived in Padua at the age of sixteen and a half, and fulfilled his
legal destiny by writing the poem of Rinaldo, which was publish-
ed in the course of less than two years at Venice. The goodna-
tured and poetic father, convinced by this specimen of jurispru-
dence how useless it was to thwart the hereditary passion, per-
mitted him to devote himself wholly to literature, which he there-
fore went to study in the university of Bologna ; and there, at the
early age of nineteen, he began his Jerusalem Delivered ; that is
to say, he planned it, and wrote three cantos, several of the stan-
zas of which he retained when the poem was matured. He quit-
ted Bologna, however, in a fit of indignation at being accused of
the authorship of a satire ; and after visiting some friends at Cas-
telvetro and Correggio, returned to Padua on the invitation of his
friend Scipio Gonzaga, afterwards cardinal, who wished him to
become a member of an academy he had instituted, called the
Eterei (Ethe reals). Here he studied his favourite philosopher,
Plato, and composed three Discourses on Heroic Poetry, dedica-
ted to his friend. He now paid a visit to his father in Mantua,

For never more on one another's face

Was it our lot to gaze and to embrace !

Her little stumbling boy,

Like to the child of Troy,

Or hke to one doomed to no haven rather.

Followed the footsteps of his wandering father.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 113

whore tlie unsettled man had become secretary to the duke ; and
here, it is said, he fell in love with a young lady of a dislint^uish-
ed family, whose name was Laura Peperara ; hut this did not
hinder him from returning to his Paduan studios, in whicii he
spent nearly the whole of the following year. He was tiien in-
formed that the Cardinal of Este, to whom he had dedicated his
Rf/ia/do, and with whom interest had been made for the i)urposc,
had appointed him one of his attendants, and that he was expected
at Ferrara by the 1st of December. Returning to Mantua, in
order to prepare for this appointment with his father, he was seiz-
ed with a dangerous illness, which detained him there nearly a
twelvemonth longer. On his recovery he hastened to Ferrara,
and arrived in that city on the last day of October, 1565, the first
of many years of glory and misery.

The cardinal of Este was the brother of the reigning Duke of
Ferrara, Alfonso the Second, grandson of the Alfonso of Ariosto.
It is curious to see the two most celebrated romantic poets of Italy
thrown into unfortunate connexion with two princes of the same
house and the same respective ranks. Tasso's cardinal, however,
though the poet lost his favour, and though very little is known
about him, left no such bad reputation behind him as Ippolito. It
was in the service of the duke that the poet experienced his suf-
ferings.

This prince, who was haughty, ostentatious, and quarrelsome,
was, at the time of the stranger's arrival, rehearsing the shows
and tournaments intended to welcome his bride, the sister of the
Emperor Maximilian the Second. She was his second wife.
The first was a daughter of the rival house of Tuscany, which he
detested ; and the marriage had not been happy. The new con-
sort arrived in the course of a few weeks, entering the city in great
pomp ; and for a time all went hapi)ily with the young poet. Me
was in a state of ecstasy with the beauty and grandeur he beheld
around him — obtained the flivourable notice of the duke's two sis-
ters and the duke himself — went on with his Jerusalem Delivered,
which, in spite of the presence of Ariosto's memory, he was resolv-
ed to load with praises of the house of Este ; and in this tumult of
pride and expectation, he beheld the duke, like one of the heroes
of his poem, set out to assist the emperor against the Turks at the

414 TASSO,

head of three hundred gentlemen, armed at all points, and mantled
in various-coloured velvets embroidered with gold.

To complete the young poet's happiness, or commence his dis-
appointments, he fell in love, notwithstanding the goddess he had
left in Mantua, with the beautiful Luerezia Bendidio, who does
not seem, however, to have loved in return ; for she became the
wife of a Macchiavelli. Among his rivals was Guarini, who
afterwards emulated him in pastoral poetry, and who accused him
on this occasion of courting two ladies at once.

Guarini's accusation has been supposed to refer to the duke's
sister Leonora, whose name has become so romantically mixed up
with the poet's biography ; but the latest inquiries render it prob-
able that the allusion was to Laura Peperara.* The young poet,
however, who had not escaped the influence of the free manners
of Italy, and whose senses and vanity may hitherto have been
more interested than his heart, rhymed and flattered on all sides
of him, not of course omitting the charms of princesses. In
order to win the admiration of the ladies in a body, he sustained
for three days, in public, after the fashion of the times. Fifty Am,'
oroiis Conclusions ; that is to say, affirmations on the subject of
love ; doubtless to the equal delight of his fair auditors and him-
self, and the creation of a good deal of jealousy and ill-will on
the part of such persons of his own sex as had not wit or spirits
enough for the display of so much logic and love-making.

In 1569, the death of his father, who had been made governor
of Ostiglia by the Duke of Mantua, cost the loving son a fit of
illness ; but the continuation of his Jerusalem, an Oration spoken
at the opening of the Ferrarese academy, the marriage of Leo-
nora's sister Luerezia with the Prince of Urbino, and the society
of Leonora herself, who led the retired life of a person in delicate
health, and was fond of the company of men of letters, helped to
divert him from melancholy recollections ; and a journey to
France, at the close of the year following, took him into scenes
that were not only totally new, but otherwise highly interesting
to the singer of Godfrey of Boulogne. The occasion of it was a
visit of the cardinal, his master, to the court of his relative

* Rosini, Saggw sugli Amori di Torquato Tasso, &c., in the Professor's edi-
tion of his works7 vol. xxxiii.

HIS LIFE AJNfD GENIUS. 4i5

Charles the Ninth. It is supposed that his Hminonce went to
confer witli the king on matters relative to the disputes which not
long afterwards occasioned the detestable massacre of St. Bar-
tholomew.

/ Before his departure, Tasso put into the hands of one of his
/ friends a document, which, as it is very curious, and serves to
illustrate perhaps more than one cause of his misfortunes, is here
given entire.

Memorial left hy Tasso on his departure to France.

" Since life is frail, and it may please Almighty God to dispose
of me otherwise in this my journey to France, it is requested of
Signor Ercole Rondinelli that he will, in that case, undertake the
manacjement of the following concerns :

" In the first place, with regard to my compositions, it is my*
wish that all my love-sonnets and madrigals should be collected
and published ; but with regard to those, whether amatory or
otherwise, tvhich I have written for any friend, my request is, that
they should be buried with myself save only the one commencing
" Or che V aura mia dolce altrove spira." I wish the publication
of the Oration spoken in Ferrara at the opening of the academy,
of the four books on Heroic Poetry, of the six last cantos of the
Godfrey (the Jerusalem), and of those stanzas of the two first
which shall seem least imperfect. All these compositions, how-
ever, are to be submitted to the review and consideration of
Signor Scipio Gonzaga, of Signor Domenico Veniero, and of
Signor Battista Guarini, who, I persuade myself, will not refuse
this trouble, when they consider the zealous friendship I have
entertained for themselves.

" Let them be informed, too, that it was my intention that they
should cut and hew without mercy whatever should appear to
them defective or superfluous. With regard to additions or
changes, I should wish them to proceed more cautiously, since,
after all, the poem would remain imperfect. As to my other
compositions, should there be any which, to the aforesaid Signor
Rondinelli and the other gentlemen, might seem not unworthy of
publication, let them be disposed of according to their pleasure.

416 TASSO.

" In respect to my property, I wish that such part of it as 1

have pledged to Ahram for twenty-five lire, and seven

pieces of arras, which are likewise in pledge to Signor Ascanio
for thirteen sciidi, together with whatever I have in this house,
should be sold, and that the overplus of the proceeds should go to
defray the expense of the following epitaph to be inscribed on a
monument to my father, whose body is in St. Polo. And should
any impediment take place in these matters, I entreat Signor Er-
cole to have recourse to the favour of the most excellent Madame
Leonora, whose liherality I confide in, for my sake.

" I, Torquato Tasso, have written this, Ferrara, 1570."

I shall have occasion to recur to this document by and by. I will
merely observe, for the present, that the marks in it, both of impru-
dence in money-matters and confidence in the goodwill of a prin-
cess, are very striking. " Abram" and " Signor Ascanio" were
both Jews. The pieces of arras belonged to his father ; and
probably this was an additional reason why the affectionate son
wished the proceeds to defray the expense of the epitaph. The
epitaph recorded his father's poetry, state-services, and vicissitudes
of fortune. ^

Tasso was introduced to the French king as the poet of a French
hero and of a Catholic victory ; and his reception was so favourable
(particularly as the wretched Charles, the victim of his mother's
bigotry, had himself no mean poetic feeling), that, with a rash mix-
ture of simplicity and self-reliance (respect makes me unwilling to
call it self-importance), the poet expressed an impolitic amount of
astonishment at the favour shown at court to the Hufi-onots — little
suspecting the horrible design it covered. He shortly afterwards
broke with his master the cardinal ', and it is supposed that this
unseasonable escape of zeal was the cause. He himself appears
to have thought so.* Perhaps the cardinal only wanted to get the
imprudent poet back to Italy ; for, on Tasso's return to Ferrara,
he was not only received into the service of the duke with a
salary of some fifteen golden scudi a-month, but told that he
was exempted from any particular duty, and might attend in

* Lettere Inedite, p. 33, in the Opere, vol. xvii.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 117

peace to his studies. Balzac alVirms, that while Tasso was at
the court of France, he was so poor as to bog a crown from a
friend ; and that, when he left it, he had the same coat on his
back that he came in.* The assertions of a professed wit and
hypcrbolist are not to be taken for granted ; yet it is difhcult to
say to what shifts improvidence may not be reduced.

The singer of the house of Este would now, it might have been
supposed, be happy. He had leisure ; he had money ; he had
the worldly honours that he was fond of; he occupied himself in
perfecting the Jerusalem ; and he wrote his beautiful pastoral,
the A?nhita, which was performed before the duke and his court
to the delight of the brilliant assembly. The duke's sister Lu-
crezia, princess of Urbino, who was a special friend of the poet,
sent for him to read it to her at Pesaro ; and in tlie course of the
ensuing carnival it was performed with similar applause at the
court of her father-in-law. The poet had been as much enchanted
by the spectacle which the audience at Ferrara presented to his
eves, as the audience with the loves and graces with which he
enriched their stage. The shepherd Thyrsis, by whom he meant
himself, reflected it back upon them in a passage of the perform-
ance. It is worth while dwelling on this passage a little, because
it exhibits a brief interval of happiness in the author's life, and
also shews us what he had already begun to think of courts at
the moment he was praising them. But he ingeniously contrives
to put the praise in his own mouth, and the blame in another's.
The shepherd's friend, Mopsus (by whom Tasso is thought to
have meant Speroni), had warned him against going to court :

" Per6, figlio,
Va su r awiso," &c.

" Therefore, my son, take my advice. Avoid
The places wliere thou seest much drapery,
Colours, and i^old, and plumes, and heraldries,
And such new-fangleinents. But, above all.
Take care how evil chance or youthful wandering
Bring thee upon the house of Idle Babble."
" Whnt place is thatT' said I ; and he resumed ; —
" Enchantresses dwell there, who make one see

* Entretiens, 1663, p. 169, quoted by Serassi, pp. 175, 182.

418

TASSO.

Things as they are not, ay and hear them too.

That which shall seem pure diamond and fine gold

Is glass and brass ; and coffers that look silver,

Heavy with wealth, are baskets full of bladders.*

The very walls there are so strangely made, ^v,

They answer those who talk ; and not in syllables,

Or bits of words, like echo in our woods.

But go the whole talk over, word for word.

With something else besides, that no one said.t

The tressels, tables, bedsteads, curtains, lockers.

Chairs, and whatever furniture there is

In room or bedroom, all have tongues and speech,

And are for ever tattling. Idle Babble

Is always going about, playing the child ;

And should a dumb man enter in that place,

The dumb would babble in his own despite.

And yet tliis evil is the least of all

That might assail thee. Thou might' st be arrested

In fearful transformation to a willow,

A beast, fire, water, — fire for ever sighing,

Water for ever weeping." — Here he ceased :

And I, with all this fine foreknowledge, went

To the great city ; and, by Heaven's kind will,

Came where they live so happily. The first sound

I heard was a delightful harmony,

Which issued forth, of voices loud and sweet ; —

Sirens, and swans, and nymphs, a heavenly noise

Of heavenly things ; — which gave me such deUght,

That, all admiring, and amazed, and joyed,

I stopped awhile quite motionless. There stood

Within the entrance, as if keeping guard

Of those fine things, one of a high-souled aspect,

Stalwart withal, of whom I was in doubt

Whether to think him better knight or leader.t

He, with a look at once benign and grave,

In royal guise, invited me within ;

He, great and in esteem ; me, lorn and lowly.

Oh, the sensations and the sights which then

Shower'd on me. Goddesses I saw, and nymphs

* Suggested by Ariosto's furniture in the Moon.

t This was a trick which he afterwards thought he had reason to complain
of in a style very diiferent from pleasantry.

t Alfonso. The word for " leader" in the original, duce, made the allusion
more obvious. The epithet "royal," in the next sentence, conveyed a welcome
intimation to the ducal ear, the house of Este being very proud of its connexion
■with the sovereigns of Europe, and very desirous of becoming royal itself.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 419

Graceful and beautiful, and harpers fine

As Linus or as Orpheus; and more deities,

All without veil or cloud, briirht as the vir<nn

Aurora, when she glads immortal eyes.

And sows her beams and dew-drops, silver and gold.

Ill the summer of 1574, the Duke of Ferrara went to Venice
to pay his respects to the successor of Charles tlie Nintli, Henry
the Third, then on his way to France from his kingdom of Poland.
Tasso went with the Duke, and is understood to have taken the
opportunity of looking for a printer of his Jerusalem, which was
now almost finished. Writers were anxious to publish in tiiat
crafty city, because its government would give no security of
profit to books printed elsewhere. Alfonso, who was in mourn-
ing for Henry's brother, and to whom mourning itself only sug-
gested a new occasion of pomp and vanity, took with him to this
interview five hundred Ferrarese gentlemen, all dressed in long
black cloaks ; who walking about Venice (says a reporter) " by
twos and threes," wonderfully impressed the inhabitants with
their " gravity and magnificence."* The mourners feasted,
however ; and Tasso had a quartan fever, which delayed the
completion " of the Jerusalem till next year. This was at length
effected ; and now once more, it might have been thought, that
the writer would have reposed on his laurels.

But Tasso had already begun to experience the uneasiness at-
tending superiority ; and, unfortunately, the strength of his mind
was not equal to that of his genius. He was of an ultra-sensitive
temperament, and subject to depressing fits of sickness. He could
not calmly bear envy. Sarcasm exasperated, and hostile criti-
cism afflicted him. The seeds of a suspicious temper were nour-
ished by prosperity itself. The author of the Armida and the
Jerusalem began to think the attentions he received unequal to his
merits ; while with a sort of hysterical mixture of demand for
applause, and provocation of censure, he not only condescended
to read his poems in manuscript wherever he went, but, in order
to secure the goodwill of the papal licenser, he transmitted it for
revisal to Rome, where it was mercilessly criticised for the space
of two years by the bigots and hypocrites of a court, which Lu-

* Serassi, vol. i. p. 210.

420 TASSO.

ther had rendered a very different one from that in the time of
Ariosto.

This new source of chagrin exasperated the eomplexional rest-
lessness which now made our author think that he should be more
easy anywhere than in Ferrara ; perhaps more able to communi-
cate with and convince his critics ; and, unfortunately, he per-
mitted himself to descend to a weakness the most fatal of all oth-
ers to a mind naturally exalted and ingenuous. Perhaps it was
one of the main causes of all which he suffered. Indeed, he him-
self attributed his misfortunes to irresolution. What I mean in
the present instance was, that he did not disdain to adopt un-
derhand measures. He shewed a face of satisfaction with Alfonso,
at the moment that he was taking steps to exchange his court for
another. He wrote for that purpose to his friend Scipio Gonzaga,
now a prelate at the court of Rome, earnestly begging him, at the
same time, not to commit him in their correspondence ; and
Scipio, who was one of his kindest and most indulgent friends, and
who doubtless saw that the Duke of Ferrara and his poet were not
of dispositions to accord, did all he could to procure him an ap-
pointment with one of the family of the Medici.

Most unhappily for this speculation (and perhaps even the
good-natured Gonzaga took a little more pleasure in it on that
account), Alfonso inherited all the detestation of his house for that
lucky race ; and it is remarkable^ that the same jealousies which
hindered Ariosto's advancement with the Medici were still more
fatal to the hopes of Tasso ; for they served to plunge him into the
deepest adversity. In vain he had warnings given him, both
friendly and hostile. The princess, now Duchess of Urbino, who
was his particular friend, strongly cautioned him against the
temptation of going away. She said he was watched. He him-
self thought his letters were opened ; and probably they were.
They certainly were at a subsequent period. Tasso, however,
persisted, and went to Rome. Scipio Gonzaga introduced him to
Cardinal Ferdinand de' Medici, afterwards Grand Duke of Tus-
cany ; and Ferdinand made him offers of protection so handsome,
that they excited his suspicion. The self tormenting poet thought
they savoured more of hatred to the Este family, than honour to

HIS LIFE AXD GENIUS. 421

himself.* He did not accept thein. He did nothinr^ nt Rome but
make friends, in order to perplex tliem ; listen to his critics, in
order to worry himself ; and perform acts of piety in the churches,
by way of shewing that the love-scenes in the Jerusalem were inno-
cent. For tiie bigots had begun to find something very question-
able in mixing up so much love witli war. Tiie bloodshed tliey
had no objection to. The love bearded their prejudices, and ex-
cited their envy.

Tasso returned to Ferrara, and endeavoured to solace himself
with eulogising two fair strangers who had arrived at Alfonso's
court, — Eleonora Sanvitale, who had been newly married to the
Count of Scandiano (a Tiene, not a Boiardo, whose line was ex-
tinct), and Barbara Sanseverino, Countess of Sala, her mother-in-
law. The mother-in-law, who was a Juno-lil^e beauty, wore her
hair in the form of a crown. The still more beautiful daughter-
in-law had an under lip such as Anacreon or Sir John Suckling
would have admired, — pouting and provoking, — -xpoKalovficvov <^>i\nna.
Tasso wrote verses on them both, but particularly to the lip ; and
this Countess of Scandiano is the second, out of the three Leono-
ras, with whom Tasso was said by his friend Manso to have been
in love. The third, it is now ascertained, never existed ; and his
love-making to the new or second Leonora, goes to shew how
little of real passion there was in the praises of the first (the Prin-
cess Leonora), or probably of any lady at court. He even pro-
fessed love, as a forlorn hope, to the countess's waiting-maid.
Yet these gallantries of sonnets are exalted into bewilderments of
the heart.

His restlessness returning, the poet now condescended to craft
a second time. Expecting to meet with a refusal, and so to be
afforded a pretext for quitting Ferrara, he applied for the vacant
office of historiographer. It was granted him ; and he then dis-
gusted the Medici by pleading an unlooked-for engagement,
which he could only reconcile to his applications for their favour
by renouncing his claim to be believed. If he could have de-
ceived others, why might he not have deceived them ?

* " Alia lor magnaniiniti 6 convcnevole il mostrar, ch' amor dcUe virtti, non
odio verso altri, gli abbia gii mossi ad invitanui con invito cosl largo." Opere,
vol. XV. p. 94.

42-3 TASSO.

All the lurking weakness of the poet's temperament began to
display itself at this juncture. His perplexity excited him to a
deo-ree of irritability bordering on delirium ; and circumstances
conspired to increase it. He had lent an acquaintance the key
of his rooms at court, for the purpose (he tells us) of accommo-
dating some intrigue ; and he suspected this person of opening
cabinets containing his papers. Remonstrating with him one day
in the court of the palace, either on that or some other account,
the man gave him the lie. He received in return a blow on the
face, and is said by Tasso to have brought a set of his kinsmen
to assassinate him, all of whom the heroical poet immediately put
to flight. At one time he suspected the Duke of jealousy respect-
ing the dedication of his poem, and at another, of a wish to burn
it. He suspected his servants. He became suspicious of the
truth of his friend Gonzaga. He doubted, even, whether some
praises addressed to him by Orazio Ariosto, the nephew of the
great poet, which, one would have thought, would have been to
him a consummation of bliss, were not intended to mystify and
hurt him. At length he fancied that his persecutors had accused
him of heresy to the Inquisition ; and, as he had gone through
the metaphysical doubts, common with most men of reflection
respecting points of faith and the mysteries of creation, he feared
that some indiscreet words had escaped him, giving colour to the
charge. He thus beheld enemies all around him. He dreaded
stabbing and poison ; and one day, in some paroxysm of rage or
horror, how occasioned it is not known, ran with a knife or dag-
ger at one of the servants of the Duchess of Urbino in her own
chamber. *

Alfonso, upon this, apparently in the mildest and most reason-
able manner, directed that he should be confined to his apartments,
and put into the hands of the physician. These unfortunate
events took place in the summer of 1577, and in the poet's thirty-
third year.

Tasso shewed so much affliction at this treatment, and, at the
same time, bore it so patiently, that the duke took him to his
beautiful country-seat of Belriguardo ; where, in one of his ac-
counts of the matter, the poet says that he treated him as a
brother ; but in another, he accuses him of having taken pains to

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. [vi

make him criminate himself, and confess certain matters, real
supposed, the nature of which is a puzzle witli posterity. Some
are of opinion (and this is the prcvailinnr one), that he was found
guilty of being in love with the Princess Leonora, perhaps of
being loved by herself. Others think the love out of the question,
and that the duke was concerned at nothing but his endeavourinn-
to transfer his services and his poetic reputation into the hands of
the ]\Iedici. Others see in the duke's conduct nothing hut that
of a good master interesting himself in the welfare of an alllicted
servant.

It is certain that Alfonso did all he could to prevent the surrep-
titious printing of the Jerusalem Delivered in various towns of
Italy, the dread of which had much afllicted the poet ; and he
also endeavoured, though in vain, to ease his mind on the subject
of the Inquisition ; for these facts are attested by state-papers and
other documents, not dependent either on the testimony of third
persons or the partial representations of the sufferer. But Tasso
felt so uneasy at Belriguardo, that he requested leave to retire a
while into a convent. He remained there several days, apparent-
ly so much to his satisfaction, that he wrote to the duke to say
that it was his intention to become a friar ; and yet he had no
sooner got into the place, than he addressed a letter to the Inquisi-
tion at Rome, beseeching it to desire permission for him to come
to that city, in order to clear himself from the charges of his
enemies. He also wrote to two other friends, requesting them to
further his petition ; and adding that the duke was enraged with
him in consequence of the anger of the Grand Duke of Tuscany,
who, it is supposed, had accused Tasso of having revealed to
Alfonso some indecent epithet which his highness had applied to
him.* These letters were undoubtedly intercepted, for they were
found among the secret archives of Modena, the only principality

* The application is the conjecture of Black, vol. i. p. 317. Serassi sup-
pressed the whole passage. The indecent word would have been known but
for the delicacy or courtliness of Muratori, who substituted an tl-cctcra in its
place, observing, that he had "covered" with it "an indecent word not fit to bo
printed" ("sotto quell' el-cetera ho io cop<'rta un' indecente parola, che non era
lecito di lasciar correre alle stampe." Opere del Tasso, vol. xvi. p. 114.) By
" covered" he seems to have meant blotted out; for in the latest edition of Taaso
the et-cetera is retained.

TASSO.

ultimately remaining in the Este family ; so that, agreeably to
the saying of listeners hearing no good of themselves, if Alfonso
did not know the epithet before, he learnt it then. The reader
may conceive his feelings. Tasso, too, at the same time, was
plaguing him with letters to similar purpose ; and it is observable,
that while in those which he sent to Rome he speaks of Cosmo de'
Medici as " Grand Duke," he takes care in the others to call him
simply the " Duke of Florence." Alfonso had been exasperated
to the last degree at Cosmo's having had the epithet " Grand"
added by the Pope to his ducal title ; and the reader may imagine
the little allowance that would be made by a haughty and angry
prince for the rebellious courtesy thus shewn to a detested rival.
Tasso, furthermore, who had not only an infantine hatred of bitter
" physic," but i^easonably thought the fashion of the age for giv-
ing it a ridiculous one, begged hard, in a manner which it is hu-
miliating to witness, that he might not be drenched with medicine.
The duke at length, forbade his writing to him any more ; and
Tasso, whose fears of every kind of ill usage had been wound up
to a pitch unbearable, watched an opportunity when he was care-
lessly guarded, and fled at once from the convent and Ferrara.

The unhappy poet selected the loneliest ways he could find,
and directed his course to the kingdom of Naples, where his sis-
ter lived. He was afraid of pursuit ; he probably had little
money ; and considering his ill health and his dread of the In-
quisition, it is pitiable to think what he may have endured while
picking his long way through the back states of the Church and
over the mountains of Abruzzo, as far as the Gulf of Naples.
For better security, he exchanged clothes with a shepherd ; and
as he feared even his sister at first, from doubting whether she
still loved him, his interview with her was in all its circumstan-
ces painfully dramatic. Cornelia Tasso, now a widow, with two
sons, was still residing at Sorrento, where the poet, casting his
eyes around him as he proceeded towards the house, must have
beheld with singular feelings of wretchedness the lovely spots in
which he had been a happy little boy. He did not announce him-
self at once. He brought letters, he said, from the lady's brother ;
and it is affecting to think, that whether his sister might or might
not have retained otherwise any personal recollection of him since

HIS LIFK AND GEMUS.

that time (for he had not seen her in the interval), his dist^'uiso
was coiupleted by the alterations which sorrow had made in his
appearance. For, at all events, she did not know hiiu. She saw
in him nothing but a haggard stranger who was accjuainted with
the writer of the letters, and to whom tiiey referred for |)articu-
lars of the risk which her brother ran, unless she could atlbrd
him her protection. These particulars were given by the stran-
ger with all the pathos of the real man, and the loving sister faint-
ed away. On her recovery, tiie visitor said what he could to re-
assure her, and then by degrees discovered himself. Cornelia
welcomed him in the tenderest manner. She did all tiiat he de-
sired ; and gave out to her friends that the gentleman was a
cousin from Bergamo, who had come to Naples on family af-
fairs.

For a little while the afTection of his sister, and tl)e beauty and
freshness of Sorrento, rendered the mind of Tasso more easy : but
his restlessness returned. He feared he had mortally olfended
the Duke of Ferrara ; and, with his wonted fluctuation of purpose,
he now wished to be restored to his presence for the very reason
he had run away from it. He did not know with what vengeance
he might be pursued. He wrote to the duke ; but received no
answer. The Duchess of Urbino was equally silent. Leonora
alone responded, but with no encouragement. These appearan-
ces only made him the more anxious to dare or to propitiate his
doom ; and he accordingly determined to put himself in the duke's
hands. His sister entreated him in vain to alter his resolution. He
quitted her before the autumn was over ; and, proceeding to Rome,
went directly to the house of the duke's agent there, who, in concert
with theFerrarese ambassador, gave his master advice of the cir-
cumstance. Gonzaga, however, and another good friend, Cardinal
Albano, doubted whether it would be wise in the poet to return
to Ferrara under any circumstances. They counselled him to
be satisfied with being pardoned at a distance, and with having
his papers and other things returned to him ; and the two friends
immediataly wrote to the duke requesting as much. The duke
apparently acquiesced in all that was desired ; but he said that
the illness of his sister, the Duchess of Urbino, delayed the procu-
ration of the papers, which, it seems, were chiefly in her hands.

426 TASSO.

The upshot was, that the papers did not come ; and Tasso, with a
mixture of rage and fear, and perhaps for more reasons than he has
told, became uncontrollably desirous of retracing the rest of his
steps to Ferrara. Love may have been among these reasons —
probably was ; though it does not follow that the passion must have
been for a princess. The poet now, therefore, petitioned to that ef-
fect ; and Alfonso wrote again, and said he might come, but only on
condition of his again undergoing the ducal course of medicine ;
adding, that if he did not, he was to be finally expelled his high-

's
ness's territories.

He was graciously received — too graciously, it would seem, for
his equanimity ; for it gave him such a flow of spirits, that the
duke appears to have thought it necessary to repress them. The
unhappy poet, at this, began to have some of his old suspicions ;
and the unaccountable detention of his papers confirmed them.
He made an effort to keep the suspicions down, but it was by
means, unfortunately, of drowning them in wine and jollity ; and
this gave him such a fit of sickness as had nearly been his death.
He recovered, only to make a fresh stir about his papers, and a
still greater one about his poems in general, which, though his Je-
rusalem was yet only known in manuscript, and not even his Aminta
published, he believed ought to occupy the attention of mankind.
People at Ferrara, therefore, not foreseeing the respect that pos-
terity would entertain for the poet, and having no great desire
perhaps to encourage a man who claimed to be a rival of their
countryman Ariosto, now began to consider their Neapolitan guest
not merely an ingenious and pitiable, but an overweening and
tiresome enthusiast. The court, however, still seemed to be in-
terested in its panegyrist, though Tasso feared that Alfonso meant
to burn his Jerusalem. Alfonso, on the other hand, is supposed
to have feared that he would burn it himself, and the ducal praises
with it. The papers, at all events, apparently including the only
fair copy of the poem, were constantly withheld ; and Tasso, in
a new fit of despair, again quitted Ferrara. This mystery of the
papers is certainly very extraordinary.

The poet's first steps were to Mantua, where he met with no
such reception as encouraged him to stay. He then went to Ur-
bino, but did not stop long. The prince, it is true, was very gra-

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 427

irithDO

cious ; and bandages for a cautery were applied by the fair hands
of his highness's sister ; but, though the nurse enchanted, the
surgery frightened him. The hapless poet found himself pursued
wherever he went by the tormenting beneficence of medicine.
He escaped, and went to Turin. He had no passport ; and pre-
sented, besides, so miserable an appearance, that the people at the
gates roughly refused him admittance. He was well received,
however, at court ; and as he had begun to acknowledge that he
was subject to humours and delusions, and wrote to say as mucli
to Cardinal Albano, who returned him a most excellent and af-
fecting letter, full of the kindest regard and good counsel, his
friends entertained a hope that he would become tranquil. But
he disappointed them. He again applied to Alfonso for permis-
sion to return to Ferrara — again received it, though on worse than
the old conditions — and again found himself in that city in the be-
ginning of the year 1579, delighted at seeing a brilliant assem-
blage from all quarters of Italy on occasion of a new marriage
of the duke's (with a princess of Mantua). He made up his mind
to think that nothing could be denied him, at such a moment, by
the bridegroom whom he meant to honour and glorify.

Alas ! the very circumstance to which he looked for success,
tended to thraw him into the greatest of his calamities. Alfonso
was to be married the day after the poet's arrival. He was
therefore too busy to attend to him. The princesses did not at-
tend to him. Nobody attended to him. He again applied in
vain for his papers. He regretted his return ; became anxious
to be any where else ; thought himself not only neglected but
derided ; and at length became excited to a pitch of frenzy. He
broke forth into the most unmeasured invectives against the duke,
even in public ; invoked curses on his head and that of his whole
race ; retracted all he had ever said in the praise of any of them,
prince or otherwise ; and pronounced him and his whole court
" a parcel of ingrates, rascals, and poltroons."* The outbreak
was reported to the duke ; and the consequence was, that the
poet was sent to the hospital of St. Anne, an establishment for the
reception of the poor and lunatic, where he remained (with the

* Black's version (vol. ii. p. 58) is not strong enough. The words in Serassi
are " una ciurma di poltroni, ingrati, e ribaldi," ii. p. 33.
PART III. 4

428 TASSO.

exception of a few unaccountable leave-days) upwards of seven
years. This melancholy event happened in the March of the
year 1579.

Tasso was stunned by this blow as much as if he had never
done or suffered any thing to expect it. He could at first do
nothing but wonder and bewail himself, and implore to be set free.
The duke answered, that he must be cured first. Tasso replied
by fresh entreaties ; the duke returned the same answers. The
unhappy poet had recourse to every friend, prince, and great man
he could think of, to join his entreaties ; he sought refuge in com-
position, but still entreated ; he occasionally reproached and even
bantered the duke in some of his letters to his friends, all of which,
doubtless, were opened ; but still he entreated, flattered, adored,
all to no purpose, for seven long years and upwards. In time he
became subject to maniacal illusions ; so that if he was not actu-
ally mad before, he was now considered so. He was not only
visited with sights and sounds, such as many people have experi-
enced whose brains have been over-excited, but he fancied him-
self haunted by a sprite, and become the sport of "magicians."
The sprite stole his things, and the magicians would not let him
get well. He had a vision such as Benvenuto Cellini had, of the
Virgin Mary in her glory ; and his nights were so miserable,
that he ate too much in order that he might sleep. When he
was temperate, he lay awake. Sometimes he felt " as if a horse
had thrown himself on him." " Have pity on me," he says to
the friend to whom he gives these affecting accounts ; "1 am
miserable, because the world is unjust."*

The physicians advised him to leave off' wine ; but he says he
could not do that, though he was content to use it in moderation.
In truth he required something to support him against the physi-
cians themselves, for they continued to exhaust his strength by
their medicines, and could not supply the want of it with air and
freedom. He had ringings in the ears, vomits, and fluxes of blood.
It would be ludicrous, if it were not deplorably pathetic, to hear
so great a man, in the commonest medical terms, now protesting
against the eternal drenches of these practitioners, now humbly

♦ Opere, vol. xiv. pp. 158, 174, &c.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 100

submitting to them, and now entrcatinir like a cliild, tluit thoy
might at least not be "so hitter." The physicians, with tiie
duke at their head, were as mad for their rhubarbs and lancets as
the quacks in Moliere ; and notliing but the very imarnnation
that had nearly sacrificed the poet's life to their ignorance could
have hindered him from dashing his head against the wall, and
leaving them to the execrations of posterity. It is the only occa-
sion in which the noble profession of medicine has not appeared
in wise and beneficent connexion with the sufferincs of men of
letters. Why did Ferrara possess no Brocklesby in those days ?
no Garth, Mead, Warren, or Southwood Smith ?

Tasso enabled himself to endure his imprisonment with compo-
sition. He supported it with his poetry and his poem, and what,
alas ! he had been too proud of during his liberty, the praises of
his admirers. His genius brought him gifts from princes, and
some money from the booksellers : it supported him even against
his critics. During his confinement the Jerusalem Delivered was
first published ; though, to his grief, from a surreptitious and mu-
tilated copy. But it was followed by a storm of applause ; and
if this was succeeded by as great a storm of objection and contro-
versy, still the healthier part of his faculties were roused, and he
exasperated his critics and astonished the world by shewing how
coolly and learnedly ine poor, wild, imprisoned genius could dis-
cuss the most intricate questions of poetry and philosophy. The
disputes excited by his poem are generally supposed to have done
him harm ; but the conclusion appears to be ill founded. They
diverted his thoughts, and made him conscious of his powers and
his fame. I doubt whether he would have been better for entire
approbation : it would have put him in a state of elevation, unfit
for what he had to endure. He had found his pen his great sol-
ace, and he had never employed it so well. It would be incredi-
ble what a heap of things he wrote in this complicated torment
of imprisonment, sickness, and '' physic," if habit and mental
activity had not been sufficient to account for much greater won-
ders. His letters to his friends and others would make a good-
sized volume ; those to his critics, another ; sonnets and odes, a
third ; and his Dialogues after the manner of Plato, two more.
Perhaps a good half of all he wrote was written in this hospital

430

TASSO,

or St. Anne ; and he studied as well as confiposed, and had to
read all that was written at the time, pro and con, in the discussions
about his Jerusalem^ which, in the latest edition of his works,
amount to three out of six volumes octavo ! Many of the occa-
sions, however, of his poems, as well as letters, are most painful
to think of, their object having been to exchange praise for money.
And it is distressing, in the letters, to see his other little wants,
and the fluctuations and moods of his mind. Now he is angry
about some book not restored, or some gift promised and delayed.
Now he is in want of some books to be lent him ; now of some
praise to comfort him ; now of a little fresh linen. He is very
thankful for visits, for respectful letters, for " sweetmeats ;" and
greatly puzzled to know what to do with the bad sonnets and
panegyrics that are sent him. They were sometimes too much
even for the allowed ultra courtesies of Italian acknowledgment.
His compliments to most people are varied with astonishing grace
and ingenuity ; his accounts of his condition often sufficient to
bring the tears into the manliest eyes ; and his ceaseless and vain
efforts to procure his liberation mortifying when we think of him-
self, and exasperating when we think of the petty despot who
detained him in so long, so degrading, and so worse than useless
a confinement.

Tasso could not always conceal his contempt of his imprisoner
from the ducal servants. Alfonso excelled the grandiloquent
poet himself in his love of pomp and worship ; and as he had no
particular merits to warrant it, his victim bantered his love of
titles. He says, in a letter to the duke's steward, " If it is the
pleasure of the Most Serene Signer Duke, Most Clement and
Most Invincible, to keep me in prison, may I beg that he will have
the goodness to return certain little things of mine, which his
Most Invincible, Most Clement, and Most Serene Highness has so
often promised me."*

But these were rare ebullitions of gaiety, perhaps rather of

* " Prego V. Signoria che si contcnti, se place al Serenissimo Signor Duca,
Clementissimo ed Invitissimo, che io Btia in prigione, di farini dar le poche robic-
ciole niie, che S. A. Invitissima, Clementissinia, Serenissima m' ha promesse
tante volte," &c. Opere, vol. xiv. p, 6.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 431

bitter despair. A playful address to a cat to lend liim her eyes
to write by, during some hour in which lie hapi)onod to l)c with-
out a light (for it does not appear to have been denied liini), may
be taken as more probable evidence of a mind relieved at tlie
moment, though the necessity for the relief may have been very
sad. But the style in which he generally alludes to his situation
is far ditierent. He continually begs his correspondents to pity
him, to pray for him, to attribute his errors to infirmity. He
complains of impaired memory, and acknowledges that he has
become subject to the deliriums formerly attributed to him by the
enemies that had helped to produce them. Petitioning the native
city of his ancestors (Bergamo) to intercede for him with the
duke, he speaks of the writer as "this unhappy person;" and
subscribes himself, —

" Most illustrious Signors, your aifectionate servant, Torquato
TassOj a prisoner, and infirm, in the hospital of St. Anne in
Ferrara."

In one of his addresses to Alfonso, he says most affectingly :

"I have sometimes attributed much to myself, and consider-
ed myself as somebody. But now, seeing in how many ways
imagination has imposed on me, I suspect that it has also de-
ceived me in this opinion of my own consequence. Indeed, me-
thinks the past has been a dream ; and hence I am resolved to
rely on my imagination no longer."

Alfonso made no answer.

The causes of Tasso's imprisonment, and its long duration, are
among the puzzles of biography. The prevailing opinion, not-
withstanding the opposition made to it by Serassi and Black, is,
that the poet made love to the Princess Leonora — perhaps was
beloved by her ; and that her brother the duke punished him for
his arrogance. This was the belief of his earliest biographer,
Manso, who was intimately acquainted with the poet in his latter
days ; and from Manso (though he did not profess to receive the
information from Tasso, but only to gather it froui liis poems) it
spread over all Europe. Milton took it on trust from him ;* and
60 have our Enclish translators Iloole and Witfen. The Abbe do

* '<

Altera Torquatuni ccpit Leonora poctam," tScc.

432 TASSO.

Charnes, however, declined to do so ;* and Montaigne, who saw the
poet in St. Anne's hospital, says nothing of the love at all. He at-
tributes his condition to poetical excitement, hard study, and the
meeting of the extremes of wisdom and folly. The philosopher, how-
ever, speaks of the poet's having survived his reason, and become
unconscious both of himself and his works, which the reader knows
to be untrue. He does not appear to have conversed with Tasso.
The poet was only shewn him ; probably at a sick moment, or
by a new and ignorant official. f Muratori, who was in the ser-
vice of the Este family at Modena, tells us, on the authority of
an old acquaintance who knew contemporaries of Tasso, that the
" good Torquato" finding himself one day in company with the
duke and his sister, and going close to the princess in order to
answer some question which she had put to him, was so transport-
eb by an impulse " more than poetical," as to give her a kiss ;
upon which the duke, who had observed it, turned about to his
gentlemen, and said, " What a pity to see so great a man dis-
tracted !" and so ordered him to be locked up.:}: But this writer
adds, that he does not know what to think of the anecdote : he
neither denies nor admits it. Tiraboschi, who was also in the
service of the Este family, doubts the truth of the anecdote, and
believes that the duke shut the poet up solely for fear lest his
violence should do harm.§ Serassi, the second biographer of
Tasso, who dedicated his book to an Este princess inimical to the
poet's memory, attributes the confinement, on his own shewing, to
the violent words he had uttered against his master. 1| Walker, the
author of the Memoir on Italian Tragedy, says, that the life by
Serassi himself induced him to credit the love-story ilT so does

* Vie du Tasse, 1695, p. 51.

t In the Apology for Raimond de Sebonde ; Essays, vol. ii. ch. 13.

X In his Letter to Zeno, — Opere del Tasso, xvi. p. 118.

§ Storia della Poesia Italiana (Mathias's edition), vol. iii. part i. p. 236.

II Serassi is very peremptory, and even abusive. He charges every body
who has said any thing to the contrary vi^ith imposture. " Egli non v' ha dubbio,
che le troppe imprudenti e temerarie parole, che il Tasso si lascii) uscir di bocca
in questo incontro, furone la sola cagione della sua prigionia, e ch' 6 mora fevola
ed impostura tutto ci5,che divcrsamente h stato affermato e scritto da altri in tale
proposito." Vol. ii. p. 33. But we have seen that the good Abbe could prac^
tise a little imposition himself. IF Black, ii. 88.

HIS LIFE AND GEiMUS. 433

Gingulne.* Black, forgetting the age and illnesses of hundreds
of enamoured ladies, and the distraction of lovers at all times, de-
rides the notion of passion on either side : hecause, he argues, Tasso
was subject to frenzies, and Leonora forty-two ycareof age, and not
in good hcaltli.f What would Madame d'lloudctot have said to
him ? or Mademoiselle L'Espinasse ? or Mrs. Inchbuld, who
used to walk up and down Sackville Street in order that she might
see Dr. Warren's licht in his window ? Foscolo was a believer
in the love ;:}: Sismondi admits it ;§ and Rosini, the editor of the
latest edition of the poet's works, is passionate for it. He wonders
how any body can fail to discern it in a number of passages,
which, in truth, may mean a variety of other loves ; and he in-
sists much upon certain loose verses (lascivi) which the poet,
among his various accounts of the origin of his imprisonment, as-
signs as the cause, or one of the causes, of it.||

■ I confess, after a reasonable amount of inquiry into this sub-
ject, that I can find no proofs whatsoever of Tasso's having made
love to Leonora ; though I think it highly probable. I believe
the main cause of the duke's proceedings was the poet's own vio-
lence of behaviour and incontinence of speech. I think it very
likely that, in the course of the poetical love-making to various
ladies, which was almost identical in that age with addressing
them in vei^se, Torquato, whellier he was in love or not, took more
liberties with the princesses than Alfonso approved ; and it is
equally probable, that one of those liberties consisted in his indul-
ging his imagination too far. It is not even impossible, that more
gallantry may have been going on at court than Alfonso could

* Hist. Lilt. dC Italic, V. 243, &c. t Vol. ii. p. 89.

t Such at least is my impression ; but I cannot call the evidence to mind.

§ Literature of the South of Europe (Roscoe's translation), vol. ii. p. 165.
To shew the loose way in which the conclusions of a man's own mind are pre-
sented as facts admitted by others, Sismondi says, that Tasso's " passion" was
the cause of his return to Ferrara. There is not a tittle of evidence to shew

for it

II Sas-gio sugli Amori, &c. ut sup. p. 84, and passim. As specimens of tho
learned professor's reasoning, it may be observed that whenever the words
humble, daring, high, noble, and roijal, occur in the port's love-versos, he thinks
they /»u-s< allude to the Princess Leonora; and he ari];ues, that Alfonso never
could have been so angry with any "vcrsi lascivi," if they had not had the same
direction.

43-1 TASSO,

endure to see alluded to, especially by an ambitious pen. But
there is no evidence that such was the case. Tasso, as a gentle-
man, could not have hinted at such a thing on the part of a prin-
cess of staid reputation ; and, on the other hand, the " love " he
speaks of as entertained by her for him, and warranting the ap-
plication to her for money in case of his death, was too plainly
worded to mean any thing but love in the sense of friendly regard,
" Per amor mio " is an idiomatical expression, meaning " for my
sake ;" a strong one, no doubt, and such as a proud man like Al-
fonso might think a liberty, but not at all of necessity an amatory
boast. If it was, its very effrontery and vanity were presump-
tions of its falsehood. The lady whom Tasso alludes to in the
passage quoted on his first confinement is complained of for her
coldness towards him ; and, unless this was itself a gentlemanly
blind, it might apply to fifty other ladies besides the princess.
The man who assaulted him in the streets, and who is supposed
to have been the violator of his papers, need not have found any
secrets of love in them. The servant at whom he aimed the knife
or the dagger might be as little connected with such matters ;
and the sonnets which the poet said he wrote for a friend, and
which he desired to be buried with him, might be alike innocent
of all reference to Leonora, whether he wrote them for a friend
or not. Leonora's death took place during the poet's confine-
ment ; and, lamented as she was by the verse-writers according
to custom, Tasso wrote nothing on the event. This silence has
been attributed to the depth of his passion ; but how is the fact
proved ? and why may it not have been occasioned by there hav-
ing been no passion at all ?

All that appears certain is, that Tasso spoke violent and con-
temptuous words against the duke ; that he often spoke ill of him
in his letters ; that he endeavoured, not with perfect ingenuous-
ness, to exchange his service for that of another prince ; that ha
asserted his madness to have been pretended in the first instance
purely to gratify the duke's whim for thinking it so (which was
one of the reasons perhaps why Alfonso, as he complained, would
not believe a word he said) ; and finally, that, whether the mad-
ness was or was not so pretended, it unfortunately became a con-
firmed though milder form of mania, during a long confinement.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 435

Alfonso, too proud to forgive the poet's contempt, continued thus to
detain him, partly perhaps because he was not sorry to have a pre-
text for revenge, partly because he did not know what to do with
him consistently either with his own or the poet's safety. He had
not been generous enough to put Tasso above his wants ; he had
not address enough to secure his respect ; he had not merit enougli
to overlook his reproaches. If Tasso had been as great a man as
he was a poet, Alfonso would not have been reduced to these per-
plexities. The poet would have known how to settle quietly down
on his small court-income, and wait patiently in the midst of his
beautiful visions for what fortune had or had not in store for him.
But in truth, he, as well as the duke, was weak ; they made
a bad business of it between them ; and Alfonso the Second closed
the accounts of the Este family with the Muses, by keeping his
panegyrist seven years in a mad-house, to the astonishment of
posterity, and the destruction of his own claims to renown.

It does not appear that Tasso was confined in any such dungeon
as they now exhibit in Ferrara. The conduct of the Prior of the
Hospital is more doubtful. His name was Agostino Mosti ; and,
strangely enough, he was the person who had raised a monument
to Ariosto, of whom he was an enthusiastic admii'er. To this predi-
lection has been attributed his alleged cruelty to the stranger from
Sorrento, who dared to emulate the fame of his idol ; — an extraor-
dinary, though perhaps not incredible, mode of shewing a critic's
regard for poetry. But Tasso, while he laments his severity,
wonders at it in a man so well bred and so imbued with literature,
and thinks it can only have originated in "orders."* Perhaps
there were faults of temper on both sides ; and Mosti, not liking
his office, forgot the allowance to be made for that of a prisoner
and sick man. His nephew Giulio Mosti, became strongly attach-
ed to the poet, and was a great comfort to him.

At lencth the time for liberation arrived. In the summer of
1586, Don Vincenzo Gonzaga, Prince of Mantua, kinsman of the
poet's friend Scipio, came to Ferrara for the purpose of compli-
menting Alfonso's heir on his nuptials. The whole court of Man-
tua, with hereditary regard for Tasso, whose father had been one

♦ Opere, vol. xvii. p. 32.
4*

436 TASSO.

of their ornaments, were desirous of having him among them ;
and the prince extorted Alfonso's permission to take him away,
on condition (so hard did he find this late concession to humanity,
and so fearful was he of losing the dignity of jailor) that his de-
liverer should not allow him to quit Mantua without obtaining
leave. A young and dear friend, his most frequent visitor. An-
tonio Constantini, secretary to the Tuscan ambassador, went to
St. Anne's to prepare the captive by degrees for the good news.
He told him that he really might look for his release in the course
of a few days. The sensitive poet, now a premature old man of
forty-two, was thrown into a transport of mingled delight and
anxiety. He had been disappointed so often that he could
scarcely believe his good fortune. In a day or two he writes
thus to his visitor :

"Your kindness, my dear friend, has so accustomed me to
your precious and frequent visits, that I have been all day long
at the window expecting your coming to comfort me as you are
wont. But since you have not yet arrived, and in order not to
remain altogether without consolation, I visit you with this letter.
It encloses a sonnet to the ambassador, written with a trembling
hand, and in such a manner that he will not, perhaps, have less
difficulty in reading it than I had in writing."

Two days afterwards, the prince himself came again, requested
of the poet some verses on a given subject, expressed his esteem
for his genius and virtues, and told him that, on his return to
Mantua, he should have the pleasure of conducting him to that
city. Tasso lay awake almost all night, composing the verses ;
and next day enclosed them, with a letter, in another to Constan-
tini, ardently begging him to" keep the prince in mind of his prom-
ise. The prince had not forgotten it ; and two or three days
afterwards, the order for the release arrived, and Tasso quitted
his prison. He had been confined seven years, two months, and
several days. He awaited the prince's departure for a week or
two in his friend's abode, paying no visits, probably from inability
to endure so much novelty. Neither was he inclined or sent for
to pay his respects to the duke. Two such parties could hardly
have been desirous to look on each other. The duke must es-
pecially have disliked the thought of it ; though Tasso afterwards

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 437

fancied otherwise, and that ho was ollended at his non-appearance.
But his letters, unfortunately, differ witli themselves on this point,
as on most otliers. About the middle of July 158(3, the poet quit-
ted Fcrrara for ever.

At Mantua Tasso was greeted with all the honours and atten-
tions which his love of distinction could desire. The good old
duke, the friend of his father, ordered handsome apartments to be
provided for him in tiie palace ; the prince made him presents of
costly attire, including perfumed silken hose (kindred elegancies
to the Italian gloves of Queen Elizabeth) ; the princess and her
mother-in-law were declared admirers of his poetry ; the courtiers
caressed the favourite of their masters ; Tasso found literary so-
ciety ; he pronounced the very bread and fruit, the fish and the
flesh, excellent ; the wines were sharp and brisk (" such as his
father was fond of") ; and even the physician was admirable, for
he ordered confections. One might imagine, if circumstances
had not proved the cordial nature of the Gonzaga family, and the
real respect and admiration entertained for the poet's genius by
the greatest men of the time, in spite of the rebuke it had received
from Alfonso, that there had been a confederacy to mock and
mystify him, after the fashion of the duke and duchess with Don
Quixote (the only blot, by the way, in the book of Cervantes ; if,
indeed, he did not intend it as a satire on the mystifiers).

For a while, in short,, the liberated prisoner thought himself
happy. He corrected his prose works, resumed and finished the
tragedy of Torrismond, which he had begun some years be-
fore, corresponded with princes, and completed and published a
narrative poem left unfinished by his father. Torquato was as
lovincr a son as Mozart or Montaigne. Whenever he had a
glimpse of felicity, he appears to have associated the idea of it
with that of his father. In the conclusion of his fragment, " O
del grand' Apennino," he affectingly begs pardon of his blessed
spirit for troubling him with his earthly griefs.*

* " Padre, o buon padre, che dal ciel riniiri,
Egro e morto ti piansi, e ben tu il sai ;
E gemendo scaldai

La tomha e il lotto. Or che ncgli altri giri
Tu godi, a te si dcve onor, non lutto :
A me versato il mio dolor sia tutto."

438 TASSO,

But, alas, what had been an indulgence of self-esteem had now
become the habit of a disease ; and in the course of a few months
the restless poet began to make his old discovery, that he was not
sufficiently cared for. The prince had no leisure to attend to
him ; the nobility did not " yield him the first place," or at least
(he adds) they did not allow him to be treated " externally as
their equal ; and he candidly confessed that he could not live in
a place where such was the custom.* He felt also, naturally
enough, however well it might have been intended, that it was
not pleasant to be confined to the range of the city of Mantua,
attended by a servant, even though he confessed that he was now
subject to " frenzy." He contrived to stay another half-year by
help of a brilliant carnival and of the select society of the prince's
court, who were evidently most kind to him ; but at the end of
the twelvemonth he was in Bergamo among his relations. The
prince gave him leave to go ; and the Cavaliere Tasso, his kins-
man, sent his chariot on purpose to fetch him.

Here again he found himself at a beautiful country-seat, which
the family of Tasso still possesses near that city ; and here again, in
the house of his father, he proposed to be happy, " having never
desired," he says, " any journey more earnestly than this." He
left it in the course of a month, to return to Mantua.

And it was only to wander still. Mantua he quitted in less
than two months to go to Rome, in spite of the advice of his best
friends. He vindicated the proceeding by a hope of obtaining
some permanent settlement from the Pope. He took Loretto by
the way, to refresh himself with devotion ; arrived in a transport
at Rome ; got nothing from the Pope (the hard-minded Sixtus the
Fifth) ; and in the spring of the next year, in the triple hope of

O father, my good father, looking now

On thy poor son from heaven, well knowest thou

What scaldinrr tears I shed

Upon thy grave, upon thy dying bed ;

But since thou dwellest in the happy skies,

'Tis fit I raise to thee no sorrowing eyes :

Be all my grief on my own head.

* " Non posso viver in cittji, ove tutti 1 nobili, o non mi concedano i primi
luoghi, o almeno non si contentino che la cosa in quel che appartiene a queste
esteriori dimostrazioni, vada del pari." Opcre, vol. xiii. p. 153.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 439

again embracing his sister, and recoveriiii^r tlio dowry of his mo-
ther and the confiscated property of his father, he proceeded to
Naples.

Naples was in its most beautiful vernal condition, and the Ne-
apolitans welcomed the poet with all honour and glory ; but his
, lister, alas, was dead ; he got none of his father's property,
nor (till too late) any of his mother's ; and before the year was
out, he was again in Rome. He acquired in Naples, however,
another friend, as attached to him and as constant in his attentions
as his beloved Constantini, to wit, Giambattista Manso, Marquis
of Villa, who became his biographer, and who was visited and
praised for his good offices by Milton. In the society of this gen-
tleman he seemed for a short while to have become a new man.
He entered into field sports, listened to songs and music, nay,
danced, says Manso, with "the girls." (One fancies a poetical
Dr. Johnson with the two country damsels on his knees.) In
short, good air and freedom, and no medicine, had conspired with
the lessons of disappointment to give him, before he died, a glimpse
of the power to be pleased. He had not got rid of all his spirit-
ual illusions, even those of a melancholy nature ; but he took the
latter more quietly, and had grown so comfortable with the race
in general, that he encouraged them. He was so entirely freed
from his fears of the Inquisition and of charges of magic, that
whereas he had formerly been anxious to shew that he meant
nothing but a poetical fancy by the spirit which he introduced as
communing w^ith liim in his dialogue entitled the Messenger^ he
now maintained its reality against the arguments of his friend
Manso ; and these arguments gave rise to the most poetical scene
in his history. He told Manso that he should have ocular testi-
mony of the spirit's existence ; and accordingly one day while
they were sitting together at the marquis's fireside, " he turned
his eyes," says Manso, " towards a window, and held them a long
time so intensely on it, that, when I called him, he did not answer.
At last, ' Behold,' said he, ' the friendly spirit which has courteous-
ly come to talk with me. Lift up your eyes and see the truth.'
I turned my eyes thither immediately (continues the marquis) ;
but though I endeavoured to look as keenly as I could, I beheld
nothing but the rays of the sun, which streamed through the panes

440 TASSO.

of the window into the chamber. Whilst I still looked around,
without beholding any object, Torquato began to hold, with this
unknown something, a most lofty converse. I heard, indeed, and
saw nothing but himself; nevertheless his words, at one time ques-
tioning, at another replying, were such as take place between those
who reason strictly on some important subject. And from what was
said by the one, the reply of the other might be easily compre-
hended by the intellect, although it was not heard by the ear.
The discourses were so lofty and marvellous, both by the sub-
limity of their topics and a certain unwonted manner of talking,
that, exalted above myself in a kind of ecstasy, I did not dare to
interrupt them, nor ask Tasso about the spirit, which he had an-
nounced to me, but which I did not see. In this w^y, while I
listened between stupefaction and rapture, a considerable time
had elapsed ; till at last the spirit departed, as I learned from the
words of Torquato ; who, turning to me, said, ' From this day
forward all your doubts will have vanished from your mind.'
* Nay,' said I, ' they are rather increased ; since, though I have
heard many things worthy of marvel, I have seen nothing of what
you promised to shew me to dispel them.' He smiled, and said,

' You have seen and heard more of him than perhpas ,' and

here he paused. Fearful of importuning him with new questions,
the discourse ended ; and the only conclusion I can draw is, what
I before said, that it is more likely his visions or frenzies will dis-
order my own mind than that I shall extirpate his true or imagi-
nary opinion."*

Did the " smile" of Tasso at the close of this extraordinary
scene, and the words which he omitted to add, signify that his
friend had seen and heard more, perhaps, than the poet would
have liked to explain ? Did he mean that he himself alone had
been seen and heard, and was author of the whole dialogue ?
Perhaps he did ; for credulity itself can impose ; — can take
pleasure in seeing others as credulous as itself. On the other
hand, enough has become known in our days of the phenomena
of morbid perception, to render Tasso's actual belfef in such
visions not at all surprising. It is not uncommon for the sanest

* Black, vol. ii. p. 340.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. m

people of delicate organisation to see faces before theni while
roing to sleep, sometimes in fantastical succession. A stroncrer
jxercise of this disposition in temperaments more delicate will
enlarge the face to figure ; and there can be no question that an
magination so heated as Tasso's, so full of the speculations of the
ater Platonists, and accompanied by a state of body so " nerv-
)us," and a will so bent on its fancies, might embody whatever
16 chose to behold. The dialogue he could as easily read in the
dsion's looks, whether he heard it or not with ears. If Nicholay,
he Prussian bookseller, who saw crowds of spiritual people go
hrough his rooms, had been a poet, and possessed of as wilful an
magination as Tasso, he might have gifted them all with speak-
ng countenances as easily as with coats and waistcoats. Sweden-
K)rg founded a religion on this morbid faculty ; and the Catholics
vorship a hundred stories of the like sort in the Lives of the
Jaints, many of which are equally true and false ; false in reali-
y, though true in supposition. Luther himself wrote and
tudied till he saw^ the Devil ; only the great reformer retained
nough of his naturally sturdy health and judgment to throw an
akstand at Satan's head, — a thing that philosophy has been doing
ver since.

Tasso's principal residence while at Naples had been in the
•eautiful monastery of Mount Olivet, on which the good monks
egged he would write them a poem ; which he did. A cold
eception at Rome, and perhaps the difference of the air, brought
ack his old lamentations ; but here again a monastery gave him
efuge, and he set himself down to correct his former works and
ompose new ones. He missed, however, the comforts of society
nd amusement which he had experienced at Naples. Neverthe-
3ss, he did not return thither. He persuaded himself that it was
ecessary to be in Rome in order to expedite the receipt of some
ooks and manuscripts from Bergamo and other places ; but his
estlessness desired novelty. He thus slipped back from the
eighbourhood of Rome to the city itself, and from the city back
) the monastery, his friends in both places being probably tired
f his instability. He thought of returning to Mantua ; but a
resent from the Grand Duke of Tuscany, accompanied by an
avitation to his court, drew him, in one of his short-lived-trans-

442

TASSO.

ports, to Florence. He returned, in spite of the best and most
generous reception, to Rome ; then left Rome for Mantua, on
invitation from his ever-kind deliverer from prison, now the reign-
ing duke ; tired again, even of him ; returned to Rome ; then
once more to Naples, where the Prince of Conca, Grand Admiral
of the kingdom, lodged and treated him like an equal ; but he
grew suspicious of the admiral, and went to live with his friend
Manso ; quitted Manso for Rome again ; was treated with rever-
ence on the way, like Ariosto, by a famous leader of banditti ;
was received at Rome into the Vatican itself, in the apartments
of his friend Cintio Aldobrandino, nephew of the new pope
Clement the Eighth, where his hopes now seemed to be raised at
once to their highest and most reasonable pitch ; but fell ill, and
was obliged to go back to Naples for the benefit of the air. A
life so strangely erratic to the last (for mortal illness was ap-
proaching) is perhaps unique in the history of men of letters, and
might be therefore worth recording even in that of a less man
than Tasso ; "fe'ut when we recollect that this poet, in spite of all
his weaknesses, and notwithstanding the enemies they provokec
and the friends they cooled, was really almost adored for his
genius in his own time, and instead of refusing jewels one da}
and soliciting a ducat the next, might have settled down almost an)
where in quiet and glory, if he had but possessed the patience t(
do so, — it becomes an association of weakness with power, and ol
adversity with the means of prosperity, the absurdity of whicl
admiration itself can only drown in pity.

He now took up his abode in another monastery, that of Sai
Severino, where he was comforted by the visits of his friend Man
so, to whom he had lately inscribed a dialogue on Friendship .
for he continued writing to the last. He had also the consolation
such as it was, of having the lawsuit for his mother's dowry set
tied in his favour, though under circumstances that rendered it oj
little importance, and only three months before his death. Si
strangely did Fortune seem to take delight in sporting with a mai
of genius, who had thought both too much of her and too little
too much for pomp's sake, and too little in prudence. Amonj
his new acquaintances were the young Marino, afterwards th(
corrupter of Italian poetry, and the Prince of Venosa, an amateu

HIS LIFK AND GENIUS. 413

composer of music. The dying poet wrote mndrij^'als for him so
much lo liis satisfoction, that, heing about to marry into the house
of Este, lie wished to reconcile him with the Duke of Forrara ;
and Tasso, who to the last moment of his life seems never to have
been able to resist the chance of resuming old quarters, apparently
from the double temptation of renouncing them, wrote his old
master a letter full of respects and regrets. But the duke, who
himself died in the course of the year, was not to be moved from
his silence. The poet had given him the last possible offence by
recasting his Jerusalem, omitting the glories of the house of Este,
and dedicating it to another patron. Alfonso, who had been ex-
travagantly magnificent, though not to poets, had so weakened
his government, that the Pope wrested Ferrara from the hands of
his successor, and reduced the Este family to the possession of
Modena, which it still holds and dishonours. The duke and the
poet were thus fading away at the same time ; they never met
again in this world : and a new Dante would have divided them
far enough in the next.*

The last glimpse of honour and glory was now opening in a

very grand manner on the poet — the last and the greatest, as if on

purpose to give the climax to his disappointments. Cardinal Cin-

Lio requested the Pope to give him the honour of a coronation.

[t had been desired by the poet, it seems, three years before. He

was disappointed of it at that time ; and now that it was granted,

he was disappointed of the ceremony. Manso says he no longer

ared for it ; and, as he felt himself dying, this is not improbable.

>fevertheless he went to Rome for the purpose ; and though the

everity of the winter there delayed the intention till spring,

-vealth and honours seemed determined to come in floods upou the

)oor expiring great man, in order to take away the breath which

hey had refused to support. The Pope assigned him a yearly

)ension of a hundred scudi ; and the withholders of his mother's

lowry came to an accommodation by which he was to have aai

.nnuity of a hundred ducats, and a considerable sum in hand.

•■ The world in general have taken no notice of Tasso's re-construction of his
Jerusalem, which he called the Gerusalemnie Conquistata. It never "obtained,"
3 the phrase is. It was the mere tribute of his declining years to bigotry and
ew acquaintances; and therefore I say no more of it.

444 TASSO.

His hand was losing strength enough to close upon the money.
Scarcely was the day for the coronation about to dawn, when the
poet felt his dissolution approaching. Alfonso's doctors had killed
him at last by superinducing a habit of medicine-taking, which
defeated its purpose. He requested leave to return to the monas-
tery of St. Onofi'io — wrote a farewell letter to Constantini — re-
ceived the distinguished honour of a plenary indulgence from the
Pope — said (in terms very like what Milton might have used, had
he died a Catholic), that " this was the chariot upon which he
hoped to go crowned, not with laurel as a poet into the capitol,
but with glorj' as a saint to heaven " — and expired on the 25th
of April, 1575, and the fifty-first year of his age, closely embra-
cing the crucifix, and imperfectly uttering the sentence begin-
ning, " Into thy hands, O Lord !"*

Even after death, success mocked him ; for the coronation took
place on the senseless dead body. The head was wreathed with
laurel ; a magnificent toga delayed for a while the shroud ; and
a procession took place through the city by torchlight, all the in-
habitants pouring forth to behold it, and painters crowding over
the bier to gaze on the poet's lineaments, from which they pro-
duced a multitude of portraits. The corpse was then buried in
the church of St. Onofrio ; and magnificent monuments talked of,
which never appeared. Manso, however, obtained leave to set
up a modest tablet ; and eight years afterwards a Ferrarese car-
dinal (Bevilacqua) made what amends he could for his country-
men, by erecting the stately memorial which is still to be seen.

Poor, illustrious Tasso ! weak enough to warrant pity from his
inferiors — great enough to overshadow in death his once-fancied
superiors. He has been a by- word for the misfortunes of genius ;
but genius was not his misfortune ; it was his only good, and might
have brought him all happiness. It is the want of genius, as far
as it goes, and apart from martyrdoms for conscience' sake, which ■■
produces misfortunes even to genius itself — the want of as much)
wit and balance on the common side of things, as genius is sup-
posed to confine to the uncommon.

Manso has left a minute account of his friend's person and '

* In nmmis tuas, Domine. One likes to know the actual words; at least soi
it appears to me. j

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 445

iiuiers. He was tall, even among the tall ; luul a pale com-
jxion, sunken cheeks, lightish brown hair, head bald at the top,
•ge blue eyes, square forehead, big nose inclining towards the
)uth, lips pale and thin, white teeth, delicate white hands, long
ms, broad chest and slioulders, legs rather strong than fleshy,
d the body altogether better proportioned than in good condi-
n ; the result, nevertheless, being an aspect of" manly beauty
d expression, particularly in the countenance, the dignity of
lich marked him for an extraordinary person even to those who
1 not know him. His demeanour was grave and deliberate ;
laughed seldom ; and though his tongue was prompt, his de-
ary was slow ; and he was accustomed to repeat his la^t words.
3 was expert in all manly exercises, but not equally graceful ;
d the same defect attended his otherwise striking eloquence in
blic assemblies. His putting to flight the assassins in Ferrara
ve him such a reputation for courage, that there went about in
5 honour a popular couplet :

" Colla penna e colla spada
Nessun val quanto Torquato."

For the sword as well as pen
Tasso is the man of men.

I was a little eater, but not averse to wine, particularly such as
Tnbined piquancy with sweetness ; and he always dressed in
ick.

Manso's account is still more particular, and yet it does not tell
for Tasso himself informs us that he stammered, and was
ir-sighted ;* and a Neapolitan writer who knew him adds to

near-sightedness some visible defect in the eyes.f I should
ibt, from what Tasso says in his letters, whether he was fond
speaking in public, notwithstanding his debut in that line with

Fifty Amorous Conclusions. Nor does he appear to have

Serassi, ii. 276.

" Qucm cernis, quisquis rs, procera statiira vinmi, luscis oculis, &c. hie
quatus est." — Cappacio, Illustrium Litcris Virorum Elosria et Judicia,
:ed by Serassi, ut sup. The Latin word luscus, as well as the Italian Iosco,
ns, I believe, near-sighted; but it certainly means also a great deal more;
unless the word cernis (thou beholdest) is a mere form of speech implying
•egone conclusion, it shews that the defect was obvious to the spectator.

446 TASSO.

been remarkable for his conversation. Manso has left a colle<
tion of one hundred of his pithy sayings — a suspicious amoun
and unfortunately more than warranting the suspicion ; for a
most every one of them is traceable to some other man. The
come from the Greek and Latin philosophers, and the apothegn
of Erasmus. The two following have the greatest appearanc
of being genuine :

A Greek, complaining that he had spoken ill of his country
and maintaining that all the virtues in the world had issued oi
of it, the poet assented ; with the addition, that they had not le
one behind them.

A foolish young fellow, garnished with a number of golde
chains, coming into a room where he was, and being overhear
by him exclaiming, " Is this the great man that was mad ?
Tasso said, " Yes ; but that people had never put on him moi
than one chain at a time.^'

His character may be gathered, but not perhaps entirely, froi
what has been written of his life ; for some of his earlier lette]
shew him to have been not quite so grave and refined in his wa
of talking as readers of the Jerusalem might suppose. He W£
probably at that time of life not so scrupulous in his morals as h
professed to be during the greater part of it. His mother ;
thought to have died of chagrin and impatience at being separate
so long from her husband, and not knowing what to do to save he
dowry from her brothers ; and I take her son to have combine
his mother's ultra-sensitive organisation with his father's worldl
imprudence and unequal spirits. The addition of the nervoi:
temperament of one parent to the aspiring nature of the othe
gave rise to the poet's trembling eagerness for distinction ; an
Torquato's very love for them both hindered him from seein
what should have been corrected in the infirmities which he ir
herited. Falling from the highest hopes of prosperity into th
most painful afTlictions, he thus wanted solid principles of actio
to support him, and was forced to retreat upon an excess of sel
esteem, which allowed his pride to become a beggar, and his na
urally kind, loving, just, and heroical disposition to condescend 1
almost every species of inconsistency. The Duke of Ferran

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 4-17

c complains, did not believe a word he said ;* and the fact is,
it, partly from disease, and partly from a want of courage to
)k his defects in the face, he beheld the same tliincrs in so many
Ibrent lights, and according as it suited him at the moment,
it, without intending falsehood, his statements are really not to
relied on. He degraded even his verses, sometimes with
negyrics for interest's sake, sometimes out of weak wishes to
lige, of which he was afterwards ashamed ; and, witii the ex-
ption of Constantini, we cannot be sure that any one person
aised in them retained his regard in his last days. His suspi-
)n made him a kind of Rousseau ; but he was more amiable
an the Genevese, and far from being in the habit of talking
ainst old acquaintances, whatever he might have thought of
?m. It is observable, not only that he never married, but he
id Manso he had led a life of entire continence ever since he
tered the walls of his prison, being then in his thirty-fifth year."j"
las this out of fidelity to some mistress ? or the consequence of
iprevious life the reverse of continent ? or was it from some
inciple of superstition ? He had become a devotee, apparently
It of a dread of disbelief; and he remained extremely religious
r the rest of his days. The two unhappiest of Italian poets,
asso and Dante, were the two most superstitious.

t lAs for the once formidable question concerning the compara-
e merits of this poet and Ariosto, which anticipated the modern
barrels of the classical and romantic schools, some idea of the
^atment which Tasso experienced may be conceived by sup-
sing all that used to be sarcastic and bitter in the periodical party-
iticism among ourselves some thirty years back, collected into
le huge vial of wrath, and poured upon the new poet's head,
en the great Galileo, who was a man of wit, bred up in the
re Tuscan school of Berni and Casa, and who was an idolator
Ariosto, wrote, when he was young, a "review" of the Jeru-
hm Delivered, which it is painful to read, it is so unjust and

' " II Signer Duca non crcde ad alcuna mia parola." Opere, xiv. IGI.
r " Fui da bocca di lui mcdesimo rassicurato, chc dal tempo del suo ritegno
snnt' Anna, ch' avenne negli anni trentacinque della sua vita e sedici avanti la
rtc, egli intieraniente fu casto : dcgli anni prinii non mi favcUo mai di modo
io possa alcuna cosa di certo qui raccontare." Opere, xxxiii. 235.

448 TASSO.

contemptuous.* But now that the only final arbiter, posterity,
has accepted both the poets, the dispute is surely the easiest thing
in the world to settle ; not, indeed, with prejudices of creeds oi
temperaments, but before any judges thoroughly sympathising
with the two claimants. Its solution is the principle of the
greater including the less. For Ariosto errs only by having ar
unbounded circle to move in. His sympathies are unlimited :
and those who think him inferior to Tasso, only do so in conse-
quence of their own want of sympathy with the vivacities that de-
grade him in their eyes. Ariosto can be as grave and exalted as
Tasso when he pleases, and he could do a hundred things which
Tasso never attempted. He is as different in this respect as
►Shakspeare from Milton. He had far more knowledge of man-
kind than Tasso, and he was superior in point of taste. But it isj
painful to make disadvantageous comparisons of one great poell
with another. Let us be thankful for Tasso's enchanted gardens,
without being forced to vindicate the universal world of his pre-
decessor. Suffice it to bear in mind, that the grave poet himself
agreed with the rest of the Italians in calling the Ferrarese the
" divine Ariosto ;" a title which has never been popularly given
to his rival.

The Jerusalem Delivered is the history of a Crusade, related
with poetic license. The Infidels are assisted by unlawful arts ;
and the libertinism that brought scandal on the Christians, is con-
verted into youthful susceptibility, led away by enchantment.
The author proposed to combine the ancient epic poets with Ari-
osto, or a simple plot, and uniformly dignified style, with roman-
tic varieties of adventure, and the luxuriance of fairy-land. Pie
did what he proposed to do, but with a judgment inferior to Vir-
gil's ; nay, in point of the interdependence of the adventures, to
Ariosto, and with far less general vigour. The mixture of affec-
tation with his dignity is so frequent, that, whether Boileau's fa-
mous line about Tasso's tinsel and Virgil's gold did or did not
mean to imply that the Jerusalem was nothing but tinsel, and the
jEneid all gold, it is certain that the tinsel is so interwoven with |
the gold, as to render it more of a rule than an exception, and |TI

* It is to be found in the collected works, ut supra, both of the philosopher i
and the poet.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 419

put a provoking distance between Tasso's epic pretensions and
jtliose of the greatest masters of tlie art. lVoj)le wlio take for
granted the conceits because of tlie " wildness" of Ariosto, and
tlie good taste because of the " regularity" of Tasso, just assume
ithe reverse of the fact. It is a rare thing to find a conceit in
lAriosto ; and, where it does exist, it is most likely defensible on
some Shakspearian ground of subtle propriety. Open Tasso in
almost anv part, particularly the love-scenes, and it is marvellous
if, before long, you do not see the conceits vexatiously interfering
with the beauties.

" Oh maraviglia! Amor, chc appcna 6 nato,
Gii iirande vola, e cri^ trionfa armato." Canto i. st. 47.

Oh, niiraclo! Love is scarce born, wlien, lo.
He tlies full wing'd, and lords it with his bow !

" Se '1 miri fuhiiinar nc 1' arme avvolto,
1 Marie lo stiini ; Amor, se scopre il volto." St. 58.

Mars you would think him, when his thund'ring race
In arms he ran ; Love, when he shcw'd his face.

|\Vhich is as little true to reason as to taste ; for no god of war

30uld look like a god of love. The habit of mind would render

ft impossible. But the poet found the prettiness of the Greek

ALUthology irresistible.

Olindo, tied to the stake amidst the flames of martyrdom, can

say to his mistress :

" Altre fianime, altri nodi amor promise." Canto ii. st. 34.
Other flames, other bonds than these, love promised.

The sentiment is natural, but the double use of the " flames" on
such an occasion, miserable.

In the third canto the fair Amazon Clorinda challenges her love
sincle combat.

" E di due morti in un punto lo sfida." St. 23.

" And so at once she threats to kill him twice." Fairfax.

That is to say, with her valour and beauty.

, Another twofold employment of flame, with an exclamation

450 TASSO.

to secure our astonishment, makes its appearance in the fourth

canto :

" Oh miracol d' amor ! che le faville
Tragge del pianto, e i cor' ne 1' acqua accende." St. 76.

Oh, miracle of love ! that draweth sparks

Of fire from tears, and kmdlest hearts m water !

This puerile antithesis of /re and water, fire and ice, light in dark-
ness, silence in speech, together with such pretty turns as wound-
ing one's-self in wounding others, and the worse sacrifice of con-
sistency and truth of feeling, — lovers making long speeches on
the least fitting occasions, and ladies retaining their rosy cheeks
in the midst of fears of death, — is to be met with, more or less,
throughout the poem. I have no doubt they were the proximate
cause of that general corruption of taste which was afterwards
completed by Marino, the acquaintance and ardent admirer of
Tasso when a boy. They have been laid to the charge of Pe-
trarch ; but, without entering into the question, how far and in
what instances conceits may not be natural to lovers haunted, as
Petrarch was, with one idea, and seeing it in every thing they
behold, what had the great epic poet to do with the faults of the
lyrical ? And what is to be said for his standing in need of the
excuse of bad example ? Homer and Milton were in no such
want. Virgil would not have copied the tricks of Ovid. There
is an effeminacy and self reflection in Tasso, analogous to his
Rinaldo, in the enchanted garden ; where the hero wore a looking-
glass by his side, in which he contemplated his sophisticated self,
and the meretricious beauty of his enchantress.*

Agreeably to this tendency to weakness, the style of Tasso,
when not supported by great occasions (and even the occasion
itself sometimes fails him), is too apt to fall into tameness and
commonplace, — to want movement and picture ; while, at the
same time, with singular defect of enjoyment, it does not possess

* It is an extraordinary instance of a man's violating, in older life, the better
critical principles of his youth, — that Tasso, in his Discourses on Poetry, should
have objected to a passage in Ariosto about sighs and tears, as being a " conceit
too lyrical," (though it was warranted by the subtleties of madness, see present
volume, p. 131), and yet afterwards riot in the same conceits when wholly
without warrant.

HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. 451

the music which might be exj>ectcd from a lyrical and voluptuous
poet. 13ernar(lo prophesied of his son, that, liowever ho ini<rht
surpass him in other respects, he would never equal him in sweet-
ness ; and he seems to have judged him riirhtly. i imve met
with a passage in Torquato's prose writings (but I cannot lay my
hands on it), in which he expresses a singular i)redilecti()n for
verses fuU of tlie same vowel. He seems, if I remember rightly,
to have regarded it, not merely as a pleasing variety, which it is
on occasion, but as a reigning principle. Voltaire (I tiiink, in
his treatise on Epic Poetry) has noticed the multitude of o's in
the exordium of the Jerusalem. This apparent negligence seems
io have beea intentional.

*' Cant6 r armi pictiise c '1 capitan5

Che '1 gran Sep6lcr6 libcr6 di Cristf) ;
M6lth I'gli »)pr6 c5l scnnO c c6n la inaiir>,

M()lt6 s6fl'ri nel glOrioso acquistC) ;
E invan 1' iiifernt> a lui s' 6pp5se ; invan6

S' arm6 d' Asia e di Libia il p6p6l misto ;
Che il ciel gli die fov6re, e s6tt5 ai santi
Segni ridusse i sut)i c6nipagni erranti."

The reader will not be surprised to find, that he who could thus
confound monotony with music, and commence his greatest poem
with it, is too often discordant in the rest of his versification. It
has been thought, that Milton might have taken from the Italians
the grand musical account to which he turns a list of proper
names, as in his enumerations of realms and deities ; but I have
been surprised to find how little the most musical of languages
appears to have suggested to its poets anything of the sort. I am
not aware of it, indeed, in any poets but our own. All others,
i from Homer, with his catalogue of leaders and ships, down to
Mctastasio himself, though he wrote for music, appear to have
overlooked this opportunity of playing a voluntary of fine sounds,
where they had no other theme on which to modulate. Its in-
ventor, as far as I am aware, is that great poet, Marlowe.*

it ♦ Aapiaviu3v avT Tjp^eVy cvi rais Ay;^;(ffao,

V Aivfiaj' rov vn Ay^icTj tckc Si A<PpoiiTti

l6ni tv Kvr\fioiai^ Ota /3fior<^ £VVT)Q€i(Ta'
PART III. 5

452 TASSO.

There are faults of invention as well as style in the Jerusalem.
The Talking Bird, or bird that sings with a human voice (can-
to iv. 13), is a piece of inverisimilitude, which the author, perhaps,
thought justifiable by the speaking horses of the ancients. But

OvK oioi' ajxit T.yys cvio A.vTi]vopos v'lt,

Iliad, ii. 819.

1 1 b ciuious that these five lines should abound as much in a's as Tasso's first
Btanza does in o's. Similar monotonies are strikingly observable in the nomen-
clatures of Virgil. See his most perfect poem, the Georgics :

" Omni^ secum
"Armentirius Wfer hgit, tectumque, Li\remque,
'Armaque, 'Amyclaeumque cJinem, Crcssimque pharetrim."

Lib. iii. 343.

It is clear that Dante never thought of this point. See his Mangiadore, San-
vittore, Natan, Raban, &c. at the end of the twelfth canto of the Paradiso. Yet
in liis time poetry was rccitatired to music. So it was in Petrarch's, who was a
lutenist, and who " tried" his verses, to see how they would go to the instrument.
Yet Petrarch could allow himself to write such a quatram as the followino-
list of rivers :

" Non Tesin, P5, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro,
Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo e Gange,
Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garrona, 6 '1 mar che frange,
Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Senna, Albia, Era, Ebro!"

In Tasso's Sette Giomate, to which Black thinks Milton indebted for his grand
use of proper names, the following is the way in which the poet writes :

" Di SilvJini
Di Pi\ni, e d' Egipini, e d' iiltri errinti,
Ch' empier le solitarie incults solve
D' antiche maraviglie ; e quell' accbltd
Esercit^ di Bacco in 5riente
Ond' egli vinse, e trionf5 dcgl' Indi,
Tornand5 gl6ri5sb ai Greci Udi,
Sicc5m' e fav6l0s5 antico trrido."

The most diversified passage of this kind (as far as I am aware) is Ariosto's list
of his friends at the close of the Orlando ; and yet such writing as follows
would seem to shew that it was an accident :

•' lb veggiu il Fracast5r5, il BevazzanO,
Trifbn Gabriel, e il Tass5 piu Ibntanb ;
Vegg6 NiccblO TiepoU, e cOn essb
NiccOlO .\raani6 in me affissar le cicrlia ;

•9 /

! ' HIS LIFE AND GENIUS.

453

he latter were moved supernatunilly for the occasion, and for a
'ery line occasion. Tasso's bird is a inere born contradiction to
lature and for no necessity. Tlio vulgar idea of the devil witli
lorns and a tail (though the retention of it argued a genius in
Tasso very inferior to that of Milton) is defensible, I think, on tiie
lea of the German critics, that malignity sliould be made a thin"-
o\v and deformed ; but as much cannot be said for the storeiiouse
a heaven, where St. Michael's spear is kept with which he slew
he dragon, and the trident which is used for making earthquakes
canto vii. st. 81). The tomb which supernaturally comes out
f the ground, inscribed with the name and virtues of Sueno,
canto viii. st. 39), is worthy only of a pantomime ; and the wiz-
ird in robes, with beech-leaves on his head, who walks dry-shod
m water, and superfluously helps the knights on their way to
^rmida's retirement (xiv. 33), is almost as ludicrous as the
)urlesque of the river-god in the Voyage of Bachaumont and
^hapelle.

But let us not wonder, nevertheless, at the effect which the
Terusalcm has had upon the world. It could not have had it with-
»ut great nature and power. Rinaldo, in spite of his aberrations
vith Armida, knew the path to renown, and so did his poet.
Tasso's epic, with all its faults, is a noble production, and justly

Aut6n Fulgbst), ch' a vedermi appress6
Al lit6, m5stra gaudio c maraviglia.
II mi5 ValcriC) e quel clie \ii .s' b mess6
Fu6r dc Ic dunne," &c.

ven IMetastasio, who wrote expressly for singers, and oflcn with exquisite
nodulation, especially in his songs, forgets himself when he comes to the names
►f his dramatis personcc, — " Artiserse, 'Aritba.no ,'Arbicc, Mindine, Semiri,
tfegJibise," — all in one play.

" Gran cose io temo. II mio germino 'Arbice
Pirte priil de 1' aurori. II pfidre arinito
Incontro, e non mi pJirla^. AiH^usd ii ciclo
'Acritiito Artiiscrsc, e m' ibbindoni." Atto i. so. 6.

am far from intending to say that these reiterations arc not sometimes allow-
ible, nay, often beautiful and desirable. Alliteration itself may be rendered an
ixquisite instrument of music. I am only spetiking of monotony or discord in
he enumeration of proper names.

4^ TASSO.

considered one of the poems of the world. Each of those poems i^
hit some one great point of universal attraction, at least in their
respective countries, and among the givers of fame in others.
Homer's poem is that of action ; Dante's, of passion ; Virgil's,
of judgment ; Milton's, of religion ; Spenser's, of poetry itself ;
Ariosto's, of animal spirits (I do not mean as respects gaiety only,
but in strength and readiness of accord with the whole play of
nature) ; Tasso looked round with an ultra-sensitive temperament,
and an ambition which required encouragement, and his poem is
that of tenderness. Every thing inclines to this point in his cir-
cle, with the tremulousness of the needle. Love is its all in all,
even to the design of the religious war which is to rescue the
sepulchre of the God of Charity from the hands of »the unloving.
Ilis heroes are all in love, at least those on the right side ,• his
leader, Godfrey, notwithstanding his prudence, narrowly escapes
the passion, and is full of a loving consideration ; his amazon,
Clorinda, inspires the truest passion, and dies taking her lover's
hand ; his Erminia is all love for an enemy ; his enchantress
Armida falls from pretended love into real, and forsakes her re-
ligion for its sake. An old father (canto ix.) loses his five sons
in battle, and dies on their dead bodies of a wound which he has
provoked on purpose. Tancred cannot achieve the enterprise of
the Enchanted Forest, because his dead mistress seems to come
out of one of the trees. Olindo thinks it happiness to be martyred
at the same stake with Sophronia. The reconciliation of Rinaldo
with his enchantress takes place within a few stanzas of the close
of the poem, as if contesting its interest with religion. The Jeru-
salem Delivered, in short, is the favourite epic of the young : all
the lovers in Europe have loved it. The French have forgiven
the author his conceits for the sake of his gallantry : he is the
poet of tlie gondoliers ; and Spenser, the most luxurious of his
brethren, plundered his bowers of bliss. Read Tasso's poem by
this gentle light of his genius, and you pity him twenty-fold, and
know not what excuse to find for his jailer.

The stories translated in the present volume, though including
war and magic, are all love-stories. They were not selected on that
account , They suggested themselves for selection, as containing
most of the finest things in the poem. They are conducted with

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HIS LIFE AND GKMUS.

great art, and the characters and aOcctions happily varied. The
first {Olindo and Sophronia) is pcrliaps uni(iut> for the hopolessiw.ss
of its comniencenient (I mean witli regard to the lovers), and the
perfect, and at the same time quite probable, felicity of the con-
clusion. There is no reason to believe that the staid and devout
Sophronia would have loved her adorer at all, but for the circum-
stance that first dooms them both to a shocking death, and then
sends them, with perfect warrant, from the stake to the altar.
Clorinda is an Amazon, the idea of whom, as such, it is impossible
for us to separate from very repulsive and unfeminine images ; yet,
under the circumstances of the story, we call to mind in her be-
half the possibility of a Joan of Arc's having loved and been be-
loved ; and her death is a surprising and most affecting variation
upon that of Agrican in Boiardo. Tasso's enchantress Armida is
a variation of the Angelica of the same poet, combined with Ari-
osto's Alcina ; but her passionate voluptuousness makes her quite
a new character in regard to the one ; and she is as dillerent
from the painted hag of the Orlando as youth, beauty, and patri-
otic intention can make her. She is not very sentimental ; but
all the passion in the world has sympathised with her ; and it was
manly and honest in the poet not to let her Paganism and ve-
hemence hinder him from doing justice to her claims as a human
being and a deserted woman. Her fate is left in so pleasing a
state of doubt, that we gladly avail ourselves of it to suppose her
married to Rinaldo, and becoming the mother of a line of Chris-
tian princes. I wish they had treated her poet half so well as she
would infallibly have treated him herself.

But the singer of the Crusades can be strong as well as gentle.
You discern in his battles and single combats the poet ambitious
of renown, and the accomplished swordsman. The duel of Tan-
cred and Argantes, in which the latter is slain, is as earnest and
fiery writing throughout as truth and passion could desire ; that of
Tancred and Clorinda is also very powerful as well as alfecling ;
and the whole siege of Jerusalem is admirable for the strength of
its interest. Every body knows the grand verse (not, however,
quite original) that summons the devils to council, " ('hiama gli
abitator," &c. ; and the still grander, though less original one,

456 TASSO.

describing the desolations of time, " Giace 1' alta Cartago."* The
forest filled with supernatural terrors by a magician, in order that
the Christians may not cut wood from it to make their engines of
war, is one of the happiest pieces of invention in romance. It is
founded in as true human feeling as those of Ariosto, and is made
an admirable instrument for the aggrandizement of the character
of Rinaldo. Godfrey's attestation of all time, and of the host of
heaven, when he addresses his army in the first canto, is in the
highest spirit of epic magnificence. So is the appearance of the
celestial armies, together with that of the souls of the slain Chris-
tian warriors, in the last canto, where they issue forth in the air
to assist the entrance into the conquered city. The classical
poets are turned to great and frequent account throughout the
poem ; and yet the work has a strong air of originality, partly
owing to the subject, partly to the abundance of love-scenes, and
to a certain compactness in the treatment of the main story, not-
withstanding the luxuriance of the episodes. The Jerusalem
Deliver,ed is stately, well-ordered, full of action and character,
sometimes sublime, always elegant, and very interesting — more
so, I think, as a whole, and in a popular sense, than any other
story in verse, not excepting the Odyssey. For the exquisite do-
mestic attractiveness of the second Homeric poem is injured, like
the hero himself, by too many diversions from the main point.
There is an interest, it is true, in that very delay ; but we become
too much used to the disappointment. In the epic of Tasso the
reader constantly desires to learn how the success of the enter-
prise is to be brought about ; and he scarcely loses sight of any
of the persons but he wishes to see them again. Even in the
love-scenes, tender and absorbed as they are, we feel that the he-
roes are fighters, or going to fight. When you are introduced to
Armida in the Bower of Bliss, it is by warriors who come to take
her lover away to battle.

One of the reasons why Tasso hurt the style of his poem by a
manner too lyrical was, that notwithstanding its deficiency in
sweetness, he was one of the profusest lyrical writers of his na-
tion, and always having his feelings turned in upon himself. I

♦ See them both in the present volume, pp. 420 and 445.

HIS Lll-'li AND ^.,i..NiLo. .i:.7

am not sunicicntly acquainted with his odes and sonnets to spcuk
of them in the gross ; but I may be allowed to express my U'lii-f
that they possess a great deal of fancy and R-elinL,'. It has been
wondered liow he could write so many, considering tjjo troubles
he went through : but the experience was the reason. The con-
stant succession of hopes, fears, wants, gratitudes, loves, and
the necessity of employing his imagination, accounts l«ir all.
Some of his sonnets, such as those on the Countess of Scandiauo's
lip (" Quel labbro," &c.) ; the one to Stigliano, concluding with
the atlecting mention of himself and his lost harp ; that begiiming

" lo veggio in cicia sciiitillar le stcllc ,"

recur to my mind oftener than any others except Dante's " Tanto
gentile" and Filicaia^s Lament on llahj ; and, with the exception
of a few of the more famous odes of Petrarch, and one or two of
Filicaia's and Guidi's, I know of none in Italian like several of
Tasso's, including his fragment " O del grand' Apcnnino," and
tlie exquisite chorus on the Golden Age, which struck a note in
the hearts of the world.

His Aminta, the chief pastoral poem of Italy, though, with the
exception of that ode, not equal in passages to the Faithful Shep-
erfZ<:s5 (which is a Pan to it compared with a beardless shepherd),
is elegant, interesting, and as superior to Guarini's more sophisti-
cate yet still beautiful Pastor Fido as a first thought may be sup-
posed to be to its emulator. The objection of its being too elegant
for shepherds he anticipated and nullified by making Love himsell
account for it in a charming prologue, of which the god is the
speaker :

" Qucste selvc oggi ragionar d' Amore
S' udranno in nuova guisa ; c ben paraBsi,
Che la inia Dt-iui sia qui prcsrnlc
In se medcsina, c non nc' 8Uoi ministri.
Spircrb nobil sensi k rozzi |)otti ;
Ra(l(loIrir6 nello lor linguc il suono :
Prrrh6, ovunquc i' mi sia, io sono Amorp
Nc' pastori non men oho ncgli eroi ;
E la tlisaggiiaglianz-a dr' ROggotti,
Come a mc piacp, ngguaglio o qucfita 6 puro

458 TASSa

Suprema glcaia, e gran miracol mio,
Render simili alle piii dotte cetre
Le rustiche sampogne."

After new fashion shall these woods to-day

Hear love discoursed ; and it shall well be seers

That my divinity is present here

In its own person, not its ministers,

I will inbreathe high fancies in rvide hearts ;

I will refine and render dulcet sweet

Their tongues ; because, wherever I may be.

Whether with rustic or heroic men,

There am I Love ; and inequahty,

As it may please me, do I equalise ;

And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle

To make the rural pipe as eloquent

Even as the subtlest harp.

I ought not to speak of Tasso's other poetry, or of his prose, for
I have read little of either ; though, as they are not popular with
his countrymen, a foreigner may be pardoned for thinking his
classical tragedy, Torrismmido, not attractive — his Sette Giornate
(Seven Days of the Creation) still less so — and his platonical
and critical discourses better filled with authorities than reasons.

Tasso was a lesser kind of Milton, enchanted by the Sirens.
We discern the weak parts of his character, more or less, in all
his writings ; but we see also the irrepressible elegance and su-
periority of the mind, which, in spite of all weakness, was felt to
tower above its age, and to draw to it the homage as well as the
resentment of princes.

OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

^rigitment.

The Mahomedan king of Jerusalem, at the instigation of Ismeno, a magician,
deprives a Christian church of its image of the Virgin, and sets it up in a
mosque, under a spell of enchantment, as a palladium against the Crusaders.
The image is stolen in the night; and the king, unable to discover who has
taken it, orders a massacre of the Christian portion of his subjects, which is
prevented by Sophronia's accusing herself of the offence. Her lover, Olindo,
finding her sentenced to the stake in consequence, disputes with her the right
of martyrdom. He is condemned to suffer with her. The Amazon Clorinda,
who has come to fight on the side of Aladin, obtains their pardon in acknow-
ledgment of her services ; and Sophronia, who had not loved Olindo before,
now returns his passion, and goes with Mm from the stake to the marriage-altar.

OLINDO AND SOPIIRONIA.

Godfrey of Boulogne, the leader of tlie Crusaders, was now in
full march for Jerusalem with the Christian army ; and Ahidin,
the old infidel king, became agitated with wrath and terror, lie
had heard nothinor but accounts of the enemy's irresistible ad-
vance. There were many Christians witin'n his walls whose in-
surrection he dreaded ; and though lie had appeared to grow
milder with age, he now, in spite of the frost in his veins, felt as
hot for cruelty, as the snake excited by the fire of summer. I lo
longed to stifle his fears of insurrection by a massacre, but dread-
ed the consequence in the event of the city's being taken. lie
therefore contented himself, for the present, with laying wa.ste the
country round about it, destroying every possible receptacle of
the invaders, poisoning the wells, and doubly fortifying the only
weak point in his fortifications.

At this juncture the renegade Ismeno stood before him — a bad
old man who had studied unlawful arts. He could bind and
loose evil spirits, and draw the dead out of their tombs, restoring
to them breath and perception. This man told the king, that in
the church belonging to his Christian subjects there was an altar
underground, on which stood a veiled imago of the woman whom
they worshipped — the mother, as they called her, of their dead
and buried God. A dazzling light burnt for ever before it ; and
the walls were hung with the offerings of her credulous devotees.
If this image, he said, were taken away by the king's own hand,
and set up in a mosque, such a spell of enchantment could be
thrown about it as should render the city impregnable so long as
the idol was kept safe.

Aladin proceeded instantly to the Christian temple, and, treat-
ing the priests with violence, tore the image from its shrine and

46-2 OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

conveyed it to his own place of worship. The necromancer then
muttered before it his blasphemous enchantment.

But tlie light of morning no sooner appeared in the mosque,
than the official to whose charge the palladium had been commit-
ted missed it from its place, and in vain searched every other to
find it. In truth it never was found again ; nor is it known to
this day how it went. Some think the Christians took it ; others
that Heaven interfered in order to save it from profanation. And
well (says the poet) does it become a pious humility so to think
of a disappearance so wonderful.

The king, who fell into a paroxysm of rage, not doubting that
some Christian was the offender, issued a proclamation setting a
price on the head of any one who concealed it. But no discovery
was made. The necromancer resorted to his art with as little
effect. The king then ordered a general Christian massacre.
His savage wrath hugged itself on the reflection, that the criminal
would be sure to perish, perish else who might.

The Christians heard the order with an astonishment that took
away all their powers of resistance. The suddenness of the pres-
ence of death stupified them. They did not resort even to an en-
treaty. They waited, like sheep, to be butchered. Little did
they think what kind of saviour was at hand.

There was a maiden among them of ripe years, grave and beau-
tiful ; one who took no heed of her beauty, but was altogether ab-
sorbed in high and holy thoughts. If she thought of her beauty
ever, it was only to subject it to the dignity of virtue. The
greater her worth, the more she concealed it from the world, liv-
ing a close life at home, and veiling herself from all eyes.

But the rays of such a jewel could not but break through their
casket. Love would not consent to have it so locked up. Love
turned her very retirement into attraction. There was a youth
who had become enamoured of this hidden treasure. His name
was Olindo ; Sophronia was that of the maiden. Olindo, like
herself, was a Christian ; and the humbleness of his passion was
equal to the worth of her that inspired it. He desired much,
hoped little, asked nothing.* He either knew not how to disclose

* " Braina assai, proco spera, e nulla chiede."— Canto ii. st. 16.
A line justly famous.

OLL\DO AND iSOrUKOMA.

his love, or did not dare it. And she eilhrr drspisid it, or di.I
not, or would not, see it. Tiie poor youtjj, np to tlii» day, had
got nothing by his devotion, not even n look.

The niiiiden, who was nevertheless as generous as she wqh
virtuous, fell into deep thouglit how she might save her Christian
brethren. She soon came to her resolve. She delayed the cxe-
cution of it a little, only out of a sense of virgin decorum, which
in its turn, made her still more resolute. She issued forth by
herself, in the sight of all, not mullling up her beauty, nor yet
exposing it. She withdrew her eyes beneath a veil, and, attired
neither with ostentation nor carelessness, passed througii the
streets with unatFected simplicity, admired by all save herself.
She went straight before the king. Ilis angry aspect did not re-
pel her. She drew aside the veil, and looked him steadily in tjje
face.

" I am come," she said, " to beg, sir, that you will suspend
your wrath, and withhold the orders given to your people. I
know and will give up the author of the deed which has olFended
you, on that condition."

At the noble confidence thus displayed, at the sudden appari-
tion of so much lofty and virtuous beauty, the king's countenance
was confused, and its angry expression abated. Had his spirit
been less stern, or the look she gave him less firm in its purpose,
he would have loved her. But haughty beauty and haughty be-
holder are seldom drawn together. Glances of pleasure are the
baits of love. And yet, if the ungentle king was not enamoured,
he was impressed. He was bent on gazing at her ; he felt an
emotion of delight.

" Say on," he replied ; " I accept the condition."

"Behold then," said she, '' the offender. Tiie deed was the
work of this hand. It was I that conveyed away the image. I
am she whom you look for. I am the criminal to be punished."

And as she spake, she bent her head before him, as already
yielding it to the executioner.

Oh, noble falsehood ! when was truth to be compared with
thee ?*

♦ " Magnanima mengogna! or quanilo 6 il vero
SI belio, chc si possa a te preporreV

464 OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

The king was struck dumb. He did not fail into his accus-
tomed transports of rage. When he recovered from his astonish-
ment, he said, " Who advised you to do this ? Who was your
accomplice ?"

" Not a soul," replied the maiden. " I would not have allowed
another person to share a particle of my glory. I alone knew
of the deed ; I alone counselled it ; I alone did it."

" Then be the consequence," cried he, "on your own head."

" 'Tis but just," returned Sophronia. " Mine was the sole
honour; mine, therefore, should be the only punishment."

The tyrant at this began to feel the accession of his old wrath.
" Where," he said, " have you hidden the image ?"

" I did not hide it," she replied, " I burnt it. I thought it
fit and righteous to do so. I knew of no other way to save it
from the hands of the unbelieving. Ask not for what will never
again be found. Be content with the vengeance you have before
you."

Oh, chaste heart ! oh, exalted soul ! oh, creature full of noble-
ness ! think not to find a forgiving moment return. Beauty itself
is thy shield no longer.

The glorious maiden is taken and bound. The cruel king
has condemned her to the stake. Her veil, and the mantle that
concealed her chaste bosom, are torn away, and her soft arms
tied with a hard knot behind her. She said nothing ; she was not
terrified ; but yet she was not unmoved. Her bosom heaved
in spite of its courage. Her lovely colour was lost in a pure
white.

The news spread in an instant, and the city crowded to the
sight, Christians and all, Olindo among them. He had thought
within himself, " What if it should be Sophronia !" But when
he beheld that it was she indeed, and not only condemned, but
already at the stake, he made through the crowd with violence,
crying out, " This is not the person, — this poor simpleton ! She
never thought of such a thing ; she had not the courage to do it ;
she had not the strength. How was she to carry the sacred im-
age away ? Let her abide by her story if she dare. I did it."

Such was the love of the poor youth for her that loved him
not.

0L1?\D0 AND SOPHROMA. 455

When he came up to the stake, he gave a formal account of
what he pretended to liave done. " I climbed in," he said, " at
the window of your mosque at night, and found a narrow passage
round to the image, where nobody could expect to meet me. I
shall not suffer the penalty to be usurped by another. I did tlie
deed, and I will have the honour of doing it, now that it comes to
this. Let our places be exchanged."

Sophronia had looked up when she heard the youth call out,
and she gazed on him with eyes of pity. " What madness is
this !" exclaimed she. " What can induce an innocent person to
bring destruction on himself for nothing ? Can I not bear the
thing by myself? Is the anger of one man so tremendous, that
one person cannot sustain it ? Trust me, friend, you are mistaken.
I stand in no need of your company."

Thus spoke Sophronia to her lover ; but not a whit was he dis-
posed to alter his mind. Oh, great and beautiful spectacle ! Love
and virtue at strife ; — death the prize they contend for ; — ruin
itself the salvation of the conqueror !

But the contest irritated the king. He felt himself set at
nought ; felt death itself despised, as if in despite of the inflictor.
'' Let them be taken at their words," cried he ; " let both have
the prize they long for."

The youth is seized on the instant, and bound like the maiden.
Both are tied to the stake, and set back to back. They behold
not the face of one another. The wood is heaped round about
them ; the fire is kindled.

The youth broke out into lamentations, but only loud enough
to be heard by his fellow-sufferer. " Is this, then," said he, " the
bond which I hoped might join us ? Is this the fire which I
thought might possibly warm two lovers' hearts ?* Too long (is it
not so ?) have we been divided, and now too cruelly are we united :
too cruelly, I say, but not as regards me ; for since I am not to
be partner of thy existence, gladly do I share thy death. It is
thy fate, not mine, that afflicts me. Oh ! too happy were it to
me, too sweet and fortunate, if I could obtain grace enough to be
set with thee heart to heart, and so breathe out my soul into thy

* This conceit is more dwelt upon in the original, coupled with the one no-
ticed at p. 217.

4ge OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

lips ! Perhaps thou wouldst do the like with mine, and so give
me thy last sigh."

Tims spoke the youth in tears ; but the maiden gently reproved

him.

She said : " Other thoughts, my friend, and other lamentations
hcfit a time like this. Why thinkest thou not of thy sins, and of
the rewards which God has promised to the righteous 1 Meet
thy sufferings in his name ; so shall their bitterness be made sweet,
and thy soul be carried into the realms above. Cast thine eyes
upwards, and behold them. See how beautiful is the sky ; how
the sun seems to invite thee towards it with its splendour."

At words so noble and piteous as these the Pagans them-
selves, who stood within hearing, began to weep. The Christians
wept too, but in voices more lowly. Even the king felt an un-
usual emotion of pity ; but disdaining to give way to it, turned
aside and withdrew. The maiden alone partook not of the com-
mon grief She for whom every body wept wept not for herself.

The flames were now beginning to approach the stake, when
there appeared, coming through the crowd, a warrior of noble
mien, habited in the arms of another country. The tiger, which
formed the crest of his helmet, drew all eyes to it, for it was a
cognizance well known. They began to think that it was a hero-
ine instead of a hero which they saw, even the famous Clorinda.
Nor did they err in the supposition.

A despiser of feminine habits had Clorinda been from her
childhood. She disdained to put her hand to the needle and the
distaff. She renounced every sofl indulgence, every timid retire-
ment, thinking that virtue could be safe wherever it went in its
own courageous heart ; and so she armed her countenance with
pride, and pleased herself with making it stern, but not to the
effect she looked for, for the sternness itself pleased. While yet
a child her little right hand would control the bit of the charger,
and she wielded the sword and spear, and hardened her limbs
with wrestling, and made them supple for the race ; and then as
she grew up, she tracked the footsteps of the bear and lion, and
followed the trumpet to the wars ; and in those and in the depths
of the forest she seemed a wild creature to mankind, and a man
to the wildest creature. She had now come out of Persia to

OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA. 467

wreak lier displeasure uii the Christians, who had already felt the
sharpness of her sword ; and as she arrived near this ussoinhhHl
multitude, death was the first thing that met her eyes, but in a
shape so perplexing, that she looked narrowly to discern wlmt ii
was, and then spurred her horse towards the scene of action.
The crowd gave way as she approached, and she halted us she
entered the circle round the stake, and sat gazing on tlie youth
and maiden. She wondered to see the male victim lamenting,
while the female was mute. But indeed she saw that he was
weeping not out of grief but pity ; or at least, not out of grief
for himself; and as to the maiden, she observed her to be so wrapt
up in the contemplation of the heavens at which she was gazing,
that she appeared to have already taken leave of earth.

Pity touched the heart of the Amazon, and the tears came into
her eyes. She felt sorry for both the victims, but chiefly for the
one that said nothing. She turned to a white-headed man beside
her, and said, " What is this ? Who are these two persons whom
crime, or their ill-fortune, has brought hither?"

The man answered her briefly, but to the purpose; and she
discerned at once that both must be innocent. She therefore de-
termined to save them. She dismounted, and set the example of
putting a stop to the flames, and then said to the oflicers, " Let
nobody continue this work till I have spoken to the king. Rest
assured he will hold you guiltless of the delay." Tlie olficers
obeyed, being struck with lier air of confidence and authority ;
and she went straigiit towards the king, who had heard of her arri-
val, and who was coming to bid her welcome.

" I am Clorinda," she said. " Thou knowest me ? Then thou
knowest, sir, one who is desirous to defend the good faith and the
king of Jerusalem. I am ready for any duty that may be assigned
me. I fear not the greatest, nor do I disdain the least. Open
field or walled city, no post will come amiss to the king's ser-

vant."

" Illustrious maiden," answered the king, " who knoweth not
Clorinda ? What region is there so distant from Asia, or so far
away out of the paths of the sun, to which the sound of thy
achievements has not arrived ? Joined by thee and by thy sword
I fear nothing. Godfrey, methinks, is too slow to attack me.

4G8 OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

Dost thou ask to which post thou shalt be appointed ? To the
greatest ! None else become thee. Thou art lady and mistress
of the war.-'

Clorinda gave the king thanks for his courtesy, and then re-
sumed. " Strange is it, in truth," she said, " to ask my reward
before I have earned it ; but confidence like this reassures mo.
Grant me, for what I propose to do in the good cause, the lives of
those two persons. I wave the uncertainty of their offence ; I
wave the presumption of innocence afforded by their own behaviour.
I ask their liberation as a favour. And yet it becomes me, at the
same time, to confess, that 1 do not believe the Christians to have
taken the image out of the mosque. It was an impious thing of
the nia<Tician to put it there. An idol has no business in a Mus-
sulman temple, much less the idols of unbelievers ; and my
opinion is, that the miracle was the work of Mahomet himself, out
of scorn and hatred of the contamination. Let Ismeno prefer his
craft, if he will, to the weapons of a man ; but let him not take
upon himself the defence of a nation of warriors."

The warlike damsel was silent : and the kins:, thoun;h he could
with difficulty conquer his anger, yet did so, to please his guest.
" They are free," said he ; "I can deny nothing to such a peti-
tioner. Whether it be justice or not to absolve them, absolved
they are. If they are innocent, I pronounce them so ; if guilty, I
concede their pardon."

At' these wards the youth and the maiden were set free ; and
blissful indeed was the fortune of Olindo ; for love so proved as
his awoke love in the noble bosom of Sophronia, and so he passed
from the stake to the marriage-altar, a husband, instead of a wretch
condemned — a lover beloved, instead of a hopeless adorer.

TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

Argument.

The Mussulman Amazon Clorinda, who is beloved by the Christain chief
Tancred, goes forth in disguise at night to burn the batteiing tower of the
Christian army. She effects her purpose : but, in retreating from its discov-
erers, is accidentally shut out of the gate through which she had left the city.
She makes her way into the open country, trusting to get in at one of the other
gates ; but, having been watched by Tancred, who does not know her in the
armour in which she is disguised, a combat ensues between them, in which she
is slain. She requests baptism in her last moments, and receives it from the
hands of her despairing lover.

TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

The Christians, in their s'lQcrc of Jerusalem, had brou<;ht a iiii"<«
rolling tower against the walls, from wjiich they battered and
commanded the city with such deadly effect that the generous Am-
azon Clorinda resolved to go forth in disguise and burn it. She
disclosed her design to the chieftain Argantes, for the pur|)ose of
recommending to him the care of her damsels, in case any mis-
fortune should happen to her ; but the warrior, jealous of the
glory of such an enterprise, insisted on partaking it. The old
king, weeping for gratitude, joyfully gave them leave ; and tlie
Soldan of Egypt, with a generous emulation, would fain join
them. Argantes was about to give him a disdainful refusal,
when the king interposed, and persuaded the Soldan to remain
behind, lest the city should miss too many of its best defrnders at
a time ; adding, that the risk of sallying forth should be his, in
case the burners of the tower were pursued on their return. Ar-
gantes and the Amazon then retired to prepare for the exploit, and
the magician Ismeno compounded two balls of sulphur for the work
of destruction.

Clorinda took off her beautiful helmet, and her surcoat of cloth
of silver, and laid aside all her haughty arms, and dressed her-
self (unfortunate omen !) in black armour without polish, the
better to conceal herself from the enemy. Her faithful servant,
the good old eunuch Arsetes, who had attended her from inf.mcy,
and was now following her about as well as he could with his
accustomed zeal, anxiously noticed what she was doing, and
guessing it was for some desperate enterprise, entreated her, by
his white hairs and all the love he had shewn her, to give it up.
Finding his prayers to no purpose, he requested with great emo-
tion that she would give ear to certain matters in her family his-

472 TANCRED AND CLORINDA,

tory, which he at length felt it his duty to disclose. " It would
then," he said, " be for herself to judge, whether she would per-
sist in the enterprise or renounce it." Clorinda, at this, looked
at the good man, and listened with attention.

" Not long ago," said he, " there reigned in Ethiopia, and per-
haps is still reigning, a king named Senapus, who in common
with his people professed the Christian religion. They are a
black, though a handsome people, and the king and his queen
were of the same colour. The king loved her dearly, but was
unfortunately so jealous, that he concealed her from the sight of
mankind. Had it been in his power, I think he would have hin-
dered the very eyes of heaven from beholding her. The sweet
ladv, however, was wdse and humble, and did every thing she
could to please him.

" I was not a Christian myself. I was a Pagan slave, em-
ployed among the women about the queen, and making one of her
special attendants.

" It happened that the royal bed-chamber was painted with the
story of a holy knight saving a maiden from a dragon i^ and the
maiden had a face beautifully fair, with blooming cheeks. The
queen often prayed and w^ept before this picture ; and it made so
great an impression on her, particularly the maiden's face, that
when she bore a child, she saw with consternation that the in-
fant's skin was of the same fair colour. This child was thyself.f

" Terrified with the thoughts of what her husband would feel
at such a sight, what a convincing proof he w^ould hold it of a
faith on her part the reverse of spotless, she procured a babe of
her own colour by means of a confidant ; and before thou wert
baptised (which is a ceremony that takes place in Ethiopia later
than elsewhere) committed thee to my care to be brought up at a
distance. Who shall relate the tears which thy mother poured
forth, and the sighs and sobs with w^hich they were interrupted ?

* St. Gcorse.

t Tills fiction of a white Ethiop child is taken from the Greek romance of
Iloliodorus, book the fourth. The imaginative principle on which it is founded
is true to physiology, and Tasso had a right to use it ; but the particular and
excessive instance does not appear happy in the eyes of a modern reader ac-
quainted with the Ixistor}^ of albinos.

TANCRED AND CLOIUNDA. 473

How many times, when she tliought she luid given tliee the lust
embrace, did she not gatlier thee to her bosom once more !* At
lengtli, raising licr eyes to lieaven, she said, ' () thou that sccst
into tlie hearts of mortals, and knowest in tliis matter the spot-
lessness of mine, dark though it be otlierwise with frailty and with
sin, save, I pray thee, tiiis innocent creature wiio is denied the
milk of its mother's breast. Vouchsafe that she resemble her
hapless parent in nothing but a chaste life. And thou, celestial
warrior, that didst deliver the maiden out of the serpent's mouth,
if I have ever lit humble taper on thine altar, and set before thee
olTerings of gold and incense, be, I implore thee, her advocate.
Be her advocate to such purpose, that in every turn of fortune
she may be enabled to count on thy good hel}).' Here she ceased,
tore to her very heart-strings, with a face painted of the colour of
death ; and I, weeping myself, received thee, and bore thee away
hidden in a sweet covering of flowers and leaves.

" I journeyed with thee along a forest, where a tiger came
upon us with fury in its eyes. I betook me, alas ! to a tree, and
left thee lying on the ground, such terror was in me ; and the
horrible beast looked down upon thee. But it fell to licking thee
with its dreadful tongue, and thou didst smile to it, and put thy
little hand to its jaws ; and lo ! it gave thee suck, being a mother
itself, and then, wonderful to relate, it returned into the woods,
leaving me to venture down from the tree, and bear thee onward
to my "place of refuge. There, in a little obscure cottage, I had
thee nursed for more than a year ; till, feeling that I grew old, I
resolved to avail myself of the riches the queen had given me,
and go into my own country, which was Egypt. I set out for it
accordingly, and had to cross a torrent wiiere thieves threatened
me on one side, and the fierce water on the other. I plunged in,
holding thee above the torrent with one hand, till I came to an
eddy that tore thee from me. I thought thee lost. Wiiat was
my delight and astonishment, on reaching tiie bank, to fmd that
the water itself had tossed thee upon it in safety !

♦ The conceit is more antithetically put in the original :

" Ch' cfjli avria del candor che in te si vcdc
Argomcntato in lei non bianca fcde."

°, Canto xii. st. 2-1.

474 TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

" But I had a dream at night, which seemed to shew me the
cause of thy good fortune. A warrior appeared before me with a
threatening countenance, holding a sword in my face, and saying
in an imperious voice, ' Obey the commands of the child's mother
and of me, and baptise it. She is favoured of Heaven, and her
lot is in my keeping. It was I that put tenderness in the heart
of the wild beast, and even a will to save her in the water. Woe
to thee, if thou belie vest not this vision. It is a message from the

skies.'

" The spirit vanished, and I awoke and pursued my journey ;
but thinkino- my own creed the true one, and therefore concluding
the dream to be false, I baptised thee not ; I bred thee what I was
myself, a Pagan ; and thou didst grow up, and become great and
wonderful in arms, surpassing the deeds of men, and didst acquire
riches and lands ; and what thy life has been since, thou knowest
as well as I ; ay, and thou knowest mine own ways too, how I
have followed and cautiously waited on thee ever, being to thee
both as a servant and father.

" Now yesterday morning, as I lay 'heavily asleep, in conse-
quence of my troubled mind, the same figure of the warrior made
its appearance, but with a countenance still more threatening, and
speaking in a louder voice. ' Wretch,' it exclaimed, ' the hour
is approaching when Clorinda shall end both her life and her be-
lief. She is mine in despite of thee. Misery be thine.' With
these words it darted away as though it flew.

" Consider then, delight of my soul, what these dreams may
portend. They threaten thee terrible things ; for what reason I
know not. Can it be, that mine own faith is the wrong one, and
that of thy parents the right ? Ah ! take thought at least, and
repress this daring courage. Lay aside these arms that frighten

me."

Tears hindered the old man from saying more. Clorinda grew
thoughtful, and felt something of dread, for she had a like kind of
dream. At length, however, cheerfully looking up, she said, " I
must follow the faith I was bred in ; the faith which thou thyself
bred'st me in, although thy words would now make me doubt it.
Neither can I give up the enterprise that calls me forth. Such

TANCRED AND CLORINDA. 475

a withdrawal is not to be expected of an honourable soul. Death
may put on the worst face it pleases. 1 shall not retreat."

The intrepid maiden, however, did her best to console her good
friend ; but the time having arrived for the adventure, she finally
bade iiim be of good heart, and so left him.

Silently, and in the middle of the night, Argantes and Clorinda
took their way down the hills of Jerusalem, and, quitting tiic gates,
went stealthily towards the site of the tower. But its ever-watch-
ful guards were alarmed. They demanded the wateli-word ;
and, not receiving it, cried out, " To arms ! to arms !'' The
dauntless adventurers plunged forwards with their swords ; they
dashed aside every assailant, pitched the balls of sulphur into the
machine, and in a short time, in the midst of a daring conflict, had
the pleasure of seeing the smoke and the flame arise, and the
whole tower blazing to its destruction. A terrible sight it was to the
Christians. Waked up, they came crowding to the place ; and
the two companions, notwithstanding their skill and audacity,
were compelled to make a retreat. The besieged, with the king
at their head, now arrived also, crowding on the walls ; and the
gate was opened to let the adventurers in. The Soldan issued
forth at the same moment to cover the retreat. Argantes was
forced through the gate by Clorinda in spite of himself ; and she,
but for a luckless antagonist, would have followed him ; but a
soldier aiming at her a last blow, she rushed back to give the
man his deatii ; and, in the confusion of the moment, the warders,
believing her to have entered, shut up the gate, and the heroine
was left without.

Behind Clorinda was the gate — before and round about her was
a host of foes ; and surely at that moment she thought that her
life was drawinor to its end. Finding, however, that her dark
armour befriended her in the tumult, she mingled with the enemy
as though she had been one of tliemselves, and so, by degrees,
picked her way through the confusion caused by the fire. As the
wolf, with its bloody mouth, seeks covert in the woods, even so
Clorinda got clear out of the multitude into the darkness and the
open country.

Not, however, so clear, alas ! but that Tancred perceived her
— Tancred, her foe in creed, but her adoring lover, whose heart

FART III. 6

47fi TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

she had conquered in the midst of strife, and whose passion for
her she knew. But now she knew not that he had seen her ; nor
did he, poor valiant wretch, know that the knight in black armour
whom he pursued was a woman, and Clorinda. Tancred had
seen the warrior strike down the assailant at the gate ; he had
watched him as he picked his way to escape ; and Clorinda now
heard the unknown Tancred coming swiftly on horseback behind
her as she was speeding round towards another gate in hopes of
being let in.

The heroine at length turned, and said, " How now, friend ? —
what is thy business ?"

" Death !" answered the pursuer.

" Thou shalt have it," replied the maiden.

The knight, as his enemy was on foot, dismounted, in order to
render the combat equal ; and their gwords are drawn in fury,
and the fight begins.*

Worthy of the brightest day-time was that fight — worthy of a
theatre full of valiant beholders. Be not displeased, O Night !
that I draw it out of thy bosom, and set it in the serene light of
renown : the splendour will but the more set off the great shade
of thy darkness.

No trial was this of skill — no contest of warding and traversing
and taking heed — no artful interchange of blows now pretended,
now given in earnest, now glancing. Night-time and rage cast
asid(3 all consideration. The swords horribly clashed and ham-
mered on one another. Not a cut descended in vain — not a thrust
was without substance. Shame and fury aggravated one another.
Every blow became fiercer than the last. They closed — they
could use their blades no longer ; they dashed the pummels of
their swords at one another's faces ; they butted and shouldered
with helm and buckler. Three times the man threw his arms
round the woman with other embraces than those of love — three

* The poet here compares his hero and heroine to two jealous " bulls," no
happy eoniparison certainly.

" Vansi a ritrovar non altrimenti
Che duo tori gelosi."

St. 53.

TANCRED AND CLORINDA. 477

times they returned to their swords, iiiul cut and slushed one an-
other's bleedino; bodies ; till at len<j;th tiicy were obliged to hold
back for the purpose of taking breath.

Tancred and Clorinda stood fronting one another in the dark
ness, leaning on their swords for want of strength. The laststai
in the heavens was fading in the tinge of dawn ; and Tancred
saw that his enemy had lost more blootl than himself, and it made
him proud and joyful. Oh, foolish mind of us humans, elated at
every fancy of success ! Poor wretch ! for what dost thou re.
joice ? How sad will be thy victory ! ^\'Jlat a misery to look
back upon, thy delight ! Every drop of that blood will be paid
for with worlds of tears !

Dimly thus looking at one another stood the combatants, bleed-
ing a while in peace. At length Tancred, who wished to know
his antagonist, said, " It hath been no good fortune of ours to be
compelled thus to fight where nobody can behold us ; but we have
at least become acquainted with the good swords of one another.
Let me request, therefore (if to request any thing at such a time
be not unbecoming), that I may be no stranger to thy name.
Permit me to learn, whatever be the result, who it is that shall
honour my death or my victory."

'• I am not accustomed," answered the fierce maiden, " to dis-
close who I am ; nor shall I disclose it now. SufBce to hear that
thou seest before thee one of the burners of the tower."

Tancred was exasperated at this discovery. " In an evil mo-
ment," cried he, " hast thou said it. Thy silence and thy speech
alike disgust me."

Into the combat again they dash, feeble as they were. Fero-
cious indeed is the strife in which skill is not thought of, and
strength itself is dead ; in which valour rages instead of contends,
and feebleness becomes hate and fury. Oh, the gates of blood
that were set open in wounds upon wounds ! If life itself did
not come pouring forth, it was only because scorn withheld it.

As in the yEgean Sea, when the south and north winds have
lost the violence of their strength, the billows do not subside nev-
ertheless, but retain the noise and magnitude of their first motion ;
so the continued impulse of the combatants carried them still

478 TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

against one another, hurling them into mutual injury, though they
had scarcely life in their bodies.*

And now the fatal hour has come when Clorinda must die.
The sword of Tancred is in her bosom to the very hilt. The
stomacher under the cuirass which enclosed it is filled with a hot
flood. Her legs give way beneath her. She falls — she feels that
she is departing. The conqueror, with a still threatening coun-
tenance, prepares to follow up his victory, and treads on her as
she lies.

But a new spirit had come upon her — the spirit which called
the beloved of Heaven to itself; and, speaking in a sorrowing
voice, she thus uttered her last words :

" My friend, thou hast conquered — I forgive thee. Forgive
thou me, not for my body's sake, which fears nothing, but for the
sake, alas ! of my soul. Baptise me, I beseech thee."

There was something in the voice, as the dying person spake
these words, that went, he knew not why, to the heart of Tan-
cred. The tears forced themselves into his eyes. Not far off
there was a little stream, and the conqueror went to it and filled
his helmet ; and returning, prepared for the pious office by un-
lacing his adversary's helmet. His hands trembled when he first
beheld the forehead, though he did not yet know it ; but when the
vizor was all down, and the face disclosed, he remained without
speech and motion.

Oh, the sight ! — Oh, the recognition !

He did not die. He summoned up all the powers within him
to support his heart for that moment. He resolved to hold up his
duty above his misery, and give life with the sweet water to her
whom he had slain with sword. He dipped his fingers in it, and
marked her forehead with the cross, and repeated the words of

♦ " Qual r alto Egco, perche Aquilone o Noto
Cessi, che tutto prima il volse e scosse,
Non s' accheta perb, ma '1 suono e '1 moto

Ritien de 1' onde anco agitate e grosse ;
Tal, sc ben manca in lor col san^ue vote

Quel ^ igor che le braccia ai colpi mosse,
Serbano ancor 1' impcto primo, e vanno
Da quel sospinti a giunger danno a danno."

St. 63.

TANCRED AMD CLOKINDA. 479

the sacred ollicc ; and while he was ropcatiii«( tlioin, tin; suHbrer
changed countenance for joy, and sniiK'd, and seemed to say, in
the cheerfuhiess of her departure, " The heavens are oj)etiin^ — I
go in peace." A paleness and a shade togetlier then came over
her countenance, as if lilies had heen mixed with violets. She
looked up at heaven, and heaven itself might he thought for very
tenderness to be looking at her ; and then she raised a little her
hand towards that of the knight (for she could not speak), and so
gave it him in sign of goodwill ; and with his pressure of it her
soul passed away, and she seemed asleep.

But Tancred no sooner beheld her dead than all the strength
of mind whicii he had summoned up to support him fell flat on
the instant. He would here give way to the most frantic outcries;
but life and speech seemed to be shut up in one point in his heart ;
despair seized him like death, and he fell senseless beside her :
and surely he would have died indeed, iiad not a party of his
countrymen happened to come up. They were looking for wa-
ter, and had found it, and they discovered the bodies at the same
time. The leader knew Tancred by his arms. The beautiful body
of Clorinda, though he deemed her a Pagan, he would not leave
exposed to the wolves ; and so he directed both to be carried to
the pavilion of Tancred, and there placed in separate chambers.

Dreadful was the waking of Tancred — not for the solemn
whispering before him — not for his aching wounds, terrible as
they were, but for the agony of the recollection that rushed upon
him. He would have gone staggering out of the pavilion to seek
the remains of his Clorinda, and save them from the wolves ; but
his friends told him they were at hand, under the curtain of his
own dwelling. A gleam of pleasure shot across his face, and he
stacrcered into the chamber ; but when he beheld the body gored
with his own hand, and the face, calm indeed, but calm like a
pale night w ithout stars, he trembled so, that lie would have sunk
to the ground but for his supporters.

" O sweet face !" he exclaimed ; " thou may'st be calm now,
but what is to calm me ? O hand that was held up to me in sign
of peace and forgiveness ! to what have I brought thee ? Wretch
that I am, I do not even weep. Mine eyes are as cruel as my
hands. My blood shall be shed instead."

480 TANCRED AND CLORINDA.

And with these words he began tearing off the bandages which
the surgeons had put upon him ; and he thrust his fingers into
his wounds, and would have slain himself thus outright, had not
the pain made him faint away.

He was then taken back to his own chamber. Godfrey came
in the mean time with the venerable hermit Peter ; and when the
sufferer awoke, they addressed him in kind words, which even
his impatience respected ; but it was not to be calmed till the
preacher put on the terrors of religion, remonstrating with him as
an ingrate to God, and threatening him with the doom of a sinner.
The tears then crept into his eyes, and he tried to be patient, and
in some degree was so — only breaking out ever and anon, now
with exclamations of horror, and now with fond lamentations,
talking as if with the shade of his beloved.

Thus lay Tancred for days together, ever moaning and woful ;
till, falling asleep one night towards the dawn, the shade of Clo-
rinda did indeed appear more beautiful than ever, and clad in
light and joy. She seemed to stoop and wipe the tears from his
eyes ; and then said, " Behold how happy I am. Behold me, O
beloved friend, and see how happy, and bright, and beautiful I
am ; and consider that it is all owing to thyself. 'Twas thou
that took'st me put of the false path, and made me worthy of ad-
mission among saints and angels. There, in heaven, I love and
rejoice ; and there I look to see thee in thine appointed time ;
after which we shall both love the great God and one another for
ever and ever. Be faithful, and command thyself, and look to
the end ; for, lo ! as far as it is permitted to a blessed spirit to
love mortality, even now I love thee !"

With these words the eyes of the vision grew bright beyond
mortal beauty ; and then it turned and was hidden in the depth
of its radiance, and disappeared.

Tancred slept a quiet sleep; and when he awoke he gave
himself patiently up to the will of the physician ; and the re-
mains of Clorinda were gathered into a noble tomb.*

* This tomb, Tancred says, in an address which he makes to it, " has his
flaiucs inside of it, and his tears without."

" Che dcntro hai le mie fiamme, e fuori il pianto." St. 96.
I ain loath to disturb the effect of a really touching story ; but if I do not occa-
sionally give mstanccs of these conceits, my translations will belie my criticism.

ic!i

RINALDO AND ARMIDA:

WITH THE

ADVENTURES OF THE ENCHANTED FOREST.

Argument.

Part I. — Satan assembles the fiends in council to consider the best means
of opposing the Christians. Armida, the niece of the wizard king of Damas-
cus, is incited to go to their camp under false pretences, and endeavour to 'f'
weaken it ; which she does by seducing away many of the knights, and sowing fr(
a discord which ends in the flight of Rinaldo. L

Part II.^Arniida, after making the knights feel the power of her magic, in
dismisses them bound prisoners for Damascus. They are rescued on their way
by Rinaldo. Armida pursues him in wrath, but falls in love with him.

Part III. — The magician Ismeno succeeds in frightening the Christians in ,
their attempt to cut wood from the enchanted forest. Rinaldo is sent for as the
person fated to undo the enchantment.

Part IV. — Rinaldo and Armida, in love with each other, pass their time in ^
a bower of bliss. He is fetched away by two knights, and leaves her in despair. 01

Part V. — Rinaldo disenchants the forest, and has the chief hand in the
taking of Jerusalem. He meets and reconciles Armida.

RINALDO AND ARMIDA, ETC.

PART THE FIRST.

ARMIDA IN THE CHRISTIAN CAMP.

The Christians had now commenced their attack on Jerusa-
lem, and brought a great rolling tower against the walls, built
from the wood of a forest in the neighbourhood ; when the Ma-
lignant Spirit, who has never ceased his war with Heaven, cast
in his mind how he might best defeat their purpose. It was ne-
cessary to divide their forces ; to destroy their tower ; to hinder
them from building another ; and to make one final triumphant
effort against the whole progress of their arms.

Forgetting how the right arm of God could launch its thunder-
bolts, the Fiend accordingly seated himself on his throne, and
ordered his powers to be brouglit together.

The Tartarean trumpet, with its hoarse voice, called up the
dwellers in everlasting darkness. The huge black caverns
trembled to their depths, and the blind air rebellowed with the
thunder. The bolt does not break forth so horribly when it
comes bursting after the flash out of the heavens ; nor had the
world before ever trembled with such an earthquake.*

* " Chiaina o-H abitator' de 1' ombre etorne
II rauco suon de la tartarca tromba.
Treman le spaziose atre cavcrne,

E 1 'aer cieco a quel romor riniboinba.
N6 si stridendo mai da lo suporne

Region! del cielo il folgor jjiomba :
N6 s\ sTossa <riii mai troma la terra,
Quando i vapori in sen gravida serra."

Canto iv. at 3.

The trump of Tartarus, with iron roar.

Called to the dwellers the black regions under :
6*

484 RINALDO AND ARMIDA.

The gods of the abyss came thronging up on all sides through
the gates ; — terrible-looking beings with unaccountable aspects,
dispensers of death and horror with their eyes ; — some stamping
with hoofs, some rolling on enormous spires, — their faces human,
their hair serpents. There were thousands of shameless Har-
pies, of pallid Gorgons, of barking Scyllas, of Chimeras that
vomited ashes, and of monsters never before heard or thought of,
with perverse aspects all mixed up in one.

The Power of Evil sat looking down upon them, huger than a
rock in the sea, or an alp with forked summits. A certain hor-
rible majesty augmented the terrors of his aspect. His eyes
reddened ; his poisonous look hung in the air like a comet ; the
mouth, as it opened in the midst of clouds of beard, seemed an
abyss of darkness and blood ; and out of it, as from a volcano,
issued fires, and vapours, and disgust.

Satan laid forth to his dreadful hearers his old quarrel with
Heaven, and its new threats of an extension of its empire. Chris-
tendom was to be brought into Asia ; their worshippers were to
perish ; souls were to be rescued from their devices, and Satan's

Hell through its caverns trembled to the core,

And the bUnd air rebellowed to the thunder :
Never yet fiery bolt more fiercely tore

The crashing firmament, like rocks, asunder ;
Nor with so huge a shudder earth's foundations
Quake to their mighty heart, lifting the nations.
The tone of this stanza was caught from a fine one in Politian, the fourth
verse of which (about the cataracts of the Nile) has the grandest " echo to the
sense" which I have met with in Italian poetry :

" Con tal romor, qualor 1' aer di scorda,

Di Giove il foco d' alta nube piomba :
Con tal tumulto, onde la gente assorda,

Da r alte cataratte il Nil rimbomba :
Con tal orror del Latin sangue inororda

Son6 Megera la tartarea tromba."

Fragment on the Jousting of Guiliano de' Medici.
Such is the noise, when through his cloudy floor

The bolt of Jove falls on the pale world under ;
So shakes the land where Nile with deafening roar

Plunges his clattering cataracts in thunder;
Horribly so, through Latium's realm of yore, ,,

The trump of Tartarus blew ghastly wonder.

RINALDO AND ARMIDA. .^S'j

kingdom on earth put an end to. He exhorted them therefore to
issue forth once for all and prevent this fatal consummation hy
the destruction of the Christian forces. Some of the leaders he
bade them do their best to disperse, others to slay, others to draw
into effeminate pleasures, into rebellion, into the ruin of the wiiole
camp, so that not a vestige might remain of its existence.

The assembly broke up with the noise of hurricanes. They
issued forth to look once more upon the stars, and to sow seeds
every where of destruction to the Christians. Satan himself
followed them, and entered the heart of Hydraotes, king of Da-
mascus.

Hydraotes was a wizard as well as a king, and held the Chris-
tians in abhorrence. But he was wise enough to respect their
valour ; and with Satan's help he discerned the likeliest way to
counteract it. He had a niece, who was the greatest beauty of
the age. He had taught her his art : and he concluded, that the
enchantments of beauty and magic united would prove irresist-
ible. He, therefore, disclosed to her his object. He told her
that every artifice was lawful, when the intention was to serve
one's country and one's faith ; and he conjured her to do her ut-
most to separate Godfrey himself from his army, or in the event
of that not being possible, to bring away as many as she could of
his noblest captains.

Armida (for that was her name), proud of her beauty, and of
the unusual arts that she had acquired, took her way the same
evening, alone, and by the most sequestered paths, — a female in
gown and tresses issuing forth to conquer an army.*

She had not travelled many days ere she came in sigiit of the
Christian camp, the outskirts of which she entered immediately.
The Frenchmen all flocked to see her, wondering who she was,
and who could have sent them so lovely a messenger. Armida
passed onwards, not with a misgiving air, not with an unalluring

♦ " La bella Arniida, di sua forma altiera,
E de' doni del sesso e de 1' etate,
L' intipresa prende : e in su la prima sera

Parte, e tiene sol vie chluse e celate :
E 'n treccia e 'n gonna femminile spera
Vincer popoli invitti e schierc armate."

Id. St. 27.

48G RINALDO AND ARMIDA.

and yet not with an immodest one. Her golden tresses she suf-
fered at one moment to escape from under veil, and at another
gathered them again within it. Her rosy mouth breathed sim-
plicity as well as voluptuousness. Her bosom was so artfully
draped, as to let itself be discerned without seeming to intend it.
And thus she passed along, surprising and transporting every
body. Coming at length among the tents of the officers, she
requested to be shewn that of the leader ; and Eustace eagerly
stepped forward to conduct her.

Eustace was the younger brother of Godfrey. He had all the
ardour of his time of life, and the gallantry, in every respect, of
a Frenchman. After paying her a profusion of compliments,
and learning that she was a fugitive in distress, he promised her
every thing which his brother's authority and his own sword
could do for her ; and so led her into Godfrey's presence.

The pretended fugitive made a lowly obeisance, and then stood
mute and blushing, till the general re-assured her. She then told
him, that she was the rightful queen of Damascus, whose throne
was usurped by an uncle ; that her uncle sought her death, from
which she had been saved by the man who was bribed to inflict
it ; and that although her creed was Mahometan, she had brought
her mind to conclude, that so noble an enemy as Godfrey would
take pity on her condition, and permit some of his captains to
aid the secret wishes of her people, and seat her on the throne.
Ten selected chiefs would overcome, she said, all opposition ;
and she promised in return to become his grateful and faithful
vassal.

The leader of the Christian army sat a while in deliberation.
His heart was inclined to befriend the lady, but his prudence was
afraid of a Pagan artifice ; and he thought it did not become his
piety to turn aside from the great enterprise which God had fa-
voured. He therefore gave her a gentle refusal ; but added, that
should success attend him, and Jerusalem be taken, he would in-
stantly do what she required.

Armida looked down, and wept. A mixture of indignation
and despair appeared to seize her ; and exclaiming that she had
no longer a wish to live, she accused, she said, not a heart so re-
nowned for generosity as his, but Heaven itself which had steeled

RINALDO AND AIl.-\nnA. i87

it against her. Wliat was slie to do? She could not remain in
his camp. Vir^nn modesty fcjrbade lluit. She waa not safe out
of its bounds. Her enemies tracivcd lier steps. It was lit that
she should die by her own hand.

An indignant pity took possession of the French oflicers. They
wondered how Godfrey could resist the prayers of a creature so
beautiful; and Eustace openly, though respectfully, remonstrated.
He said, that if ten of the best of his captains could not be spared,
ten others might ; that it especially became the Christian to re-
dress the wrongs of the innocent ; that the death of a tyrant, in-
stead of beins: a deviation from tiie service of God,- was one of
the directest means of performing it ; and that France would
never endure to hear, that a lady had applied to her knights for
assistance, and found her suit refused.

A murmur of approbation followed the words of Eustace. His
companions pressed nearer to the general, and warmly urged his
request.

Godfrey assented to a wish expressed by so many, but not with
perfect good will. He bade them remember, that the measure
was the result of their own opinion, not his ; and concluded by
requesting them at all events, for his sake, to moderate the excess
of their confidence. The transported warriors had scarcely any
answer to make but that of congratulations to the lady. She, on
her side, while mischief was rejoicing in her heart, first expressed
her gratitude to all in words intermixed with smiles and tears,
and then carried herself towards every one in particular in the
manner which she thought most fitted to ensnare. She behaved
to this person with cordiality, to that with comparative reserve ;
to one with phrases only, to another with looks besides, and inti-
mations of secret preference. The ardour of some she repressed,
but still in a manner to rekindle it. To others she was all gaiety
and attraction ; and when others again had their eyes upon her,
she would fall into fits of absence, and shed tears, as if in sfcret,
and then look up suddenly and laugh, and put on a cheerful pa-
tience. And then she drew them all into her net.

Yet none of all these men confessed that passion impelled them ;
every body laid his enthusiasm to the account of honour — Eus-
tace particularly, because he was most in love. He was also

488 RINALDO AND ARMIDA.

.ry jealous, especially of the heroical Rinaldo, Prince of Este ;
and as the squadron of horse to which they both belonged— the
greatest in the army — had lately been deprived of its chief, Eus-
tace cast in his mind how he might keep Rinaldo from going
with Armida, and at the same time secure his own attendance on
her, by advancing him to the vacant post. He offered his ser-
vices to Rinaldo for the purpose, not without such emotion as let
the hero into his secret ; but as the latter had no desire to wait
on the lady, he smilingly assented, agreeing at the same time to
assist the wishes of the lover. The emissaries of Satan, however,
were at work in all quarters. If Eustace was jealous of Rinaldo
as a rival in love, Gernando, Prince of Norway, another of the
squadron that had lost its chief, was no less so of his gallantry in
war, and of his qualifications for being his commander. Ger-
nando was a haughty barbarian, who thought that every sort of
pre-eminence was confined to princes of blood royal. He heard
of the proposal of Eustace with a disgust that broke into the un-
worthiest expressions. He even vented it in public, in the open
part of the camp, when Rinaldo was standing at no great dis-
tance ; and the words coming to the hero's ears, and breaking
down the tranquillity of his contempt, the latter darted towards
him, sword in hand, and defied him to single combat. Gernando
beheld death before him, but made a show of valour, and stood
on his defence. A thousand swords leaped forth to back him,
mixed with as many voices ; and half the camp of Godfrey tried
to withhold the impetuous youth v/ho was for deciding his quarrel
without the general's leave. But the hero's transport was not to
be stopped ; he dashed through them all, forced the Norwegian
to encounter him, and after a storm of blows that dazzled the
man's eyes and took away his senses, ran his sword thrice
through the prince's body. He then sent the blade into his
sheath reeking as it was, and, taking his way back to his tent,
reposed in the calmness of his triumph.

The victor had scarcely gone when the general arrived on the
ground, where he beheld the slain Prince of Norway with acute
feelings of regix^t. What was to become of his army, if the
leaders thus quarrelled among themselves, and his authority was
set at nought ? The friends of the slain man increased his an-

RINALDO AM) ARMIDA.

ger against Riiuildo, by charging liim with all the hlaino of tho
catastrophe. The hero's friend, Tancred, assuaged it somewhat
by disclosing the truth, and then ventured to ask pardon for the
outbreak. But the wise coinniander shewed so nianv rensf)n.s
why such an otience could not be overlooked, and his countenance
expressed such a determination to resent it, that the gallant youth
hastened secretly to his friend, and urged him to quit the camp
till his services should be needed. Rinaldo at first called for his
arms, and was bent on resisting every body who came to seize
him, had it been even Godfrey himself; but Tancred shewing
him how unjust that would be, and how fatal to the Christian
cause, he consented with an ill grace to depart. He would take
nobody w ith him but two squires ; and he went away raging with
a sense of ill requital for his achievements, but resolving to prove
their value by destroying every infidel prince that he could
encounter.

Armida now tried in vain to make an impression on the heart
of Godfrey. He was insensible to all her devices ; but she suc-
ceeded in quitting the camp with her ten champions. Lots were
drawn to determine who should go ; and all who failed to be in
the list — Eustace among them — were so jealous of the rest, that
at night-time, after the others had been long on the road, they set
out to overtake them, each by himself, and all in violation of their
soldierly words. The ten opposed them as they came up, but to
no purpose. Armida reconciled them all in appearance, by
feigning to be devoted to each in secret ; and thus she rode on
with them many a mile, till she came to a castle on the Dead Sea,
where she was accustomed to practise her unfriendliest arts.

Meanwhile news came to Godfrey that his Egyptian enemies
were at hand with a great fleet, and that his caravan of provisions
had been taken by the robbers of the desert. His army was thus
threatened with ruin from desertion, starvation, and the sword.
He maintained a calm and even a cheerful countenance ; but in
his thoughts he had great anxiety.

490 AINALDO AND ARMIDA.

PART THE SECOND.

ARMIDA'S WRATH AND LOVE WITH RINALDO.

The castle to which Armida took her prisoners occupied an
island close to the shore in the loathsome Dead Sea. They en-
tered it by means of a narrow bridge ; but if their pity had been
great at seeing her forced to take refuge in a spot so desolate and
repulsive, how pleasingly was it changed into as great a surprise
at finding a totally different region within the walls ! The gar-
dens were extensive and lovely ; the rivulets and fountains as
sweet as the flowery thickets they watered ; the breezes refresh-
ing, the skies of a sapphire blue, and the birds were singing round
about them in the trees. Her riches astonished them no less.
The side of the castle that looked on the gardens was all marble
and gold ; a banquet awaited them beside a water on a shady
lawn, consisting of the exquisitest viands on the costliest plate ; and
a hundred beautiful maidens attended them while they feasted.
The enchantress was all smiles and delight ; and such was her
art, that although she bestowed no favour on any body beyond
his banquet and his hopes, every body thought himself the favour-
ed lover.

But no sooner was the feast over, than the greatest and worst
of their astonishments ensued. The lady quitted them, saying
she should return presently. She did so with a troubled and un-
friendly countenance, having a book in one hand, and a little
wand in the other. She read in the book in a low voice, and
while she was reading shook the little wand ; and the guests, al-
tering in every part of their being, and shrifiking into minute
bodies, felt an inclination, which they obeyed, to plunge into the
water beside them. They were fish. In a little while they
were again men, looking her in the face with dread and amaze-

RINALDU AiND AK3UDA. 4y|

ment. She had restored them to Uu-ir Immunity. She reg