{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10635/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10635","id":"gutenberg_10635","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10635","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Italian poetry -- Translations into English","Italy","Poets, Italian -- Biography"],"text":"STORIES FROM THE ITALIAN POETS:\n\n  WITH\n\n  LIVES OF THE WRITERS.\n\n\n  BY LEIGH HUNT.\n\n\n  IN TWO VOLUMES.\n\n  VOL. II.\n\n\n\n  MDCCCXLVI.\n\n\n  CONTENTS\n\n  OF\n\n  THE SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\n  BOIARDO.\n\n  CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS\n\n  THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA\n\n  THE DEATH OF AGRICAN\n\n  THE SARACEN FRIENDS\n  Part the Second\n\n  SEEING AND BELIEVING\n\n\n  ARIOSTO.\n\n  CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS\n\n  THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA Part\n    I. Angelica and her Suitors\n    II. Angelica and Medoro\n    III. The Jealousy of Orlando\n\n  ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON\n\n  ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA\n\n  SUSPICION\n\n  ISABELLA\n\n\n  TASSO.\n\n  CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS\n\n  OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA\n\n  TANCRED AND CLORINDA\n\n  RINALDO AND ARMIDA;\n\n  WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED FOREST:\n    Part I. Armida in the Christian Camp\n           II. Armida's Hate and Love\n           III. The Terrors of the Enchanted Forest\n           IV. The Loves of Rinaldo and Armida\n           V. The Disenchantment of the Forest, and the Taking of\n              Jerusalem, &c.\n\n\n  APPENDIX.\n\n  I. The Death of Agrican\n  II. Angelica and Medoro Translation\n  III. The Jealousy of Orlando\n  IV. The Death of Clorinda\n  V. Tancred in the Enchanted Forest\n\n\n\nBOIARDO:\n\nCritical Notice of his Life and Genius.\n\nCritical Notice\n\nOF BOIARDO'S LIFE AND GENIUS.[1]\n\nWhile Pulci in Florence was elevating romance out of the street-ballads,\nand laying the foundation of the chivalrous epic, a poet appeared in\nLombardy (whether inspired by his example is uncertain) who was destined\nto carry it to a graver though still cheerful height, and prepare the way\nfor the crowning glories of Ariosto. In some respects he even excelled\nAriosto: in all, with the exception of style, shewed himself a genuine\nthough immature master.\n\nLittle is known of his life, but that little is very pleasant. It\nexhibits him in the rare light of a poet who was at once rich, romantic,\nan Arcadian and a man of the world, a feudal lord and an indulgent\nphilosopher, a courtier equally beloved by prince and people.\n\nMatteo Maria Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, Lord of Arceto, Casalgrande,\n&c., Governor of Reggio, and Captain of the citadel of Modena (it is\npleasant to repeat such titles when so adorned), is understood to have\nbeen born about the year 1434, at Scandiano, a castle at the foot of the\nApennines, not far from Reggio, and famous for its vines.\n\nHe was of an ancient family, once lords of Rubiera, and son of Giovanni,\nsecond count of Scandiano, and Lucia, a lady of a branch of the Strozzi\nfamily in Florence, and sister and aunt of Tito and Erole Strozzi,\ncelebrated Latin poets. His parents appear to have been wise people, for\nthey gave him an education that fitted him equally for public and private\nlife. He was even taught, or acquired, more Greek than was common to the\nmen of letters of that age. His whole life seems, accordingly, to have\nbeen divided, with equal success, between his duties as a servant of the\ndukes of Modena, both military and civil, and the prosecution of his\nbeloved art of poetry,--a combination of pursuits which have been idly\nsupposed incompatible. Milton's poetry did not hinder him from being\nsecretary to Cromwell, and an active partisan. Even the sequestered\nSpenser was a statesman; and poets and writers of fiction abound in\nthe political histories of all the great nations of Europe. When a\nman possesses a thorough insight into any one intellectual department\n(except, perhaps, in certain corners of science), it only sharpens his\npowers of perception for the others, if he chooses to apply them.\n\nIn the year 1469, Boiardo was one of the noblemen who went to meet the\nEmperor Frederick the Third on his way to Ferrara, when Duke Borso of\nModena entertained him in that city. Two years afterwards, Borso, who had\nbeen only Marquis of Ferrara, received its ducal title from the Pope; and\non going to Rome to be invested with his new honours, the name of our\npoet is again found among the adorners of his state. A few days after his\nreturn home this prince died; and Boiardo, favoured as he had been by\nhim, appears to have succeeded to a double portion of regard in the\nfriendship of the new duke, Ercole, who was more of his own age.\n\nDuring all this period, from his youth to his prime, our author varied\nhis occupations with Italian and Latin poetry; some of it addressed to a\nlady of the name of Antonia Caprara, and some to another, whose name is\nthought to have been Rosa; but whether these ladies died, or his love was\ndiverted elsewhere, he took to wife, in the year 1472, Taddea Gonzaga, of\nthe noble house of that name, daughter of the Count of Novellara. In the\ncourse of the same year he is supposed to have begun his great poem. A\npopular court-favourite, in the prime of life, marrying and commencing\na great poem nearly at one and the same time, presents an image of\nprosperity singularly delightful. By this lady Boiardo had two sons and\nfour daughters. The younger son, Francesco Maria, died in his childhood;\nbut the elder, Camillo, succeeded to his father's title, and left an heir\nto it,--the last, I believe, of the name. The reception given to the\npoet's bride, when he took her to Scandiano, is said to have been very\nsplendid.\n\nIn the ensuing year the duke his master took a wife himself. She was\nEleonora, daughter of the King of Naples; and the newly-married poet was\namong the noblemen who were sent to escort her to Ferrara. For several\nyears afterwards, his time was probably filled up with the composition\nof the _Orlando Innamorato_, and the entertainments given by a splendid\ncourt. He was appointed Governor of Reggio, probably in 1478. At the\nexpiration of two or three years he was made Captain of the citadel of\nModena; and in 1482 a war broke out, with the Venetians, in which he took\npart, for it interrupted the progress of his poem. In 1484 he returned\nto it; but ten years afterwards was again and finally interrupted by the\nunprincipled descent of the French on Italy under Charles the Eighth; and\nin the December following he died. The _Orlando Innamorato_ was thus left\nunfinished. Eight years before his decease the author published what he\nhad written of it up to that time, but the first complete edition was\nposthumous. The poet was writing when the French came: he breaks off with\nan anxious and bitter notice of the interruption, though still unable to\ndeny himself a last word on the episode which he was relating, and a hope\nthat he should conclude it another time.\n\n  \"Mentre che io canto, o Dio redentore,\n    Vedo l'Italia tutta a fiamma e foco,\n  Per questi Galli, che con gran valore\n    Vengon, per disertar non so che loco:\n  Per\u00f2 vi lascio in questo vano amore\n    Di Fiordespina ardente poco a poco\n  Un' altra volta, se mi fia concesso,\n  Racconterovvi il tutto per espresso.\"\n\n  But while I sing, mine eyes, great God! behold\n    A flaming fire light all the Italian sky,\n  Brought by these French, who, with their myriads bold,\n    Come to lay waste, I know not where or why.\n  Therefore, at present, I must leave untold\n    How love misled poor Fiordespina's eye.[2]\n  Another time, Fate willing, I shall tell,\n  From first to last, how every thing befell.\n\nBesides the _Orlando Innamorato_, Boiardo wrote a variety of prose works,\na comedy in verse on the subject of Timon, lyrics of great elegance, with\na vein of natural feeling running through them, and Latin poetry of a\nlike sort, not, indeed, as classical in its style as that of Politian and\nthe other subsequent revivers of the ancient manner, but perhaps not\nthe less interesting on that account; for it is difficult to conceive\na thorough copyist in style expressing his own thorough feelings. Mr.\nPanizzi, if I am not mistaken, promised the world a collection of the\nmiscellaneous poems of Boiardo; but we have not yet had the pleasure\nof seeing them. In his life of the poet, however, he has given several\nspecimens, both Latin and Italian, which are extremely agreeable. The\nLatin poems consist of ten eclogues and a few epigrams; but the epigrams,\nthis critic tells us, are neither good nor on a fitting subject, being\nsatirical sallies against Nicol\u00f2 of Este, who had attempted to seize on\nFerrara, and been beheaded. Boiardo was not of a nature qualified to\nindulge in bitterness. A man of his chivalrous disposition probably\nmisgave himself while he was writing these epigrams. Perhaps he suffered\nthem to escape his pen out of friendship for the reigning branch of the\nfamily. But it must be confessed, that some of the best-natured men have\ntoo often lost sight of their higher feelings during the pleasure and\npride of composition.\n\nWith respect to the comedy of _Timon_, if the whole of it is written as\nwell as the concluding address of the misanthrope (which Mr. Panizzi has\nextracted into his pages), it must be very pleasant. Timon conceals a\ntreasure in a tomb, and thinks he has baffled some knaves who had a\ndesign upon it. He therefore takes leave of his audience with the\nfollowing benedictions\n\n          \"Pur ho scacciate queste due formiche,\n  Che raspavano l' oro alla mia buca,\n  Or vadan pur, che Dio le malediche.\n\n     Cotal fortuna a casa li conduca,\n  Che lor fiacchi le gambe al primo passo,\n  E nel secondo l'osso della nuca.\n\n    Voi altri, che ascoltate giuso al basso,\n  Chiedete, se volete alcuna cosa,\n  Prima ch' io parta, perch\u00e8 mo vi lasso.\n\n    Bench\u00e8 abbia l'alma irata e disdegnosa,\n  Da ingiusti oltraggi combattuta e vinta,\n  A voi gi\u00e0 non l'avr\u00f2 tanto ritrosa.\n\n    In me non \u00e8 pietade al tutto estinta\n  Faccia di voi la prova chi gli pare,\n  Sino alla corda, the mi trovo cinta;\n\n  Gli prester\u00f2, volendosi impiccare.\"\n\n     So! I've got rid of these two creeping things,\n  That fain would have scratched up my buried gold.\n  They're gone; and may the curse of God go with them!\n  May they reach home dust in good time enough\n  To break their legs at the first step in doors,\n  And necks i' the second!--And now then, as to you,\n  Good audience,--groundlings,--folks who love low places,\n  You too perhaps would fain get something of me,\n  Ere I take leave.--Well;--angered though I be,\n  Scornful and torn with rage at being ground\n  Into the dust with wrong, I'm not so lost\n  To all concern and charity for others\n  As not to be still kind enough to part\n  With something near to me-something that's wound\n  About my very self. Here, sirs; mark this;--\n                                 _[Untying the cord round his waist_.\n  Let any that would put me to the test,\n  Take it with all my heart, and hang themselves.\n\nThe comedy of _Timon_, which was chiefly taken from Lucian, and one,\nif not more, of Boiardo's prose translations from other ancients, were\nwritten at the request of Duke Ercole, who was a great lover of dramatic\nversions of this kind, and built a theatre for their exhibition at an\nenormous expense. These prose translations consist of Apuleius's\n_Golden Ass_, Herodotus (the Duke's order), the _Golden Ass_ of Lucian,\nXenophon's _Cyrop\u00e6dia_ (not printed), Emilius Probus (also not printed,\nand supposed to be Cornelius Nepos), and Riccobaldo's credulous _Historia\nUniversalis_, with additions. It seems not improbable, that he also\ntranslated Homer and Diodorus; and Doni the bookmaker asserts, that he\nwrote a work called the _Testamento dell' Anima_ (the Soul's Testament)\nbut Mr. Panizzi calls Doni \"a barefaced impostor;\" and says, that as\nthe work is mentioned by nobody else, we may be \"certain that it never\nexisted,\" and that the title was \"a forgery of the impudent priest.\"\n\nNothing else of Boiardo's writing is known to exist, but a collection\nof official letters in the archives of Modena, which, according to\nTiraboschi, are of no great importance. It is difficult to suppose,\nhowever, that they would not be worth looking at. The author of the\n_Orlando Innamorato_ could hardly write, even upon the driest matters\nof government, with the aridity of a common clerk. Some little lurking\nwell-head of character or circumstance, interesting to readers of a later\nage, would probably break through the barren ground. Perhaps the letters\nwent counter to some of the good Jesuit's theology.\n\nBoiardo's prose translations from the authors of antiquity are so scarce,\nthat Mr. Panizzi himself, a learned and miscellaneous reader, says he\nnever saw them. I am willing to get the only advantage in my power\nover an Italian critic, by saying that I have had some of them in my\nhands,--brought there by the pleasant chances of the bookstalls; but I\ncan give no account of them. A modern critic, quoted by this gentleman\n(Gamba, _Testi di Lingua_), calls the version of Apuleius \"rude and\ncurious;\"[3] but adds, that it contains \"expressions full of liveliness\nand propriety.\" By \"rude\" is probably meant obsolete, and comparatively\nunlearned. Correctness of interpretation and classical nicety of style\n(as Mr. Panizzi observes) were the growths of a later age.\n\nNothing is told us by his biographers of the person of Boiardo: and it is\nnot safe to determine a man's _physique_ from his writings, unless\nperhaps with respect to the greater or less amount of his animal spirits;\nfor the able-bodied may write effeminately, and the feeblest supply the\ndefect of corporal stamina with spiritual. Portraits, however, seem to be\nextant. Mazzuchelli discovered that a medal had been struck in the\npoet's honour; and in the castle of Scandiano (though \"the halls where\nknights and ladies listened to the adventures of the Paladin are now\nturned into granaries,\" and Orlando himself has nearly disappeared\nfrom the outside, where he was painted in huge dimensions as\nif \"entrusted with the wardenship\") there was a likeness of Boiardo\nexecuted by Niccolo dell' Abate, together with the principal events of\nthe _Orlando Innamorato_ and the _\u00c6neid_.But part of these\npaintings (Mr. Panizzi tells us) were destroyed, and part removed from\nthe castle to Modena\" to save them from certain loss;\" and he does not\nadd whether the portrait was among the latter.\n\nFrom anecdotes, however, and from the poet's writings, we gather the\nnature of the man; and this appears to have been very amiable. There is\nan aristocratic tone in his poem, when speaking of the sort of people of\nwhom the mass of soldiers is wont to consist; and Foscolo says, that the\nCount of Scandiano writes like a feudal lord. But common soldiers are not\napt to be the _elite_ of mankind; neither do we know with how goodnatured\na smile the mention of them may have been accompanied. People often give\na tone to what they read, more belonging to their own minds than the\nauthor's. All the accounts left us of Boiardo, hostile as well as\nfriendly, prove him to have been an indulgent and popular man. According\nto one, he was fond of making personal inquiries among its inhabitants\ninto the history of his native place; and he requited them so generously\nfor their information, that it was customary with them to say, when they\nwished good fortune to one another, \"Heaven send Boiardo to your house!\"\nThere is said to have been a tradition at Scandiano, that having tried in\nvain one day, as he was riding out, to discover a name for one of his\nheroes, expressive of his lofty character, and the word _Rodamonte_\ncoming into his head, he galloped back with a pleasant ostentation to his\ncastle, crying it out aloud, and ordering the bells of the place to be\nrung in its holiour; to the astonishment of the good people, who took\n\"Rodamonte\" for some newly-discovered saint. His friend Paganelli of\nModena, who wrote a Latin poem on the _Empire of Cupid_, extolled\nthe Governor of Reggio for ranking among the deity's most generous\nvassals,--one who, in spite of his office of magistrate, looked with\nan indulgent eye on errors to which himself was liable, and who was\naccustomed to prefer the study of love-verses to that of the law. The\nlearned lawyer, his countryman Panciroli, probably in resentment, as\nPanizzi says, of this preference, accused him of an excess of benignity,\nand of being fitter for writing poems than punishing ill deeds; and in\ntruth, as the same critic observes, \"he must have been considered crazy\nby the whole tribe of lawyers of that age,\" if it be true that he\nanticipated the opinion of Beccaria, in thinking that no crime ought to\nbe punished with death.\n\nThe great work of this interesting and accomplished person, the _Orlando\nInnamorato_, is an epic romance, founded on the love of the great Paladin\nfor the peerless beauty Angelica, whose name has enamoured the ears of\nposterity. The poem introduces us to the pleasantest paths in that track\nof reading in which Milton has told us that his \"young feet delighted to\nwander.\" Nor did he forsake it in his age.\n\n  \"Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp,\n  When Agrican with all his northern powers\n  Besieged Albracca, as romances tell,\n  The city of Gallaphrone, from whence to win\n  The fairest of her sex, Angelica.\"\n\n                                            _Paradise Regained._\n\nThe _Orlando Innamorato_ may be divided into three principal\nportions:-the search for Angelica by Orlando and her other lovers; the\nsiege of her father's city Albracca by the Tartars; and that of Paris\nand Charlemagne by the Moors. These, however, are all more or less\nintermingled, and with the greatest art; and there are numerous episodes\nof a like intertexture. The fairies and fairy-gardens of British romance,\nand the fabulous glories of the house of Este, now proclaimed for the\nfirst time, were added by the author to the enchantments of Pulci,\ntogether with a pervading elegance; and had the poem been completed, we\nwere to have heard again of the traitor Gan of Maganza, for the purpose\nof exalting the imaginary founder of that house, Ruggero.\n\nThis resuscitation of the Helen of antiquity, under a more seducing form,\nwas an invention of Boiardo's; so was the subjection of Charles's hero\nOrlando to the passion of love; so, besides the heroine and her name,\nwas that of other interesting characters with beautiful names, which\nafterwards figured in Ariosto. This inventive faculty is indeed so\nconspicuous in every part of the work, on small as well as great\noccasions, in fairy-adventures and those of flesh and blood, that\nalthough the author appears to have had both his loves and his fairies\nsuggested to him by our romances of Arthur and the Round Table, it\nconstitutes, next to the pervading elegance above mentioned, his chief\nclaim to our admiration. Another of his merits is a certain tender\ngallantry, or rather an honest admixture of animal passion with\nspiritual, also the precursor of the like ingenuous emotions in Ariosto;\nand he furthermore set his follower the example, not only of good\nbreeding, but of a constant heroical cheerfulness, looking with faith on\nnature. Pulci has a constant cheerfulness, but not with so much grace and\ndignity. Foscolo has remarked, that Boiardo's characters even surpass\nthose of Ariosto in truth and variety, and that his Angelica more engages\nour feelings;[4] to which I will venture to add, that if his style is\nless strong and complete, it never gives us a sense of elaboration. I\nshould take Boiardo to have been the healthier man, though of a less\ndetermined will than Ariosto, and perhaps, on the whole, less robust.\nYou find in Boiardo almost which Ariosto perfected,--chivalry, battles,\ncombats, loves and graces, passions, enchantments, classical and romantic\nfable, eulogy, satire, mirth, pathos, philosophy. It is like the first\nsketch of a great picture, not the worse in some respects for being a\nsketch; free and light, though not so grandly coloured. It is the morning\nbefore the sun is up, and when the dew is on the grass. Take the stories\nwhich are translated in the present volume, and you might fancy them all\nwritten by Ariosto, with a difference; the _Death of Agrican_ perhaps\nwith minuter touches of nature, but certainly not with greater simplicity\nand earnestness. In the _Saracen Friends_ there is just Ariosto's balance\nof passion and levity; and in the story which I have entitled _Seeing and\nBelieving_, his exhibition of triumphant cunning. During the lives of\nPulci and Boiardo, the fierce passions and severe ethics of Dante had\nbeen gradually giving way to a gentler and laxer state of opinion before\nthe progress of luxury; and though Boiardo's enamoured Paladin retains a\nkind of virtue not common in any age to the heroes of warfare, the lord\nof Scandiano, who appears to have recited his poem, sometimes to his\nvassals and sometimes to the ducal circle at court, intimates a smiling\nsuspicion that such a virtue would be considered a little rude and\nobsolete by his hearers. Pulci's wandering gallant, Uliviero, who in\nDante's time would have been a scandalous profligate, had become the\nprototype of the court-lover in Boiardo's. The poet, however, in his most\nfavourite characters, retained and recommended a truer sentiment, as in\nthe instance of the loves of Brandimart and Fiordelisa; and there is\na graceful cheerfulness in some of his least sentimental ones, which\nredeems them from grossness. I know not a more charming fancy in the\nwhole loving circle of fairy-land, than the female's shaking her long\ntresses round Mandricardo, in order to furnish him with a mantle, when he\nissues out of the enchanted fountain.[5]\n\nBut Boiardo's poem was unfinished: there are many prosaical passages\nin it, many lame and harsh lines, incorrect and even ungrammatical\nexpressions, trivial images, and, above all, many Lombard provincialisms,\nwhich are not in their nature of a \"significant or graceful\" sort,[6] and\nwhich shocked the fastidious Florentines, the arbiters of Italian taste.\nIt was to avoid these in his own poetry, that Boiardo's countryman\nAriosto carefully studied the Tuscan dialect, if not visited Florence\nitself; and the consequence was, that his greater genius so obscured the\npopularity of his predecessor, that a remarkable process, unique in the\nhistory of letters, appears to have been thought necessary to restore\nits perusal. The facetious Berni, a Tuscan wit full of genius, without\nomitting any particulars of consequence, or adding a single story except\nof himself, re-cast the whole poem of Boiardo, altering the diction of\nalmost every stanza, and supplying introductions to the cantos after the\nmanner of Ariosto; and the Florentine idiom and unfailing spirit of this\nre-fashioner's verse (though, what is very curious, not till after a long\nchance of its being overlooked itself, and a posthumous editorship which\nhas left doubts on the authority of the text) gradually effaced almost\nthe very mention of the man's name who had supplied him with the whole\nstaple commodity of his book, with all the heart of its interest, and\nwith far the greater part of the actual words. The first edition of Berni\nwas prohibited in consequence of its containing a severe attack on the\nclergy; but even the prohibition did not help to make it popular. The\nreader may imagine a similar occurrence in England, by supposing that\nDryden had re-written the whole of Chaucer, and that his reconstruction\nhad in the course of time as much surpassed the original in popularity,\nas his version of the _Flower and the Leaf_ did, up to the beginning of\nthe present century.\n\nI do not mean to compare Chaucer with Boiardo, or Dryden with Berni. Fine\npoet as I think Boiardo, I hold Chaucer to be a far finer; and spirited,\nand in some respects admirable, as are Dryden's versions of Chaucer, they\ndo not equal that of Boiardo by the Tuscan. Dryden did not apprehend\nthe sentiment of Chaucer in any such degree as Berni did that of his\noriginal. Indeed, Mr. Panizzi himself, to whom the world is indebted both\nfor the only good edition of Boiardo and for the knowledge of the most\ncurious facts respecting Berni's _rifacimento_, declares himself unable\nto pronounce which of the two poems is the better one, the original\nBoiardo, or the re-modelled. It would therefore not very well become a\nforeigner to give a verdict, even if he were able; and I confess, after\nno little consideration (and apart, of course, from questions of dialect,\nwhich I cannot pretend to look into), I feel myself almost entirely at a\nloss to conjecture on which side the superiority lies, except in point\nof invention and a certain early simplicity. The advantage in those two\nrespects unquestionably belongs to Boiardo; and a great one it is, and\nmay not unreasonably be supposed to settle the rest of the question in\nhis favour; and yet Berni's fancy, during a more sophisticate period of\nItalian manners, exhibited itself so abundantly in his own witty poems,\nhis pen at all times has such a charming facility, and he proved himself,\nin his version of Boiardo, to have so strong a sympathy with the\nearnestness and sentiment of his original in his gravest moments, that I\ncannot help thinking the two men would have been each what the other was\nin their respective times;--the Lombard the comparative idler, given more\nto witty than serious invention, under a corrupt Roman court; and the\nTuscan the originator of romantic fictions, in a court more suited to him\nthan the one he avowedly despised. I look upon them as two men singularly\nwell matched. The nature of the present work does not require, and the\nlimits to which it is confined do not permit, me to indulge myself in a\ncomparison between them corroborated by proofs; but it is impossible not\nto notice the connexion: and therefore, begging the reader's pardon for\nthe sorry substitute of affirmative for demonstrative criticism, I may be\nallowed to say, that if Boiardo has the praise of invention to himself,\nBerni thoroughly appreciated and even enriched it; that if Boiardo has\nsometimes a more thoroughly charming simplicity, Berni still appreciates\nit so well, that the difference of their times is sufficient to restore\nthe claim of equality of feeling; and finally, that if Berni strengthens\nand adorns the interest of the composition with more felicitous\nexpressions, and with a variety of lively and beautiful trains of\nthought, you feel that Boiardo was quite capable of them all, and might\nhave done precisely the same had he lived in Berni's age. In the greater\npart of the poem the original is altered in nothing except diction,\nand often (so at least it seems to me) for no other reason than the\nrequirements of the Tuscan manner. And this is the case with most of the\nnoblest, and even the liveliest passages. My first acquaintance, for\nexample, with the _Orlando Innamorato_ was through the medium of Berni;\nand on turning to those stories in his version, which I have translated\nfrom his original for the present volume, I found that every passage but\none, to which I had given a mark of admiration, was the property of the\nold poet. That single one, however, was in the exquisitest taste, full of\nas deep a feeling as any thing in its company (I have noticed it in the\ntranslated passage). And then, in the celebrated introductions to his\ncantos, and the additions to Boiardo's passages of description and\ncharacter (those about Rodamonte, for example, so admired by Foscolo), if\nBerni occasionally spews a comparative want of faith which you regret, he\ndoes it with a regret on his own part, visible through all his jesting.\nLastly, the singular and indignant strength of his execution often makes\nup for the trustingness that he was sorry to miss. If I were asked, in\nshort, which of the two poems I should prefer keeping, were I compelled\nto choose, I should first complain of being forced upon so hard an\nalternative, and then, with many a look after Berni, retain Boiardo. The\ninvention is his; the first earnest impulse; the unmisgivings joy; the\nprimitive morning breath, when the town-smoke has not polluted the\nfields, and the birds are singing their \"wood-notes wild.\" Besides, after\nall, one cannot be _sure_ that Berni could have invented as Boiardo did.\nIf he could, he would probably have written some fine serious poem of his\nown. And Panizzi has observed, with striking and conclusive truth, that\n\"without Berni the _Orlando Innamorato_ will be read and enjoyed; without\nBoiardo not even the name of the poem remains.\"[7]\n\nNevertheless this conclusion need not deprive us of either work. Berni\nraised a fine polished edifice, copied and enlarged after that of\nBoiardo;--on the other hand, the old house, thank Heaven, remains; and\nour best way of settling the question between the two is, to be glad that\nwe have got both. Let the reader who is rich in such possessions look\nupon Berni's as one of his town mansions, erected in the park-like\nneighbourhood of some metropolis; and Boiardo's as the ancient country\noriginal of it, embosomed in the woods afar off, and beautiful as the\nEnchanted Castle of Claude--\n\n  \"Lone sitting by the shores of old romance.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Footnote 1: The materials for the biography in this notice have been\ngathered from Tiraboschi and others, but more immediately from the\ncopious critical memoir from the pen of Mr. Panizzi, in that gentleman's\nadmirable edition of the combined poems of Boiardo and Ariosto, in nine\nvolumes octavo, published by Mr. Pickering. I have been under obligations\nto this work in the notice of Pulci, and shall again be so in that of\nBoiardo's successor; but I must not a third time run the risk of omitting\nto give it my thanks (such as they are), and of earnestly recommending\nevery lover of Italian poetry, who can afford it, to possess himself of\nthis learned, entertaining, and only satisfactory edition of either of\nthe Orlandos. The author writes an English almost as correct as it is\nelegant; and he is as painstaking as he is lively.]\n\n[Footnote 2: She had taken a damsel in male attire for a man]\n\n[Footnote 3: Crescimbeni himself had not seen the translation from\nApuleius, nor, apparently, several others--_Commentari, &c_. vol. ii.\npart ii. lib. vii. sect. xi.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Article on the _Narrative and Romantic Poems of the\nItalians_, in the _Quarterly Review_, No. 62, p. 527.]\n\n[Footnote 5:\n\n  \"E' suoi capelli a s\u00e8 sciolse di testa,\n  Che n'avea molti la dama gioconda;\n  Ed, abbracciato il cavalier con festa,\n  Tutto il coperse de la treccia bionda:\n  Cos\u00ec, nascosi entrambi di tal vesta,\n  Uscir' di quella fonte e la bell' onda.\"\n\n  Her locks she loosened from her lovely head,\n  For many and long had that same lady fair;\n  And clasping him in mirth as round they spread,\n  Covered the knight with the sweet shaken hair:\n  And so, thus both together garmented,\n  They issued from the fount to the fresh air.\n\nReaders of the _Faerie Queene_ will here see where Spenser has been,\namong his other visits to the Bowers of Bliss.]\n\n[Footnote 6: Foscolo, _ut sup_. p. 528.]\n\n[Footnote 7: A late amiable man of wit, Mr. Stewart Rose, has given\na prose abstract of Berni's _Orlando Innamorato_, with occasional\nversification; but it is hardly more than a dry outline, and was, indeed,\nintended only as an introduction to his version of the _Furioso_. A good\nidea, however, of one of the phases of Berni's humour may be obtained\nfrom the same gentleman's abridgment of the _Animali Parlanti_ of Casti,\nin which he has introduced a translation of the Tuscan's description of\nhimself and of his way of life, out of his additions to Boiardo's poem.\nThe verses in the prohibited edition of Berni's _Orlando_, in which he\ndenounced the corruptions of the clergy, have been published, for the\nfirst time in this country, in the notes to the twentieth canto of Mr.\nPanizzi's Boiardo. They have all his peculiar wit, together with a\n_Lutheran_ earnestness; and shew him, as that critic observes, to have\nbeen \"Protestant at his heart.\"\n\nSince writing this note I have called to mind that a translation of\nBerni's account of himself is to be found in Mr. Rose's prose abstract of\nthe _Innamorato._]\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.\n\nArgument.\n\nAngelica, daughter of Galafron, king of Cathay, the most beautiful of\nwomankind, and a possessor of the art of magic, comes, with her brother\nArgalia, to the court of Charlemagne under false pretences, in order\nto carry away his knights to the country of her father. Her immediate\npurpose is defeated, and her brother slain; but all the knights, Orlando\nin particular, fall in love with her; and she herself, in consequence of\ndrinking at an enchanted fountain, becomes in love with Rinaldo. On the\nother hand, Rinaldo, from drinking a neighbouring fountain of a reverse\nquality, finds his own love converted to loathing. Various adventures\narise out of these circumstances; and the fountains are again drunk, with\na mutual reversal of their effects.\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA\n\nIt was the month of May and the feast of Pentecost, and Charlemagne had\nordained a great jousting, which brought into Paris an infinite number of\npeople, baptised and infidel; for there was truce proclaimed, in order\nthat every knight might come. There was King Grandonio from Spain, with\nhis serpent's face; and Ferragus, with his eyes like an eagle; and\nBalugante, the emperor's kinsman; and Orlando, and Rinaldo, and Duke\nNamo; and Astolfo of England, the handsomest of mankind; and the\nenchanter Malagigi; and Isoliero and Salamone; and the traitor Gan, with\nhis scoundrel followers; and, in short, the whole flower of the chivalry\nof the age, the greatest in the world. The tables at which they feasted\nwere on three sides of the hall, with the emperor's canopy midway at the\ntop; and at that first table sat crowned heads; and down the table on the\nright sat dukes and marquises; and down the table on the left, counts and\ncavaliers. But the Saracen nobles, after their doggish fashion, looked\nneither for chair nor bench, but preferred a carpet on the floor, which\nwas accordingly spread for them in the midst.\n\nHigh sat Charlemagne at the head of his vassals and his Paladins,\nrejoicing in the thought of all the great men of which they consisted,\nand holding the infidels cheap as the sands which are scattered by the\ntempest. To each of his lords, as they drank, he sent round, by his\npages, gifts of enamelled cups of exquisite workmanship; and to every\nbody some mark of his princely distinction; and so they were all sitting\nand hearing music, and feasting off dishes of gold, and talking of lovely\nthings with low voices,[1] when suddenly there came into the hall four\nenormous giants, in the midst of whom was a lady, and behind the lady\nthere followed a cavalier. She was a very lily of the field, and a rose\nof the garden, and a morning-star; in short, so beautiful that the like\nhad never been seen. There was Galerana in the hall; there was Alda,\nthe wife of Orlando; and Clarice, and Armellina the kind-hearted, and\nabundance of other ladies, all beautiful till she made her appearance;\nbut after that they seemed nothing. Every Christian knight turned his\nface that way; and not a Pagan remained on the floor, but arose and got\nas near to her as he could; while she, with a cheerful sweetness, and\na smile fit to enamour a heart of stone, began speaking the following\nwords:\n\n\"High-minded lord, the renown of your worthiness, and the valour of these\nyour knights, which echoes from sea to sea, encourages me to hope, that\ntwo pilgrims who have come from the ends of the world to behold you, will\nnot have encountered their fatigue in vain. And to the end that I may not\nhold your attention too long with speaking, let me briefly say, that\nthis knight here, Uberto of the Lion, a prince renowned also for his\nachievements, has been wrongfully driven from out his dominions; and that\nI, who was driven out with him, am his sister, whose name is Angelica.\nFame has told us of the jousting this day appointed, and of the noble\npress of knights here assembled, and how your generous natures care not\nto win prizes of gold or jewels, or gifts of cities, but only a wreath of\nroses; and so the prince my brother has come to prove his own valour, and\nto say, that if any or all of your guests, whether baptised or infidel,\nchoose to meet him in the joust, he will encounter them one by one, in\nthe green meadow without the walls, near the place called the Horseblock\nof Merlin, by the Fountain of the Pine. And his conditions are\nthese,--that no knight who chances to be thrown shall have license to\nrenew the combat in any way whatsoever, but remain a submissive prisoner\nin his hands; he, on the other hand, if himself be thrown, agreeing to\ntake his departure out of the country with his giants, and to leave his\nsister, for prize, in the hands of the conqueror.\"\n\nKneeling at the close of these words, the lady awaited the answer of\nCharlemagne, and every body gazed on her with astonishment. Orlando\nespecially, more than all the rest, felt irresistibly drawn towards her,\nso that his heart trembled, and he changed countenance. But he felt\nashamed at the same time; and casting his eyes down, he said to himself,\n\"Ah, mad and unworthy Orlando! whither is thy soul being hurried? I am\ndrawn, and cannot say nay to what draws me. I reckoned the whole world as\nnothing, and now I am conquered by a girl. I cannot get her sweet look\nout of my heart. My soul seems to die within me, at the thought of being\nwithout her. It is love that has seized me, and I feel that nothing will\nset me free;--not strength, nor courage, nor my own wisdom, nor that of\nany adviser. I see the better part, and cleave to the worse.\"[2]\n\nThus secretly in his heart did the frank and noble Orlando lament over\nhis new feelings; and no wonder; for every knight in the hall was\nenamoured of the beautiful stranger, not excepting even old white-headed\nDuke Namo. Charlemagne himself did not escape.\n\nAll stood for awhile in silence, lost in the delight of looking at\nher. The fiery youth Ferragus was the first to exhibit symptoms in his\ncountenance of uncontrollable passion. He refrained with difficulty from\ngoing up to the giants, and tearing her out of their keeping. Rinaldo\nalso turned as red as fire; while his cousin Malagigi the enchanter, who\nhad discovered that the stranger was not speaking truth, muttered softly,\nas he looked at her, \"Exquisite false creature! I will play thee such a\ntrick for this, as will leave thee no cause to boast of thy visit.\"\n\nCharlemagne, to detain her as long as possible before him, made a speech\nin answer, in which he talked and looked, and looked and talked, till\nthere seemed no end of it. At length, however, the challenge was accepted\nin all its forms; and the lady quitted the hall with her brother and the\ngiants.\n\nShe had not yet passed the gates, when Malagigi the enchanter consulted\nhis books; and that no means might be wanting to complete the\ncounteraction of what he suspected, he summoned to his aid three spirits\nout of the lower regions. But how serious his look turned, how his very\nsoul within him was shaken, when he discovered that the most dreadful\ndisasters hung over Charles and his court, and that the sister of the\npretended Uberto was daughter of King Galafron of Cathay, a beauty\naccomplished in every species of enchantment, and sent there by her\nfather on purpose to betray them all! Her brother's name was not Uberto,\nbut Argalia. Galafron had given him a horse swifter than the wind, an\nenchanted sword, a golden lance, also enchanted, which overthrew all whom\nit touched,[3] and a ring of a virtue so extraordinary, that if put into\nthe mouth, it rendered the person invisible, and if worn on the finger,\nnullified every enchantment. But beyond even all this, he gave him his\nsister for a companion; rightly judging, that every body that saw her\nwould fall into the proposal of the joust; and trusting that, at the\nclose of it, she would bring him the whole court of France into Cathay,\nprisoners in her hands.\n\nSuch, Malagigi discovered, was the plot of the accursed infidel hound,\nKing Galafron.[4]\n\nMeantime the pretended Uberto had returned to his station at the\nHorseblock of Merlin. He had had a beautiful pavilion pitched there; and\nunder this pavilion he lay down awhile to refresh himself with sleep. His\nsister Angelica lay down also, but in the open air, under the great pine\nby the fountain. The four giants kept watch: and as she lay thus asleep,\nwith her fair head on the grass, she appeared like an angel come down\nfrom heaven.\n\nBy this time Malagigi, borne by one of his demons, had arrived in the\nsame place. He saw the beauty asleep by the flowery water, and the four\ngiants all wide awake; and he said within his teeth,--\" Brute scoundrels,\nI will take every one of you into my net without a blow.\"\n\nMalagigi took his book, and cast a spell out of it; and in an instant\nthe whole four giants were buried in sleep. Then, drawing his sword, he\nsoftly approached the young lady, intending to despatch her as quickly:\nbut seeing her look so lovely as she slept, he paused, and considered\nwithin himself, and resolved to detain her in the same state by\nenchantment, so long as it should please him. Laying down the naked sword\nin the grass, he again took his book, and read and read on, and still\nread on, and fancied he was locking up her senses all the while in a\nsleep unwakeable. But the ring of which I have spoken was on her finger.\nShe had borrowed it of her brother; and a superior power rendered all\nother magic of no avail. A touch from Malagigi to prove the force of his\nspell awoke her, to the magician's consternation, with a great cry. She\nfled into the arms of her brother, whom it aroused; and, by the help of\nhis sister's knowledge of enchantment, Argalia mastered and bound the\nmagician. The book was then turned against him, and the place was\nsuddenly filled with a crowd of his own demons, every one of them crying\nout to Angelica, \"What commandest thou?\"\n\n\"Take this man,\" said Angelica, \"and bear him prisoner to the great city\nbetween Tartary and India, where my father Galafron is lord. Present him\nto him in my name, and say it was I that took him; and add, that having\nso taken the master of the book, I care not for all the other lords of\nthe court of Charlemagne.\"\n\nAt the end of these words, and at one and the same instant, the magician\nwas conveyed to the feet of Galafron in Cathay, and locked up in a rock\nunder the sea.\n\nIn due time the enamoured knights, according to agreement, came to the\nspot, for the purpose of jousting with the supposed Uberto, each anxious\nto have the first encounter, particularly Orlando, in order that he might\nnot see the beauty carried off by another. But they were obliged to draw\nlots; and thirty other names appeared before his, the first of which was\nthat of Astolfo the Englishman.\n\nNow Astolfo was son of the king of England; and as I said before, he was\nthe handsomest man in the world. He was also very rich and well bred, and\nloved to dress well, and was as brave as he was handsome; but his success\nwas not always equal to his bravery. He had a trick of being thrown from\nhis horse, a failing which he was accustomed to attribute to accident;\nand then he would mount again, and be again thrown from the saddle, in\nthe boldest manner conceivable.\n\nThis gallant prince was habited, on the present occasion, in arms worth a\nwhole treasury. His shield had a border of large pearls; his mail was of\ngold; on his helmet was a ruby as big as a chestnut; and his horse was\ncovered with a cloth all over golden leopards.[5] He issued to the\ncombat, looking at nobody and fearing nothing; and on his sounding\nthe horn to battle, Argalia came forth to meet him. After courteous\nsalutations, the two combatants rushed together; but the moment the\nEnglishman was touched with the golden lance, his legs flew over his\nhead.\n\n\"Cursed fortune!\" cried he, as he lay on the grass; \"this is out of all\ncalculation. But it was entirely owing to the saddle. You can't but\nacknowledge, that if I had kept my seat, the beautiful lady would have\nbeen mine. But thus it is when Fortune chooses to befriend infidels!\"[6]\n\nThe four giants, who had by this time been disenchanted out of their\nsleep by Angelica, took up the English prince, and put him in the\npavilion. But when he was stripped of his armour, he looked so handsome,\nthat the lovely stranger secretly took pity on him, and bade them shew\nhim all the courtesies that captivity allowed. He was permitted to walk\noutside by the fountain; and Angelica, from a dark corner, looked at him\nwith admiration, as he walked up and down in the moonlight.[7]\n\nThe violent Ferragus had the next chance in the encounter, and was thrown\nno less speedily than Astolfo; but he did not so easily put up with the\nmischance. Crying out, \"What are the emperor's engagements to me?\" he\nrushed with his sword against Argalia, who, being forced to defend himself\nunexpectedly, dismounted and set aside his lance, and got so much the\nworse of the fight, that he listened to proposals of marriage from\nFerragus to his sister. The beauty, however, not feeling an inclination\nto match with so rough and savage-looking a person, was so dismayed at\nthe offer, that, hastily bidding her brother meet her in the forest of\nArden, she vanished from the sight of both, by means of the enchanted\nring. Argalia, seeing this, took to his horse of swiftness, and dashed\naway in the same direction; Ferragus, in distraction, pursued Argalia;\nand Astolfo, thus left to himself, took possession of the golden lance,\nand again issued forth--not, indeed, with quite his usual confidence of\nthe result, but determined to run all risks, in any thing that might\nensue, for the sake of the emperor. In fine, to cut this part of the\nhistory short, Charlemagne, finding the lady and her brother gone,\nordered the joust to be restored to its first intention; and Astolfo,\nwho was as ignorant as the others of the treasure he possessed in the\nenchanted lance, unhorsed all comers against him like so many children,\nequally to their astonishment and his own.\n\nThe Paladin Rinaldo now learnt the issue of the fight between Ferragus\nand the stranger, and galloped in a loving agony of pursuit after\nthe fair fugitive. Orlando learnt the disappearance of Rinaldo, and,\ndistracted with jealousy, pushed forth in like manner; and at length all\nthree are in the forest of Arden, hunting about for her who is invisible.\n\nNow in this forest were two enchanted waters, the one a running stream,\nand the other a built fountain; the first caused every body who tasted it\nto fall in love, and the other (so to speak) to fall _out_ of love; say,\nrather, to feel the love turned into hate. To the latter of these two\nwaters Rinaldo happened to come; and being flushed with heat and anxiety,\nhe dismounted from his horse, and quenched, in one cold draught, both his\nthirst and his passion. So far from loving Angelica as before, or holding\nher beauty of any account, he became disgusted with its pursuit, nay,\nhated her from the bottom of his heart; and so, in this new state of\nmind, and with feelings of lofty contempt, he remounted and rode away,\nand happened to come on the bank of the running stream. There, enticed by\nthe beauty of the place, which was all sweet meadow-ground and bowers of\ntrees, he again quitted his saddle, and, throwing himself on the ground,\nfell fast asleep. Unfortunately for the proud beauty Angelica, or rather\nin just punishment for her contempt, her palfrey conducted her to this\nvery place. The water tempted her to drink, and, dismounting and tying\nthe animal to one of the trees, she did so, and then cast her eyes on the\nsleeping Rinaldo. Love instantly seized her, and she stood rooted to the\nspot.\n\nThe meadow round about was all full of lilies of the valley and wild\nroses. Angelica, not knowing what to do, at length plucked a quantity\nof these, and with her white hand she dropped them on the face of the\nsleeper. He woke up; and seeing who it was, not only received her\nsalutations with a change of countenance, but remounting his horse,\ngalloped away through the thickest part of the forest. In vain the\nbeautiful creature followed and called after him; in vain asked him what\nshe had done to be so despised, and entreated him, at any rate, to take\ncare how he went so fast. Rinaldo disappeared, leaving her to wring her\nhands in despair; and she returned in tears to the spot on which she had\nfound him sleeping. There, in her turn, she herself lay down, pressing\nthe spot of earth on which he had lain; and so, weeping and lamenting,\nyet blessing every flower and bit of grass that he had touched, fell\nasleep out of fatigue and sorrow.\n\nAs Angelica thus lay, the good or bad fortune of Orlando conducted him to\nthe same place. The attitude in which she was sleeping was so lovely\nthat it is not even to be conceived, much less expressed. The very grass\nseemed to flower on all sides of her for joy; and the stream, as it\nmurmured along, to go talking of love.[8] Orlando stood gazing like a man\nwho had been transported to another sphere. \"Am I on earth,\" thought he,\n\"or am I in paradise? Surely it is I myself that am sleeping, and this is\nmy dream.\"\n\nBut his dream was proved to be none, in a manner which he little desired.\nFerragus, who had slain Argalia, came up raging with jealousy, and a\ncombat ensued which awoke the sleeper. Terrified at what she beheld, she\nrushed to her palfrey; and while the fighters were occupied with one\nanother, fled away through the forest.\n\nFast fled the beauty in the direction taken by Rinaldo; nor did she\ncease travelling, by one conveyance or another, till she reached her own\ncountry, whither she had sent Malagigi. Him she freed from his prison,\non condition that he would employ his art for the purpose of bringing\nRinaldo to a palace of hers, which she possessed in an island; and\naccordingly Rinaldo was inveigled by a spirit into an enchanted barque,\nwhich he found on a sea-shore, and which conveyed him, without any\nvisible pilot, into Joyous Palace (for so the island was called).\n\nThe whole island was a garden, fifteen miles in extent. It was full of\ntrees and lawns; and on the western side, close to the sea, was the\npalace, built of a marble so clear and polished, that it reflected the\nlandscape round about. Rinaldo, not knowing what to think of his strange\nconveyance, lost no time in leaping to shore; upon which a lady made her\nappearance, who invited him within. The house was a most beautiful house,\nfull of rooms adorned with azure and gold, and with noble paintings;\nand within as well as without it were the loveliest flowers, the purest\nfountains, and a fragrance fit to turn sorrow to joy. The lady led the\nknight into an apartment painted with stories, and opening to the garden\nthrough pillars of crystal with golden capitals. Here he found a bevy of\nladies, three of whom were singing in concert, while another played on\nsome foreign instrument of exquisite accord, and the rest were dancing\nround about them. When the ladies beheld him coming, they turned the\ndance into a circuit round about himself; and then one of them, in the\nsweetest manner, said, \"Sir knight, the tables are set, and the hour\nfor the banquet is come:\" and with these words they all drew him, still\ndancing, across the lawn in front of the apartment, to a table that was\nspread with cloth of gold and fine linen, under a bower of damask roses,\nby the side of a fountain.[9]\n\nFour ladies were already seated there, who rose and placed Rinaldo\nat their head, in a chair set with pearls. And truly indeed was he\nastonished. A repast ensued, consisting of viands the most delicate, and\nwines as fragrant as they were fine, drunk out of jewelled cups; and\nwhen it drew towards its conclusion, harps and lutes were heard in the\ndistance, and one of the ladies said in the knight's ear, \"This house,\nand all that you see in it, are yours. For you alone was it built, and\nthe builder is a queen; and happy indeed must you think yourself, for\nshe loves you, and she is the greatest beauty in the world. Her name is\nAngelica.\"\n\nThe moment Rinaldo heard the name he so detested, disgust and\nwretchedness fell upon his heart, notwithstanding the joys around him. He\nstarted up with a changed countenance, and, in spite of all that the lady\ncould say, broke off across the garden, and never ceased hastening till\nhe reached the place where he landed. He would have thrown himself into\nthe sea, rather than stay any longer in that island; but the enchanted\nbarque was still on the shore. He sprang into it, and attempted instantly\nto push off, for he still saw nobody in it but himself; but the barque\nfor a while resisted his efforts; till, on his feeling a wish to drown\nhimself, or to do any thing rather than return to that detested house, it\nsuddenly loosed itself from its moorings, and dashed away with him over\nthe sea, as if in a fury.\n\nAll night did the pilotless barque dash on, till it reached, in the\nmorning, a distant shore covered with a gloomy forest. Here Rinaldo,\nsurrounded by enchantments of a very different sort from those which he\nhad lately resisted, was entrapped into a pit. The pit belonged to a\ncastle which was hung with human heads, and painted red with blood; and\nas the Paladin was calling upon God to help him, a hideous white-headed\nold woman, of a spiteful countenance, made her appearance on the edge of\nthe pit, and told him that he must fight with a monster born of Death and\nDesire.\n\n\"Be it so,\" said the Paladin. \"Let me but remain armed as I am, and I\nfear nothing.\" For Rinaldo had with him his renowned sword Fusberta.[10]\n\nThe old woman laughed in derision. Rinaldo remained in the den all night,\nand next day was taken to a place where a portcullis was lifted up, and\nthe monster rushed forth. He was a mixture of hog and serpent, larger\nthan an ox, and not to be looked at without horror. He had eyes like a\ntraitor, the hands of a man, but clawed, a beard dabbled with blood, a\nskin of coarse variegated colours, too hard to be cut through, and two\nhorns on his temples, which he could turn on all sides of him at his\npleasure, and which were so sharp that they cut like a sword.\n\nRising on his hind-legs, and opening a mouth six palms in width, this\nhorrible beast fell heavily on Rinaldo, who was nevertheless quick enough\nto give it a blow on the snout which increased its fury. Returning the\nknight a tremendous cuff, it seized his coat of mail between breast and\nshoulder, and tore away a great strip of it down to the girdle,\nleaving the skin bare. Every successive rent and blow was of the like\nirresistible violence; and though the Paladin himself never fought with\nmore force and fury, he lost blood every instant. The monster at length\ntearing his sword out of his hand, the Paladin surely began to think that\nhis last hour was arrived.\n\nLooking about to see what might possibly help him, he observed overhead\na beam sticking out of a wall at the height of some ten feet. He took a\nleap more than human; and reaching the beam with his hand, succeeded in\nflinging himself up across it. Here he sat for hours, the furious brute\ncontinually trying to reach him. Night-time then came on with a clear\nstarry sky and moonlight, and the Paladin could discern no way of\nescaping, when he heard a sound of something, he knew not what, coming\nthrough the air like a bird. Suddenly a female figure stood on the end of\nthe beam, holding something in her hand towards him, and speaking in a\nloving voice.\n\nIt was Angelica, come with means for destroying the monster, and carrying\nthe knight away.\n\nBut the moment Rinaldo saw her, desperate as seemed to be his condition,\nhe renounced all offers of her assistance; and at length became so\nexasperated with her good offices, especially when she opened her arms\nand offered to bear him away in them, that he threatened to cast himself\ndown to the monster if she did not go away.[11]\n\nAngelica, saying that she would lose her life rather than displease him,\ndescended from the beam; and having given the monster a cake of wax which\nfastened up his teeth, and then caught and fixed him in a set of nooses\nshe had brought for that purpose, took her miserable departure. Rinaldo\nupon this got down from the beam himself; and having succeeded, though\nwith the greatest difficulty, in beating and squeezing the life out of\nthe monster, dealt such havoc among the people of the castle who\nassailed him, that the horrible old woman, whose crimes had made her the\ncreature's housekeeper, and led her to take delight in its cruelty, threw\nherself headlong from a tower. The Paladin then took his way forth,\nturning his back on the castle and the sea-shore.\n\nAngelica returned to the capital of her father's dominion, Albracca; and\nthe pertinacity of others in seeking her love being as great as that of\nhers for Rinaldo, she found King Galafron, in a short time, besieged\nthere for her sake, by the fierce Agrican, king of Tartary.\n\nIn a short time a jealous feud sprang up between the loving friends\nRinaldo and Orlando; and Angelica, torn with conflicting emotions, from\nher dread on her father's account as well as her own, and her aversion\nto every knight but her detester, was at one time compelled to apply to\nOrlando for assistance, and at another, being afraid that he would have\nthe better of Rinaldo in combat, to send him away on a perilous adventure\nelsewhere, with a promise of accepting his love should he succeed.[12]\nOrlando went, but not before he had slain Agrican and delivered Albracca.\nCircumstances, however, again took him with her to a distance, as the\nreader will see, ere he could bring her to perform her promise; and the\nPaladins in general having again been scattered abroad, it happened that\nRinaldo a second time found himself in the forest of Arden; and here,\nwithout expecting it, he became an altered man; for he now tasted a very\ndifferent stream from that which had given him his hate for Angelica;\nnamely, the one which had made her fall in love with himself. He was led\nto do this by a very extraordinary adventure.\n\nIn the thick of the forest he had come upon a mead full of flowers, in\nwhich there was a naked youth, singing in the midst of three damsels, who\nwere naked also, and who were dancing round about him. They had bunches\nof flowers in their hands, and garlands on their heads; and as they\nwere thus delighting themselves, with faces full of love and joy, they\nsuddenly changed countenance on seeing Rinaldo. \"Behold,\" cried they, \"the\ntraitor! Behold him, villain that he is, and the scorner of all delights!\nHe has fallen into the net at last.\" With these words they fell upon him\nwith the flowers like so many furies; and tender as such scourges might\nbe thought, every blow which the roses and violets gave him, every fresh\nstroke of the lilies and the hyacinths, smote him to the very heart, and\nfilled his veins with fire. The flowers in the bands of the nymphs\nbeing exhausted, the youth gave him a blow on the helmet with a tall\ngarden-lily, which felled him to the earth; and so, taking him by the\nlegs, and dragging him over the grass, his conqueror went the whole\ncircuit of the mead with him, the nymphs taking the very garlands off\ntheir heads, and again scourging him with their white and red roses.[13]\n\nAt the close of this discipline, which left him more exhausted than\ntwenty battles, his enemies suddenly developed wings from their\nshoulders, the feathers of which were of white and gold and vermilion,\nevery feather having an eye in it, not like those in the peacock's\nfeathers, but one full of life and motion, being a female eye, lovely and\ngracious. And with these wings they poised themselves a little, and so\nsprung up to heaven.[14]\n\nThe Paladin, more dead than alive, lay helpless among the flowers, when a\nfourth nymph came up to him, of inexpressible beauty. She told him that\nhe had grievously offended the naked youth, who was no other than Love\nhimself; and added, that his only remedy was to be penitent, and to drink\nof the waters of a stream hard by, which he would find running from the\nroots of an olive-tree and a pine. With these words, she vanished in her\nturn like the rest; and Rinaldo, dragging himself as well as he could to\nthe olive and pine, stooped down, and greedily drank of the water. Again\nand again he drank, and wished still to be drinking, for it took not only\nall pain out of his limbs, but all hate and bitterness out of his soul,\nand produced such a remorseful and doating memory of Angelica, that he\nwould fain have galloped that instant to Cathay, and prostrated himself\nat her feet. By degrees he knew the place; and looking round about him,\nand preparing to remount his horse, he discerned a knight and a lady in\nthe distance. The knight was in a coat of armour unknown to him, and the\nlady kneeling and drinking at a fountain, which was the one that had\nformerly quenched his own thirst; to wit, the Fountain of Disdain.\n\nAlas! it was Angelica herself; and the knight was Orlando. She had\nallowed him to bring her into France, ostensibly for the purpose of\nwedding him at the court of Charlemagne, whither the hero's assistance\nhad been called against Agramant king of the Moors, but secretly with the\nobject of discovering Rinaldo. Rinaldo, behold! is discovered; but the\nfatal averse water has been drunk, and Angelica now hates him in turn, as\ncordially as he detested her. In vain he accosted her in the humblest and\nmost repentant manner, calling himself the unworthiest of mankind, and\nentreating to be allowed to love her. Orlando, disclosing himself,\nfiercely interrupted him; and a combat so terrific ensued, that Angelica\nfled away on her palfrey till she came to a large plain, in which she\nbeheld an army encamped.\n\nThe army was Charlemagne's, who had come to meet Rodamonte, one of the\nvassals of Agramant. Angelica, in a tremble, related how she had left the\ntwo Paladins fighting in the wood; and Charlemagne, who was delighted to\nfind Orlando so near him, proceeded thither with his lords, and parting\nthe combatants by his royal authority, suppressed the dispute between\nthem for the present, by consigning the object of their contention to the\ncare of Namo duke of Bavaria, with the understanding that she was to be\nthe prize of the warrior who should best deserve her in the approaching\nbattle with the infidels.\n\n[This is the last we hear of Angelica in the unfinished poem of Boiardo.\nFor the close of her history see its continuation by Ariosto in the\npresent volume.]\n\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Con parlar basso e bei ragionamenti.\"]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Video meliora, proboque, &c._ Writers were now beginning\nto pride themselves on their classical reading. The present occasion,\nit must be owned, was a very good one for introducing the passage from\nHorace. The previous words have an affecting ingenuousness; and, indeed,\nthe whole stanza is beautiful:\n\n  \"Io non mi posso dal cor dipartire\n    La dolce vista del viso sereno,\n  Perch'io mi sento senza lei morire,\n    E 'l spirto a poco a poco venir meno.\n  Or non mi vale forza, n\u00e8 l'ardire\n    Contra d' amor, the m' ha gi\u00e0 posto il freno;\n  N\u00e8 mi giova saper, ne altrui consiglio:\n  Il meglio veggio, ed al peggior m'appiglio.\"\n\n  Alas! I cannot, though I shut mine eyes,\n    Lose the sweet look of that delightful face;\n  The very soul within me droops and dies,\n    To think that I may fail to gain her grace.\n  No strong limbs now, no valour, will suffice\n    To burst the spell that roots me to the place:\n  No, nor reflection, nor advice, nor force;\n  I see the better part, and clasp the worse.]\n\n[Footnote 3:\n  [Greek: Argureais logchaisi machou, kai panta krataeseis.]\n\n  \"Make war with silver spears, and you'll beat all.\"\n\nThe reader will note the allegory or not, as he pleases. It is a very\ngood allegory; but allegory, by the due process of enchantment, becomes\nmatter of fact; and it is pleasant to take it as such.]\n\n[Footnote 4: \"R\u00e8 Galagron, il maledetto cane\"]\n\n[Footnote 5: The lions in the shield of England were leopards in the\n\"olden time,\" and it is understood, I believe, ought still to be so,--as\nNapoleon, with an invidious pedantry, once permitted himself to be angry\nenough to inform us.]\n\n[Footnote 6: The character of Astolfo, the germ of which is in our own\nancient British romances, appears to have been completed by the lively\ninvention of Boiardo, and is a curious epitome of almost all which has\nbeen discerned in the travelled Englishmen by the envy of poorer and the\nwit of livelier foreigners. He has the handsomeness and ostentation of a\nBuckingham, the wealth of a Beckford, the generosity of a Carlisle, the\ninvincible pretensions of a Crichton, the self-commitals and bravery of\na Digby, the lucklessness of a Stuart, and the _nonchalance_ \"under\ndifficulties\" of \"_Milord What-then_\" in Voltaire's _Princess of\nBabylon_, where the noble traveller is discovered philosophically reading\nthe news-paper in his carriage after it was overturned. English beauty,\never since the days of Pope Gregory, with his pun about Angles and\nAngels, has been greatly admired in the south of Europe--not a little,\nperhaps, on account of the general fairness of its complexion. I once\nheard a fair-faced English gentleman, who would have been thought rather\neffeminate looking at home, called an \"Angel\" by a lady in Genoa.]\n\n[Footnote 7:\n\n  \"Stava disciolto, senza guardia alcuna,\n  Ed intorno a la fonte sollazzava;\n  Angelica nel lume de la luna,\n  Quanto potea nascosa, lo mirava.\"\n\nThere is something wonderfully soft and _lunar_ in the liquid monotony of\nthe third line.]\n\n[Footnote 8:\n\n  \"La qual dormiva in atto tanto adorno,\n  Che pensar non si pu\u00f2, non ch'io lo scriva\n  Parea che l'erba a lei fiorisse intorno,\n  E d'amor ragionasse quella riva.\"\n\n  Her posture, as she lay, was exquisite\n  Above all words--nay, thought itself above:\n  The grass seemed flowering round her in delight,\n  And the soft river murmuring of love.]\n\n[Footnote 9: Supremely elegant all this appears to me.]\n\n[Footnote 10: Sometimes called in the romances _Frusberta_ (query, from\n_fourbir_, to burnish; or, _froisser_, to crush?). The meaning does not\nseem to be known. I ought to have observed, in the notes to Pulci, that\nthe name of Orlando's sword, _Durlindana_ (called also _Durindana,\nDurandal_, &c.), is understood to mean _Hardhitter_.]\n\n[Footnote 11: The force of aversion was surely never better imagined than\nin this scene of the opened arms of beauty, and the knight's preference\nof the most odious death.]\n\n[Footnote 12: Legalised, I presume, by a divorce from the hero's wife,\nthe fair Alda; who, though she is generally designated by that epithet,\nseems never to have had much of his attention.]\n\n[Footnote 13: This violent effect of weapons so extremely gentle is\nbeautifully conceived.]\n\n[Footnote 14: The \"female eye, lovely and gracious,\" is charmingly\npainted _per se_, but of this otherwise thoroughly beautiful description\nI must venture to doubt, whether _living_ eyes of any sort, instead of\nthose in the peacock's feathers, are in good taste. The imagination\nrevolts from life misplaced.]\n\n\nTHE\n\nDEATH OF AGRICAN\n\nArgument.\n\nAgrican king of Tartary, in love with Angelica, and baffled by the\nprowess of the unknown Orlando in his attempts to bring the siege of\nAlbracca to a favourable conclusion, entices him apart from the battle\ninto a wood, in the hope of killing him in single combat. The combat is\nsuspended by the arrival of night-time; and a conversation ensues between\nthe warriors, which is furiously interrupted by Agrican's discovery of\nhis rival, and the latter's refusal to renounce his love. Agrican is\nslain; and in his dying moments requests baptism at the hand of his\nconqueror, who, with great tenderness, bestows it.\n\nTHE\n\nDEATH OF AGRICAN.\n\nThe siege of Albracca was going on formidably under the command of\nAgrican, and the city of Galafron was threatened with the loss of the\nmonarch's daughter, Angelica, when Orlando, at his earnest prayer, came\nto assist him, and changing at once the whole course of the war, threw\nthe enemy in his turn into transports of anxiety. Wherever the great\nPaladin came, pennon and standard fell before him. Men were cut up and\ncloven down, at every stroke of his sword; and whereas the Indians had\nbeen in full rout but a moment before, and the Tartars ever on their\nflanks, Galafron himself being the swiftest among the spurrers away, it\nwas now the Tartars that fled for their lives; for Orlando was there, and\na band of fresh knights were about him, and Agrican in vain attempted to\nrally his troops. The Paladin kept him constantly in his front, forcing\nhim to attend to nobody else. The Tartar king, who cared not a button for\nGalafron and all his army,[1] provided he could but rid himself of this\nterrible knight (whom he guessed at, but did not know), bethought him of\na stratagem. He turned his horse, and made a show of flying in despair.\nOrlando dashed after him, as he desired; and Agrican fled till he reached\na green place in a wood, with a fountain in it.\n\nThe place was beautiful, and the Tartar dismounted to refresh himself at\nthe fountain, but without taking off his helmet, or laying aside any of\nhis armour. Orlando was quickly at his back, crying out, \"So bold, and\nyet such a fugitive! How could you fly from a single arm, and yet think\nto escape? When a man can die with honour, he should be glad to die; for\nhe may live and fare worse. He may get death and infamy together.\"\n\nThe Tartar king had leaped on his saddle the moment he saw his enemy; and\nwhen the Paladin had done speaking, he said in a mild voice, \"Without\ndoubt you are the best knight I ever encountered; and fain would I leave\nyou untouched for your own sake, if you would cease to hinder me from\nrallying my people. I pretended to fly, in order to bring you out of the\nfield. If you insist upon fighting, I must needs fight and slay you; but\nI call the sun in the heavens to witness, that I would rather not. I\nshould be very sorry for your death.\"\n\nThe County Orlando felt pity for so much gallantry; and he said,\" The\nnobler you shew yourself, the more it grieves me to think, that in dying\nwithout a knowledge of the true faith, you will be lost in the other\nworld. Let me advise you to save body and soul at once. Receive baptism,\nand go your way in peace.\"\n\nAgrican looked him in the face, and replied, \"I suspect you to be the\nPaladin Orlando. If you are, I would not lose this opportunity of\nfighting with you, to be king of Paradise. Talk to me no more about your\nthings of the other world; for you will preach in vain. Each of us for\nhimself, and let the sword be umpire.\"\n\nNo sooner said than done. The Tartar drew his sword, boldly advancing\nupon Orlando; and a cut and thrust fight began, so long and so terrible,\neach warrior being a miracle of prowess, that the story says it lasted\nfrom noon till night. Orlando then, seeing the stars come out, was the\nfirst to propose a respite. \"What are we to do,\" said he, \"now that\ndaylight has left us?\"\n\nAgrican answered readily enough, \"Let us repose in this meadow, and renew\nthe combat at dawn.\"\n\nThe repose was taken accordingly. Each tied up his horse, and reclined\nhimself on the grass, not far from one another, just as if they had been\nfriends,--Orlando by the fountain, Agrican beneath a pine. It was a\nbeautiful clear night; and as they talked together, before addressing\nthemselves to sleep, the champion of Christendom, looking up at the\nfirmament, said, \"That is a fine piece of workmanship, that starry\nspectacle. God made it all,--that moon of silver, and those stars of\ngold, and the light of day and the sun,--all for the sake of human kind.\"\n\n\"You wish, I see, to talk of matters of faith,\" said the Tartar. \"Now\nI may as well tell you at once, that I have no sort of skill in such\nmatters, nor learning of any kind. I never could learn anything when\nI was a boy. I hated it so, that I broke the man's head who was\ncommissioned to teach me; and it produced such an effect on others, that\nnobody ever afterwards dared so much as shew me a book. My boyhood was\ntherefore passed as it should be, in horsemanship, and hunting, and\nlearning to fight. What is the good of a gentleman's poring all day over\na book? Prowess to the knight, and prattle to the clergyman. That is my\nmotto.\"\n\n\"I acknowledge,\" returned Orlando, \"that arms are the first consideration\nof a gentleman; but not at all that he does himself dishonour by\nknowledge. On the contrary, knowledge is as great an embellishment of the\nrest of his attainments, as the flowers are to the meadow before us; and\nas to the knowledge of his Maker, the man that is without it is no better\nthan a stock or a stone, or a brute beast. Neither, without study, can\nhe reach anything like a due sense of the depth and divineness of the\ncontemplation.\"\n\n\"Learned or not learned,\" said Agrican, \"you might skew yourself better\nbred than by endeavouring to make me talk on a subject on which you have\nme at a disadvantage. I have frankly told you what sort of person I am;\nand I dare say, that you for your part are very learned and wise. You\nwill therefore permit me, if you say anything more of such things, to\nmake you no answer. If you choose to sleep, I wish you good night; but\nif you prefer talking, I recommend you to talk of fighting, or of fair\nladies. And, by the way, pray tell me-are you, or are you not, may I ask,\nthat Orlando who makes such a noise in the world? And what is it, pray,\nbrings you into these parts? Were you ever in love? I suppose you must\nhave been; for to be a knight, and never to have been in love, would be\nlike being a man with no heart in his breast.\"\n\nThe County replied, \"Orlando I am, and in love I am.[2] Love has made me\nabandon every thing, and brought me into these distant regions; and to\ntell you all in one word, my heart is in the hands of the daughter of\nKing Galafron. You have come against him with fire and sword, to get\npossession of his castles and his dominions; and I have come to help\nhim, for no object in the world but to please his daughter, and win her\nbeautiful hand. I care for nothing else in existence.\"\n\nNow when the Tartar king Agrican heard his antagonist speak in this\nmanner, and knew him to be indeed Orlando, and to be in love with\nAngelica, his face changed colour for grief and jealousy, though it could\nnot be seen for the darkness. His heart began beating with such violence,\nthat he felt as if he should have died. \"Well,\" said he to Orlando, \"we\nare to fight when it is daylight, and one or the other is to be left\nhere, dead on the ground. I have a proposal to make to you; nay, an\nentreaty. My love is so excessive for the same lady, that I beg you to\nleave her to me. I will owe you my thanks, and give up the fight myself.\nI cannot bear that any one else should love her, and I live to see it.\nWhy, therefore, should either of us perish? Give her up. Not a soul shall\nknow it.\"[3]\n\n\"I never yet,\" answered Orlando, \"made a promise which I did not keep;\nand, nevertheless, I own to you, that were I to make a promise like that,\nand even swear to keep it, I should not. You might as well ask me to tear\naway the limbs from my body, and the eyes out of my head. I could as soon\nlive without breath itself, as cease loving Angelica.\"\n\nAgrican bad scarcely patience enough to let the speaker finish, ere he\nleaped furiously on horseback, though it was midnight. \"Quit her,\" said\nhe, \"or die!\"\n\nOrlando, seeing the infidel getting up, and not being sure that he would\nnot add treachery to fierceness, had been hardly less quick in mounting\nfor the combat. \"Never!\" exclaimed he. \"I never could have quitted her if\nI would; and now I wouldn't if I could. You must seek her by other\nmeans than these.\"\n\nFiercely dashed their horses together, in the night-time, on the green\nmead. Despiteful and terrible were the blows they gave and took by the\nmoonlight. There was no need of their looking out for one another,\nnight-time though it was. Their business was to take as sharp heed of\nevery movement, as if it had been noon-day.[4]\n\nAgrican fought in a rage: Orlando was cooler. And now the struggle had\nlasted more than five hours, and dawn began to be visible, when the\nTartar king, furious to find so much trouble given him, dealt his enemy a\nblow sharp and violent beyond conception. It cut the shield in two, as\nif it had been a cheesecake; and though blood could not be drawn from\nOrlando, because he was fated, it shook and bruised him, as if it had\nstarted every joint in his body.\n\nHis body only, however; not a particle of his soul. So dreadful was the\nblow which the Paladin gave in return, that not only shield, but every\nbit of mail on the body of Agrican, was broken in pieces, and three of\nhis left ribs cut asunder.\n\nThe Tartar, roaring like a lion, raised his sword with still greater\nvehemence than before, and dealt a blow on the Paladin's helmet, such as\nhe had never yet received from mortal man. For a moment it took away his\nsenses. His sight failed; his ears tinkled; his frightened horse turned\nabout to fly; and he was falling from the saddle, when the very action\nof falling jerked his head upwards, and with the jerk he regained his\nrecollection.\n\n\"O my God!\" thought he, \"what a shame is this! how shall I ever again\ndare to face Angelica! I have been fighting, hour after hour, with this\nman, and he is but one, and I call myself Orlando. If the combat last\nany longer, I will bury myself in a monastery, and never look on sword\nagain.\"\n\nOrlando muttered with his lips closed and his teeth ground together; and\nyou might have thought that fire instead of breath came out of his nose\nand mouth. He raised his sword Durindana with both his hands, and sent\nit down so tremendously on Agrican's left shoulder, that it cut through\nbreast-plate and belly-piece down to the very haunch; nay, crushed the\nsaddle-bow, though it was made of bone and iron, and felled man and horse\nto the earth. From shoulder to hip was Agrican cut through his weary\nsoul, and he turned as white as ashes, and felt death upon him. He called\nOrlando to come close to him with a gentle voice, and said, as well as he\ncould, \"I believe in Him who died on the Cross. Baptise me, I pray thee,\nwith the fountain, before my senses are gone. I have lived an evil life,\nbut need not be rebellious to God in death also. May He who came to save\nall the rest of the world, save me! He is a God of great mercy.\"\n\nAnd he shed tears, did that king, though he had been so lofty and fierce.\n\nOrlando dismounted quickly, with his own face in tears. He gathered the\nking tenderly in his arms, and took and laid him by the fountain, on\na marble cirque which it had; and then he wept in concert with him\nheartily, and asked his pardon, and so baptised him in the water of the\nfountain, and knelt and prayed to God for him with joined hands.\n\nHe then paused and looked at him; and when he perceived his countenance\nchanged, and that his whole person was cold, he left him there on the\nmarble cirque by the fountain, all armed as he was, with the sword by his\nside, and the crown upon his head.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI think I may anticipate the warm admiration of the reader for the whole\nof this beautiful episode, particularly its close. \"I think,\" says\nPanizzi, \"that Tasso had this passage particularly in view when he wrote\nthe duel of Clorinda and Tancredi, and her conversion and baptism before\ndying. The whole passage, from stanza xii. (where Agrican receives his\nmortal blow) to this, is beautiful; and the delicate proceeding of\nOrlando in leaving Agrican's body armed, even with the sword in his hand,\nis in the noblest spirit of chivalry.\"--Edition of _Boiardo and Ariosto_,\nvol. iii. page 357.\n\nThe reader will find the original in the Appendix No. I.\n\nIn the course of the poem (canto xix. stanza xxvi.) a knight, with the\nsame noble delicacy, who is in distress for a set of arms, borrows those\nbelonging to the dead body, with many excuses, and a kiss on its face.\n\n\n[Footnote 1:\n\n  \"Che tutti insieme, e 'l suo R\u00e8 Galafrone,\n  Non li stimava quanto un vil bottone.\"]\n\n[Footnote 2: Berni has here introduced the touching words, \"Would I were\nnot so!\" (Cos\u00ec non foss'io!)]\n\n[Footnote 3: This proposal is in the highest ingenuous spirit of the\nabsurd wilfulness of passion, thinking that every thing is to give way\nbefore it, not excepting the same identical wishes in other people.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Very fine all this, I think.]\n\n\nTHE SARACEN FRIENDS.\n\nA FAIRY LOVE-TALE\n\nArgument.\n\nPrasildo, a nobleman of Babylon, to his great anguish, falls in love with\nhis friend's wife, Tisbina; and being overheard by her and her husband\nthreatening to kill himself, the lady, hoping to divert him from his\npassion by time and absence, promises to return it on condition of his\nperforming a distant and perilous adventure. He performs the adventure;\nand the husband and wife, supposing that there is no other way of her\nescaping the consequences, resolve to take poison; after which the lady\ngoes to Prasildo's house, and informs him of their having done so.\nPrasildo resolves to die with them; but hearing, in the mean time, that\nthe apothecary had given them a drink that was harmless, he goes and\ntells them of their good fortune; upon which the husband is so struck\nwith his generosity, that he voluntarily quits Babylon for life and the\nlady marries the lover. The new husband subsequently hears that his\nfriend's life is in danger, and quits the wife to go and deliver him from\nit at the risk of his own, which he does.\n\nThis story, which has resemblances to it in Boccaccio and Chaucer, is\ntold to Rinaldo while riding through a wood in Asia, with a damsel behind\nhim on the same horse. He has engaged to combat in her behalf with a band\nof knights; and the lady relates it to beguile the way.\n\nThe reader is to bear in mind, that the age of chivalry took delight in\nmooting points of love and friendship, such as in after-times would\nhave been out of the question; and that the parties in this story are\nMahometans, with whom divorce was an easy thing, and caused no scandal.\n\nTHE SARACEN FRIENDS.\n\nIroldo, a knight of Babylon, had to wife a lady of the name of Tisbina,\nwhom he loved with a passion equal to that of Tristan for Iseult;[1] and\nshe returned his love with such fondness, that her thoughts were occupied\nwith him from morning till night. Among other pleasant circumstances\nof their position, they had a neighbour who was accounted the greatest\nnobleman in the city; and he deserved his credit, for he spent his great\nriches in doing nothing but honour to his rank. He was pleasant in\ncompany, formidable in battle, full of grace in love; an open-hearted,\naccomplished gentleman.\n\nThis personage, whose name was Prasildo, happened to be of a party one\nday with Tisbina, who were amusing themselves in a garden, with a game in\nwhich the players knelt down with their faces bent on one another's laps,\nand guessed who it was that struck them. The turn came to himself, and\nhe knelt down to the lap of Tisbina; but no sooner was he there, than he\nexperienced feelings he had never dreamt of; and instead of trying to\nguess correctly, took all the pains he could to remain in the same\nposition.\n\nThese feelings pursued him all the rest of the day, and still more\nclosely at night. He did nothing but think and sigh, and find the soft\nfeathers harder than any stone. Nor did he get better as time advanced.\nHis once favourite pastime of hunting now ceased to afford him any\ndelight. Nothing pleased him but to be giving dinners and balls, to make\nverses and sing them to his lute, and to joust and tournay in the eyes of\nhis love, dressed in the most sumptuous apparel. But above all, gentle\nand graceful as he had been before, he now became still more gentle and\ngraceful--for good qualities are always increased when a man is in\nlove. Never in my life did I know them turn to ill in that case. So, in\nPrasildo's, you may guess what a super-excellent person he became.\n\nThe passion which had thus taken possession of this gentleman was not\nlost upon the lady for want of her knowing it. A mutual acquaintance\nwas always talking to her on the subject, but to no purpose; she never\nrelaxed her pride and dignity for a moment. The lover at last fell ill;\nhe fairly wasted away; and was so unhappy, that he gave up all his\nfeastings and entertainments. The only pleasure he took was in a solitary\nwood, in which he used to plunge himself in order to give way to his\ngrief and lamentations.\n\nIt happened one day, early in the morning, while he was thus occupied,\nthat Iroldo came into the wood to amuse himself with bird-catching. He\nhad Tisbina with him; and as they were coming along, they overheard their\nneighbour during one of his paroxysms, and stopped to listen to what he\nsaid.\n\n\"Hear me,\" exclaimed he, \"ye flowers and ye woods. Hear to what a pass of\nwretchedness I am come, since that cruel one will hear me not. Hear, O\nsun that hast taken away the night from the heavens, and you, ye stars,\nand thou the departing moon, hear the voice of my grief for the last\ntime, for exist I can no longer; my death is the only way left me to\ngratify that proud beauty, to whom it has pleased Heaven to give a\ncruel heart with a merciful countenance. Fain would I have died in her\npresence. It would have comforted me to see her pleased even with that\nproof of my love. But I pray, nevertheless, that she may never know it;\nsince, cruel as she is, she might blame herself for having shewn a scorn\nso extreme; and I love her so, I would not have her pained for all her\ncruelty. Surely I shall love her even in my grave.\"\n\nWith these words, turning pale with his own mortal resolution, Prasildo\ndrew his sword, and pronouncing the name of Tisbina more than once with a\nloving voice, as though its very sound would be sufficient to waft him\nto Paradise, was about to plunge the steel into his bosom, when the lady\nherself, by leave of her husband, whose manly visage was all in tears for\npity, stood suddenly before him.\n\n\"Prasildo,\" said she, \"if you love me, listen to me. You have often told\nme that you do so. Now prove it. I happen to be threatened with nothing\nless than the loss of life and honour. Nothing short of such a calamity\ncould have induced me to beg of you the service I am going to request;\nsince there is no greater shame in the world than to ask favours from\nthose to whom we have refused them. But I now promise you, that if you do\nwhat I desire, your love shall be returned. I give you my word for it. I\ngive you my honour. On the other side of the wilds of Barbary is a garden\nwhich has a wall of iron. It has four gates. Life itself keeps one; Death\nanother; Poverty the third; the fairy of Riches the fourth. He who goes\nin at one gate must go out at the other opposite; and in the midst of the\ngarden is a tree, tall as the reach of an arrow, which produces pearls\nfor blossoms. It is called the Tree of Wealth, and has fruit of emeralds\nand boughs of gold. I must have a bough of that tree, or suffer the most\npainful consequences. Now, then, if you love me, I say, prove it. Prove\nit, and most assuredly I shall love you in turn, better than ever you\nloved myself.\"\n\nWhat need of saying that Prasildo, with haste and joy, undertook to do\nall that she required? If she had asked the sun and stars, and the whole\nuniverse, he would have promised them. Quitting her in spite of his love,\nhe set out on the journey without delay, only dressing himself before he\nleft the city in the habit of a pilgrim.\n\nNow you must know, that Iroldo and his lady had set Prasildo on that\nadventure, in the hope that the great distance which he would have to\ntravel, and the change which it might assist time to produce, would\ndeliver him from his passion. At all events, in case this good end was\nnot effected before he arrived at the garden, they counted to a certainty\non his getting rid of it when he did; because the fairy of that garden,\nwhich was called the Garden of Medusa, was of such a nature, that\nwhosoever did but look on her countenance forgot the reason for his going\nthither; and whoever saluted, touched, and sat down to converse by her\nside, forgot all that had ever occurred in his lifetime.\n\nAway, however, on his steed went our bold lover; all alone, or rather\nwith Love for his companion; and so, riding hard till he came to the Red\nSea, he took ship, and journeyed through Egypt, and came to the mountains\nof Barca, where he overtook an old grey-headed palmer.\n\nPrasildo told the palmer the reason of his coming, and the palmer told\nhim what the reader has heard about the garden; adding, that he must\nenter by the gate of Poverty, and take no arms or armour with him,\nexcepting a looking-glass for a shield, in which the fairy might behold\nher beauty. The old man gave him other directions necessary for his\npassing out of the gate of Riches; and Prasildo, thanking him, went on,\nand in thirty days found himself entering the garden with the greatest\nease, by the gate of Poverty.\n\nThe garden looked like a Paradise, it was so full of beautiful trees, and\nflowers, and fresh grass. Prasildo took care to hold the shield over his\neyes, that he might avoid seeing the fairy Medusa; and in this manner,\nguarding his approach, he arrived at the Golden Tree. The fairy, who was\nreclining against the trunk of it, looked up, and saw herself in the\nglass. Wonderful was the effect on her. Instead of her own white-and-red\nblooming face, she beheld that of a dreadful serpent. The spectacle made\nher take to flight in terror; and the lover, finding his object so far\ngained, looked freely at the tree, and climbed it, and bore away a\nbough[2].\n\nWith this he proceeded to the gate of Riches. It was all of loadstone,\nand opened with a great noise. But he passed through it happily, for he\nmade the fairy who kept it a present of half the bough; and so he issued\nforth out of the garden, with indescribable joy.\n\nBehold our loving adventurer now on his road home. Every step of the way\nappeared to him a thousand. He took the road of Nubia to shorten the\njourney; crossed the Arabian Gulf with a breeze in his favour; and\ntravelling by night as well as by day, arrived one fine morning in\nBabylon.\n\nNo sooner was he there, than he sent to tell the object of his passion\nhow fortunate he had been. He begged her to name her own place and time\nfor receiving the bough at his hands, taking care to remind her of her\npromise; and he could not help adding, that he should die if she broke it.\n\nTerrible was the grief of Tisbina at this unlooked-for news. She threw\nherself on her couch in despair, and bewailed the hour she was born.\n\"What on earth am I to do?\" cried the wretched lady; \"death itself is no\nremedy for a case like this, since it is only another mode of breaking my\nword. To think that Prasildo should return from the garden of Medusa! who\ncould have supposed it possible? And yet, in truth, what a fool I was to\nsuppose any thing impossible to love! O my husband! little didst thou\nthink what thou thyself advisedst me to promise!\"\n\nThe husband was coming that moment towards the room; and overhearing his\nwife grieving in this distracted manner, he entered and clasped her in\nhis arms. On learning the cause of her affliction, he felt as though he\nshould have died with her on the spot.\n\n\"Alas!\" cried he, \"that it should be possible for me to be miserable\nwhile I am so dear to your heart. But you know, O my soul! that when love\nand jealousy come together, the torment is the greatest in the world.\nMyself--myself, alas! caused the mischief, and myself alone ought to\nsuffer for it. You must keep your promise. You must abide by the word you\nhave given, especially to one who has undergone so much to perform what\nyou asked him. Sweet face, you must. But oh! see him not till after I am\ndead. Let Fortune do with me what she pleases, so that I be saved from a\ndisgrace like that. It will be a comfort to me in death to think that\nI alone, while I was on earth, enjoyed the fond looking of that lovely\nface. Nay,\" concluded the wretched husband, \"I feel as though I should\ndie over again, if I could call to mind in my grave how you were taken\nfrom me.\"\n\nIroldo became dumb for anguish. It seemed to him as if his very heart had\nbeen taken out of his breast. Nor was Tisbina less miserable. She was as\npale as death, and could hardly speak to him, or bear to look at him. At\nlength turning her eyes upon him, she said, \"And do you believe I could\nmake my poor sorry case out in this world without Iroldo? Can he bear,\nhimself, to think of leaving his Tisbina? he who has so often said, that\nif he possessed heaven itself, he should not think it heaven without her?\nO dearest husband, there is a way to make death not bitter to either of\nus. It is to die together. I must only exist long enough to see Prasildo!\nDeath, alas! is in that thought; but the same death will release us. It\nneed not even be a hard death, saving our misery. There are poisons so\ngentle in their deadliness, that we need but faint away into sleep, and\nso, in the course of a few hours, be delivered. Our misery and our folly\nwill then alike be ended.\"\n\nIroldo assenting, clasped his wife in distraction; and for a long time\nthey remained in the same posture, half stifled with grief, and bathing\none another's cheeks with their tears. Afterwards they sent quietly for\nthe poison; and the apothecary made up a preparation in a cup, without\nasking any questions; and so the husband and wife took it. Iroldo drank\nfirst, and then endeavoured to give the cup to his wife, uttering not a\nword, and trembling in every limb; not because he was afraid of death,\nbut because he could not bear to ask her to share it. At length, turning\naway his face and looking down, he held the cup towards her, and she took\nit with a chilled heart and trembling hand, and drank the remainder to\nthe dregs. Iroldo then covered his face and head, not daring to see her\ndepart for the house of Prasildo; and Tisbina, with pangs bitterer than\ndeath, left him in solitude.\n\nTisbina, accompanied by a servant, went to Prasildo, who could scarcely\nbelieve his ears when he heard that she was at the door requesting to\nspeak with him. He hastened down to shew her all honour, leading her\nfrom the door into a room by themselves; and when he found her in tears,\naddressed her in the most considerate and subdued, yet still not unhappy\nmanner, taking her confusion for bashfulness, and never dreaming what a\ntragedy had been meditated.\n\nFinding at length that her grief was not to be done away, he conjured\nher by what she held dearest on earth to let him know the cause of it;\nadding, that he could still die for her sake, if his death would do her\nany service. Tisbina spoke at these words; and Prasildo then heard what\nhe did not wish to hear. \"I am in your hands,\" answered she, \"while I\nam yet alive. I am bound to my word, but I cannot survive the dishonour\nwhich it costs me, nor, above all, the loss of the husband of my heart.\nYou also, to whose eyes I have been so welcome, must be prepared for my\ndisappearance from the earth. Had my affections not belonged to another,\nungentle would have been my heart not to have loved yourself, who are so\ncapable of loving; but (as you must well know) to love two at once is\nneither fitting nor in one's power. It was for that reason I never loved\nyou, baron; I was only touched with compassion for you; and hence the\nmiseries of us all. Before this day closes, I shall have learnt the taste\nof death.\" And without further preface she disclosed to him how she and\nher husband had taken poison.\n\nPrasildo was struck dumb with horror. He had thought his felicity at\nhand, and was at the same instant to behold it gone for ever. She who was\nrooted in his heart, she who carried his life in her sweet looks, even\nshe was sitting there before him, already, so to speak, dead.\n\n\"It has pleased neither Heaven nor you, Tisbina,\" exclaimed the unhappy\nyoung man, \"to put my best feelings to the proof. Often have two lovers\nperished for love; the world will now behold a sacrifice of three. Oh,\nwhy did you not make a request to me in your turn, and ask me to free you\nfrom your promise? You say you took pity on me! Alas, cruel one, confess\nthat you have killed yourself, in order to kill me. Yet why? Never did I\nthink of giving you displeasure; and I now do what I would have done at\nany time to prevent it, I absolve you from your oath. Stay, or go this\ninstant, as it seems best to you.\"\n\nA stronger feeling than compassion moved the heart of Tisbina at these\nwords. \"This indeed,\" replied she, \"I feel to be noble; and truly could\nI also now die to save you. But life is flitting; and how may I prove my\nregard?\"\n\nPrasildo, who had in good earnest resolved that three instead of two\nshould perish, experienced such anguish at the extraordinary position in\nwhich he found all three, that even her sweet words came but dimly to his\nears. He stood like a man stupified; then begged of her to give him but\none kiss, and so took his leave without further ado, only intimating that\nher way out of the house lay before her. As he spake, he removed himself\nfrom her sight.\n\nTisbina reached home. She found her husband with his head covered up as\nshe left him; but when she recounted what had passed, and the courtesy of\nPrasildo, and how he had exacted from her but a single kiss, Iroldo got\nup, and removed the covering from his face, and then clasping his hands,\nand raising it to heaven, he knelt with grateful humility, and prayed God\nto give pardon to himself, and reward to his neighbour. But before he had\nended, Tisbina sunk on the floor in a swoon. Her weaker frame was the\nfirst to undergo the effects of what she had taken. Iroldo felt icy chill\nto see her, albeit she seemed to sleep sweetly. Her aspect was not at all\nlike death. He taxed Heaven with cruelty for treating two loving hearts\nso hardly, and cried out against Fortune, and life, and Love itself.\n\nNor was Prasildo happier in his chamber. He also exclaimed against the\nbitter tyrant \"whom men call Love;\" and protested, that he would gladly\nencounter any fate, to be delivered from the worse evils of his false and\ncruel ascendency.\n\nBut his lamentations were interrupted. The apothecary who sold the potion\nto the husband and wife was at the door below, requesting to speak with\nhim. The servants at first had refused to carry the message; but the old\nman persisting, and saying it was a matter of life and death, entrance\nfor him into his master's chamber was obtained. \"Noble sir,\" said the\napothecary, \"I have always held you in love and reverence. I have\nunfortunately reason to fear that somebody is desiring your death. This\nmorning a handmaiden of the lady Tisbina applied to me for a secret\npoison; and just now it was told me, that the lady herself had been at\nthis house. I am old, sir, and you are young; and I warn you against the\nviolence and jealousies of womankind. Talk of their flames of love! Satan\nhimself burn them, say I, for they are fit for nothing better. Do not be\ntoo much alarmed, however, this time: for in truth I gave the young woman\nnothing of the sort that she asked for, but only a draught so innocent,\nthat if you have taken it, it will cost you but four or five hours'\nsleep. So, in God's name, give up the whole foolish sex; for you may\ndepend on it, that in this city of ours there are ninety-nine wicked ones\namong them to one good.\"\n\nYou may guess how Prasildo's heart revived at these words. Truly might he\nbe compared to flowers in sunshine after rain; he rejoiced through all\nhis being, and displayed again a cheerful countenance. Hastily thanking\nthe old man, he lost no time in repairing to the house of his neighbours,\nand telling them of their safety: and you may guess how the like joy was\ntheirs. But behold a wonder! Iroldo was so struck with the generosity\nof his neighbour's conduct throughout the whole of this extraordinary\naffair, that nothing would content his grateful though ever-grieving\nheart, but he must fairly give up Tisbina after all. Prasildo, to do him\njustice, resisted the proposition as stoutly as he could; but a man's\npowers are ill seconded by an unwilling heart; and though the contest was\nlong and handsome, as is customary between generous natures, the husband\nadhered firmly to his intention. In short, he abruptly quitted the city,\ndeclaring that he would never again see it, and so left his wife to the\nlover. And I must add (concluded the fair lady who was telling the story\nto Rinaldo), that although Tisbina took his departure greatly to heart,\nand sometimes felt as if she should die at the thoughts of it, yet since\nhe persisted in staying away, and there appeared no chance of his ever\ndoing otherwise, she did, as in that case we should all do, we at least\nthat are young and kind, and took the handsome Prasildo for second\nspouse.[3]\n\nPART THE SECOND\n\nThe conclusion of this part of the history of Iroldo and Prasildo was\nscarcely out of the lady's mouth, when a tremendous voice was heard among\nthe trees, and Rinaldo found himself confronting a giant of a frightful\naspect, who with a griffin on each side of him was guarding a cavern\nthat contained the enchanted horse which had belonged to the brother of\nAngelica. A combat ensued; and after winning the horse, and subsequently\nlosing the company of the lady, the Paladin, in the course of his\nadventures, came upon a knight who lay lamenting in a green place by a\nfountain. The knight heeding nothing but his grief, did not perceive the\nnew comer, who for some time remained looking at him in silence, till,\ndesirous to know the cause of his sorrow, he dismounted from his horse,\nand courteously begged to be informed of it. The stranger in his turn\nlooked a little while in silence at Rinaldo, and then told him he had\nresolved to die, in order to be rid of a life of misery. And yet, he\nadded, it was not his own lot which grieved him, so much as that of a\nnoble friend who would die at the same time, and who had nobody to help\nhim.\n\nThe knight, who was no other than Tisbina's husband Iroldo, then briefly\nrelated the events which the reader has heard, and proceeded to state how\nhe lead traversed the world ever since for two years, when it was his\nmisfortune to arrive in the territories of the enchantress Falerina,\nwhose custom it was to detain foreigners in prison, and daily give a\ncouple of them (a lady and a cavalier) for food to a serpent which kept\nthe entrance of her enchanted garden. To this serpent he himself was\ndestined to be sacrificed, when Prasildo, the possessor of his wife\nTisbina, hearing of his peril, set out instantly from Babylon, and rode\nnight and day till he came to the abode of the enchantress, determined\nthat nothing should hinder him from doing his utmost to save the life of\na friend so generous. Save it he did, and that by a generosity no less\ndevoted; for having attempted in vain to bribe the keeper of the prison,\nhe succeeded in prevailing on the man to let him substitute himself for\nhis friend; and he was that very day, perhaps that very moment, preparing\nfor the dreadful death to which he would speedily be brought.\n\n\"I will not survive such a friend,\" concluded Iroldo. \"I know I shall\ncontend with his warders to no purpose; but let the wretches come, if\nthey will, by thousands; I shall fight them to the last gasp. One comfort\nin death, one joy I shall at all events experience. I shall be with\nPrasildo in the other world. And yet when I think what sort of death he\nmust endure, even the release from my own miseries afflicts me, since it\nwill not prevent him from undergoing that horror.\"\n\nThe Paladin shed tears to hear of a case so piteous and affectionate, and\nin a tone of encouragement offered his services towards the rescue of his\nfriend. Iroldo looked at him in astonishment, but sighed and said, \"Ah,\nSir, I thank you with all my heart, and you are doubtless a most noble\ncavalier, to be so fearless and good-hearted; but what right have I to\nbring you to destruction for no reason and to no purpose? There is not\na man on earth but Orlando himself, or his cousin Rinaldo, who could\npossibly do us any good; and so I beg you to accept my thanks and depart\nin safety, and may God reward you.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" replied the Paladin, \"I am not Orlando; and yet, for all\nthat, I doubt not to be able to effect what I propose. Nor do I offer my\nassistance out of desire of glory, or of thanks, or return of any kind;\nexcept indeed, that if two such unparalleled friends could admit me to be\na third, I should hold myself a happy man. What! you have given up the\nwoman of your heart, and deprived yourself of all joy and comfort; and\nyour friend, on the other hand, has become a prisoner and devoted to\ndeath, for your sake; and can I be expected to leave two such friends in\na jeopardy so monstrous, and not do all in my power to save them? I would\nrather die first myself, and on your own principle; I mean, in order to\ngo with you into a better world.\"\n\nWhile they were talking in this manner, a great ill-looking rabble,\nupwards of a thousand strong, made their appearance, carrying a banner,\nand bringing forth two prisoners to die. The wretches were armed after\ntheir disorderly fashion; and the prisoners each tied upon a horse. One\nof these hapless persons too surely was Prasildo; and the other turned\nout to be the damsel who had told Rinaldo the story of the friends.\nHaving been deprived of the Paladin's assistance, her subsequent\nmisadventures had brought her to this terrible pass. The moment Rinaldo\nbeheld her, he leaped on his horse, and dashed among the villains. The\nsight of such an onset was enough for their cowardly hearts. The whole\nposse fled before him with precipitation, all except the leader, who was\na villain of gigantic strength; and him the Paladin, at one blow, clove\nthrough the middle. Iroldo could not speak for joy, as he hastened to\nrelease Prasildo. He was forced to give him tears instead of words. But\nwhen speech at length became possible, the two friends, fervently and\nwith a religious awe, declared that their deliverer must have been divine\nand not human, so tremendous was the death-blow he had given the ruffian,\nand such winged and contemptuous slaughter he had dealt among the\nfugitives. By the time he returned from the pursuit, their astonishment\nhad risen to such a pitch, that they fell on their knees and worshipped\nhim for the Prophet of the Saracens, not believing such prowess possible\nto humanity, and devoutly thanking him for the mercy he had shewn them in\ncoming thus visibly from heaven. Rinaldo for the moment was not a little\ndisturbed at this sally of enthusiasm; but the singular good faith and\nsimplicity of it restored him to himself; and with a smile between\nlovingness and humility he begged them to lay aside all such fancies, and\nknow him for a man like themselves. He then disclosed himself for the\nRinaldo of whom they had spoken, and made such an impression on them with\nhis piety, and his attributing what had appeared a superhuman valour to\nnothing but his belief in the Christian religion, that the transported\nfriends became converts on the spot, and accompanied him thenceforth as\nthe most faithful of his knights.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe story tells us nothing further of Tisbina, though there can be no\ndoubt that Boiardo meant to give us the conclusion of her share in it;\nfor the two knights take an active part in the adventures of their new\nfriend Rinaldo. Perhaps, however, the discontinuance of the poem itself\nwas lucky for the author, as far as this episode was concerned; for it\nis difficult to conceive in what manner he would have wound it up to the\nsatisfaction of the reader.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: The hero and heroine of the famous romance of _Tristan de\nLeonois_.]\n\n[Footnote 2: \"Mr. Rose observes, that Medusa may be designed by Boiardo\nas the 'type of conscience;' and he is confirmed in his opinion by the\ncircumstance mentioned in this canto (12, lib. i. stan. 39) of Medusa not\nbeing able to contemplate the reflection of her own hideous appearance,\nthough beautiful in the sight of others. I fully agree with\nhim.\"--PANIZZI, _ut sup_. Vol. iii p. 333.]\n\n[Footnote 3: \"Tisbina,\" says Panizzi, in a note on this passage, \"very\nwisely acted like Emilia (in Chaucer), who, when she saw she could not\nmarry Arcita, because he was killed, thought of marrying Palemone, rather\nthan 'be a mayden all hire lyf.' It is to be observed, that although she\nregretted very much what had happened, and even fainted away, she did\nnot, however, stand on ceremonies, as the poet says in the next stanza,\nbut yielded immediately, and married Prasildo. This, at first, I thought\nto be a somewhat inconsistent; but on consideration I found I was wrong.\nTisbina was wrong; because, having lost Iroldo, she did not know what\nPrasildo would do; but so soon as the latter offered to fill up the\nplace, she nobly and magnanimously resigned herself to her fate.\"--_Ut\nsup_. vol. iii. p. 336.\n\nIt might be thought inconsistent in Tisbina, notwithstanding Mr.\nPanizzi's pleasantry, to be so willing to take another husband, after\nhaving poisoned herself for the first; but she seems intended by the poet\nto exhibit a character of impulse in contradistinction to permanency of\nsentiment. She cannot help shewing pity for Prasildo; she cannot help\npoisoning herself for her husband; and she cannot help taking his friend,\nwhen she has lost him. Nor must it be forgotten, that the husband was the\nfirst to break the tie. We respect him more than we do her, because he\nwas capable of greater self-denial; but if he himself preferred his\nfriend to his love, we can hardly blame her (custom apart) for following\nthe example.]\n\n\nSEEING AND BELIEVING.\n\nARGUMENT\n\nA lady has two suitors, a young and an old one, the latter of whom wins\nher against her inclinations by practising the artifice of Hippomanes in\nhis race with Atalanta. Being very jealous, he locks her up in a tower;\nand the youth, who continued to be her lover, makes a subterraneous\npassage to it; and pretending to have married her sister, invites the old\nman to his house, and introduces his own wife to him as the bride. The\nhusband, deceived, but still jealous, facilitates their departure out of\nthe country, and returns to his tower to find himself deserted.\n\nThis story, like that of the _Saracen Friends_, is told by a damsel to a\nknight while riding in his company; with this difference, that she is the\nheroine of it herself. She is a damsel of a nature still lighter than the\nformer; and the reader's sympathy with the trouble she brings on herself,\nand the way she gets out of it, will be modified accordingly. On the\nother hand, nobody can respect the foolish old man with his unwarrantable\nmarriage; and the moral of Boiardo's story is still useful for these\n\"enlightened times,\" though conveyed with an air of levity.\n\nIn addition to the classics, the poet has been to the Norman fablers for\nhis story. The subterranean passage has been more than once repeated in\nromance; and the closing incident, the assistance given by the husband\nto his wife's elopement, has been imitated in the farce of _Lionel and\nClarissa._\n\nSEEING AND BELIEVING.\n\nMy father (said the damsel) is King of the Distant Islands, where the\ntreasure of the earth is collected. Never was greater wealth known, and I\nwas heiress of it all.\n\nBut it is impossible to foresee what is most to be desired for us in this\nworld. I was a king's daughter, I was rich, I was handsome, I was lively;\nand yet to all those advantages I owed my ill-fortune.\n\nAmong other suitors for my hand there came two on the same day, one of\nwhom was a youth named Ordauro, handsome from head to foot; the other an\nold man of seventy, whose name was Folderico. Both were rich and of noble\nbirth; but the greybeard was counted extremely wise, and of a foresight\nmore than human. As I did not feel in want of his foresight, the youth\nwas far more to my taste; and accordingly I listened to him with perfect\ngood-will, and gave the wise man no sort of encouragement. I was not at\nliberty, however, to determine the matter; my father had a voice in it;\nso, fearing what he would advise, I thought to secure a good result by\ncunning and management. It is an old observation, that the craft of a\nwoman exceeds all other craft. Indeed, it is Solomon's own saying. But\nnow-a-days people laugh at it; and I found to my cost that the laugh is\njust. I requested my father to proclaim, first, that nobody should have\nme in marriage who did not surpass me in swiftness (for I was a damsel of\na mighty agility); and secondly, that he who did surpass me should be my\nhusband. He consented, and I thought my happiness secure. You must know,\nI have run down a bird, and caught it with my own hand.\n\nWell, both my suitors came to the race; the youth on a large war-horse,\ntrapped with gold, which curvetted in a prodigious manner, and seemed\nimpatient for a gallop; the old roan on a mule, carrying a great bag at\nhis side, and looking already tired out. They dismounted on the place\nchosen for the trial, which was a meadow. It was encircled by a world of\nspectators; and the greybeard and myself (for his age gave him the first\nchance) only waited for the sound of the trumpet to set off.\n\nI held my competitor in such contempt, that I let him get the start of\nme, on purpose to make him ridiculous; but I was not prepared for his\npulling a golden apple out of his bag, and throwing it as far as he could\nin a direction different from that of the goal. The sight of a curiosity\nso tempting was too much for my prudence; and it rolled away so roundly,\nand to such a distance, that I lost more time in reaching it than I\nlooked for. Before I overtook the old gentleman, he threw another apple,\nand this again led me a chase after it. In short, I blush to say, that,\nresolved as I was to be tempted no further, seeing that the end of our\ncourse was now at hand, and my marriage with an old man instead of a\nyoung man was out of the question, he seduced me to give chase to a\nthird apple, and fairly reached the goal before me. I wept for rage and\ndisgust, and meditated every species of unconjugal treatment of the old\nfox. What right had he to marry such a child as I was? I asked myself the\nquestion at the time; I asked it a thousand times afterwards; and I must\nconfess, that the more I have tormented him, the more the retaliation\ndelights me.\n\nHowever, it was of no use at the moment. The old wretch bore me off\nto his domains with an ostentatious triumph; and then, his jealousy\nmisgiving him, he shut me up in a castle on a rock, where he endeavoured\nfrom that day forth to keep me from the sight of living being. You may\njudge what sort of castle it was by its name--_Altamura_ (lofty wall). It\noverlooked a desert on three sides, and the sea on the fourth; and a man\nmight as well have flown as endeavoured to scale it. There was but one\npath up to the entrance, very steep and difficult; and when you were\nthere, you must have pierced outwork after outwork, and picked the lock\nof gate after gate. So there sat I in this delicious retreat, hopeless,\nand bursting with rage. I called upon death day and night, as my only\nrefuge. I had no comfort but in seeing my keeper mad with jealousy, even\nin that desolate spot. I think he was jealous of the very flies.\n\nMy handsome youth, Ordauro, however, had not forgotten me; no, nor even\ngiven me up. Luckily he was not only very clever, but rich besides;\nwithout which, to be sure, his brains would not have availed him a pin.\nWhat does he do, therefore, but take a house in the neighbourhood on the\nsea-shore; and while my tormentor, in alarm and horror, watches every\nmovement, and thinks him coming if he sees a cloud or a bird, Ordauro\nsets people secretly to work night and day, and makes a subterraneous\npassage up to the very tower! Guess what I felt when I saw him enter!\nAssuredly I did not show him the face which I shewed Folderico. I\ndie with joy this moment to think of my delight. As soon as we could\ndiscourse of any thing but our meeting, Ordauro concerted measures for my\nescape; and the greatest difficulty being surmounted by the subterraneous\npassage, they at last succeeded. But our enemy gave us a frightful degree\nof trouble.\n\nThere was no end of the old man's pryings, peepings, and precautions.\nHe left me as little as possible by myself; and he had all the coast\nthereabouts at his command, together with the few boats that ever touched\nit.\n\nOrdauro, however, did a thing at once the most bold and the most\ningenious. He gave out that he was married; and inviting my husband to\ndinner, who had heard the news with transport, presented me, to his\nastonished eyes, for the bride. The old man looked as if he would have\ndied for rage and misery.\n\n\"Horrible villain!\" cried he,\" what is this?\"\n\nOrdauro professed astonishment in his turn.\n\n\"What!\" asked he; \"do you not know that the princess, your lady's sister,\nis wonderfully like her, and that she has done me the honour of becoming\nmy wife? I invited you in order to do honour to yourself, and so bring\nthe good families together.\"\n\n\"Detestable falsehood!\" cried Folderico. \"Do you think I'm blind, or a\nborn idiot? But I'll see to this business directly; and terrible shall be\nmy revenge.\"\n\nSo saying, he flung out, and hastened, as fast as age would let him, to\nthe room in the tower, where he expected to find me not. But there he did\nfind me:--there was I, sitting as if nothing had happened, with my hand\non my cheek, and full of my old melancholy.\n\n\"God preserve me!\" exclaimed he; \"this is astonishing indeed! Never could\nI have dreamt that one sister could be so like another! But is it so, or\nis it not? I have terrible suspicions. It is impossible to believe it.\nTell me truly,\" he continued; \"answer me on the faith of a daring woman,\nand you shall get no hurt by it. Has any one opened the portals for you\nto-day? Who was it? How did you get out? Tell me the truth, and you shall\nnot suffer for it; but deceive me, and there is no punishment that you\nmay not look for.\"\n\nIt is needless to say how I vowed and protested that I had never stirred;\nthat it was quite impossible; that I could not have done it if I would,\n&c. I took all the saints to witness to my veracity, and swore I had\nnever seen the outside of his tremendous castle.\n\nThe monster had nothing to say to this; but I saw what he meant to do--I\nsaw that he would return instantly to the house of Ordauro, and ascertain\nif the bride was there. Accordingly, the moment he turned the key on me,\nI flew down the subterraneous passage, tossed on my new clothes like\nlightning, and sat in my lover's house as before, waiting the arrival of\nthe panting old gentleman.\n\n\"Well,\" exclaimed he, as soon as he set eyes upon me, \"never in all my\nlife--no--I must allow it to be impossible--never can my wife at home be\nthe lady sitting here.\"\n\nFrom that day forth the old man, whenever he saw me in Ordauro's house,\ntreated me as if I were indeed his sister-in-law, though he never had the\nheart to bring the two wives together, for fear of old recollections.\nNevertheless, this state of things was still very perilous; and my new\nhusband and myself lost no time in considering how we should put an end\nto it by leaving the country. Ordauro resorted, as before, to a bold\nexpedient. He told Folderico that the air of the sea-coast disagreed\nwith him; and the old man, whose delight at getting rid of his neighbour\nhelped to blind him to the deceit, not only expedited the movement, but\noffered to see him part of the way on his journey!\n\nThe offer was accepted. Six miles he rode forth with us, the stupid old\nman; and then, taking his leave, to return home, we pushed our horses\nlike lightning, and so left him to tear his hair and his old beard with\ncries and curses, as soon as he opened the door of his tower.\n\n\n\nARIOSTO:\n\nCritical Notice of his Life and Genius.\n\nCRITICAL NOTICE\n\nOF\n\nARIOSTO'S LIFE AND GENIUS.[1]\n\nThe congenial spirits of Pulci and Boiardo may be said to have attained\nto their height in the person of Ariosto, upon the principle of a\ntransmigration of souls, or after the fashion of that hero in romance,\nwho was heir to the bodily strengths of all whom he conquered.\n\nLodovico Giovanni Ariosto was born on the 8th of September, 1474, in the\nfortress at Reggio, in Lombardy, and was the son of Niccol\u00f2 Ariosto,\ncaptain of that citadel (as Boiardo had been), and Daria Maleguzzi,\nwhose family still exists. The race was transplanted from Bologna in the\ncentury previous, when Obizzo the Third of Este, Marquess of Ferrara,\nmarried a lady belonging to it, whose Christian name was Lippa. Niccol\u00f2\nAriosto, besides holding the same office as Boiardo had done, at Modena\nas well as at Reggio, was master of the household to his two successive\npatrons, the Dukes Borso and Ercole. He was also employed, like him,\nin diplomacy; and was made a count by the Emperor Frederick the Third,\nthough not, it seems, with remainder to his heirs.\n\nLodovico was the eldest of ten children, five sons and five daughters.\nDuring his boyhood, theatrical entertainments were in great vogue at\ncourt, as we have seen in the life of Boiardo; and at the age of twelve,\na year after the decease of that poet (who must have been well known to\nhim, and probably encouraged his attempts), his successor is understood\nto have dramatised, after his infant fashion, the story of Pyramus and\nThisbe, and to have got his brothers and sisters to perform it. Panizzi\ndoubts the possibility of these precocious private theatricals; but\nconsidering what is called \"writing\" on the part of children, and that\nonly one other performer was required in the piece, or at best a third\nfor the lion (which some little brother might have \"roared like any\nsucking-dove\"), I cannot see good reason for disbelieving the story. Pope\nwas not twelve years old when he turned the siege of Troy into a play,\nand got his school-fellows to perform it, the part of Ajax being given to\nthe gardener. Man is a theatrical animal ([Greek: zoon mimaetikon]), and\nthe instinct is developed at a very early period, as almost every family\ncan witness that has taken its children to the \"playhouse.\"\n\nAt fifteen the young poet, like so many others of his class, was\nconsigned to the study of the law, and took a great dislike to it. The\nextreme mobility of his nature, and the wish to please his father, appear\nto have made him enter on it willingly enough in the first instance;[2]\nbut as soon as he betrayed symptoms of disgust, Niccol\u00f2, whose affairs\nwere in a bad way, drove him back to it with a vehemence which must have\nmade bad worse.[3] At the expiration of five years he was allowed to give\nit up.\n\nThere is reason to believe that Ariosto was \"theatricalising\" during\nno little portion of this time; for, in his nineteenth year, he is\nunderstood to have been taken by Duke Ercole to Pavia and to Milan,\neither as a writer or performer of comedies, probably both, since the\ncourtiers and ducal family themselves occasionally appeared on the stage;\nand one of the poet's brothers mentions his having frequently seen him\ndressed in character.[4]\n\nOn being delivered from the study of the law, the young poet appears\nto have led a cheerful and unrestrained life for the next four or five\nyears.\n\nHe wrote, or began to write, the comedy of the _Cassaria_; probably\nmeditated some poem in the style of Boiardo, then in the height of his\nfame; and he cultivated the Latin language, and intended to learn Greek,\nbut delayed, and unfortunately missed it in consequence of losing his\ntutor. Some of his happiest days were passed at a villa, still possessed\nby the Maleguzzi family, called La Mauriziana, two miles from Reggio.\nTwenty-five years afterwards he called to mind, with sighs, the pleasant\nspots there which used to invite him to write verses; the garden, the\nlittle river, the mill, the trees by the water-side, and all the other\nshady places in which he enjoyed himself during that sweet season of his\nlife \"betwixt April and May.\"[5] To complete his happiness, he had a\nfriend and cousin, Pandolfo Ariosto, who loved every thing that he loved,\nand for whom he augured a brilliant reputation.\n\nBut a dismal cloud was approaching. In his twenty-first year he lost\nhis father, and found a large family left on his hands in narrow\ncircumstances. The charge was at first so heavy, especially when\naggravated by the death of Pandolfo, that he tells us he wished to die.\nHe took to it manfully, however, in spite of these fits of gloom; and he\nlived to see his admirable efforts rewarded; his brothers enabled to seek\ntheir fortunes, and his sisters properly taken care of. Two of them, it\nseems, had become nuns. A third married; and a fourth remained long in\nhis house. It is not known what became of the fifth.\n\nIn these family-matters the anxious son and brother was occupied for\nthree or four years, not, however, without recreating himself with his\nverses, Latin and Italian, and recording his admiration of a number of\ngoddesses of his youth. He mentions, in particular, one of the name of\nLydia, who kept him often from \"his dear mother and household,\" and\nwho is probably represented by the princess of the same name in the\n_Orlando_, punished in the smoke of Tartarus for being a jilt and\ncoquette.[6] His friend Bembo, afterwards the celebrated cardinal,\nrecommended him to be blind to such little immaterial points as ladies'\ninfidelities. But he is shocked at the advice. He was far more of\nOthello's opinion than Congreve's in such matters; and declared, that he\nwould not have shared his mistress' good-will with Jupiter himself.[7]\n\nTowards the year 1504, the poet entered the service of the unworthy\nprince, Cardinal Ippolito of Este, brother of the new Duke of Ferrara,\nAlfonso the First. His eminence, who had been made a prince of the church\nat thirteen years of age by the infamous Alexander the Sixth (Borgia),\nwas at this period little more than one-and-twenty; but he took an active\npart in the duke's affairs, both civil and military, and is said to\nhave made himself conspicuous in his father's lifetime for his vices and\nbrutality. He is charged with having ordered a papal messenger to be\nseverely beaten for bringing him some unpleasant despatches: which so\nexasperated his unfortunate parent, that he was exiled to Mantua; and the\nmarquess of that city, his brother-in-law, was obliged to come to Ferrara\nto obtain his pardon. But this was a trifle compared with what he\nis accused of having done to one of his brothers. A female of their\nacquaintance, in answer to a speech made her by the reverend gallant, had\nbeen so unlucky as to say that she preferred his brother Giulio's eyes\nto his eminence's whole body: upon which the monstrous villain hired two\nruffians to put out his brother's eyes; some say, was present at the\nattempt. Attempt only it fortunately turned out to be, at least in part;\nthe opinion being, that the sight of one of the eyes was preserved.[8]\n\nParty-spirit has so much to do with stories of princes, and princes are\nso little in a condition to notice them, that, on the principle of\nnot condemning a man till he has been heard in his defence, an honest\nbiographer would be loath to credit these horrors of Cardinal Ippolito,\ndid not the violent nature of the times, and the general character of the\nman, even with his defenders, incline him to do so. His being a soldier\nrather than a churchman was a fault of the age, perhaps a credit to the\nman, for he appears to have had abilities for war, and it was no crime of\nhis if he was put into the church when a boy. But his conduct to Ariosto\nshewed him coarse and selfish; and those who say all they can for him\nadmit that he was proud and revengeful, and that nobody regretted him\nwhen he died. He is said to have had a taste for mathematics, as his\nbrother had for mechanics. The truth seems to be, that he and the duke,\nwho lived in troubled times, and had to exert all their strength to\nhinder Ferrara from becoming a prey to the court of Rome, were clever,\nharsh men, of no grace or elevation of character, and with no taste but\nfor war; and if it had not been for their connexion with Ariosto, nobody\nwould have heard of them, except while perusing the annals of the time.\nIppolito might have been, and probably was, the ruffian which the\nanecdote of his brother Giulio represents him; but the world would have\nheard little of the villany, had he not treated a poet with contempt.\n\nThe admirers of our author may wonder how he could become the servant of\nsuch a man, much more how he could praise him as he did in the great work\nwhich he was soon to begin writing. But Ariosto was the son of a man who\nhad passed his life in the service of the family; he had probably been\ntaught a loyal blindness to its defects; gratuitous panegyrics of princes\nhad been the fashion of men of letters since the time of Augustus; and\nthe poet wanted help for his relatives, and was of a nature to take\nthe least show of favour for a virtue, till he had learnt, as he\nunfortunately did, to be disappointed in the substance. It is not known\nwhat his appointment was under the cardinal. Probably he was a kind of\ngentleman of all work; an officer in his guards, a companion to amuse,\nand a confidential agent for the transaction of business. The employment\nin which he is chiefly seen is that of an envoy, but he is said also to\nhave been in the field of battle; and he intimates in his _Satires_,\nthat household attentions were expected of him which he was not quick\nto offer, such as pulling off his eminence's boots, and putting on\nhis spurs.[9] It is certain that he was employed in very delicate\nnegotiations, sometimes to the risk of his life from the perils of roads\nand torrents. Ippolito, who was a man of no delicacy, probably made use\nof him on every occasion that required address, the smallest as well\nas greatest,--an interview with a pope one day, and a despatch to a\ndog-fancier the next.\n\nHis great poem, however, proceeded. It was probably begun before he\nentered the cardinal's service; certainly was in progress during the\nearly part of his engagement. This appears from a letter written to\nIppolito by his sister the Marchioness of Mantua, to whom he had sent\nAriosto at the beginning of the year 1509 to congratulate her on the\nbirth of a child. She gives her brother special thanks for sending his\nmessage to her by \"Messer Ludovico Ariosto,\" who had made her, she says,\npass two delightful days, with giving her an account of the poem he was\nwriting.[10] Isabella was the name of this princess; and the grateful\npoet did not forget to embalm it in his verse.[11]\n\nAriosto's latest biographer, Panizzi, thinks he never served under any\nother leader than the cardinal; but I cannot help being of opinion with a\nformer one, whom he quotes, that he once took arms under a captain of the\nname of Pio, probably a kinsman of his friend Alberto Pio, to whom he\naddresses a Latin poem. It was probably on occasion of some early disgust\nwith the cardinal; but I am at a loss to discover at what period of time.\nPerhaps, indeed, he had the cardinal's permission, both to quit his\nservice, and return to it. Possibly he was not to quit it at all, except\naccording to events; but merely had leave given him to join a party in\narms, who were furthering Ippolito's own objects. Italy was full of\ncaptains in arms and conflicting interests. The poet might even, at some\nperiod of his life, have headed a troop under another cardinal, his\nfriend Giovanni de' Medici, afterwards Leo the Tenth. He had certainly\nbeen with him in various parts of Italy; and might have taken part in\nsome of his bloodless, if not his most military, equitations.\n\nBe this as it may, it is understood that Ariosto was present at the\nrepulse given to the Venetians by Ippolito, when they came up the river\nPo against Ferrara towards the close of the year 1509; though he was away\nfrom the scene of action at his subsequent capture of their flotilla, the\npoet having been despatched between the two events to Pope Julius the\nSecond on the delicate business of at once appeasing his anger with the\nduke for resisting his allies, and requesting his help to a feudatary of\nthe church. Julius was in one of his towering passions at first, but\ngave way before the address of the envoy, and did what he desired. But\nAriosto's success in this mission was nearly being the death of him in\nanother; for Alfonso having accompanied the French the year following\nin their attack on Vicenza, where they committed cruelties of the same\nhorrible kind as have shocked Europe within a few months past,[12] the\npoet's tongue, it was thought, might be equally efficacious a second\ntime; but Julius, worn out of patience with his too independent vassal,\nwho maintained an alliance with the French when the pope had ceased to\ndesire it, was to be appeased no longer. He excommunicated Alfonso, and\nthreatened to pitch his envoy into the Tiber; so that the poet was fain\nto run for it, as the duke himself was afterwards, when he visited Rome\nto be absolved. Would Julius have thus treated Ariosto, could he have\nforeseen his renown? Probably he would. The greater the opposition to the\nwill, the greater the will itself. To chuck an accomplished envoy into\nthe river would have been much; but to chuck the immortal poet there,\nlaurels and all, in the teeth of the amazement of posterity, would have\nbeen a temptation irresistible.\n\nIt was on this occasion that Ariosto, probably from inability to choose\nhis times or anodes of returning home, contracted a cough, which is\nunderstood to have shortened his existence; so that Julius may have\nkilled him after all. But the pope had a worse enemy in his own\nbosom--his violence--which killed himself in a much shorter period. He\ndied in little more than two years afterwards; and the poet's prospects\nwere all now of a very different sort--at least he thought so; for in\nMarch 1513, his friend Giovanni de' Medici succeeded to the papacy, under\nthe title of Leo the Tenth.\n\nAriosto hastened to Rome, among a shoal of visitants, to congratulate the\nnew pope, perhaps not without a commission from Alfonso to see what he\ncould do for his native country, on which the rival Medici family never\nceased to have designs. The poet was full of hope, for he had known Leo\nunder various fortunes; had been styled by him not only a friend, but a\nbrother; and promised all sorts of participations of his prosperity. Not\none of them came. The visitor was cordially received. Leo stooped from\nhis throne, squeezed his hand, and kissed him on both his cheeks; but \"at\nnight,\" says Ariosto, \"I went all the way to the Sheep to get my supper,\nwet through.\" All that Leo gave him was a \"bull,\" probably the one\nsecuring to him the profits of his _Orlando;_ and the poet's friend\nBibbiena--wit, cardinal, and kinsman of Berni--facilitated the bull, but\nthe receiver discharged the fees. He did not get one penny by promise,\npope, or friend.[13] He complains a little, but all in good humour; and\ngood-naturedly asks what he was to expect, when so many hungry kinsmen\nand partisans were to be served first. Well and wisely asked too, and\nwith a superiority to his fortunes which Leo and Bibbiena might have\nenvied.\n\nIt is thought probable, however, that if the poet had been less a friend\nto the house of Este, Leo would have kept his word with him, for their\nintimacy had undoubtedly been of the most cordial description. But it is\nsupposed that Leo was afraid he should have a Ferrarese envoy constantly\nabout him, had he detained Ariosto in Rome. The poet, however, it is\nadmitted, was not a good hunter of preferment. He could not play the\nassenter, and bow and importune: and sovereigns, however friendly they\nmay have been before their elevation, go the way of most princely flesh\nwhen they have attained it. They like to take out a man's gratitude\nbeforehand, perhaps because they feel little security in it afterwards.\n\nThe elevation to the papacy of the cheerful and indulgent son of Lorenzo\nde' Medici, after the troublous reign of Julius, was hailed with delight\nby all Christendom, and nowhere more so than in the pope's native place,\nFlorence. Ariosto went there to see the spectacles; and there, in the\nmidst of them, he found himself robbed of his heart by the lady whom he\nafterwards married. Her name was Alessandra Benucci. She was the widow of\none of the Strozzi family, whom he had known in Ferrara, and he had long\nadmired her. The poet, who, like Petrarch and Boccaccio, has recorded the\nday on which he fell in love, which was that of St. John the Baptist (the\nshowy saint-days of the south offer special temptations to that effect),\ndwells with minute fondness on the particulars of the lady's appearance.\nHer dress was black silk, embroidered with two grape-bearing vines\nintertwisted; and \"between her serene forehead and the path that went\ndividing in two her rich and golden tresses,\" was a sprig of laurel in\nbud. Her observer, probably her welcome if not yet accepted lover, beheld\nsomething very significant in this attire; and a mysterious poem, in\nwhich he records a device of a black pen feathered with gold, which he\nwore embroidered on a gown of his own, has been supposed to allude to it.\nAs every body is tempted to make his guess on such occasions, I take the\npen to have been the black-haired poet himself, and the golden feather\nthe tresses of the lady. Beautiful as he describes her, with a face full\nof sweetness, and manners noble and engaging, he speaks most of the\ncharms of her golden locks. The black gown could hardly have implied her\nwidowhood: the allusion would not have been delicate. The vine belongs to\ndramatic poets, among whom the lover was at that time to be classed, the\n_Orlando_ not having appeared. Its duplification intimated another self;\nand the crowning laurel was the success that awaited the heroic poet and\nthe conqueror of the lady's heart.[14]\n\nThe marriage was never acknowledged. The husband was in the receipt of\nprofits arising from church-offices, which put him into the condition of\nthe fellow of a college with us, who cannot marry so long as he retains\nhis fellowship: but it is proved to have taken place, though the date of\nit is uncertain. Ariosto, in a satire written three or four years after\nhis falling in love, says he never intends either to marry or to take\norders; because, if he takes orders, he cannot marry; and if he marries,\nhe cannot take orders--that is to say, must give up his semi-priestly\nemoluments. This is one of the falsehoods which the Roman Catholic\nreligion thinks itself warranted in tempting honest men to fall into;\nthus perplexing their faith as to the very roots of all faith, and\ntending to maintain a sensual hypocrisy, which can do no good to the\nstrongest minds, and must terribly injure the weak.\n\nAriosto's love for this lady I take to have been one of the causes of\ndissatisfaction between him and the cardinal. \"Fortunately for the poet,\"\nas Panizzi observes, Ippolito was not always in Ferrara. He travelled\nin Italy, and he had an archbishopric in Hungary, the tenure of which\ncompelled occasional residence. His company was not desired in Rome, so\nthat he was seldom there. Ariosto, however, was an amusing companion; and\nthe cardinal seems not to have liked to go anywhere without him. In the\nyear 1515 he was attended by the poet part of the way on a journey to\nRome and Urbino; but Ariosto fell ill, and had leave to return. He\nconfesses that his illness was owing to an anxiety of love; and he even\nmakes an appeal to the cardinal's experience of such feelings; so that it\nmight seem he was not afraid of Ippolito's displeasure in that direction.\nBut the weakness which selfish people excuse in themselves becomes a\n\"very different thing\" (as they phrase it) in another. The appeal to the\ncardinal's experience might only have exasperated him, in its assumption\nof the identity of the case. However, the poet was, at all events, left\nthis time to the indulgence of his love and his poetry; and in the\ncourse of the ensuing year, a copy of the first edition of the _Orlando\nFurioso_, in forty cantos, was put into the hands of the illustrious\nperson to whom it was dedicated.\n\nThe words in which the cardinal was pleased to express himself on this\noccasion have become memorable. \"Where the devil, Master Lodovick,\" said\nthe reverend personage, \"have you picked up such a parcel of trumpery?\"\nThe original term is much stronger, aggravating the insult with\nindecency. There is no equivalent for it in English; and I shall not\nrepeat it in Italian. \"It is as low and indecent,\" says Panizzi, \"as\nany in the language.\" Suffice it to say that, although the age was not\nscrupulous in such matters, it was one of the last words befitting the\nlips of the reverend Catholic; and that, when Ippolito of Este\n(as Gingu\u00e9n\u00e9 observes) made that speech to the great poet, \"he\nuttered--prince, cardinal, and mathematician as he was--an\nimpertinence.\"[15]\n\nWas the cardinal put out of temper by a device which appeared in this\nbook? On the leaf succeeding the title-page was the privilege for its\npublication, granted by Leo in terms of the most flattering personal\nrecognition.[16] So far so good; unless the unpoetical Este patron was\nnot pleased to see such interest taken in the book by the tasteful Medici\npatron. But on the back of this leaf was a device of a hive, with the\nbees burnt out of it for their honey, and the motto, \"Evil for good\"\n(_Pro bono malum_). Most biographers are of opinion that this device was\naimed at the cardinal's ill return for all the sweet words lavished on\nhim and his house. If so, and supposing Ariosto to have presented the\ndedication-copy in person, it would have been curious to see the faces of\nthe two men while his Eminence was looking at it. Some will think that\nthe good-natured poet could hardly have taken such an occasion of\ndisplaying his resentment. But the device did not express at whom it was\naimed: the cardinal need not have applied it to himself if he did not\nchoose, especially as the book was full of his praises; and good-natured\npeople will not always miss an opportunity of covertly inflicting a\nsting. The device, at all events, shewed that the honey-maker had got\nworse than nothing by his honey; and the house of Este could not say they\nhad done any thing to contradict it.\n\nI think it probable that neither the poet's device nor the cardinal's\nspeech were forgotten, when, in the course of the next year, the parties\ncame to a rupture in consequence of the servant's refusing to attend his\nmaster into Hungary. Ariosto excused himself on account of the state of\nhis health and of his family. He said that a cold climate did not agree\nwith him; that his chest was affected, and could not bear even the stoves\nof Hungary; and that he could not, in common decency and humanity, leave\nhis mother in her old age, especially as all the rest of the family were\naway but his youngest sister, whose interests he had also to take care\nof. But Ippolito was not to be appeased. The public have seen, in a late\nfemale biography, a deplorable instance of the unfeelingness with which\neven a princess with a reputation for religion could treat the declining\nhealth and unwilling retirement of a poor slave in her service, fifty\ntimes her superior in every thing but servility. Greater delicacy was\nnot to be expected of the military priest. The nobler the servant, the\ngreater the desire to trample upon him and keep him at a disadvantage. It\nis a grudge which rank owes to genius, and which it can only wave when\nits possessor is himself \"one of God Almighty's gentlemen.\" I do not mean\nin point of genius, which is by no means the highest thing in the world,\nwhatever its owners may think of it; but in point of the highest of all\nthings, which is nobleness of heart. I confess I think Ariosto was wrong\nin expecting what he did of a man he must have known so well, and in\ncomplaining so much of courts, however good-humouredly. A prince occupies\nthe station he does, to avert the perils of disputed successions, and\nnot to be what his birth cannot make him--if nature has not supplied the\nmaterials. Besides, the cardinal, in his quality of a mechanical-minded\nman with no taste, might with reason have complained of his servant's\nattending to poetry when it was \"not in his bond;\" when it diverted\nhim from the only attentions which his employer understood or desired.\nIppolito candidly confessed, as Ariosto himself tells us, that he not\nonly did not care for poetry, but never gave his attendant one stiver in\npatronage of it, or for any thing whatsoever but going his journeys and\ndoing as he was bidden.[17] On the other hand, the cardinal's payments\nwere sorry ones; and the poet might with justice have thought, that he\nwas not bound to consider them an equivalent for the time be was expected\nto give up. The only thing to have been desired in this case was, that he\nshould have said so; and, in truth, at the close of the explanation which\nhe gave on the subject to his friends at court, he did--boldly desiring\nthem, as became him, to tell the cardinal, that if his eminence expected\nhim to be a \"serf\" for what he received, he should decline the bargain;\nand that he preferred the humblest freedom and his studies to a slavery\nso preposterous.[18] The truth is, the poet should have attached himself\nwholly to the Medici. Had he not adhered to the duller house, he might\nhave led as happy a life with the pope as Pulci did with the pope's\nfather; perhaps have been made a cardinal, like his friends Bembo and\nSadolet. But then we might have lost the _Orlando_.\n\nThe only sinecure which the poet is now supposed to have retained, was a\ngrant of twenty-five crowns every four months on the episcopal chancery\nof Milan: so, to help out his petty income, he proceeded to enter into\nthe service of Alfonso, which shews that both the brothers were not angry\nwith him. He tells us, that he would gladly have had no new master, could\nhe have helped it; but that, if he must needs serve, he would rather\nserve the master of every body else than a subordinate one. At this\njuncture he had a brief prospect of being as free as he wished; for an\nuncle died leaving a large landed property still known as the Ariosto\nlands (_Le Arioste_); but a convent demanded it on the part of one of\ntheir brotherhood, who was a natural son of this gentleman; and a more\nformidable and ultimately successful claim was advanced in a court of\nlaw by the Chamber of the Duchy of Ferrara, the first judge in the cause\nbeing the duke's own steward and a personal enemy of the poet's. Ariosto,\ntherefore, while the suit was going on, was obliged to content himself\nwith his fees from Milan and a monthly allowance which he received from\nthe duke of \"about thirty-eight shillings,\" together with provisions\nfor three servants and two horses. He entered the duke's service in the\nspring of 1518, and remained in it for the rest of his life. But it was\nnot so burden-some as that of the cardinal; and the consequence of the\npoet's greater leisure was a second edition of the _Furioso_, in the year\n1521, with additions and corrections; still, however, in forty cantos\nonly. It appears, by a deed of agreement,[19] that the work was printed\nat the author's expense; that he was to sell the bookseller one hundred\ncopies for sixty livres (about 5_l_. 12_s_.) on condition of the book's\nnot being sold at the rate of more than sixteen sous (1_s_. 8_d_.); that\nthe author was not to give, sell, or allow to be sold, any copy of the\nbook at Ferrara, except by the bookseller; that the bookseller, after\ndisposing of the hundred copies, was to have as many more as he chose on\nthe same terms; and that, on his failing to require a further supply,\nAriosto was to be at liberty to sell his volumes to whom he pleased.\n\"With such profits,\" observes Panizzi, \"it was not likely that the poet\nwould soon become independent;\" and it may be added, that he certainly\ngot nothing by the first edition, whatever he may have done by the\nsecond. He expressly tells us, in the satire which he wrote on declining\nto go abroad with Ippolito, that all his poetry had not procured him\nmoney enough to purchase a cloak.[20] Twenty years afterwards, when he\nwas dead, the poem was in such request, that, between 1542 and 1551,\nPanizzi calculates there must have been a sale of it in Europe to the\namount of a hundred thousand copies.[21]\n\nThe second edition of the _Furioso_ did not extricate the author from\nvery serious difficulties; for the next year he was compelled to apply\nto either to relieve him from his necessities, or permit him to look for\nsome employment more profitable than the ducal service. The answer of\nthis prince, who was now rich, but had always been penurious, and who\nnever laid out a farthing, if he could help it, except in defence of his\ncapital, was an appointment of Ariosto to the government of a district in\na state of anarchy, called Garfagnana, which had nominally returned to\nhis rule in consequence of the death of Leo, who had wrested it from him.\nIt was a wild spot in the Apennines, on the borders of the Ferrarese and\npapal territories. Ariosto was there three years, and is said to have\nreduced it to order; but, according to his own account, he had very\ndoubtful work of it. The place was overrun with banditti, including the\ntroops commissioned to suppress them. It required a severer governor than\nhe was inclined to be; and Alfonso did not attend to his requisitions for\nsupplies. The candid and good-natured poet intimates that the duke might\nhave given him the appointment rather for the governor's sake than the\npeople's; and the cold, the loneliness and barrenness of the place, and,\nabove all, his absence from the object of his affections, oppressed him.\nHe did not write a verse for twelve months: he says he felt like a bird\nmoulting[22]. The best thing got out of it was an anecdote for posterity.\nThe poet was riding out one day with a few attendants--some say walking\nout in a fit of absence of mind--when he found himself in the midst of\na band of outlaws, who, in a suspicious manner, barely suffered him\nto pass. A reader of Mrs. Radcliffe might suppose them a band of\n_condottieri_, under the command of some profligate desperado; and such\nperhaps they were. The governor had scarcely gone by, when the leader of\nthe band, discovering who he was, came riding back with much earnestness,\nand making his obeisance to the poet, said, that he never should have\nallowed him to pass in that manner had he known him to be the Signor\nLudovico Ariosto, author of the _Orlando Furioso_; that his own name was\nFilippo Pacchione (a celebrated personage of his order); and that his men\nand himself, so far from doing the Signor displeasure, would have the\nhonour of conducting him back to his castle. \"And so they did,\" says\nBaretti, \"entertaining him all along the way with the various excellences\nthey had discerned in his poem, and bestowing upon it the most rapturous\npraises[23].\"\n\nOn his return from Garfagnana, Ariosto is understood to have made several\njourneys in Italy, either with or without the duke his master; some of\nthem to Mantua, where it has been said that he was crowned with laurel by\nthe Emperor Charles the Fifth. But the truth seems to be, that he only\nreceived a laureate diploma: it does not appear that Charles made him any\nother gift. His majesty, and the whole house of Este, and the pope, and\nall the other Italian princes, left that to be done by the imperial\ngeneral, the celebrated Alfonso Davallos, Marquess of Vasto, to whom he\nwas sent on some mission by the Duke of Ferrara, and who settled on him\nan annuity of a hundred golden ducats; \"the only reward,\" says Panizzi,\n\"which we find to have been conferred on Ariosto expressly as a\npoet.\"[24] Davallos was one of the conquerors of Francis the First,\nyoung and handsome, and himself a writer of verses. The grateful poet\naccordingly availed himself of his benefactor's accomplishments to make\nhim, in turn, a present of every virtue under the sun. C\u00e6sar was not so\nliberal, Nestor so wise, Achilles so potent, Nireus so beautiful, nor\neven Ladas, Alexander's messenger, so swift.[25] Ariosto was now verging\ntowards the grave; and he probably saw in the hundred ducats a golden\nsunset of his cares.\n\nMeantime, however, the poet had built a house, which, although small, was\nraised with his own money; so that the second edition of the _Orlando_\nmay have realised some profits at last. He recorded the pleasant fact in\nan inscription over the door, which has become celebrated:\n\n  \"Parva, sed apta mihi; sed nulli obnoxia; sed non\n    Sordida; parta meo sed tamen acre domus.\"\n  Small, yet it suits me; is of no offence;\n  Was built, not meanly, at my own expense.\n\nWhat a pity (to compare great things with small) that he had not as long\na life before him to enjoy it, as Gil Blas had with his own comfortable\nquotation over his retreat at Lirias![26]\n\nThe house still remains; but the inscription unfortunately became\neffaced; though the following one remains, which was added by his son\nVirginio:\n\n                 \"Sic domus h\u00e6c Areostea\n  Propitios habeat deos, olim ut Pindarica.\"\n\n  Dear to the gods, whatever come to pass,\n  Be Ariosto's house, as Pindar's was.\n\nThis was an anticipation--perhaps the origin--of Milton's sonnet about\nhis own house, addressed to \"Captains and Collonels,\" during the civil\nwar.[27]\n\nDavallos made the poet his generous present in the October of the year\n1513; and in the same month of the year following the _Orlando_ was\npublished as it now stands, with various insertions throughout, chiefly\nstories, and six additional cantos. Cardinal Ippolito had been dead some\ntime; and the device of the beehive was exchanged for one of two vipers,\nwith a hand and pair of shears cutting out their tongues, and the motto,\n\"Thou hast preferred ill-will to good\" (_Dilexisti malitiam super\nbenignitatem_). The allusion is understood to have been to certain\ncritics whose names have all perished, unless Sperone (of whom we shall\nhear more by and by) was one of them. The appearance of this edition was\neagerly looked for; but the trouble of correcting the press, and the\ndestruction of a theatre by fire which had been built under the poet's\ndirection, did his health no good in its rapidly declining condition; and\nafter suffering greatly from an obstruction, he died, much attenuated, on\nthe sixth day of June, 1533. His decease, his fond biographers have\ntold us, took place \"about three in the afternoon;\" and he was \"aged\nfifty-eight years, eight months, and twenty-eight days.\" His body,\naccording to his direction, was taken to the church of the Benedictines\nduring the night by four men, with only two tapers, and in the most\nprivate and simple manner. The monks followed it to the grave out of\nrespect, contrary to their usual custom.\n\nSo lived, and so died, and so desired humbly to be buried, one of the\ndelights of the world.\n\nHis son Virginio had erected a chapel in the garden of the house built by\nhis father, and he wished to have his body removed thither; but the\nmonks would not allow it. The tomb, at first a very humble one, was\nsubsequently altered and enriched several times; but remains, I\nbelieve, as rebuilt at the beginning of the century before last by his\ngrand-nephew, Ludovico Ariosto, with a bust of the poet, and two statues\nrepresenting Poetry and Glory.\n\nAriosto was tall and stout, with a dark complexion, bright black eyes,\nblack and curling hair, aquiline nose, and shoulders broad but a little\nstooping. His aspect was thoughtful, and his gestures deliberate. Titian,\nbesides painting his portrait, designed that which appeared in the\nwoodcut of the author's own third edition of his poem, which has been\ncopied into Mr. Panizzi's. It has all the look of truth of that great\nartist's vital hand; but, though there is an expression of the, genial\ncharacter of the mouth, notwithstanding the exuberance of beard, it does\nnot suggest the sweetness observable in one of the medals of Ariosto,\na wax impression of which is now before me; nor has the nose so much\ndelicacy and grace.[28]\n\nThe poet's temperament inclined him to melancholy, but his intercourse\nwas always cheerful. One biographer says he was strong and\nhealthy--another, that he was neither. In all probability he was\nnaturally strong, but weakened by a life full of emotion. He talks of\ngrowing old at forty four, and of leaving been bald for some time.[29] He\nhad a cough for many years before he died. His son says he cured it by\ndrinking good old wine. Ariosto says that \"vin fumoso\" did not agree with\nhim; but that might only mean wine of a heady sort. The chances, under\nsuch circumstances, were probably against wine of any kind; and Panizzi\nthinks the cough was never subdued. His physicians forbade him all sorts\nof stimulants with his food.[30]\n\nHis temper and habits were those of a man wholly given up to love and\npoetry. In his youth he was volatile, and at no time without what is\ncalled some \"affair of the heart.\" Every woman attracted him who had\nmodesty and agreeableness; and as, at the same time, he was very jealous,\none might imagine that his wife, who had a right to be equally so, would\nhave led no easy life. But it is evident he could practise very generous\nself-denial; and probably the married portion of his existence, supposing\nAlessandra's sweet countenance not to have belied her, was happy on both\nsides. He was beloved by his family, which is never the case with the\nunamiable. Among his friends were most Of the great names of the age,\nincluding a world of ladies, and the whole graceful court of Guidobaldo\nda Montefeltro, duke of Urbino, for which Catiglione wrote his book of\nthe _Gentleman (Il Cortegiano)_. Raphael addressed him a sonnet, and\nTitian painted his likeness. He knew Vittoria Colonna, and Veronica da\nGambera, and Giulia Gonzaga (whom the Turks would have run away with),\nand Ippolita Sforza, the beautiful blue-stocking, who set Bandello on\nwriting his novels, and Bembo, and Flaminio, and Berni, and Molza, and\nSannazzaro, and the Medici family, and Vida, and Macchiavelli; and nobody\ndoubts that he might have shone at the court of Leo the brightest of the\nbright. But he thought it \"better to enjoy a little in peace, than seek\nafter much with trouble.\"[31] He cared for none of the pleasures of the\ngreat, except building, and that he was content to satisfy in Cowley's\nfashion, with \"a small house in a large garden.\" He was plain in his\ndiet, disliked ceremony, and was frequently absorbed in thought. His\nindignation was roused by mean and brutal vices; but he took a large and\nliberal view of human nature in general; and, if he was somewhat free in\nhis life, must be pardoned for the custom of the times, for his charity\nto others, and for the genial disposition which made him an enchanting\npoet. Above all, he was an affectionate son; lived like a friend with his\nchildren; and, in spite of his tendency to pleasure, supplied the place\nof an anxious and careful father to his brothers and sisters, who\nidolized him.\n\n  \"Ornabat pietas et grata modestia vatem,\"\n\nwrote his brother Gabriel,\n\n  \"Sancta fides, dictique memor, munitaque recto\n  Justitia, et nullo patientia victa labore,\n  Et constans virtus animi, et elementia mitis,\n  Ambitione procul pulsa fast\u00fbsque tumore;\n  Credere uti posses natum felicibus horis,\n  Felici fulgente astro Jovis atque Diones.\"[32]\n\n  Devoted tenderness adorn'd the bard,\n  And grateful modesty, and grave regard\n  To his least word, and justice arm'd with right,\n  And patience counting every labour light,\n  And constancy of soul, and meekness too,\n  That neither pride nor worldly wishes knew.\n  You might have thought him born when there concur\n  The sweet star and the strong, Venus and Jupiter.\n\nHis son Virginio, and others, have left a variety of anecdotes\ncorroborating points in his character. I shall give them all, for they\nput us into his company. It is recorded, as an instance of his reputation\nfor honesty, that an old kinsman, a clergyman, who was afraid of being\npoisoned for his possessions, would trust himself in no other hands; but\nthe clergyman was his own grand-uncle and namesake, probably godfather;\nso that the compliment is not so very great.\n\nIn his youth he underwent a long rebuke one day from his father without\nsaying a word, though a satisfactory answer was in his power; on which\nhis brother Gabriel expressing his surprise, he said that he was thinking\nall the time of a scene in a comedy he was writing, for which the\npaternal lecture afforded an excellent study.\n\nHe loved gardening better than he understood it; was always shifting\nhis plants, and destroying the seeds, out of impatience to see them\ngerminate. He was rejoicing once on the coming up of some \"capers,\" which\nhe had been visiting every day to see how they got on, when it turned out\nthat his capers were elder-trees!\n\nHe was perpetually altering his verses. His manuscripts are full of\ncorrections. He wrote the exordium of the _Orlando_ over and over again;\nand at last could only be satisfied with it in proportion as it was not\nhis own; that is to say, in proportion as it came nearer to the beautiful\npassage in Dante from which his ear and his feelings had caught it.[33]\n\nHe, however, discovered that correction was not always improvement. He\nused to say, it was with verses as with trees. A plant naturally well\ngrowing might be made perfect by a little delicate treatment; but\nover-cultivation destroyed its native grace. In like manner, you might\nperfect a happily-inspired verse by taking away any little fault of\nexpression; but too great a polish deprived it of the charm of the first\nconception. It was like over-training a naturally graceful child. If it\nbe wondered how he who corrected so much should succeed so well, even to\nan appearance of happy negligence, it is to be considered that the most\nimpulsive writers often put down their thoughts too hastily, then correct\nand re-correct them in the same impatient manner; and so have to bring\nthem round, by as many steps, to the feeling which they really had at\nfirst, though they were too hasty to do it justice.\n\nAriosto would have altered his house as often as his verses, but did not\nfind it so convenient. Somebody wondering that he contented himself with\nso small an abode, when he built such magnificent mansions in his poetry,\nhe said it was easier to put words together than blocks of stone.[34]\n\nHe liked Virgil; commended the style of Tibullus; did not care for\nPropertius; but expressed high approbation of Catullus and Horace. I\nsuspect his favourite to have been Ovid. His son says he did not study\nmuch, nor look after books; but this may have been in his decline, or\nwhen Virginio first took to observing him. A different conclusion as to\nstudy is to be drawn from the corrected state of his manuscripts, and the\nvariety of his knowledge; and with regard to books, he not only mentions\nthe library of the Vatican as one of his greatest temptations to visit\nRome, but describes himself, with all the gusto of a book-worm, as\nenjoying them in his chimney-corner.[35]\n\nTo intimate his secrecy in love-matters, he had an inkstand with a\nCupid on it, holding a finger on his lips. I believe it is still in\nexistence.[36] He did not disclose his mistresses' names, as Dante did,\nfor the purpose of treating them with contempt; nor, on the other hand,\ndoes he appear to have been so indiscriminately gallant as to be fond of\ngoitres.[37] The only mistress of whom he complained he concealed in a\nLatin appellation; and of her he did not complain with scorn. He had\nloved, besides Alessandra Benucci, a lady of the name of Ginevra; the\nmother of one of his children is recorded as a certain Orsolina; and that\nof the other was named Maria, and is understood to have been a governess\nin his father's family.[38]\n\nHe ate fast, and of whatever was next him, often beginning with the bread\non the table before the dishes came; and he would finish his dinner with\nanother bit of bread. \"Appetiva le rape,\" says his good son; videlicet,\nhe was fond of turnips. In his fourth Satire, he mentions as a favourite\ndish, turnips seasoned with vinegar and boiled _must_ (sapa), which\nseems, not unjustifiably, to startle Mr. Panizzi.[39] He cared so little\nfor good eating, that he said of himself, he should have done very well\nin the days when people lived on acorns.\n\nA stranger coming in one day at the dinner-hour, he ate up what was\nprovided for both; saying afterwards, when told of it, that the gentleman\nshould have taken care of himself. This does not look very polite; but of\ncourse it was said in jest. His son attributed this carelessness at table\nto absorption in his studies.\n\nHe carried this absence of mind so far, and was at the same time so good\na pedestrian, that Virginio tells us he once walked all the way from\nCarpi to Ferrara in his slippers, owing to his having strolled out of\ndoors in that direction.\n\nThe same biographers who describe him as a brave soldier, add, that he\nwas a timid horseman and seaman; and indeed he appears to have eschewed\nevery kind of unnecessary danger. It was a maxim of his, to be the last\nin going out of a boat. I know not what Orlando would have said to this;\nbut there is no doubt that the good son and brother avoided no pain in\npursuit of his duty. He more than once risked his life in the service of\ngovernment from the perils of travelling among war-makers and banditti.\nImagination finds something worthy of itself on great occasions, but is\napt to discover the absurdity of staking existence on small ones. Ariosto\ndid not care to travel out of Italy. He preferred, he says, going round\nthe earth in a map; visiting countries without having to pay innkeepers,\nand ploughing harmless seas without thunder and lightning[40].\n\nHis outward religion, like the one he ascribed to his friend Cardinal\nBembo, was \"that of other people.\" He did not think it of use to disturb\ntheir belief; yet excused rather than blamed Luther, attributing his\nheresy to the necessary consequences of mooting points too subtle for\nhuman apprehension[41]. He found it impossible, however, to restrain his\ncontempt of bigotry; and, like most great writers in Catholic countries,\nwas a derider of the pretensions of devotees, and the discords and\nhypocrisies of the convent. He evidently laughed at Dante's figments\nabout the other world; not at the poetry of them, for that he admired,\nand sometimes imitated, but at the superstition and presumption. He\nturned the Florentine's moon into a depository of non-sense; and found no\nhell so bad as the hearts of tyrants. The only other people he put into\nthe infernal regions are ladies who were cruel to their lovers! He had\na noble confidence in the intentions of his Creator; and died ill the\nexpectation of meeting his friends again in a higher state of existence.\n\nOf Ariosto's four brothers, one became a courtier at Naples, another a\nclergyman, another an envoy to the Emperor Charles the Fifth; and the\nfourth, who was a cripple and a scholar, lived with Lodovico, and\ncelebrated his memory. His two sons, whose names were Virginio and\nGianbattista, and who were illegitimate (the reader is always to bear\nin mind the more indulgent customs of Italy in matters of this nature,\nespecially in the poet's time), became, the first a canon in the\ncathedral of Ferrara, and the other an officer in the army. It does not\nappear that he had any other children.\n\nAriosto's renown is wholly founded on the _Orlando Furioso_, though he\nwrote satires, comedies, and a good deal of miscellaneous poetry, all\noccasionally exhibiting a master-hand. The comedies, however, were\nunfortunately modelled on those of the ancients; and the constant\ntermination of the verse with trisyllables contributes to render them\ntedious. What comedies might he not have written, had he given himself up\nto existing times and manners[42]!\n\nThe satires are rather good-natured epistles to his friends, written with\na charming ease and straightforwardness, and containing much exquisite\nsense and interesting autobiography.\n\nOn his lyrical poetry he set little value; and his Latin verse is not of\nthe best order. Critics have expressed their surprise at its inferiority\nto that of contemporaries inferior to him in genius; but the reason lay\nin the very circumstance. I mean, that his large and liberal inspiration\ncould only find its proper vent in his own language; he could not be\ncontent with potting up little delicacies in old-fashioned vessels.\n\nThe _Orlando Furioso_ is, literally, a continuation of the _Orlando\nInnamorato_; so much so, that the story is not thoroughly intelligible\nwithout it. This was probably the reason of a circumstance that would be\notherwise unaccountable, and that was ridiculously charged against him as\na proof of despairing envy by the despairing envy of Sperone; namely, his\nnever having once mentioned the name of his predecessor. If Ariosto had\ndespaired of equalling Boiardo, he must have been hopeless of reaching\nposterity, in which case his silence must have been useless; and, in\nany case, it is clear that he looked on himself as the continuator of\nanother's narration. But Boiardo was so popular when he wrote, that\nthe very silence shews he must have thought the mention of his name\nsuperfluous. Still it is curious that he never should have alluded to it\nin the course of the poem. It could not have been from any dislike to the\nname itself, or the family; for in his Latin poems he has eulogised the\nhospitality of the house of Boiardo[43].\n\nThe _Furioso_ continued not only what Boiardo did, but what he intended\nto do; for as its subject is Orlando's love, and knight-errantry in\ngeneral, so its object was to extol the house of Este, and deduce it from\nits fabulous ancestor Ruggiero. Orlando is the open, Ruggiero the covert\nhero; and almost all the incidents of this supposed irregular poem,\nwhich, as Panizzi has shewn, is one of the most regular in the world, go\nto crown with triumph and wedlock the originator of that unworthy race.\nThis is done on the old groundwork of Charlemagne and his Paladins, of\nthe treacheries of the house of Gan of Maganza, and of the wars of the\nSaracens against Christendom. Bradamante, the Amazonian _intended_ of\nRuggiero, is of the same race as Orlando, and a great overthrower of\ninfidels. Ruggiero begins with being an infidel himself, and is kept from\nthe wars, like a second Achilles, by the devices of an anxious guardian,\nbut ultimately fights, is converted, and marries; and Orlando all the\nwhile slays his thousands, as of old, loves, goes mad for jealousy, is\nthe foolishest and wisest of mankind (somewhat like the poet himself);\nand crowns the glory of Ruggiero, not only by being present at his\nmarriage, but putting on his spurs with his own hand when he goes forth\nto conclude the war by the death of the king of Algiers.\n\nThe great charm, however, of the _Orlando Furioso_ is not in its\nknight-errantry, or its main plot, or the cunning interweavement of its\nminor ones, but in its endless variety, truth, force, and animal spirits;\nin its fidelity to actual nature while it keeps within the bounds of the\nprobable, and its no less enchanting verisimilitude during its wildest\nsallies of imagination. At one moment we are in the midst of flesh and\nblood like ourselves; at the next with fairies and goblins; at the next\nin a tremendous battle or tempest; then in one of the loveliest of\nsolitudes; then hearing a tragedy, then a comedy; then mystified in some\nenchanted palace; then riding, dancing, dining, looking at pictures; then\nagain descending to the depths of the earth, or soaring to the moon, or\nseeing lovers in a glade, or witnessing the extravagances of the great\njealous hero Orlando; and the music of an enchanting style perpetually\nattends us, and the sweet face of Angelica glances here and there like\na bud: and there are gallantries of all kinds, and stories endless, and\nhonest tears, and joyous bursts of laughter, and beardings for all base\nopinions, and no bigotry, and reverence for whatsoever is venerable,\nand candour exquisite, and the happy interwoven names of \"Angelica and\nMedoro,\" young for ever.\n\nBut so great a work is not to be dismissed with a mere rhapsody of\npanegyric. Ariosto is inferior, in some remarkable respects, to his\npredecessors Pulci and Boiardo. His characters, for the most part, do not\ninterest us as much as theirs by their variety and good fellowship; he\ninvented none as Boiardo did, with the exception, indeed, of Orlando's,\nas modified by jealousy; and he has no passage, I thick, equal in pathos\nto that of the struggle at Roncesvalles; for though Orlando's jealousy\nis pathetic, as well as appalling, the effects of it are confined to one\nperson, and disputed by his excessive strength. Ariosto has taken all\ntenderness out of Angelica, except that of a kind of boarding-school\nfirst love (which, however, as here-after intimated, may have simplified\nand improved her general effect), and he has omitted all that was amusing\nin the character of Astolfo. Knight-errantry has fallen off a little\nin his hands from its first youthful and trusting freshness; more\nsophisticate times are opening upon us; and satire more frequently and\nbitterly interferes. The licentious passages (though never gross in\nwords, like those of his contemporaries,) are not redeemed by sentiment\nas in Boiardo; and it seems to me, that Ariosto hardly improved so much\nas he might have done Upon his predecessor's imitations of the classics.\nI cannot help thinking that, upon the whole, he had better have left them\nalone, and depended entirely on himself. Shelley says, he has too much\nfighting and \"revenge,\"[44]--which is true; but the revenge was only\namong his knights. He was himself (like my admirable friend) one of the\nmost forgiving of men; and the fighting was the taste of the age, in\nwhich chivalry was still flourishing in the shape of such men as Bayard,\nand ferocity in men like Gaston de Foix. Ariosto certainly did not\nanticipate, any more than Shakspeare did, that spirit of human\namelioration which has ennobled the present age. He thought only of\nreflecting nature as he found it. He is sometimes even as uninteresting\nas he found other people; but the tiresome passages, thank God, all\nbelong to the house of Este! His panegyrics of Ippolito and his ancestors\nrecoiled on the poet with a retributive dulness.\n\nBut in all the rest there is a wonderful invigoration and enlargement.\nThe genius of romance has increased to an extraordinary degree in power,\nif not in simplicity. Its shoulders have grown broader, its voice louder\nand more sustained; and if it has lost a little on the sentimental side,\nit has gained prodigiously, not only in animal vigour, but, above all, in\nknowledge of human nature, and a brave and joyous candour in shewing it.\nThe poet takes a universal, an acute, and, upon the whole, a cheerful\nview, like the sun itself, of all which the sun looks on; and readers are\ncharmed to see a knowledge at once so keen and so happy. Herein lies the\nsecret of Ariosto's greatness; which is great, not because it has the\nintensity of Dante, or the incessant thought and passion of Shakspeare,\nor the dignified imagination of Milton, to all of whom he is far inferior\nin sustained excellence,--but because he is like very Nature herself.\nWhether great, small, serious, pleasureable, or even indifferent, he\nstill has the life, ease, and beauty of the operations of the daily\nplanet. Even where he seems dull and common-place, his brightness and\noriginality at other times make it look like a good-natured condescension\nto our own common habits of thought and discourse; as though he did it\nbut on purpose to leave nothing unsaid that could bring him within the\ncategory of ourselves. His charming manner intimates that, instead of\ntaking thought, he chooses to take pleasure with us, and compare old\nnotes; and we are delighted that he does us so much honour, and makes, as\nit were, Ariostos of us all. He is Shakspearian in going all lengths with\nNature as he found her, not blinking the fact of evil, yet finding a\n\"soul of goodness\" in it, and, at the same time, never compromising the\nworth of noble and generous qualities. His young and handsome Medoro is a\npitiless slayer of his enemies; but they were his master's enemies, and\nhe would have lost his life, even to preserve his dead body. His Orlando,\nfor all his wisdom and greatness, runs mad for love of a coquette, who\ntriumphs over warriors and kings, only to fall in love herself with an\nobscure lad. His kings laugh with all their hearts, like common people;\nhis mourners weep like such unaffected children of sorrow, that they must\nneeds \"swallow some of their tears.\"[45] His heroes, on the arrival of\nintelligence that excites them, leap out of bed and write letters before\nthey dress, from natural impatience, thinking nothing of their \"dignity.\"\nWhen Astolfo blows the magic horn which drives every body out of the\ncastle of Atlantes, \"not a mouse\" stays behind;--not, as Hoole and such\ncritics think, because the poet is here writing ludicrously, but because\nhe uses the same image seriously, to give an idea of desolation, as\nShakspeare in _Hamlet_ does to give that of silence, when \"not a mouse is\nstirring.\" Instead of being mere comic writing, such incidents are in the\nhighest epic taste of the meeting of extremes,--of the impartial eye with\nwhich Nature regards high and low. So, give Ariosto his hippogriff, and\nother marvels with which he has enriched the stock of romance, and Nature\ntakes as much care of the verisimilitude of their actions, as if she had\nmade them herself. His hippogriff returns, like a common horse, to the\nstable to which he has been accustomed. His enchanter, who is gifted with\nthe power of surviving decapitation and pursuing the decapitator so long\nas a fated hair remains on his head, turns deadly pale in the face when\nit is scalped, and falls lifeless from his horse. His truth, indeed, is\nso genuine, and at the same time his style is so unaffected, sometimes so\nfamiliar in its grace, and sets us so much at ease in his company, that\nthe familiarity is in danger of bringing him into contempt with the\ninexperienced, and the truth of being considered old and obvious, because\nthe mode of its introduction makes it seem an old acquaintance. When\nVoltaire was a young man, and (to Anglicise a favourite Gallic phrase)\nfancied he had _profounded_ every thing deep and knowing, he thought\nnothing of Ariosto. Some years afterwards he took him for the first of\ngrotesque writers, but nothing more. At last he pronounced him equally\n\"entertaining and sublime, and humbly apologised for his error.\" Foscolo\nquotes this passage from the _Dictionnaire Philosophique_; and adds\nanother from Sir Joshua Reynolds, in which the painter speaks of a\nsimilar inability on his own part, when young, to enjoy the perfect\nnature of Raphael, and the admiration and astonishment which, in his\nriper years, he grew to feel for it.[46]\n\nThe excessive \"wildness\" attributed to Ariosto is not wilder than\nmany things in Homer, or even than some things in Virgil (such as the\ntransformation of ships into sea-nymphs). The reason why it has been\nthought so is, that he rendered them more popular by mixing them with\nsatire, and thus brought them more universally into notice. One main\nsecret of the delight they give us is their being poetical comments,\nas it were, on fancies and metaphors of our own. Thus, we say of\na suspicious man, that he is suspicion itself; Ariosto turns him\naccordingly into an actual being of that name. We speak of the flights of\nthe poets; Ariosto makes them literally flights--flights on a hippogriff,\nand to the moon. The moon, it has been said, makes lunatics; he\naccordingly puts a man's wits into that planet. Vice deforms beauty;\ntherefore his beautiful enchantress turns out to be an old hag. Ancient\ndefeated empires are sounds and emptiness; therefore the Assyrian and\nPersian monarchies become, in his limbo of vanities, a heap of positive\nbladders. Youth is headstrong, and kissing goes by favour; so Angelica,\nqueen of Cathay, and beauty of the world, jilts warriors and kings, and\nmarries a common soldier.\n\nAnd what a creature is this Angelica! what effect has she not had upon\nthe world in spite of all her faults, nay, probably by very reason of\nthem! I know not whether it has been remarked before, but it appears to\nme, that the charm which every body has felt in the story of Angelica\nconsists mainly in that very fact of her being nothing but a beauty and\na woman, dashed even with coquetry, which renders her so inferior in\ncharacter to most heroines of romance. Her interest is founded on nothing\nexclusive or prejudiced. It is not addressed to any special class. She\nmight or might not have been liked by this person or that; but the world\nin general will adore her, because nature has made them to adore beauty\nand the sex, apart from prejudices right or wrong. Youth will attribute\nvirtues to her, whether she has them or not; middle-age be unable to help\ngazing on her; old-age dote on her. She is womankind itself, in form and\nsubstance; and that is a stronger thing, for the most part, than all our\nfigments about it. Two musical names, \"Angelica and Medoro,\" have become\nidentified in the minds of poetical readers with the honeymoon of\nyouthful passion.\n\nThe only false acid insipid fiction I can call to mind in the _Orlando\nFurioso_ is that of the \"swans\" who rescue \"medals\" from the river of\noblivion (canto xxxv.). It betrays a singular forgetfulness of the poet's\nwonted verisimilitude; for what metaphor can reconcile us to swans taking\nan interest in medals? Popular belief had made them singers; but it was\nnot a wise step to convert them into antiquaries.\n\nAriosto's animal spirits, and the brilliant hurry and abundance of his\nincidents, blind a careless reader to his endless particular beauties,\nwhich, though he may too often \"describe instead of paint\" (on account,\nas Foscolo says, of his writing to the many), spew that no man could\npaint better when he chose. The bosoms of his females \"come and go, like\nthe waves on the sea-coast in summer airs.\"[47] His witches draw the fish\nout of the water\n\n  \"With simple words and a pure warbled spell.\"[48]\n\nHe borrows the word \"painting\" itself,--like a true Italian and friend\nof Raphael and Titian, to express the commiseration in the faces of the\nblest for the sufferings of mortality\n\n  \"Dipinte di pietade il viso pio.\"[49]\n\n  Their pious looks painted with tenderness.\n\nJesus is very finely called, in the same passage, \"il sempiterno Amante,\"\nthe eternal Lover. The female sex are the\n\n  \"Schiera gentil the pur adorna il mondo.\"[50]\n\n  The gentle bevy that adorns the world.\n\nHe paints cabinet-pictures like Spenser, in isolated stanzas, with a\npencil at once solid and light; as in the instance of the charming one\nthat tells the story of Mercury and his net; how he watched the Goddess\nof Flowers as she issued forth at dawn with her lap full of roses and\nviolets, and so threw the net over her \"one day,\" and \"took her;\"\n\n  \"un d\u00ec lo prese[51].\"\n\nBut he does not confine himself to these gentle pictures. He has many\nas strong as Michael Angelo, some as intense as Dante. He paints the\nconquest of America in five words\n\n  \"Veggio da diece cacciar mille.\"[52]\n  I see thousands\n  Hunted by tens.\n\nHe compares the noise of a tremendous battle heard in the neighbourhood\nto the sound of the cataracts of the Nile:\n\n  \"un alto suon ch' a quel s' accorda\n  Con che i vicin' cadendo il Nil assorda.\"[53]\n\nHe \"scourges\" ships at sea with tempests--say rather the \"miserable\nseamen;\" while night-time grows blacker and blacker on the \"exasperated\nwaters.\"[54]\n\n\nWhen Rodomont has plunged into the thick of Paris, and is carrying every\nthing before him (\"like a serpent that has newly cast his skin, and\ngoes shaking his three tongues under his eyes of fire\"), he makes this\ntremendous hero break the middle of the palace-gate into a huge \"window,\"\nand look through it with a countenance which is suddenly beheld by a\ncrowd of faces as pale as death:\n\n  \"E dentro fatto l' ha tanta finestra,\n  Che ben vedere e veduto esser puote\n  Dai visi impressi di color di morte[55].\"\n\nThe whole description of Orlando's jealousy and growing madness is\nShakspearian for passion and circumstance, as the reader may see even\nin the prose abstract of it in this volume; and his sublimation of a\nsuspicious king into suspicion itself (which it also contains) is as\ngrandly and felicitously audacious as any thing ever invented by poet.\nSpenser thought so; and has imitated and emulated it in one of his own\nfinest passages. Ariosto has not the spleen and gall of Dante, and\ntherefore his satire is not so tremendous; yet it is very exquisite, as\nall the world have acknowledged in the instances of the lost things found\nin the moon, and the angel who finds Discord in a convent. He does not\ntake things so much to heart as Chaucer. He has nothing so profoundly\npathetic as our great poet's _Griselda_. Yet many a gentle eye has\nmoistened at the conclusion of the story of Isabella; and to recur once\nmore to Orlando's jealousy, all who have experienced that passion will\nfeel it shake them. I have read somewhere of a visit paid to Voltaire by\nan Italian gentleman, who recited it to him, and who (being moved perhaps\nby the recollection of some passage in his own history) had the tears all\nthe while pouring down his cheeks.\n\nSuch is the poem which the gracious and good Cardinal Ippolito designated\nas a \"parcel of trumpery.\" It had, indeed, to contend with more slights\nthan his. Like all originals, it was obliged to wait for the death of\nthe envious and the self-loving, before it acquired a popularity which\nsurpassed all precedent. Foscolo says, that Macchiavelli and Ariosto,\n\"the two writers of that age who really possessed most excellence, were\nthe least praised during their lives. Bembo was approached in a posture\nof adoration and fear; the infamous Aretino extorted a fulsome letter of\npraises from the great and the learned[56].\" He might have added, that\nthe writer most in request \"in the circles\" was a gentleman of the name\nof Bernardo Accolti, then called the _Unique_, now never heard of.\nAriosto himself eulogised him among a shoal of writers, half of whose\nnames have perished; and who most likely included in that half the men\nwho thought he did not praise them enough. For such was the fact! I\nallude to the charming invention in his last canto, in which he supposes\nhimself welcomed home after a long voyage. Gay imitated it very\npleasantly in an address to Pope on the conclusion of his Homer. Some of\nthe persons thus honoured by Ariosto were vexed, it is said, at not being\npraised highly enough; others at seeing so many praised in their company;\nsome at being left out of the list; and some others at being mentioned at\nall! These silly people thought it taking too great a liberty! The poor\nflies of a day did not know that a god had taken them in hand to give\nthem wings for eternity. Happily for them the names of most of these\nmighty personages are not known. One or two, however, took care to make\nposterity laugh. Trissino, a very great man in his day, and the would-be\nrestorer of the ancient epic, had the face, in return for the poet's\ntoo honourable mention of him, to speak, in his own absurd verses, of\n\"Ariosto, with that _Furioso_ of his, which pleases the vulgar:\"\n\n  \"L' Ariosto\n  Con quel _Furioso_ suo the piace al volgo.\"\n\n\"_His_ poem,\" adds Panizzi, \"has the merit of not having pleased any\nbody[57].\" A sullen critic, Sperone (the same that afterwards plagued\nTasso), was so disappointed at being left out, that he became the poet's\nbitter enemy. He talked of Ariosto taking himself for a swan and \"dying\nlike a goose\" (the allusion was to the fragment he left called the _Five\nCantos_). What has become of the swan Sperone? Bernardo Tasso, Torquato's\nfather, made a more reasonable (but which turned out to be an unfounded)\ncomplaint, that Ariosto had established a precedent which poets would\nfind inconvenient. And Macchiavelli, like the true genius he was,\nexpressed a good-natured and flattering regret that his friend Ariosto\nhad left him out of his list of congratulators, in a work which was \"fine\nthroughout,\" and in some places \"wonderful[58].\"\n\nThe great Galileo knew Ariosto nearly by heart[59].\n\nHe is a poet whom it may require a certain amount of animal spirits to\nrelish thoroughly. The _air_ of his verse must agree with you before you\ncan perceive all its freshness and vitality. But if read with any thing\nlike Italian sympathy, with allowance for times and manners, and with a\n_sense_ as well as _admittance_ of the different kinds of the beautiful\nin poetry (two very different things), you will be almost as much charmed\nwith the \"divine Ariosto\" as his countrymen have been for ages.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: The materials for this notice have been chiefly collected\nfrom the poet's own writings (rich in autobiographical intimation)\nand from his latest editor Panizzi. I was unable to see this writer's\nprincipal authority, Baruffaldi, till I corrected the proofs and the\npress was waiting; otherwise I might have added two or three more\nparticulars, not, however, of any great consequence. Panizzi is, as\nusual, copious and to the purpose; and has, for the first time I believe,\ncritically proved the regularity and connectedness of Ariosto's plots,\nas well as the hollowness of the pretensions of the house of Este to be\nconsidered patrons of literature. It is only a pity that his _Life\nof Ariosto is_ not better arranged. I have, of course, drawn my own\nconclusions respecting particulars, and sometimes have thought I had\nreason to differ with those who have preceded me; but not, I hope, with a\npresumption unbecoming a foreigner.]\n\n[Footnote 2: See in his Latin poems the lines beginning, \"H\u00e6c me\nverbosas suasit perdiscere leges.\"\n_De Diversis Amoribus._]\n\n[Footnote 3:\n\n  \"Mio padre mi cacci\u00f2 con spiedi e lancie,\" &c.\n\n                                                            _Satira_ vi.\n\nThere is some appearance of contradiction in this passage and the one\nreferred to in the preceding note; but I think the conclusion in the test\nthe probable one, and that he was not compelled to study the law in the\nfirst instance. He speaks more than once of his father's memory with\ngreat tenderness, particularly in the lines on his death, entitled _De\nNicolao Areosto_.]\n\n[Footnote 4: His brother Gabriel expressly mentions it in his prologue to\nthe _Scholastica_.]\n\n[Footnote 5:\n\n  \"Gi\u00e0 mi fur dolci inviti,\" &c.\n\n                                            _Satira_ v.]\n\n[Footnote 6: See, in the present volume, the beginning of _Astolfo's\nJourney to the Moon_.]\n\n[Footnote 7:\n\n  \"Me potius fugiat, nullis mollita querelis,\n    Dum simulet reliquos Lydia dura procos.\n  Parte carere omni malo, quam admittere quemquam\n    In partem. Cupiat Juppiter ipse, negem.\"\n\n                                          _Ad Petrum Bembum._]\n\n[Footnote 8: Panizzi, on the authority of Guicciardini and others. Giulio\nand another brother (Ferrante) afterwards conspired against Alfonso and\nIppolito, and, on the failure of their enterprise, were sentenced to be\nimprisoned for life. Ferrante died in confinement at the expiration of\nthirty-four years; Giulio, at the end of fifty-three, was pardoned. He\ncame out of prison on horseback, dressed according to the fashion of the\ntime when he was arrested, and \"greatly excited the curiosity of the\npeople.\"--_Idem_, vol. i. p xii.]\n\n[Footnote 9:\n\n  \"Che debbo fare io qui?\n  Agli usatti, agli spron (perch'io son grande)\n  Non mi posso adattar, per porne o trarne.\"\n                                                           _Satira_ ii.]\n\n[Footnote 10: \"Per la lettera de la S.V. Reverendiss. et a bocha da Ms.\nLudovico Ariosto ho inteso quanta leticia ha conceputa del felice parto\nmio: il che mi \u00e8 stato summamente grato, cussi lo ringrazio de la\nvisitazione, et particolarmente di havermi mandato il dicto Ms. Ludovico,\nper che ultra che mi sia stato acetto, representando la persona de\nla S.V. Reverendiss. lui anche per conto suo mi ha addutta gran\nsatisfazione, havendomi cum la narratione de l'opera the compone facto\npassar questi due giorni non solum senza fastidio, ma cum piacer\ngrandissimo.\"--Tiraboschi, _Storia della Poesia Italiana_, Matthias'\nedition, vol. iii. p. 197.]\n\n[Footnote 11: _Orlando Furioso_, canto xxix, st. 29.]\n\n[Footnote 12: See the horrible account of the suffocated Vicentine\nGrottoes, in Sismondi, _Histoire des Republiques Italiennes_, &c vol. iv.\np. 48.]\n\n[Footnote 13:\n\n  \"Piegossi a me dalla beata sede;\n  La mano e poi le gote ambe mi prese,\n  E il santo bacio in amendue mi diede.\n\n  Di mezza quella bolla anco cortese\n  Mi fu, della quale ora il mio Bibbiena\n  Espedito m'ha il resto alle mie spese.\n\n  Indi col seno e con la falda piena\n  Di speme, ma di pioggia molle e brutto,\n  La notte andai sin al Montone a cena.\"               _Sat_. iv.]\n\n[Footnote 14: See _canzone_ the first, \"Non so s'io potr\u00f2,\" &c. and the\n_copitolo_ beginning \"Della mia negra penna in fregio d'oro.\"]\n\n[Footnote 15: _Histoire Litteraire_, &c. vol. iv. p. 335.]\n\n[Footnote 16:\n\"Singularis tua et pervetus erga nos familiamque nostrum observantia,\negregiaque bonarum artium et litterarum doctrina, atque in studiis\nmitioribus, praesertimque poetices elegans et pr\u00e6clarum ingenium, jure\nprope suo a nobis exposcere videntur, ut quae tibi usui futurae sint,\njusta praesertim et honesta petenti, ea tibi liberaliter et gratiose\nconcedamus. Quamobrem,\" &c. . \"On the same page,\" says Panizzi, \"are\nmentioned the privileges granted by the king of France, by the republic\nof Venice, and other potentates;\" so that authors, in those days, appear\nto have been thought worthy of profiting by their labours, wherever they\ncontributed to the enjoyment of mankind.\n\nLeo's privilege is the one that so long underwent the singular obloquy of\nbeing a bull of excommunication against all who objected to the poem! a\nmisconception on the part of some ignorant man, or misrepresentation by\nsome malignant one, which affords a remarkable warning against taking\nthings on trust from one writer after another. Even Bayle (see the\narticle \"Leo X.\" in his Dictionary) suffered his inclinations to blind\nhis vigilance.]\n\n[Footnote 17:\n\n    \"Apollo, tua merc\u00e8, tua merc\u00e8, santo\n  Collegio delle Muse, io non mi trovo\n  Tanto per voi, ch'io possa farmi un manto\n\n    E se 'l signor m'ha dato onde far novo\n  Ogni anno mi potrei piu d'un mantello,\n  Che mi abbia per voi dato, non approve.\n\n  Egli l' ha detto.\"\n                                                _Satira_ ii.]\n\n[Footnote 18:\n\n    \"Se avermi dato onde ogni quattro mesi\n  Ho venticinque scudi, n\u00e8 s\u00ec fermi,\n  Che molte volte non mi sien contesi,\n\n    Mi debbe incatenar, schiavo tenermi,\n  Obbligarmi ch'io sudi e tremi senza\n  Rispetto alcun, ch'io muoja o ch'io m'infermi,\n\n    Non gli lasciate aver questa credenza\n  Ditegli, che pi\u00f9 tosto ch'esser servo,\n  Torr\u00f2 la povertade in pazienza\"\n\n                                                  _Satira_ ii.]\n\n[Footnote 19: Panizzi, vol. i. p. 29. The agreement itself is in\nBaruffaldi.]\n\n[Footnote 20: See the lines before quoted, beginning\" Apollo, tua\nmerc\u00e8.\"]\n\n[Footnote 21: _Bibliographical Notices of Editions of\n\nAriosto_, prefixed to his first vol. p. 51.]\n\n[Footnote 22:\n\n    \"La novit\u00e0 del loco \u00e8 stata tanta,\n  C' ho fatto come augel che muta gabbia,\n  Che molti giorni resta the non canta.\"\n\nFor the rest of the above particulars see the fifth satire, beginning\n\"Il vigesimo giorno di Febbraio.\" I quote the exordium, because these\ncompositions are differently numbered in different editions. The one I\ngenerally use is that of Molini--_Poesie Varie di Lodovico Ariosto, con\nAnnotazioni_. Firenze, 12mo, 1824.]\n\n[Footnote 23: _Italian Library_, p. 52. I quote Baretti, because he\nspeaks with a corresponding enthusiasm. He calls the incident \"a very\nrare proof of the irresistible powers of poetry, and a noble comment on\nthe fables of Orpheus and Amphion,\" &c. The words \"noble comment\" might\nlead us to fancy that Johnson had made some such remark to him while\nrelating the story in Bolt Court. Nor is the former part of the sentence\nunlike him: \"A very rare proof, _sir_, of the irresistible powers of\npoetry, and a noble comment,\" &c. Johnson, notwithstanding his classical\npredilections, was likely to take much interest in Ariosto on account\nof his universality and the heartiness of his passions. He had a secret\nregard for \"wildness\" of all sorts, provided it came within any pale\nof the sympathetic. He was also fond of romances of chivalry. On one\noccasion he selected the history of Felixmarte of Hyrcania as his course\nof reading during a visit.]\n\n[Footnote 24: The deed of gift sets forth the interest which it becomes\nprinces and commanders to take in men of letters, particularly poets,\nas heralds of their fame, and consequently the special fitness of the\nillustrious and superexcellent poet Lodovico Ariosto for receiving from\nAlfonso Davallos, Marquess of Vasto, the irrevocable sum of, &c. &c.\nPanizzi has copied the substance of it from Baruffaldi, vol. i. p. 67.]\n\n[Footnote 25: _Orlando Furioso_ canto xxxiii. st. 28.]\n\n[Footnote 26:\n\n  \"Inveni portum: spes et fortuna valete;\n  Sat me lusistis; Indite nune alios.\"\n\n  My port is found: adieu, ye freaks of chance;\n  The dance ye led me, now let others dance.]\n\n[Footnote 27:\n\n  \"The great Emathian conqueror bade spare\n  The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower\n  went to the ground,\" &c.]\n\n[Footnote 28: This medal is inscribed \"Ludovicus Ariost. Poet.\" and has\nthe bee-hive on the reverse, with the motto \"Pro bono malum.\" Ariosto was\nso fond of this device, that in his fragment called the _Five Cantos_ (c.\nv. st. 26), the Paladin Rinaldo wears it embroidered on his mantle.]\n\n[Footnote 29:\n\n    \"Io son de' dieci il primo, e vecchio fatto\n  Di quaranta quattro anni, e il capo calvo\n  Da un tempo in qua sotto il cuffiotto appiatto.\"\n\n                                                             _Satira_ ii.]\n\n[Footnote 30:\n\n    \"Il vin fumoso, a me vie pi\u00f9 interdetto\n  Che 'l tosco, cost\u00ec a inviti si tracanna,\n  E sacrilegio \u00e8 non ber molto, e schietto.\n\n(He is speaking of the wines of Hungary, and of the hard drinking\nexpected of strangers in that country.)\n\n    Tutti li cibi son con pope e canna,\n  Di amomo e d' altri aromati, che tutti\n  Come nocivi il medico mi danna.\"\n\n                                                            _Satira_ ii.]\n\n[Footnote 31: Pigna, _I Romanzi_, p. 119.]\n\n[Footnote 32: _Epicedium_ on his brother's death. It is reprinted\n(perhaps for the first time since 1582) in Mr. Panizzi's Appendix to the\nLife, in his first volume, p. clxi.]\n\n[Footnote 33:\n\n  \"Le donne, i cavalier, l' arme, gli amori,\n  Le cortesie, le audaci imprese, io canto,\"\n\nis Ariosto's commencement;\n\n  Ladies, and cavaliers, and loves, and arms,\n  And courtesies, and daring deeds, I sing.\n\nIn Dante's _Purgatory_ (canto xiv.), a noble Romagnese, lamenting the\ndegeneracy of his country, calls to mind with graceful and touching\nregret,\n\n  \"Le donne, i cavalier, gli affanni e gli agi,\n  Che inspiravano amore e cortesia.\"\n\n  The ladies and the knights, the cares and leisures,\n  Breathing around them love and courtesy.]\n\n[Footnote 34: The original is much pithier, but I cannot find equivalents\nfor the alliteration. He said, \"Porvi le pietre e porvi le parole non \u00e8\nil medesimo.\"--_Pigna_, p. 119. According to his son, however, his remark\nwas, that \"palaces could be made in poems without money.\" He probably\nexpressed the same thing in different ways to different people.]\n\n[Footnote 35: Vide Sat. iii. \"Mi sia un tempo,\" &c. and the passage in\nSat. vii. beginning \"Di libri antiqui.\"]\n\n[Footnote 36: The inkstand which Shelley saw at Ferrara (_Essays and\nLetters_, p. 149) could not have been this; probably his eye was caught\nby a wrong one. Doubts also, after what we know of the tricks practised\nupon visitors of Stratford-upon-Avon, may unfortunately be entertained\nof the \"plain old wooden piece of furniture,\" the arm-chair. Shelley\ndescribes the handwriting of Ariosto as \"a small, firm, and pointed\ncharacter, expressing, as he should say, a strong and keen, but\ncircumscribed energy of mind.\" Every one of Shelley s words is always\nworth consideration; but handwritings are surely equivocal testimonies\nof character; they depend so much on education, on times and seasons and\nmoods, conscious and unconscious wills, &c. What would be said by an\nautographist to the strange old, ungraceful, slovenly handwriting of\nShakspeare?]\n\n[Footnote 37: See vol. i. of the present work, pp. 30, 202, and 216.]\n\n[Footnote 38: Baruffaldi, 1807; p. 105.]\n\n[Footnote 39:\n\n    \"In casa mia mi sa meglio una rapa\n  Ch'io cuoca, e cotta s' un stecco m' inforco,\n  E mondo, e spargo poi di aceto e sapa,\n\n  Che all'altrui mensa tordo, starno, o porco\n  Selvaggio.\"]\n\n[Footnote 40: \"Chi vuole andare,\" &c. _Satira_ iv.]\n\n[Footnote 41:\n\n    \"Se Nicoletto o Fra Martin fan segno\n  D' infedele o d' cretico, ne accuso\n  Il saper troppo, e men con lor mi sdegno:\n\n    Perch\u00e8 salendo lo intelletto in suso\n  Per veder Dio, non de' parerci strano\n  Se talor cade gi\u00f9 cieco e confuso.\"\n\n                                                             _Satira_ vi.\n\nThis satire was addressed to Bembo. The cardinal is said to have asked\na visitor from Germany whether Brother Martin really believed what he\npreached; and to have expressed the greatest astonishment when told\nthat he did. Cardinals were then what augurs were in the time of\nCicero--wondering that they did not burst out a-laughing in one another's\nfaces. This was bad; but inquisitors are a million times worse. By the\nNicoletto here mentioned by Ariosto in company with Luther, we are to\nunderstand (according to the conjecture of Molini) a Paduan professor of\nthe name of Niccol\u00f2 Vernia, who was accused of holding the Pantheistic\nopinions of Averroes.]\n\n[Footnote 42: Take a specimen of this leap-frog versification from the\nprologue to the _Cassaria_:--\n\n  \"Questa commedia, ch'oggi _recit\u00e0tavi_\n  Sar\u00e0, se nol sapete, \u00e8 la _Cass\u00e0ria_,\n  Ch'un altra volta, gi\u00e0 vent'anni _p\u00e0ssano_,\n  Veder si fece sopra questi _p\u00f9lpiti_,\n  Ed allora assai piacque a tutto il _p\u00f2polo_,\n  Ma non ne ripost\u00f2 gi\u00e0 degno _pr\u00e8mio_,\n  Che data in preda a gl'importuni ed _\u00e0vidi_\n  Stampator fu,\" &c.\n\nThis through five comedies in five acts!]\n\n[Footnote 43: In the verses entitled _Bacchi Statua_.]\n\n[Footnote 44: Essays and Letters, _ut sup._ vol. ii. p. 125.]\n\n[Footnote 45:\n\n  \"Le lacrime scendean tra gigli e r\u00f4se,\n  L\u00e0 dove avvien ch' alcune s\u00e8 n' inghiozzi.\"\n\n                                              Canto xii. st. 94.\n\nWhich has been well translated by Mr. Rose\n\n  And between rose and lily, from her eyes\n  Tears fall so fast, she needs must swallow some.\"]\n\n[Footnote 46: Essay on the _Narrative and Romantic Poems of the\nItalians_, in the _Quarterly Review_, vol. xxi.]\n\n[Footnote 47:\n\n  \"Vengono e van, come onda al primo margo\n  Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte.\"\n\n                                                        Canto vii. st. 14.]\n\n[Footnote 48:\n\n  \"Con semplici parole e puri incanti.\"\n\n                                                   Canto vi. st. 38.]\n\n[Footnote 49: Canto xiv. st. 79.]\n\n[Footnote 50: Canto xxviii. st. 98.]\n\n[Footnote 51: Canto XV. st. 57.]\n\n[Footnote 52: _Id_. st. 23.]\n\n[Footnote 53: Canto xvi. st. 56.]\n\n[Footnote 54: Canto xviii. st. 142.]\n\n[Footnote 55: Canto XVII. st. 12.]\n\n[Footnote 56: _Essay_, as above, p.534.]\n\n[Footnote 57: _Boiardo and Ariosto_, vol. iv. p. 318.]\n\n[Footnote 58: _Life_, in Panizzi p. ix.]\n\n[Footnote 59: _Opere di Galileo_, Padova, 1744, vol. i. p. lxxii.]\n\n\nTHE\n\nADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.\n\nArgument.\n\nPART I.--Angelica flies from the camp of Charlemagne into a wood, where\nshe meets with a number of her suitors. Description of a beautiful\nnatural bower. She claims the protection of Sacripant, who is overthrown,\nin passing, by an unknown warrior that turns out to be a damsel. Rinaldo\ncomes up, and Angelica flies from both. She meets a pretended hermit, who\ntakes her to some rocks in the sea, and casts her asleep by magic. They\nare seized and carried off by some mariners from the isle of Ebuda, where\nshe is exposed to be devoured by an orc, but is rescued by a knight on a\nwinged horse. He descends with her into a beautiful spot on the coast of\nBrittany, but suddenly misses both horse and lady. He is lured, with the\nother knights, into an enchanted palace, whither Angelica comes too. She\nquits it, and again eludes her suitors.\n\nPART II.--Cloridan and Medoro, two Moorish youths, after a battle with\nthe Christians, resolve to find the dead body of their master, King\nDardinel, and bury it. They kill many sleepers as they pass through the\nenemy's camp, and then discover the body; but are surprised, and left for\ndead themselves. Medoro, however, survives his friend, and is cured of\nhis wounds by Angelica, who happens to come up. She falls in love with\nand marries him. Account of their honeymoon in the woods. They quit them\nto set out for Cathay, and see a madman on the road.\n\nPART III.--When the lovers had quitted their abode in the wood, Orlando,\nby chance, arrived there, and saw every where, all round him, in-doors\nand out-of-doors, inscriptions of \"Angelica and Medoro.\" He tries in vain\nto disbelieve his eyes; finally, learns the whole story from the owner of\nthe cottage, and loses his senses. What he did in that state, both in the\nneighbourhood and afar off, where he runs naked through the country. His\narrival among his brother Paladins; and the result.\n\n\nTHE\n\nADVENTURES OF ANGELICA.\n\n(CONTINUED BY ARIOSTO FROM BOIARDO[1].)\n\nPart the First.\n\nANGELICA AND HER SUITORS.\n\nAngelica, not at all approving her consignment to the care of Namo by\nCharlemagne, for the purpose of being made the prize of the conqueror,\nresolved to escape before the battle with the Pagans. She accordingly\nmounted her palfrey at once, and fled with all her might till she found\nherself in a wood.\n\nScarcely had she congratulated herself on being in a place of refuge,\nwhen she met a warrior full armed, whom with terror she recognised to be\nthe once-loved but now detested Rinaldo. He had lost his horse, and was\nlooking for it. Angelica turned her palfrey aside instantly, and galloped\nwhithersoever it chose to carry her, till she came to a river-side, where\nshe found another of her suitors, Ferragus. She called loudly upon him\nfor help. Rinaldo had recognised her in turn; and though he was on foot,\nshe knew he would be coming after her.\n\nCome after her he did. A fight between the rivals ensued; and the beauty,\ntaking advantage of it, again fled away--fled like the fawn, that, having\nseen its mother's throat seized by a wild beast, scours through the\nwoods, and fancies herself every instant in the jaws of the monster.\nEvery sweep of the wind in the trees--every shadow across her path--drove\nher with sudden starts into the wildest cross-roads; for it made her feel\nas if Rinaldo was at her shoulders.[2]\n\nSlackening her speed by degrees, she wandered afterwards she knew not\nwhither, till she came, next day, to a pleasant wood that was gently\nstirring with the breeze. There were two streams in it, which kept the\ngrass always green; and when you listened, you heard them softly running\namong the pebbles with a broken murmur.\n\nThinking herself secure at last, and indeed feeling as if she were now a\nthousand miles off from Rinaldo--tired also with her long journey, and\nwith the heat of the summer sun--she here determined to rest herself.\nShe dismounted; and having relieved her horse of his bridle, and let him\nwander away in the fresh pasture, she cast her eyes upon a lovely natural\nbower, formed of wild roses, which made a sort of little room by the\nwater's side. The bower beheld itself in the water; trees enclosed it\noverhead, on the three other sides; and in the middle was room enough to\nlie down on the sward; while the whole was so thickly trellised with the\nleaves and branches, that the sunbeams themselves could not enter, much\nless any prying sight. The place invited her to rest; and accordingly the\nbeautiful creature laid herself down, and so gathering herself, as it\nwere, together, went fast asleep[3].\n\nShe had not slept long when she was awakened by the trampling of a horse;\nand getting up, and looking cautiously through the trees, she perceived\na cavalier, who dismounted from his steed, and sat himself down by the\nwater in a melancholy posture. It was Sacripant, king of Circassia, one\nof her lovers, wretched at the thought of having missed her in the camp\nof King Charles. Angelica loved Sacripant no more than the rest; but,\nconsidering him a man of great conscientiousness, she thought he would\nmake her a good protector while on her journey home. She therefore\nsuddenly appeared before him out of the bower, like a goddess of the\nwoods, or Venus herself, and claimed his protection.\n\nNever did a mother bathe the eyes of her son with tears of such exquisite\njoy, when he came home after news of his death in battle, as the Saracen\nking beheld this sudden apparition with\n\n  Cos\u00ec v\u00f4to nel mezo, the concede\n  Fresca stanza fra l'ombre pi\u00f9 nascose:\n  E la foglie coi rami in modo \u00e8 mista,\n  Che 'l Sol non v' entra, non che minor vista.\n\n  Dentro letto vi fan tener' erbette,\n  Ch'invitano a posar chi s' appresenta.\n  La bella donna in mezo a quel si mette;\n  Ivi si scorca, et ivi s' addormenta.\"\n\n                                                               St.37.]\n\nAn exquisite picture! Its divine face and beautiful manners.[4] He could\nnot help clasping her in his arms; and very different intentions were\ncoming into his head than those for which she had given him credit, when\nthe noise of a second warrior thundering through the woods made him\nremount his horse and prepare for an encounter. The stranger speedily\nmade his appearance, a personage of a gallant and fiery bearing, clad in\na surcoat white as snow, with a white streamer for a crest. He seemed\nmore bent on having the way cleared before him than anxious about the\nmanner of it; so couching his lance as he came, while Sacripant did the\nlike with his, he dashed upon the Circassian with such violence as to\ncast him on the ground; and though his own horse slipped at the same\ntime, he had it up again in an instant with his spurs; and so,\ncontinuing his way, was a mile off before the Saracen recovered from his\nastonishment.\n\nAs the stunned and stupid ploughman, who has been stretched by a\nthunderbolt beside his slain oxen, raises himself from the ground after\nthe lofty crash, and looks with astonishment at the old pine-tree near\nhim which has been stripped from head to foot, with just such amazement\nthe Circassian got up from his downfall, and stood in the presence of\nAngelica, who had witnessed it. Never in his life had he blushed so red\nas at that moment.\n\nAngelica comforted him in sorry fashion, attributing the disaster to his\ntired and ill-fed horse, and observing that his enemy had chosen to risk\nno second encounter; but, while she was talking, a messenger, with an\nappearance of great fatigue and anxiety, came riding up, who asked\nSacripant if he had seen a knight in a white surcoat and crest.\n\n\"He has this instant,\" answered the king, \"overthrown me, and galloped\naway. Who is he?\"\n\n\"It is no _he_,\" replied the messenger. \"The rider who has overthrown\nyou, and thus taken possession of whatever glory you may have acquired,\nis a damsel; and she is still more beautiful than brave. Bradalnante is\nher illustrious name.\" And with these words the horseman set spurs to\nhis horse, and left the Saracen more miserable than before. He mounted\nAngelica's horse without a word, his own having been disabled; and so,\ntaking her up behind him, proceeded on the road in continued silence.[5]\n\nThey had just gone a couple of miles, when they again heard a noise, as\nof some powerful body in haste; and in a little while, a horse without a\nrider came rushing towards them, in golden trappings. It was Rinaldo's\nhorse, Bayardo.[6] The Circassian, dismounting, thought to seize it,\nbut was welcomed with a curvet, which made him beware how he hazarded\nsomething worse. The horse then went straight to Angelica in a way as\ncaressing as a dog; for he remembered how she fed him in Albracca at the\ntime when she was in love with his ungracious master: and the beauty\nrecollected Bayardo with equal pleasure, for she had need of him.\nSacripant, however, watched his opportunity, and mounted the horse; so\nthat now the two companions had each a separate steed. They were about\nto proceed more at their ease, when again a great noise was heard, and\nRinaldo himself was seen coming after them on foot, threatening the\nSaracen with furious gestures, for he saw that he had got his horse; and\nhe recognised, above all, in a rage of jealousy, the lovely face beside\nhim. Angelica in vain implored the Circassian to fly with her. He asked\nif she had forgotten the wars of Albracca, and all which he had done to\nserve her, that thus she supposed him afraid of another battle.\n\nSacripant endeavoured to push Bayardo against Rinaldo; but the horse\nrefusing to fight his master, he dismounted, and the two rivals\nencountered each other with their swords. At first they went through\nthe whole sword-exercise to no effect; but Rinaldo, tired of the delay,\nraised the terrible Fusberta,[7] and at one blow cut through the other's\ntwofold buckler of bone and steel, and benumbed his arm. Angelica turned\nas pale as a criminal going to execution; and, without farther waiting,\ngalloped off through the forest, looking round every instant to see if\nRinaldo was upon her.\n\nShe had not gone far when she met an old man who seemed to be a hermit,\nbut was in reality a magician, coming along upon an ass. He was of\nvenerable aspect, and seemed worn out with age and mortifications; yet,\nwhen he beheld the exquisite face before him, and heard the lady explain\nhow it was she needed his assistance, even he, old as he really was,\nbegan to fancy himself a lover, and determined to use his art for the\npurpose of keeping his two rivals at a distance. Taking out a book, and\nreading a little in it, there issued from the air a spirit in likeness\nof a servant, whom he sent to the two combatants with directions to\ngive them a false account of Orlando's having gone off to France with\nAngelica. The spirit disappeared; and the magician journeying with his\ncompanion to the sea-coast, raised another, who entered Angelica's horse,\nand carried her, to her astonishment and terror, out to sea, and so round\nto some lonely rocks. There, to her great comfort at first, the old man\nrejoined her; but his proceedings becoming very mysterious, and exciting\nher indignation, he cast her into a deep sleep.\n\nIt happened, at this moment, that a ship was passing by the rocks, bound\nupon a tragical commission from the island of Ebuda. It was the custom of\nthat place to consign a female daily to the jaws of a sea-monster, for\nthe purpose of averting the wrath of one of their gods; and as it was\nthought that the god would be appeased if they brought him one of\nsingular beauty, the mariners of the ship seized with avidity on the\nsleeping Angelica, and carried her off, together with the old man.\nThe people of Ebuda, out of love and pity, kept her, unexposed to the\nsea-monster, for some days; but at length she was bound to the rock where\nit was accustomed to seek its food; and thus, in tears and horror, with\nnot a friend to look to, the delight of the world expected her fate. East\nand west she looked in vain; to the heavens she looked in vain; every\nwhere she looked in vain. That beauty which had made King Agrican come\nfrom the Caspian gates, with half Scythia, to find his death from the\nhands of Orlando; that beauty which had made King Sacripant forget both\nhis country and his honour; that beauty which had tarnished the renown\nand the wisdom of the great Orlando himself, and turned the whole East\nupside down, and laid it at the feet of loveliness, has now not a soul\nnear it to give it the comfort of a word.\n\nLeaving our heroine awhile in this condition, I must now tell you that\nRuggiero, the greatest of all the infidel warriors, had been presented by\nhis guardian, the magician Atlantes, with two wonderful gifts; the one\na shield of dazzling metal, which blinded and overthrew every one that\nlooked at it; and the other an animal which combined the bird with the\nquadruped, and was called the Hippogriff, or griffin-horse. It had the\nplumage, the wings, head, beak, and front-legs of a griffin, and the rest\nlike a horse. It was not made by enchantment, but was a creature of a\nnatural kind found but very rarely in the Riph\u00e6an mountains, far on the\nother side of the Frozen Sea.[8]\n\nWith these gifts, high mounted in the air, the young ward of Atlantes\nwas now making the grandest of grand tours. He had for some time been\nconfined by the magician in a castle, in order to save him from the\ndangers threatened in his horoscope. From this he had been set free by\nthe lady with whom he was destined to fall in love; he had then been\ninveigled by a wicked fairy into her tower, and set free by a good one;\nand now he was on his travels through the world, to seek his mistress and\npursue knightly adventures.\n\nCasting his eyes on the coast of Ebuda, the rider of the hippogriff\nbeheld the amazing spectacle of the lady tied to the rock; and struck\nwith a beauty which reminded him of her whom he loved, he\nresolved to deliver her from a peril which soon became too manifest.\n\nA noise was heard in the sea; and the huge monster, the Orc, appeared\nhalf in the water and half out of it, like a ship which drags its way\ninto port after a long and tempestuous voyage.[9] It seemed a huge mass\nwithout form except the head, which had eyes sticking out, and bristles\nlike a boar. Ruggiero, who had dashed down to the side of Angelica, and\nattempted to encourage her in vain, now rose in the air; and the monster,\nwhose attention was diverted by a shadow on the water of a couple of\ngreat wings dashing round and above him, presently felt a spear on his\nDeck; but only to irritate him, for it could not pierce the skin. In vain\nRuggiero tried to do so a hundred times. The combat was of no more effect\nthan that of the fly with the mastiff, when it dashes against his eyes\nand mouth, and at last comes once too often within the gape of his\nsnapping teeth. The orc raised such a foam and tempest in the waters with\nthe flapping of his tail, that the knight of the hippogriff hardly knew\nwhether he was in air or sea. He began to fear that the monster would\ndisable the creature's wings; and where would its rider be then? He\ntherefore had recourse to a weapon which he never used but at the last\nmoment, when skill and courage became of no service: he unveiled the\nmagic shield. But first he flew to Angelica, and put on her finger the\nring which neutralised its effect. The shield blazed on the water\nlike another sun. The orc, beholding it, felt it smite its eyes like\nlightning; and rolling over its unwieldy body in the foam which it had\nraised, lay turned up, like a dead fish, insensible. But it was not dead;\nand Ruggiero was so long in making ineffectual efforts to pierce it, that\nAngelica cried out to him for God's sake to release her while he had the\nopportunity, lest the monster should revive. \"Take Ime with you,\" she\nsaid; \"drown me; any thing, rather than let me be food for this horror.\"\n\nThe knight released her instantly. He set her behind him on the winged\nhorse, and in a few minutes was in the air, transported with having\ndeprived the brute of his delicate supper. Then, turning as he went, he\nimprinted on her a thousand kisses. He had intended to make a tour of\nSpain, which was not far off; but he now altered his mind, and descended\nwith his prize into a lovely spot, on the coast of Brittany, encircled\nwith oaks full of nightingales, with here and there a solitary mountain.\n\nIt was a little green meadow with a brook.[10]\n\nRuggiero looked about him with transport, and was preparing to\ndisencumber himself of his hot armour, when the blushing beauty, casting\nher eyes downwards, beheld on her finger the identical magic ring which\nher father had given her when she first entered Christendom, and which\nhad delivered her out of so many dangers. If put on the finger only, it\nneutralised all enchantment; but put into the mouth, it rendered the\nwearer invisible. It had been stolen from her, and came into the hands of\na good fairy, who gave it to Ruggiero, in order to deliver him from\nthe wiles of a bad one. Falsehood to the good fairy's friend, his own\nmistress Bradamante, now rendered him unworthy of its possession; and\nat the moment when he thought Angelica his own beyond redemption, she\nvanished out of his sight. In vain he knew the secret of the ring, and\nthe possibility of her being still present--the certainty, at all events,\nof her not being very far off. He ran hither and thither like a madman,\nhoping to clasp her in his arms, and embracing nothing but the air. In a\nlittle while she was distant far enough; and Ruggiero, stamping about to\nno purpose in a rage of disappointment, and at length resolving to\ntake horse, perceived he had been deprived, in the mean time, of his\nhippogriff. It had loosened itself from the tree to which he had tied\nit, and taken its own course over the mountains. Thus he had lost horse,\nring, and lady, all at once.[11]\n\nPursuing his way, with contending emotions, through a valley between\nlofty woods, he heard a great noise in the thick of them. He rushed to\nsee what it was; and found a giant combating with a young knight. The\ngiant got the better of the knight; and having cast him on the ground,\nunloosed his helmet for the purpose of slaying him, when Ruggiero, to\nhis horror, beheld in the youth's face that of his unworthily-treated\nmistress Bradamante. He rushed to assault her enemy; but the giant,\nseizing her in his arms, took to his heels; and the penitent lover\nfollowed him with all his might, but in vain. The wretch was hidden from\nhis eyes by the trees. At length Ruggiero, incessantly pursuing him,\nissued forth into a great meadow, containing a noble mansion; and here he\nbeheld the giant in the act of dashing through the gate of it with his\nprize.\n\nThe mansion was an enchanted one, raised by the anxious old guardian of\nRuggiero for the purpose of enticing into it both the youth himself, and\nall from whom he could experience danger in the course of his adventures.\nOrlando had just been brought there by a similar device, that of the\napparition of a knight carrying off Angelica; for the supposed Bradamante\nwas equally a deception, and the giant no other than the magician\nhimself. There also were the knights Ferragus, and Brandimart, and\nGrandonio, and King Sacripant, all searching for something they had\nmissed. They wandered about the house to no purpose; and sometimes\nRuggiero heard Bradamante calling him; and sometimes Orlando beheld\nAngelica's face at a window.[12]\n\nAt length the beauty arrived in her own veritable person. She was again\non horseback, and once more on the look-out for a knight who should\nconduct her safely home--whether Orlando or Sacripant she had not\ndetermined. The same road which had brought Ruggiero to the enchanted\nhouse having done as much for her, she now entered it invisibly by means\nof the ring.\n\nFinding both the knights in the place, and feeling under the necessity of\ncoming to a determination respecting one or the other, Angelica made up\nher mind in favour of King Sacripant, whom she reckoned to be more at her\ndisposal. Contriving therefore to meet him by himself, she took the\nring out of her mouth, and suddenly appeared before him. He had hardly\nrecovered from his amazement, when Ferragus and Orlando himself came up;\nand as Angelica now was visible to all, she took occasion to deliver them\nfrom the enchanted house by hastening before them into a wood. They all\nfollowed of course, in a frenzy of anxiety and delight; but the lady\nbeing perplexed with the presence of the whole three, and recollecting\nthat she had again obtained possession of her ring, resolved to trust her\nsafe conduct to invisibility alone; so, in the old fashion, she left\nthem to new quarrels by suddenly vanishing from their eyes. She stopped,\nnevertheless, a while to laugh at them, as they all turned their\nstupefied faces hither and thither; then suffered them to pass her in a\nblind thunder of pursuit; and so, gently following at her leisure on the\nsame road, took her way towards the East.\n\nIt was a long journey, and she saw many places and people, and was now\nhidden and now seen, like the moon, till she calve one day into a forest\nnear the walls of Paris, where she beheld a youth lying wounded on the\ngrass, between two companions that were dead.\n\nPart the Second.\n\nANGELICA AND MEDORO.\n\nNow, in order to understand who the youth was that Angelica found lying\non the grass between the two dead companions, and how he came to be so\nlying, you must know that a great battle had been fought there between\nCharlemagne and the Saracens, in which the latter were defeated, and that\nthese three people belonged to the Saracens. The two that were slain were\nDardinel, king of Zumara, and Cloridan, one of his followers; and the\nwounded survivor was another, whose name was Medoro. Cloridan and Medoro\nhad been loving and grateful servants of Dardinel, and very fast friends\nof one another; such friends, indeed, that on their own account, as well\nas in honour of what they did for their master, their history deserves a\nparticular mention.\n\nThey were of a lowly stock on the coast of Syria, and in all the various\nfortunes of their lord had shewn him a special attachment. Cloridan had\nbeen bred a huntsman, and was the robuster person of the two. Medoro was\nin the first bloom of youth, with a complexion rosy and fair, and a most\npleasant as well as beautiful countenance. He had black eyes, and hair\nthat ran into curls of gold; in short, looked like a very angel from\nheaven.\n\nThese two were keeping anxious watch upon the trenches of the defeated\narmy, when Medoro, unable to cease thinking of the master who had been\nleft dead on the field, told his friend that he could no longer delay to\ngo and look for his dead body, and bury it. \"You,\" said he, \"will remain,\nand so be able to do justice to my memory, in case I fail.\"\n\nCloridan, though he delighted in this proof of his friend's\nnoble-heartedness, did all he could to dissuade him from so perilous an\nenterprise; but Medoro, in the fervour of his gratitude for benefits\nconferred on him by his lord, was immovable in his determination to die\nor to succeed; and Cloridan, seeing this, determined to go with him.\n\nThey took their way accordingly out of the Saracen camp, and in a short\ntime found themselves in that of the enemy. The Christians had been\ndrinking over-night for joy at their victory, and were buried in wine and\nsleep. Cloridan halted a moment, and said in a whisper to his friend,\n\"Do you see this? Ought I to lose such an opportunity of revenging our\nbeloved master? Keep watch, and I will do it. Look about you, and listen\non every side, while I make a passage for us among these sleepers with my\nsword.\"\n\nWithout waiting an answer, the vigorous huntsman pushed into the first\ntent before him. It contained, among other occupants, a certain Alpheus,\na physician and caster of nativities, who had prophesied to himself a\nlong life, and a death in the bosom of his family. Cloridan cautiously\nput the sword's point in his throat, and there was an end of his dreams.\nFour other sleepers were despatched in like manner, without time given\nthem to utter a syllable. After them went another, who had entrenched\nhimself between two horses; then the luckless Grill, who had made himself\na pillow of a barrel which he had emptied. He was dreaming of opening\na second barrel, but, alas, was tapped himself. A Greek and a German\nfollowed, who had been playing late at dice; fortunate, if they had\ncontinued to do so a little longer; but they never counted a throw like\nthis among their chances.\n\nBy this time the Saracen had grown ferocious with his bloody work, and\nwent slaughtering along like a wild beast among sheep. Nor could\nMedoro keep his own sword unemployed; but he disdained to strike\nindiscriminately--he was choice in his victims. Among these was a certain\nDuke La Brett, who had his lady fast asleep in his arms. Shall I pity\nthem? That will I not. Sweet was their fated hour, most happy their\ndeparture; for, embraced as the sword found them, even so, I believe, it\ndismissed them into the other world, loving and enfolded.\n\nTwo brothers were slain next, sons of the Count of Flanders, and\nnewly-made valorous knights. Charlemagne had seen them turn red with\nslaughter in the field, and had augmented their coat of arms with his\nlilies, and promised them lands beside in Friesland. And he would have\nbestowed the lands, only Medoro forbade it.\n\nThe friends now discovered that they had approached the quarter in\nwhich the Paladins kept guard about their sovereign. They were afraid,\ntherefore, to continue the slaughter any further; so they put up their\nswords, and picked their way cautiously through the rest of the camp into\nthe field where the battle had taken place. There they experienced so\nmuch difficulty in the search for their master's body, in consequence of\nthe horrible mixture of the corpses, that they might have searched till\nthe perilous return of daylight, had not the moon, at the close of a\nprayer of Medoro's, sent forth its beams right on the spot where the king\nwas lying. Medoro knew him by his cognizance, _argent_ and _gules_.The\npoor youth burst into tears at the sight, weeping plentifully as he\napproached him, only he was obliged to let his tears flow without noise.\nNot that he cared for death--at that moment he would gladly have embraced\nit, so deep was his affection for his lord; but he was anxious not to be\nhindered in his pious office of consigning him to the earth.\n\nThe two friends took up the dead king on their shoulders, and were\nhasting away with the beloved burden, when the whiteness of dawn began to\nappear, and with it, unfortunately, a troop of horsemen in the distance,\nright in their path.\n\nIt was Zerbino, prince of Scotland, with a party of horse. He was a\nwarrior of extreme vigilance and activity, and was returning to the camp\nafter having been occupied all night in pursuing such of the enemy as had\nnot succeeded in getting into their entrenchments[13].\n\n\"My friend,\" exclaimed the huntsman, \"we must e'en take to our heels. Two\nliving people must not be sacrificed to one who is dead.\"\n\nWith these words he let go his share of the burden, taking for granted\nthat the friend, whose life as well as his own he was thinking to secure,\nwould do as he himself did. But attached as Cloridan had been to his\nmaster, Medoro was far more so. He accordingly received the whole burden\non his shoulders. Cloridan meantime scoured away, as fast as feet could\ncarry him, thinking his companion was at his side: otherwise he would\nsooner have died a hundred times over than have left him.\n\nIn the interim, the party of the Scottish prince had dispersed themselves\nabout the plain, for the purpose of intercepting the two fugitives,\nwhichever way they went; for they saw plainly they were enemies, by the\nalarm they shewed.\n\nThere was an old forest at hand in those days, which, besides being thick\nand dark, was full of the most intricate cross-paths, and inhabited only\nby game. Into this Cloridan had plunged. Medoro, as well as he could,\nhastened after him; but hampered as he was with his burden, the more he\nsought the darkest and most intricate paths, the less advanced he found\nhimself, especially as he had no acquaintance with the place.\n\nOn a sudden, Cloridan having arrived at a spot so quiet that he became\naware of the silence, missed his beloved friend. \"Great God!\" he\nexclaimed, \"what have I done? Left him I know not where, or how!\" The\nswift runner instantly turned about, and, retracing his steps, came\nvoluntarily back on the road to his own death. As he approached the scene\nwhere it was to take place, he began to hear the noise of men and horses;\nthen he discerned voices threatening; then the voice of his unhappy\nfriend; and at length he saw him, still bearing his load, in the midst of\nthe whole troop of horsemen. The prince was commanding them to seize him.\nThe poor youth, however, burdened as he was, rendered it no such easy\nmatter; for he turned himself about like a wheel, and entrenched himself,\nnow behind this tree and now behind that. Finding this would not do,\nhe laid his beloved burden on the ground, and then strode hither and\nthither, over and round about it, parrying the horsemen's endeavours\nto take him prisoner. Never did poor hunted bear feel more conflicting\nemotions, when, surprised in her den, she stands over her offspring with\nuncertain heart, groaning with a mingled sound of tenderness and rage.\nWrath bids her rush forward, and bury her nails in the flesh of their\nenemy; love melts her, and holds her back in the middle of her fury, to\nlook upon those whom she bore.[14]\n\nCloridan was in an agony of perplexity what to do. He longed to rush\nforth and die with his friend; he longed also still to do what he could,\nand not to let him die unavenged. He therefore halted awhile before\nhe issued from the trees, and, putting an arrow to his bow, sent it\nwell-aimed among the horsemen. A Scotsman fell dead from his saddle. The\ntroop all turned to see whence the arrow came; and as they were raging\nand crying out, a second stuck in the throat of the loudest.\n\n\"This is not to be borne,\" cried the prince, pushing his horse towards\nMedoro; \"you shall suffer for this.\" And so speaking, he thrust his hand\ninto the golden locks of the youth, and dragged him violently backwards,\nintending to kill him; but when he looked on his beautiful face, he\ncouldn't do it.\n\nThe youth betook himself to entreaty. \"For God's sake, sir knight!\" cried\nhe, \"be not so cruel as to deny me leave to bury my lord and master. He\nwas a king. I ask nothing for myself--not even my life. I do not care for\nmy life. I care for nothing but to bury my lord and master.\"\n\nThese words were spoken in a manner so earnest, that the good prince\ncould feel nothing but pity; but a ruffian among the troop, losing sight\neven of respect for his lord, thrust his lance into the poor youth's\nbosom right over the prince's hand. Zerbino turned with indignation to\nsmite him, but the villain, seeing what was coming, galloped off; and\nmeanwhile Cloridan, thinking that his friend was slain, came leaping full\nof rage out of the wood, and laid about him with his sword in mortal\ndesperation. Twenty swords were upon him in a moment; and perceiving\nlife flowing out of him, he let himself fall down by the side of his\nfriend.[15]\n\nThe Scotsmen, supposing both the friends to be dead, now took their\ndeparture; and Medoro indeed would have been dead before long, he bled so\nprofusely. But assistance of a very unusual sort was at hand.\n\nA lady on a palfrey happened to be coming by, who observed signs of life\nin him, and was struck with his youth and beauty. She was attired with\ngreat simplicity, but her air was that of a person of high rank, and her\nbeauty inexpressible. In short, it was the proud daughter of the lord of\nCathay, Angelica herself. Finding that she could travel in safety and\nindependence by means of the magic ring, her self-estimation had risen to\nsuch a height, that she disdained to stoop to the companionship of the\ngreatest man living. She could not even call to mind that such lovers as\nthe County Orlando or King Sacripant existed and it mortified her beyond\nmeasure to think of the affection she had entertained for Rinaldo.\n\n\"Such arrogance,\" thought Love, \"is not to be endured.\" The little archer\nwith the wings put an arrow to his bow, and stood waiting for her by the\nspot where Medoro lay.\n\nNow, when the beauty beheld the youth lying half dead with his wounds,\nand yet, on accosting him, found that he lamented less for himself than\nfor the unburied body of the king his master, she felt a tenderness\nunknown before creep into every particle of her being; and as the\ngreatest ladies of India were accustomed to dress the wounds of their\nknights, she bethought her of a balsam which she had observed in coming\nalong; and so, looking about for it, brought it back with her to the\nspot, together with a herdsman whom she had met on horseback in search\nof one of his stray cattle. The blood was ebbing so fast, that the poor\nyouth was on the point of expiring; but Angelica bruised the plant\nbetween stones, and gathered the juice into her delicate hands, and\nrestored his strength with infusing it into the wounds; so that, in a\nlittle while, he was able to get on the horse belonging to the herdsman,\nand be carried away to the man's cottage. He would not quit his lord's\nbody, however, nor that of his friend, till he had seen them laid in the\nground. He then went with the lady, and she took up her abode with him in\nthe cottage, and attended him till he recovered, loving him more and more\nday by day; so that at length she fairly told him as much, and he loved\nher in turn; and the king's daughter married the lowly-born soldier.\n\nO County Orlando! O King Sacripant! That renowned valour of yours, say,\nwhat has it availed you? That lofty honour, tell us, at what price is it\nrated? What is the reward ye have obtained for all your services? Shew us\na single courtesy which the lady ever vouchsafed, late or early, for all\nthat you ever suffered in her behalf.\n\nO King Agrican! if you could return to life, how hard would you think it\nto call to mind all the repulses she gave you--all the pride and aversion\nand contempt with which she received your advances! O Ferragus! O\nthousands of others too numerous to speak of, who performed thousands of\nexploits for this ungrateful one, what would you all think at beholding\nher in the arms of the courted boy!\n\nYes, Medoro had the first gathering of the kiss off the lips of\nAngelica--those lips never touched before--that garden of roses on\nthe threshold of which nobody ever yet dared to venture. The love was\nheadlong and irresistible; but the priest was called in to sanctify\nit; and the brideswoman of the daughter of Cathay was the wife of the\ncottager. The lovers remained upwards of a month in the cottage. Angelica\ncould not bear her young husband out of her sight. She was for ever\ngazing on him, and hanging on his neck. In-doors and out-of-doors, day as\nwell as night, she had him at her side. In the morning or evening they\nwandered forth along the banks of some stream, or by the hedge-rows of\nsome verdant meadow. In the middle of the day they took refuge from the\nheat in a grotto that seemed made for lovers; and wherever, in their\nwanderings, they found a tree fit to carve and write on, by the side of\nfount or river, or even a slab of rock soft enough for the purpose, there\nthey were sure to leave their names on the bark or marble; so that, what\nwith the inscriptions in-doors and out-of-doors (for the walls of the\ncottage displayed them also), a visitor of the place could not have\nturned his eye in any direction without seeing the words\n\n  \"ANGELICA AND MEDORO\"\n\nwritten in as many different ways as true-lovers' knots could run.[16]\n\nHaving thus awhile enjoyed themselves in the rustic solitude, the Queen\nof Cathay (for in the course of her adventures in Christendom she had\nsucceeded to her father's crown) thought it time to return to her\nbeautiful empire, and complete the triumph of love by crowning Medoro\nking of it.\n\nShe took leave of the cottagers with a princely gift. The islanders of\nEbuda had deprived her of every thing valuable but a rich bracelet,\nwhich, for some strange, perhaps superstitious, reason, they left on her\narm. This she took off, and made a present of it to the good couple for\ntheir hospitality; and so bade them farewell.\n\nThe bracelet was of inimitable workmanship, adorned with gems, and had\nbeen given by the enchantress Morgana to a favourite youth, who was\nrescued from her wiles by Orlando. The youth, in gratitude, bestowed it\non his preserver; and the hero had humbly presented it to Angelica, who\nvouchsafed to accept it, not because of the giver, but for the rarity of\nthe gift.\n\nThe happy bride and bridegroom, bidding farewell to France, proceeded by\neasy journeys, and crossed the mountains into Spain, where it was their\nintention to take ship for the Levant. Descending the Pyrenees, they\ndiscerned the ocean in the distance, and had now reached the coast, and\nwere proceeding by the water-side along the high road to Barcelona, when\nthey beheld a miserable-looking creature, a madman, all over mud and\ndirt, lying naked in the sands. He had buried himself half inside them\nfor shelter from the sun; but having observed the lovers as they came\nalong, he leaped out of his hole like a dog, and came raging against\nthem.\n\nBut, before I proceed to relate who this madman was, I must return to the\ncottage which the two lovers had occupied, and recount what passed in it\nduring the interval between their bidding it adieu and their arrival in\nthis place.\n\nPART THE THIRD\n\nTHE JEALOUSY OF ORLANDO.\n\nDuring the course of his search for Angelica, the County Orlando had just\nrestored two lovers to one another, and was pursuing a Pagan enemy to no\npurpose through a wild and tangled wood, when he came into a beautiful\nspot by a river's side, which tempted him to rest himself from the heat.\nIt was a small meadow, full of daisies and butter-cups, and surrounded\nwith trees. There was an air abroad, notwithstanding the heat, which made\nthe shepherds glad to sit without their jerkins, and receive the coolness\non their naked bodies: even the hard-skinned cattle were glad of it; and\nOrlando, who was armed _cap-a-pie_, was delighted to take off his helmet,\nand lay aside his buckler, and repose awhile in the midst of a scene so\nrefreshing. Alas! it was the unhappiest moment of his life.\n\nCasting his eyes around him, while about to get off his horse, he\nobserved a handwriting on many of the trees which he thought he knew.\nRiding up to the trees, and looking more closely, he was sure he knew it;\nand in truth it was no other than that of his adored mistress Angelica,\nand the inscription one of those numerous inscriptions of which I have\nspoken. The spot was one of the haunts of the lovers while they abode in\nthe shepherd's cottage. Wherever the County turned his eyes, he beheld,\ntied together in true-lovers' knots, nothing but the words\n\n  \"ANGELICA AND MEDORO.\"\n\nAll the trees had them--his eyes could see nothing else; and every letter\nwas a dagger that pierced his heart.\n\nThe unhappy lover tried in vain to disbelieve what he saw. He endeavoured\nto compel himself to think that it was some other Angelica who had\nwritten the words; but he knew the handwriting too well. Too often had he\ndwelt upon it, and made himself familiar with every turn of the letters.\nHe then strove to fancy that \"Medoro\" was a feigned name, intended for\nhimself; but he felt that he was trying to delude himself, and that the\nmore he tried, the bitterer was his conviction of the truth. He was like\na bird fixing itself only the more deeply in the lime in which it is\ncaught, by struggling and beating its wings.\n\nOrlando turned his horse away in his anguish, and paced it towards a\ngrotto covered with vine and ivy, which he looked into. The grotto, both\noutside and in, was full of the like inscriptions. It was the retreat the\nlovers were so fond of at noon. Their names were written on all sides of\nit, some in chalk and coal,[17] others carved with a knife.\n\nThe wretched beholder got off his horse and entered the grotto. The first\nthing that met his eyes was a larger inscription in the Saracen lover's\nown handwriting and tongue--a language which the slayer of the infidels\nwas too well acquainted with. The words were in verse, and expressed the\ngratitude of the \"poor Medoro,\" the writer, for having had in his arms,\nin that grotto, the beautiful Angelica, daughter of King Galafron, whom\nso many had loved in vain. The writer invoked a blessing on every part\nof it, its shades, its waters, its flowers, its creeping plants; and\nentreated every person, high and low, who should chance to visit it,\nparticularly lovers, that they would bless the place likewise, and take\ncare that it was never polluted by foot of herd.\n\nThrice, and four times, did the unhappy Orlando read these words, trying\nalways, but in vain, to disbelieve what he saw. Every time he read, they\nappeared plainer and plainer; and every time did a cold hand seem to be\nwringing the heart in his bosom. At length he remained with his eyes\nfixed on the stone, seeing nothing more, not even the stone itself. He\nfelt as if his wits were leaving him, so abandoned did he seem of all\ncomfort. Let those imagine what he felt who have experienced the same\nemotions--who know, by their own sufferings, that this is the grief which\nsurpasses all other griefs. His head had fallen on his bosom; his look\nwas deprived of all confidence; he could not even speak or shed a\ntear. His impetuous grief remained within him by reason of his\nimpetuosity--like water which attempts to rush out of the narrow-necked\nbottle, but which is so compressed as it comes, that it scarcely issues\ndrop by drop.\n\nAgain he endeavoured to disbelieve his eyes--to conclude that somebody\nhad wished to calumniate his mistress, and drive her lover mad, and so\nhad done his best to imitate her handwriting. With these sorry attempts\nat consolation, he again took horse, the sun having now given way to the\nmoon, and so rode a little onward, till he beheld smoke rising out of\nthe tops of the trees, and heard the barking of dogs and the lowing of\ncattle. By these signs he knew that he was approaching a village. He\nentered it, and going into the first house he came to, gave his horse to\nthe care of a youth, and was disarmed, and had his spurs of gold taken\noff, and so went into a room that was shewn him without demanding either\nmeat or drink, so entirely was he filled with his sorrow.\n\nNow it happened that this was the very cottage into which Medoro had been\ncarried out of the wood by the loving Angelica. There he had been cured\nof his wounds--there he had been loved and made happy--and there,\nwherever the County Orlando turned his eyes, he beheld the detested\nwriting on the walls, the windows, the doors. He made no inquiries about\nit of the people of the house: he still dreaded to render the certainty\nclearer than he would fain suppose it.\n\nBut the cowardice availed him nothing; for the host seeing him unhappy,\nand thinking to cheer him, came in as he was getting into bed, and opened\non the subject of his own accord. It was a story be told to every body\nwho came, and he was accustomed to have it admired; so with little\npreface he related all the particulars to his new guest--how the youth\nhad been left for dead on the field, and how the lady had found him, and\nhad him brought to the cottage--and how she fell in love with him as he\ngrew well--and how she could be content with nothing but marrying him,\nthough she was daughter of the greatest king of the East, and a queen\nherself. At the conclusion of his narrative, the good man produced the\nbracelet which had been given him by Angelica, as evidence of the truth\nof all that he had been saying.\n\nThis was the final stroke, the last fatal blow, given to the poor hopes\nof Orlando by the executioner, Love. He tried to conceal his misery, but\nit was no longer to be repressed; so finding the tears rush into his\neyes, he desired to be alone. As soon as the man had retired, he let them\nflow in passion and agony. In vain he attempted to rest, much less to\nsleep. Every part of the bed appeared to be made of stones and thorns.\n\nAt length it occurred to him, that most likely they had slept in that\nvery bed. He rose instantly, as if he had been lying on a serpent. The\nbed, the house, the herdsman, every thing about the place, gave him such\nhorror and detestation, that, without waiting for dawn, or the light of\nmoon, he dressed himself, and went forth and took his horse from the\nstable, and galloped onwards into the middle of the woods. There, as soon\nas he found himself in the solitude, he opened all the flood-gates of his\ngrief, and gave way to cries and outcries.\n\nBut he still rode on. Day and night did Orlando ride on, weeping and\nlamenting. He avoided towns and cities, and made his bed on the hard\nearth, and wondered at himself that he could weep so long.\n\n\"These,\" thought he, \"are no tears that are thus poured forth. They are\nlife itself, the fountains of vitality; and I am weeping and dying both.\nThese are no sighs that I thus eternally exhale. Nature could not supply\nthem. They are Love himself storming in my heart, and at once consuming\nme and keeping me alive with his miraculous fires. No more--no more am I\nthe man I seem. He that was Orlando is dead and buried. His ungrateful\nmistress has slain him. I am but the soul divided from his body--doomed\nto wander here in this misery, an example to those that put their trust\nin love.\"\n\nFor the wits of the County Orlando were going; and he wandered all night\nround and round in the wood, till he came back to the grotto where Medoro\nhad written his triumphant verses. Madness then indeed fell upon him.\nEvery particle of his being seemed torn up with rage and fury; and he\ndrew his mighty sword, and hewed the grotto and the writing, till the\nwords flew in pieces to the heavens. Woe to every spot in the place in\nwhich were written the names of \"Angelica and Medoro.\" Woe to the place\nitself: never again did it afford refuge from the heat of day to sheep or\nshepherd; for not a particle of it remained as it was. With arm and sword\nOrlando defaced it all, the clear and gentle fountain included. He hacked\nand hewed it inside and out, and cut down the branches of the trees that\nhung over it, and tore away the ivy and the vine, and rooted up great\nbits of earth and stone, and filled the sweet water with the rubbish, so\nthat it was never clear and sweet again; and at the end of his toil, not\nhaving satisfied or being able to satisfy his soul with the excess of\nhis violence, he cast himself on the ground in rage and disdain, and lay\ngroaning towards the heavens.\n\nOn the ground Orlando threw himself, and on the ground he remained, his\neyes fixed on heaven, his lips closed in dumbness; and thus he continued\nfor the space of three days and three nights, till his frenzy had mounted\nto such a pitch that it turned against himself. He then arose in fury,\nand tore off mail and breastplate, and every particle of clothing from\nhis body, till humanity was degraded in his heroical person, and he\nbecame naked as the beasts of the field. In this condition, and his wits\nquite gone, sword was forgotten as well as shield and helm; and he tore\nup fir-tree and ash, and began running through the woods. The shepherds\nhearing the cries of the strong man, and the crashing of the boughs, came\nhastening from all quarters to know what it was; but when he saw them he\ngave them chase, and smote to death those whom he reached, till the whole\ncountry was up in arms, though to no purpose; for they were seized with\nsuch terror, that while they threatened and closed after him, they\navoided him. He entered cottages, and tore away the food from the tables;\nand ran up the craggy hills and down into the valleys; and chased beasts\nas well as men, tearing the fawn and the goat to pieces, and stuffing\ntheir flesh into his stomach with fierce will.\n\nRaging and scouring onwards in this manner, he arrived one day at a\nbridge over a torrent, on which the fierce Rodomont had fixed himself for\nthe purpose of throwing any one that attempted to pass it into the water.\nIt was a very narrow bridge, with scarcely room for two horses. But\nOrlando took no heed of its narrowness. He dashed right forwards against\nman and steed, and forced the champion to wrestle with him on foot; and,\nwinding himself about him with hideous strength, he leaped backwards with\nhim into the torrent, where he left him, and so mounted the opposite\nbank, and again rushed over the country. A more terrible bridge than\nthis was in his way--even a precipitous pass of frightful height over\na valley; but still he scoured onwards, throwing over it the agonised\npassengers that dared, in their ignorance of his strength, to oppose\nhim; and so always rushing and raging, he came down the mountains by the\nsea-side to Barcelona, where he cast his eyes on the sands, and thought,\nin his idiot mind, to make himself a house in them for coolness and\nrepose; and so he grubbed up the sand, and laid himself down in it: and\nthis was the terrible madman whom Angelica and Medoro saw looking at them\nas they were approaching the city.\n\nNeither of them knew him, nor did he know Angelica; but, with an idiot\nlaugh, he looked at her beauty, and liked her, and came horribly towards\nher to carry her away. Shrieking, she put spurs to her horse and fled;\nand Medoro, in a fury, came after the pursuer and smote him, but to no\npurpose. The great madman turned round and smote the other's horse to the\nground, and so renewed his chase after Angelica, who suddenly regained\nenough of her wits to recollect the enchanted ring. Instantly she put\nit into her lips and disappeared; but in her hurry she fell from her\npalfrey, and Orlando forgot her in the instant, and, mounting the poor\nbeast, dashed off with it over the country till it died; and so at last,\nafter many dreadful adventures by flood and field, he came running into\na camp full of his brother Paladins, who recognised him with tears; and,\nall joining their forces, succeeded in pulling him down and binding him,\nthough not without many wounds: and by the help of these friends, and the\nspecial grace of the apostle St. John (as will be told in another place),\nthe wits of the champion of the church were restored, and he became\nashamed of that passion for an infidel beauty which the heavenly powers\nhad thus resolved to punish.\n\nBut Angelica and Medoro pursued the rest of their journey in peace, and\ntook ship on the coast of Spain for India; and there she crowned her\nbridegroom King of Cathay. The description of Orlando's jealousy and\ngrowing madness is reckoned one of the finest things in Italian poetry;\nand very fine it surely is--as strong as the hero's strength, and\nsensitive as the heart of man. The circumstances are heightened, one\nafter the other, with the utmost art as well as nature. There is a\nscriptural awfulness in the account of the hero's becoming naked; and the\nviolent result is tremendous. I have not followed Orlando into his feats\nof ultra-supernatural strength. The reader requires to be prepared\nfor them by the whole poem. Nor are they necessary, I think, to\nthe production of the best effect; perhaps would hurt it in an age\nunaccustomed to the old romances.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Footnote 1: See p. 58 of the present volume.]\n\n[Footnote 2:\n\n  \"Fugge tra selve spaventose e scure,\n  Per lochi inabitati, ermi e selvaggi.\n  Il mover de le frondi e di verzure\n  Che di cerri sentia, d' olmi e di faggi,\n  Fatto le avea con subite paure\n  Trovar di qu\u00e0 e di l\u00e0 strani viaggi;\n  Ch' ad ogni ombra veduta o in monte o in valle\n  Temea Rinaldo aver sempre alle spalle.\"\n\n                                                         Canto i. st. 33.]\n\n[Footnote 3:\n\n  \"Ecco non lungi un bel cespuglio vede\n  Di spin fioriti e di vermiglic r\u00f4se,\n  Che de le liquide onde al specchio siede,\n  Chiuso dal Sol fra l' alte quercie ombrose; ]\n\n[Footnote 4: And how lovely is this!\n\n  \"E fuor di quel cespuglio oscuro e cieco\n  Fa di se bella et improvvisa mostra,\n  Come di selva o fuor d'ombroso speco\n  Diana in scena, o Citerea si mostra,\" &c.\n\n                                                         St. 52.]\n\n[Footnote 5: How admirable is the suddenness, brevity, and force of this\nscene! And it is as artful and dramatic as off-hand; for this Amazon,\nBradamante, is the future heroine of the warlike part of the poem, and\nthe beauty from whose marriage with Ruggiero is to spring the house of\nEste. Nor without her appearance at this moment, as Panizzi has shewn\n(vol. i. p. cvi.), could a variety of subsequent events have taken place\nnecessary to the greatest interests of the story. All the previous\npassages in romance about Amazons are nothing compared with this flash of\na thunderbolt.]\n\n[Footnote 6: From _bayard_, old French; _bay-colour._]\n\nFootnote 7: His famous sword, vide p. 48.]\n\n[Footnote 8: To richness and rarity, how much is added by remoteness! It\nadds distance to the other difficulties of procuring it.]\n\n[Footnote 9:\n\n  \"Ecco apparir lo smisurato mostro\n  Mezo ascoso ne l'onda, e mezo sorto.\n  Come sospinto suol da Borca o d'Ostro\n  Venir lungo navilio a pigliar porto,\"\n                                        Canto x. st. 100.\n\nImproved from Ovid, _Metamorph_. lib. iv. 706\n\n  \"Ecce velut navis pr\u00e6fixo concita rostro\n  Sulcat aquas, juvenum sudantibus acta lacertis;\n  Sic fera,\" &c.\n\n  As when a galley with sharp beak comes fierce,\n  Ploughing the waves with many a sweating oar.\n\nOvid is brisker and more obviously to the purpose; but Ariosto gives the\nponderousness and dreary triumph of the monster. The comparison of the\nfly and the mastiff is in the same higher and more epic taste. The\nclassical reader need not be told that the whole ensuing passage, as far\nas the combat is concerned, is imitated from Ovid's story of Perseus and\nAndromeda.]\n\n[Footnote 10:\n\n    \"Sul lito un bosco era di querce ombrose,\n  Dove ogn' or par che Filomena piagna;\n  Ch'in mezo avea un pratel con una fonte,\n\n    E quinci e quindi un solitario monte.\n  Quivi il bramoso cavalier ritenne\n  L'audace corso, e nel pratel discese.\"\n                                                           St. 113.\n\nWhat a landscape! and what a charm beyond painting he has put into it\nwith his nightingales! and then what figures besides! A knight on a\nwinged steed descending with a naked beauty into a meadow in the thick of\nwoods, with \"here and there a solitary mountain.\" The mountains make no\nformal circle; they keep their separate distances, with their various\nintervals of light and shade. And what a heart of solitude is given to\nthe meadow by the loneliness of these its waiters aloof!]\n\n[Footnote 11: Nothing can be more perfectly wrought up than this sudden\nchange of circumstances.]\n\n[Footnote 12: To feel the complete force of this picture, a reader should\nhave been in the South, and beheld the like sudden apparitions, at open\nwindows, of ladies looking forth in dresses of beautiful colours, and\nwith faces the most interesting. I remember a vision of this sort at\nCarrara, on a bright but not too hot day (I fancied that the marble\nmountains there cooled it). It resembled one of Titian's women, with its\nbroad shoulders, and boddice and sleeves differently coloured from the\npetticoat; and seemed literally framed in the unsashed window. But I am\ndigressing.]\n\n[Footnote 13: Ariosto elsewhere represents him as the handsomest man in\nthe world; saying of him, in a line that has become famous,\n\n  \"Natura il fece, e poi roppe la stampa.\"\n\n                                                 Canto x. st. 84.\n\n  --Nature made him, and then broke the mould.\n\n(The word is generally printed _ruppe_; but I use the primitive text\nof Mr. Pannizi's edition.) Boiardo's handsomest man, Astolfo, was an\nEnglishman; Ariosto's is a Scotchman. See, in the present volume, the\n  note on the character of Astolfo, p. 41.]\n\n[Footnote 14:\n\n  \"Come orsa, che l'alpestre cacciatore\n    Ne la pietrosa tana assalita abbia,\n  Sta sopra i figli con incerto core,\n    E freme in suono di pieta e di rabbia:\n  Ira la 'nvita e natural furore\n    A spiegar l'ugne, e a insanguinar le labbia;\n  Amor la 'ntenerisce, e la ritira\n  A riguardare a i figli in mezo l'ira.\"\n\n  Like as a bear, whom men in mountains start\n    In her old stony den, and dare, and goad,\n  Stands o'er her children with uncertain heart,\n    And roars for rage and sorrow in one mood;\n  Anger impels her, and her natural part,\n    To use her nails, and bathe her lips in blood;\n  Love melts her, and, for all her angry roar,\n  Holds back her eyes to look on those she bore.\n\nThis stanza in Ariosto has become famous as a beautiful transcript of a\nbeautiful passage in Statius, which, indeed, it surpasses in style, but\nnot in feeling, especially when we consider with whom the comparison\noriginates:\n\n  \"Ut lea, quam saevo foetam pressere cubili\n    Venantes Numidae, natos erecta superstat\n  Mente sub incerta, torvum ac miserabile frendens\n    Illa quidem turbare globes, et frangere morsu\n  Tela queat; sed prolis amor crudelia vincit\n    Pectora, et in media catulos circumspicit ira.\"\n\n                                                        _Thebais_, x. 414.]\n\n[Footnote 15: This adventure of Cloridan and Medoro is imitated from the\nNisus and Euryalus of Virgil. An Italian critic, quoted by Panizzi, says,\nthat the way in which Cloridan exposes himself to the enemy is inferior\nto the Latin poet's famous\n\n  \"Me, me (adsum qui feci), in me convertite ferrum.\"\n\n  Me, me ('tis I who did the deed), slay me.\n\nAnd the reader will agree with Panizzi, that he is right. The\ncircumstance, also, of Euryalus's bequeathing his aged mother to the care\nof his prince, in case he fails in his enterprise, is very touching;\nand the main honour, both of the invention of the whole episode and its\nparticulars, remains with Virgil. On the other hand, the enterprise of\nthe friends in the Italian poet, which is that of burying their dead\nmaster, and not merely of communicating with an absent general, is more\naffecting, though it may be less patriotic; the inability of Zerbino to\nkill him, when he looked on his face, is extremely so; and, as Panizzi\nhas shewn, the adventure is made of importance to the whole story of the\npoem, and is not simply an episode, like that in the \u00c6neid. It serves,\ntoo, in a very particular manner to introduce Medoro worthily to the\naffection of Angelica; for, mere female though she be, we should hardly\nhave gone along with her passion as we do, in a poem of any seriousness,\nhad it been founded merely on his beauty.]\n\n[Footnote 16: Canto xix. st. 34, &c. All the world have felt this to be\na true picture of first love. The inscription may be said to be that of\nevery other pair of lovers that ever existed, who knew how to write their\nnames. How musical, too, are the words \"Angelica and Medoro!\" Boiardo\ninvented the one; Ariosto found the match for it. One has no end to the\npleasure of repeating them. All hail to the moment when I first became\naware of their existence, more than fifty years ago, in the house of\nthe gentle artist Benjamin West! (Let the reader indulge me with this\nrecollection.) I sighed with pleasure to look on them at that time; I\nsigh now, with far more pleasure than pain, to look back on them, for\nthey never come across me but with delight; and poetry is a world in\nwhich nothing beautiful ever thoroughly forsakes us.]\n\n[Footnote 17:\n\n  \"Scritti, qual con carbone e qual con gesso.\"\n\n                                                   Canto xxiii. st. 106.\n\nAriosto did not mind soiling the beautiful fingers of Angelica with coal\nand chalk. He knew that Love did not mind it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON.\n\nArgument.\n\nThe Paladin Astolfo ascends on the hippogriff to the top of one of the\nmountains at the source of the Nile, called the Mountains of the Moon,\nwhere he discovers the Terrestrial Paradise, and is welcomed by St. John\nthe Evangelist. The Evangelist then conveys him to the Moon itself, where\nhe is shewn all the things that have been lost on earth, among which is\nthe Reason of Orlando, who had been deprived of it for loving a Pagan\nbeauty. Astolfo is favoured with a singular discourse by the Apostle, and\nis then presented with a vial containing the Reason of his great brother\nPaladin, which he conveys to earth.\n\nASTOLFO'S\n\nJOURNEY TO THE MOON\n\nWhen the hippogriff loosened itself from the tree to which Ruggiero had\ntied it in the beautiful spot to which he descended with Angelica,[1] it\nsoared away, like the faithful creature it was, to the house of its own\nmaster, Atlantes the magician. But not long did it remain there--no, nor\nthe house itself, nor the magician; for the Paladin Astolfo came with a\nmighty horn given him by a greater magician, the sound of which overthrew\nall such abodes, and put to flight whoever heard it; and so the house\nof Atlantes vanished, and the enchanter fled; and the Paladin took\npossession of the griffin-horse, and rode away with it on farther\nadventures.\n\nOne of these was the deliverance of Senapus, king of Ethiopia, from the\nvisitation of the dreadful harpies of old, who came infesting his table\nas they did those of \u00c6neas and Phineus. Astolfo drove them with his horse\ntowards the sources of the river Nile, in the Mountains of the Moon, and\npursued them with the hippogriff till they entered a great cavern, which,\nby the dreadful cries and lamentings that issued from the depths within\nit, the Paladin discovered to be the entrance from earth to Hell.\n\nThe daring Englishman, whose curiosity was excited, resolved to penetrate\nto the regions of darkness. \"What have I to fear?\" thought he; \"the horn\nwill assist me, if I want it. I'll drive the triple-mouthed dog out of\nthe way, and put Pluto and Satan to flight.\"[2]\n\nAstolfo tied the hippogriff to a tree, and pushed forward in spite of a\nsmoke that grew thicker and thicker, offending his eyes and nostrils. It\nbecame, however, so exceedingly heavy and noisome, that he found it would\nbe impossible to complete his enterprise. Still he pushed forward as far\nas he could, especially as he began to discern in the darkness something\nthat appeared to stir with an involuntary motion. It looked like a dead\nbody which has hung up many days in the rain and sun, and is waved\nunsteadily by the wind. It turned out to be a condemned spirit in this\nfirst threshold of Hell, sentenced there, with thousands of others, for\nhaving been cruel and false in love. Her name was Lydia, and she had been\nprincess of the country so called.[3] Anaxarete was among them, who, for\nher hard-heartedness, became a stone; and Daphne, who now discovered how\nshe had erred in making Apollo \"run so much;\" and multitudes of other\nwomen; but a far greater number of men--men being worthier of punishment\nin offences of love, because women are proner to believe. Theseus and\nJason were among them; and Amnon, the abuser of Tamar; and he that\ndisturbed the old kingdom of Latinus.[4]\n\nAstolfo would fain have gone deeper into the jaws of Hell, but the smoke\ngrew so thick and palpable, it was impossible to move a step farther.\nTurning about, therefore, he regained the entrance; and having refreshed\nhimself in a fountain hard by, and re-mounted the hippogriff, felt an\ninclination to ascend as high as he possibly could in the air. The\nexcessive loftiness of the mountain above the cavern made him think that\nits top could be at no great distance from the region of the Moon; and\naccordingly he pushed his horse upwards, and rose and rose, till at\nlength he found himself on its table-land. It exhibited a region of\ncelestial beauty. The flowers were like beds of precious stones for\ncolour and brightness; the grass, if you could have brought any to earth,\nwould have been found to surpass emeralds; and the trees, whose leaves\nwere no less beautiful, were in fruit and flower at once. Birds of as\nmany colours were singing in the branches; the murmuring rivulets and\ndumb lakes were more limpid than crystal: a sweet air was for ever\nstirring, which reduced the warmth to a gentle temperature; and every\nbreath of it brought an odour from flowers, fruit-trees, and herbage all\nat once, which nourished the soul with sweetness.[5]\n\nIn the middle of this lonely plain was a palace radiant as fire. Astolfo\nrode his horse round about it, constantly admiring all he saw, and filled\nwith increasing astonishment; for he found that the dwelling was thirty\nmiles in circuit, and composed of one entire carbuncle, lucid and\nvermilion. What became of the boasted wonders of the world before this?\nThe world itself, in the comparison, appeared but a lump of brute and\nfetid matter.[6]\n\nAs the Paladin approached the vestibule, he was met by a venerable old\nman, clad in a white gown and red mantle, whose beard descended on his\nbosom, and whose aspect announced him as one of the elect of Paradise.\nIt was St. John the Evangelist, who lived in that mansion with Enoch and\nElijah, the only three mortals who never tasted death; for the place, as\nthe saint informed him, was the Terrestrial Paradise; and the inhabitants\nwere to live there till the angelical trumpet announced the coming of\nChrist \"on the white cloud.\" The Paladin, he said, had been allowed to\nvisit it, by the favour of God, for the purpose of fetching away to earth\nthe lost wits of Orlando, which the champion of the Church had been\ndeprived of for loving a Pagan, and which had been attracted out of his\nbrains to the neighbouring sphere, the Moon.\n\nAccordingly, after the new friends had spent two days in discourse, and\nmeals had been served up, consisting of fruit so exquisite that the\nPaladin could not help thinking our first parents had some excuse for\neating it,[7] the Evangelist, when the Moon arose, took him into the car\nwhich had borne Elijah to heaven; and four horses, redder than fire,\nconveyed them to the lunar world.\n\nThe mortal visitant was amazed to see in the Moon a world resembling his\nown, full of wood and water, and containing even cities and castles,\nthough of a different sort from ours. It was strange to find a sphere so\nlarge which had seemed so petty afar off; and no less strange was it to\nlook down on the world he had left, and be compelled to knit his brows\nand look sharply before he could well discern it, for it happened at the\ntime to want light.[8]\n\nBut his guide did not leave him much time to look about him. He conducted\nhim with due speed into a valley that contained, in one miraculous\ncollection, whatsoever had been lost or wasted on earth. I do not speak\nonly (says the poet) of riches and dominions, and such like gratuities of\nFortune, but of things also which Fortune can neither grant nor resume.\nMuch fame is there which Time has withdrawn--infinite prayers and vows\nwhich are made to God Almighty by us poor sinners. There lie the tears\nand the sighs of lovers, the hours lost in pastimes, the leisures of the\ndull, and the intentions of the lazy. As to desires, they are so numerous\nthat they shadow the whole place. Astolfo went round among the different\nheaps, asking what they were. His eyes were first struck with a huge\none of bladders which seemed to contain mighty sounds and the voices of\nmultitudes. These he found were the Assyrian and Persian monarchies,\ntogether with those of Greece and Lydia.[9] One heap was nothing but\nhooks of silver and gold, which were the presents, it seems, made to\npatrons and great men in hopes of a return. Another consisted of snares\nin the shape of garlands, the manufacture of parasites. Others were\nverses in praise of great lords, all made of crickets which had burst\nthemselves with singing. Chains of gold he saw there, which were\npretended and unhappy love-matches; and eagles' claws, which were deputed\nauthorities; and pairs of bellows, which were princes' favours; and\noverturned cities and treasuries, being treasons and conspiracies; and\nserpents with female faces, that were coiners and thieves; and all sorts\nof broken bottles, which were services rendered in miserable courts. A\ngreat heap of overturned soup[10] he found to be alms to the poor, which\nhad been delayed till the giver's death. He then came to a great mount\nof flowers, which once had a sweet smell, but now a most rank one. This\n(_with submission_) was the present which the Emperor Constantine made to\ngood Pope Sylvester.[11] Heaps of twigs he saw next, set with bird-lime,\nwhich, dear ladies, are your charms. In short there was no end to what he\nsaw. Thousands and thousands would not complete the list. Every thing\nwas there which was to be met with on earth, except folly in the raw\nmaterial, for that is never exported.[12]\n\nThere he beheld some of his own lost time and deeds; and yet, if nobody\nhad been with him to make him aware of them, never would he have\nrecognised them as his.[13]\n\nThey then arrived at something, which none of us ever prayed God to\nbestow, for we fancy we possess it in superabundance; yet here it was in\ngreater quantities than any thing else in the place--I mean, sense.\nIt was a subtle fluid, apt to evaporate if not kept closely; and here\naccordingly it was kept in vials of greater or less size. The greatest of\nthem all was inscribed with the following words: \"The sense of Orlando.\"\nOthers, in like manner, exhibited the names of the proper possessors; and\namong them the frank-hearted Paladin beheld the greater portion of his\nown. But what more astonished him, was to see multitudes of the vials\nalmost full to the stopper, which bore the names of men whom he had\nsupposed to enjoy their senses in perfection. Some had lost them for\nlove, others for glory, others for riches, others for hopes from great\nmen, others for stupid conjurers, for jewels, for paintings, for all\nsorts of whims. There was a heap belonging to sophists and astrologers,\nand a still greater to poets.[14]\n\nAstolfo, with leave of the \"writer of the dark Apocalypse,\" took\npossession of his own. He had but to uncork it, and set it under his\nnose, and the wit shot up to its place at once. Turpin acknowledges that\nthe Paladin, for a long time afterwards, led the life of a sage man,\ntill, unfortunately, a mistake which he made lost him his brains a second\ntime.[15]\n\nThe Evangelist now presented him with the vial containing the wits of\nOrlando, and the travellers quitted the vale of Lost Treasure. Before\nthey returned to earth, however, the good saint chewed his guest other\ncuriosities, and favoured him with many a sage remark, particularly on\nthe subject of poets, and the neglect of them by courts. He shewed him\nhow foolish it was in princes and other great men not to make friends of\nthose who can immortalise them; and observed, with singular indulgence,\nthat crimes themselves might be no hindrance to a good name with\nposterity, if the poet were but feed well enough for spices to embalm the\ncriminal. He instanced the cases of Homer and Virgil.\n\n\"You are not to take for granted,\" said he, \"that \u00c6neas was so pious\nas fame reports him, or Achilles and Hector so brave. Thousands and\nthousands of warriors have excelled them; but their descendents bestowed\nfine houses and estates on great writers, and it is from their honoured\npages that all the glory has proceeded. Augustus was no such religious or\nclement prince as the trumpet of Virgil has proclaimed him. It was his\ngood taste in poetry that got him pardoned his iniquitous proscription.\nNero himself might have fared as well as Augustus, had he possessed as\nmuch wit. Heaven and earth might have been his enemies to no purpose, had\nhe known how to keep friends with good authors. Homer makes the Greeks\nvictorious, the Trojans a poor set, and Penelope undergo a thousand\nwrongs rather than be unfaithful to her husband; and yet, if you would\nhave the real truth of the matter, the Greeks were beaten, and the\nTrojans the conquerors, and Penelope was a --. [16] See, on the other\nhand, what infamy has become the portion of Dido. She was honest to her\nheart's core; and yet, because Virgil was no friend of hers, she is\nlooked upon as a baggage.\n\n\"Be not surprised,\" concluded the good saint, \"if I have expressed myself\nwith warmth on this subject. I love writers, and look upon their cause as\nmy own, for I was a writer myself when I lived among you; and I succeeded\nso well in the vocation, that time and death will never prevail against\nme. Just therefore is it, that I should be thankful to my beloved Master,\nwho procured me so great a lot. I grieve for writers who have fallen\non evil times--men that, with pale and hungry faces, find the doors of\ncourtesy closed against all their hardships. This is the reason there are\nso few poets now, and why nobody cares to study. Why should he study? The\nvery beasts abandon places where there is nothing to feed them.\"\n\nAt these words the eyes of the blessed old man grew so inflamed with\nanger, that they sparkled like two fires. But he presently suppressed\nwhat he felt; and, turning with a sage and gracious smile to the Paladin,\nprepared to accompany him back to earth with his wonted serenity.\n\nHe accordingly did so in the sacred car: and Astolfo, after receiving his\ngentle benediction, descended on his hippogriff from the mountain, and,\njoining the delighted Paladins with the vial, his wits were restored, as\nyou have heard, to the noble Orlando.\n\nThe figure which is here cut by St. John gives this remarkable satire a\nmost remarkable close. His association of himself with the fraternity of\nauthors was thought a little \"strong\" by Ariosto's contemporaries. The\nlesson read to the house of Este is obvious, and could hardly have been\npleasant to men reputed to be such \"criminals\" themselves. Nor can\nAriosto, in this passage, be reckoned a very flattering or conscientious\npleader for his brother-poets. Resentment, and a good jest, seem to have\nconspired to make him forget what was due to himself.\n\nThe original of St. John's remarks about Augustus and the ancient poets\nmust not be omitted. It is exquisite of its kind, both in matter and\nstyle. Voltaire has quoted it somewhere with rapture.\n\n  \"Non fu s\u00ec santo n\u00e8 benigno Augusto\n    Come la tuba di Virgilio suona:\n  L'aver avuto in poesia buon gusto\n    La proscrizion iniqua gli perdona.\n  Nessun sapria se Neron fosse ingiusto,\n    N\u00e8 sua fama saria forse men buona,\n  Avesse avuto e terra e ciel nimici,\n  Se gli scrittor sapea tenersi amici.\n\n  Omero Agamennon vittorioso,\n    E fe' i Trojan parer vili et inerti;\n  E che Penelopea fida al suo sposo\n    Da i prochi mille oltraggi avea sofferti:\n  E, se tu vuoi che 'l ver non ti sia ascoso,\n    Tutta al contrario l'istoria converti:\n  Che i Greci rotti, e che Troia vittrice,\n  E che Penelopea fu meretrice.\n\n  Da l'altra parte odi che fama lascia\n    Elissa, ch'ebbe il cor tanto pudico;\n  Che riputata viene una bagascia,\n    Solo perch\u00e8 Maron non le fu amico.\"\n\n                                                    Canto xxxv. st. 26. ]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Footnote 1: See p. 192.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Ariosto is here imitating Pulci, and bearding Dante. See\nvol. i. p. 336.]\n\n[Footnote 3: I know of no story of a cruel Lydia but the poet's own\nmistress of that name, whom I take to be the lady here \"shadowed forth.\"\nSee Life, p. 114.]\n\n[Footnote 4: The story of Anaxarete is in Ovid, lib. xiv. Every body\nknows that of Daphne, who made Apollo, as Ariosto says, \"run so much\"\n(correr tanto). Theseus and Jason are in hell, as deserters of Ariadne\nand Medea; Amnon, for the atrocity recorded in the Bible (2 Samuel, chap.\nxiii.); and \u00c6neas for interfering with Turnus and Lavinia, and taking\npossession of places he had no right to. It is delightful to see the\ngreat, generous poet going upon grounds of reason and justice in the\nteeth of the trumped-up rights of the \"pious \u00c6neas,\" that shabby deserter\nof Dido, and canting prototype of Augustus. He turns the tables, also,\nwith brave candour, upon the tyrannical claims of the stronger sex to\nprivileges which they deny the other; and says, that there are more\nfaithless men in Hell than faithless women; which, if personal infidelity\nsends people there, most undoubtedly is the case beyond all comparison.]\n\n[Footnote 5: \"Che di so\u00e4vit\u00e0 l'alma notriva\" is beautiful; but the\npassage, as a whole, is not well imitated from the Terrestrial Paradise\nof Dante. It is not bad in itself, but it is very inferior to the one\nthat suggested it. See vol. i. p. 210, &c. Ariosto's Terrestrial Paradise\nwas at home, among the friends who loved him, and whom he made happy.]\n\n[Footnote 6: This is better; and the house made of one jewel thirty miles\nin circuit is an extravagance that becomes reasonable on reflection,\naffording a just idea of what might be looked for among the endless\nplanetary wonders of Nature, which confound all our relative ideas of\nsize and splendour. The \"lucid vermilion\" of a structure so enormous, and\nunder a sun so pure, presents a gorgeous spectacle to the imagination.\nDante himself, if he could have forgiven the poet his animal spirits\nand views of the Moon so different from his own, might have stood in\nadmiration before an abode at once so lustrous and so vast.]\n\n[Footnote 7:\n\n  \"De' frutti a lui del Paradiso diero,\n    Di tal sapor, ch'a suo giudizio, sanza\n  Scusa non sono i due primi parenti,\n    Se pur quei fur si poco ubbidienti.\"\n\n                                                 Canto xxxiv. st. 60.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Modern astronomers differ very much both with Dante's and\nAriosto's Moon; nor do the \"argent fields\" of Milton appear better placed\nin our mysterious satellite, with its no-atmosphere and no-water, and its\ntremendous precipices. It is to be hoped (and believed) that knowledge\nwill be best for us all in the end; for it is not always so by the way.\nIt displaces beautiful ignorances.]\n\n[Footnote 9: Very fine and scornful, I think, this. Mighty monarchies\nreduced to actual bladders, which, little too as they were, contained big\nsounds.]\n\n[Footnote 10: Such, I suppose, as was given at convent-gates.]\n\n[Footnote 11: The pretended gift of the palace of St. John Lateran, the\nfoundation of the pope's temporal sovereignty. This famous passage was\nquoted and translated by Milton.\n\n  \"Di varii fiori ad on gran monte passa\n  Ch'ebbe gi\u00e0 buon odore, or putia forte.\n  Questo era il dono (se per\u00f2 dir lece)\n  Che Constantino al buon Silvestro fece.\"\n\n                                                      Canto xxxiv. st. 80.\n\n  The lines were not so bold in the first edition. They stood thus\n\n  \"Ad un monte di rose e gigli passa,\n  Ch'ebbe gi\u00e0 buon odore, or putia forte,\n  Ch'era corrotto; e da Giovanni intese,\n  Che fu un gran don ch'un gran signor mal spese.\"\n\n\"He came to a mount of lilies and roses, that once had a sweet smell,\nbut now stank with corruption; and be understood from John that it was a\ngreat gift which a great lord ill expended.\"\n\nThe change of these lines to the stronger ones in the third edition, as\nthey now stand, served to occasion a charge against Ariosto of having got\nhis privilege of publication from the court of Rome for passages which\nnever existed, and which he afterwards basely introduced; but, as Panizzi\nobserves, the third edition had a privilege also; so that the papacy\nput its hand, as it were, to these very lines. This is remarkable; and\ndoubtless it would not have occurred in some other ages. The Spanish\nInquisition, for instance, erased it, though the holy brotherhood found\nno fault with the story of Giocondo.]\n\n  [Footnote 12: \"Sol la pazzia non v'\u00e8, poca n\u00e8 assai;\n  Che sta qu\u00e0 gi\u00f9, n\u00e8 se ne parte mai\"\n                                                               St. 78.]\n\n[Footnote 13: Part of this very striking passage is well translated by\n Harrington\n\n  \"He saw some of his own lost time and deeds,\n  And yet he knew them not to be his own.\"\n\n I have heard these lines more than once repeated with touching\nearnestness by Charles Lamb.]\n\n[Footnote 14: Readers need not have the points of this exquisite satire\npointed out to them. In noticing it, I only mean to enjoy it in their\ncompany--particularly the passage about the men accounted wisest, and the\nemphatic \"I mean, sense\" (Io dico, il senno).]\n\n[Footnote 15: Admirable lesson to frailty!]\n\n[Footnote 16: I do not feel warranted in injuring the strength of the\nterm here made use of by the indignant apostle, and yet am withheld from\ngiving it in all its force by the delicacy, real or false, of the times.\nI must therefore leave it to be supplied by the reader according to the\nrequirements of his own feelings.]\n\n\nARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.\n\nArgument.\n\nThe Duke of Albany, pretending to be in love with a damsel in the service\nof Ginevra, Princess of Scotland, but desiring to marry the princess\nherself, and not being able to compass his design by reason of her being\nin love with a gentleman from Italy named Ariodante, persuades the\ndamsel, in his revenge, to personate Ginevra in a balcony at night,\nand so make her lover believe that she is false. Ariodante, deceived,\ndisappears from court. News is brought of his death; and his brother\nLurcanio publicly denounces Ginevra, who, according to the laws of\nScotland, is sentenced to death for her supposed lawless passion.\nLurcanio then challenges the unknown paramour (for the duke's face had\nnot been discerned in the balcony); and Ariodante, who is not dead, is\nfighting him in disguise, when the Paladin Rinaldo comes up, discloses\nthe whole affair, and slays the deceiver.\n\n\nARIODANTE AND GINEVRA.[1]\n\nCharlemagne had suffered a great defeat at Paris, and the Paladin Rinaldo\nwas sent across the Channel to ask succours of the King of England; but a\ntempest arose ere he could reach the coast, and drove him northwards upon\nthat of Scotland, where he found himself in the Caledonian Forest, a\nplace famous of old for knightly adventure. Many a clash of arms had been\nheard in its shady recesses--many great things had been done there by\nknights from all quarters, particularly the Tristans and the Launcelots,\nand the Gawains, and others of the Round Table of King Arthur.\n\nRinaldo, bidding the ship await him at the town of Berwick, plunged into\nthe forest with no other companion than his horse Bayardo, seeking the\nwildest paths he could find, in the hope of some strange adventure.[2] He\nput up, for the first day, at an abbey which was accustomed to entertain\nthe knights and ladies that journeyed that way; and after availing\nhimself of its hospitality, he inquired of the abbot and his monks if\nthey could direct him where to find what he looked for. They said that\nplenty of adventures were to be met with in the forest; but that, for the\nmost part, they remained in as much obscurity as the spots in which they\noccurred. It would be more becoming his valour, they thought, to exert\nitself where it would not be hidden; and they concluded with telling him\nof one of the noblest chances for renown that ever awaited a sword. The\ndaughter of their king was in need of a defender against a certain baron\nof the name of Lurcanio, who sought to deprive her both of life and\nreputation. He accused her of having been found in the arms of a lover\nwithout the license of the priest; which, by the laws of Scotland, was a\ncrime only to be expiated at the stake, unless a champion could be found\nto disprove the charge before the end of a month. Unfortunately the month\nhad nearly expired, and no champion yet made his appearance, though the\nking had promised his daughter's hand to anybody of noble blood who\nshould establish her innocence; and the saddest part of the thing was,\nthat she was accounted innocent by all the world, and a very pattern of\nmodesty.\n\nWhile this horrible story was being told him, the Paladin fell into a\nprofound state of thought. After remaining silent for a little while,\nat the close of it he looked up, and said, \"A lady then, it seems, is\ncondemned to death for having been too kind to one lover, while thousands\nof our sex are playing the gallant with whomsoever they please, and\nnot only go unpunished for it, but are admired! Perish such infamous\ninjustice! The man was a madman who made such a law, and they are little\nbetter who maintain it. I hope in God to be able to shew them their\nerror.\"\n\nThe good monks agreed, that their ancestors were very unwise to make such\na law, and kings very wrong who could, but would not, put an end to it.\nSo, when the morning came, they speeded their guest on his noble purpose\nof fighting in the lady's behalf. A guide from the abbey took him a short\ncut through the forest towards the place where the matter was to be\ndecided; but, before they arrived, they heard cries of distress in a dark\nquarter of the forest, and, turning their horses thither to see what it\nwas, they observed a damsel between two vagabonds, who were standing over\nher with drawn swords. The moment the wretches saw the new comer, they\nfled; and Rinaldo, after re-assuring the damsel, and requesting to know\nwhat had brought her to a pass so dreadful, made his guide take her up\non his horse behind him, in order that they might lose no more time. The\ndamsel, who was very beautiful, could not speak at first, for the horror\nof what she had expected to undergo; but, on Rinaldo's repeating his\nrequest, she at length found words, and, in a voice of great humility,\nbegan to relate her story.\n\nBut before she begins, the poet interferes with an impatient remark.--\"Of\nall the creatures in existence,\" cries he, \"whether they be tame or wild,\nwhether they are in a state of peace or of war, man is the only one that\nlays violent hands on the female of his species. The bear offers no\ninjury to his; the lioness is safe by the side of the lion; the heifer\nhas no fear of the horns of the bull. What pest of abomination, what fury\nfrom hell, has come to disturb, in this respect, the bosom of human kind?\nHusband and wife deafen one another with injurious speeches, tear one\nanother's faces, bathe the genial bed with tears, nay, some times with\nbloodshed. In my eyes the man who can allow himself to give a blow to a\nwoman, or to hurt even a hair of her head, is a violater of nature, and a\nrebel against God; but to poison her, to strangle her, to take the soul\nout of her body with a knife,--he that can do that, never will I believe\nhim to be a man at all, but a fiend out of hell with a man's face.\"[3]\n\nSuch must have been the two villains who fled at the sight of Rinaldo,\nand who had brought the woman into this dark spot to stifle her testimony\nfor ever.\n\nBut to return to what she was going to say.--\n\n\"You are to know, sir,\" she began, \"that I have been from my childhood in\nthe service of the king's daughter, the princess Ginevra. I grew up with\nher; I was held in bonour, and I led a happy life, till it pleased the\ncruel passion of love to envy me my condition, and make me think that\nthere was no being on earth to be compared to the Duke of Albany. He\npretended to love me so much, that, in return, I loved him with all my\nheart. Unable, by degrees, to refuse him anything, I let him into the\npalace at night, nay, into the room which of all others the princess\nregarded as most exclusively her own; for there she kept her jewels, and\nthere she was accustomed to sleep during inclement states of the weather.\nIt communicated with the other sleeping-room by a covered gallery, which\nlooked out to some lonely ruins; and nobody ever passed that way, day or\nnight.\n\n\"Our intercourse continued for several months; and, finding that I placed\nall my happiness in obliging him, he ventured to disclose to me one day\na design he had upon the princess's hand; nay, did not blush to ask my\nassistance in furthering it. Judge how I set his wishes above my own,\nwhen I confess that I undertook to do so. It is true, his rank was nearer\nto the princess's than to mine; and he pretended that he sought the\nalliance merely on that account; protesting that he should love me more\nthan ever, and that Ginevra would be little better than his wife in name.\nBut, God knows, I did it wholly out of the excess of my desire to please\nhim.\n\n\"Day and night I exerted all my endeavours to recommend him to the\nprincess. Heaven is my witness that I did it in real earnest, however\nwrong it was. But my labour was to no purpose, for she was in love\nherself. She returned in all its warmth the passion of a most\naccomplished and valiant gentleman, who had come into Scotland with a\nyounger brother from Italy, and who had made himself such a favourite\nwith every body, my lover included, that the king himself had bestowed on\nhim titles and estates, and put him on a footing with the greatest lords\nof the land.\n\n\"Unfortunately, the princess not only turned a deaf ear to all I said\nin the duke's favour, but grew to dislike him in proportion to my\nrecommendation; so that, finding there was no likelihood of his success,\nhis own love was secretly turned into hate and rage. He studied, little\nas I dreamt he could be so base, how he could best destroy her prospect\nof happiness. He resorted, for this purpose, to a most crafty expedient,\nwhich I, poor fool, took for nothing but what he feigned it to be. He\npretended that a whim had come into his head for seeming to prosper in\nhis suit, out of a kind of revenge for his not being able to do so in\nreality; and, in order to indulge this whim, he requested me to dress\nmyself in the identical clothes which the princess put off when she went\nto bed that night, and then to appear in them at my usual post in the\nbalcony, and so let down the ladder as though I were her very self, and\nreceive him into my arms.\n\n\"I did all that he desired, mad fool that I was; and out of the part\nwhich I played has come all this mischief. I have intimated to you that\nthe duke and Ariodante (for such was the other's name) had been good\nfriends before Ginevra preferred hint to my false lover. Pretending\ntherefore to be still his friend, and entering on the subject of a\npassion which he said he had long entertained for her, he expressed his\nwonder at finding it interfered with by so noble a gentleman, especially\nas it was returned by the princess with a fervour of which the other, if\nhe pleased, might have ocular testimony. \"Greatly astonished at this news\nwas Ariodante. He had received all the proofs of his mistress's affection\nwhich it was possible for chaste love to bestow, and with the greatest\nscorn refused to believe it; but as the duke, with the air of a man who\ncould not help the melancholy communication, quietly persisted in his\nstory, the unhappy lover found himself compelled, at any rate, to let\nhim afford those proofs of her infidelity which he asserted to be in his\npower. The consequence was, that Ariodante came with his brother to the\nruins I spoke of; and there the two were posted on the night when I\nplayed my unhappy part in the balcony. He brought Lurcanio with him (that\nwas the brother's name), because he suspected that the duke had a design\non his life, not conceiving what he alleged against Ginevra to be\npossible. Lurcanio, however, was not in the secret of his brother's\nengagement with the princess. It had been disclosed hitherto neither to\nhim nor to any one, the lady not yet having chosen to divulge it to the\nking himself. Ariodante, therefore, requested his brother to take his\nstation at a little distance, out of sight of the palace, and not to come\nto him unless he should call: 'otherwise, my dear brother,' concluded he,\n'stir not a step, if you love me.' \"'Doubt me not,' said Lurcanio; and,\nwith these words, the latter entrenched himself in his post.\n\n\"Ariodante now stood by himself, gazing at the balcony,--the only person\nvisible at that moment in all the place. In a few minutes the Duke\nof Albany appeared below it, making the signal to which I had been\naccustomed; and then I, in my horrible folly, became visible to the eyes\nof both, and let down the ladder.\n\n\"Meantime Lurcanio, beginning to be very uneasy at the mysterious\nsituation in which he found himself, and to have the most alarming fears\nfor his brother, had cautiously picked his way after him at a little\ndistance; so that he also, though still hidden in the shade of the lonely\nhouses, perceived all that was going on.\n\n\"I was dressed, as I had undertaken to be, in the identical clothes which\nthe princess had put off that night; and as I was not unlike her in air\nand figure, and wore the golden net with red tassels peculiar to ladies\nof the royal family, and the two brothers, besides, were at quite\nsufficient distance to be deceived, I was taken by both of them for her\nvery self. The duke impatiently mounted the ladder; I received him as\nimpatiently in my arms; and circumstances, though from very different\nfeelings, rendered the caresses that passed between us of unusual ardour.\n\n\"You may imagine the grief of Ariodante. It rose at once to despair. He\ndid not call out; so that, had not his brother followed him, still worse\nwould have ensued than did; for he drew his sword, and was proceeding in\ndistraction to fall upon it, when Lurcanio rushed in and stopped him.\n'Miserable brother!' exclaimed he, 'are you mad? Would you die for a\nwoman like this? You see what a wretch she is. I discern all your case\nat once, and, thank God, have preserved you to turn your sword where it\nought to be turned, against the defender of such a pattern of infamy.'\n\n\"Ariodante put up his sword, and suffered himself to be led away by his\nbrother. He even pretended, in a little while, to be able to review his\ncondition calmly, but not the less had he secretly resolved to perish.\nNext day he disappeared, nobody knew whither; and about eight days\nafterwards, news was secretly brought to Ginevra, by a pilgrim, that he\nhad thrown himself from a headland into the sea.\n\n\"'I met him by chance,' said the pilgrim, 'and we happened to be standing\non the top of the headland, conversing, when he cried out to me, 'Relate\nto the princess what you beheld on parting from me; and add, that the\ncause of it was my having seen too much. Happy had it been for me had I\nbeen blind!' And with these words,' concluded the pilgrim, 'he leaped\ninto the sea below, and was instantly buried beneath it.'\n\n\"The princess turned as pale as death at this story, and for a while\nremained stupefied. But, alas! what a scene was it my fate to witness,\nwhen she found herself in her chamber at night, able to give way to her\nmisery. She tore her clothes, and her very flesh, and her beautiful\nhair, and kept repeating the last words of her lover with amazement and\ndespair.\n\nThe disappearance of Ariodante, and a rumour which transpired of his\nhaving slain himself on account of some hidden anguish, surprised and\nafflicted the whole court. But his brother Lurcanio evinced more and more\nhis impatience at it, and let fall the most terrible words. At length\nhe entered the court when the king was holding one of his fullest\nassemblies, and laid open, as he thought, the whole matter; setting forth\nhow his unhappy brother had secretly, but honourably, loved the princess;\nhow she had professed to love him in return; and how she had grossly\ndeceived him, and played him impudently false before his own eyes. He\nconcluded with calling upon her unknown paramour to come forth, and shew\nreasons against him with his sword why she ought not to die.\n\n\"I need not tell you what the king suffered at hearing this strange and\nterrible recital. He lost no time in sharply investigating the truth of\nthe allegation; and for this purpose, among other proceedings, he sent\nfor the ladies of his daughter's chamber. You may judge, sir,--especially\nas, I blush to say it, I still loved the Duke of Albany,--that I could\nnot await an examination like that. I hastened to meet the duke, who was\nas anxious to get me out of the way as I was to go; and to this end,\nprofessing the greatest zeal for my security, he commissioned two men to\nconvey me secretly to a fortress he possessed in this forest. 'Tis at no\ngreat distance from the place where Heaven sent you to my deliverance.\nYou saw, sir, how little those wretches intended to take me anywhere\nexcept to my grave; and by this you may judge of the agonies and shame I\nhave endured in knowing what a dupe I have been to one of the cruelest of\nmen. But thus it is that Love treats his most faithful servants.\"\n\nThe damsel here concluded her story; and the Paladin, rejoicing at having\nbecome possessed of all that was required to establish the falsehood of\nthe duke, proceeded with her on his road to St. Andrews, where the lists\nhad been set up for the determination of the question. The king and his\ncourt were anxiously praying at that instant for the arrival of some\nchampion to fight with the dreaded Lurcanio; for the month, as I have\nstated, was nearly expired, and this terrible brother appeared to have\nthe business all his own way; so that the stake was soon to be looked for\nat which the hapless Ginevra was to die.\n\nFast and eagerly the Paladin rode for St. Andrews, with his squire and\nthe trembling damsel, who was now agitated for new reasons, though the\nknight gave her assurances of his protection. They were not far from\nthe city when they found people talking of a champion who had certainly\narrived, but whose name was unknown, and his face constantly concealed by\nhis visor. Even his own squire, it seems, did not know him; for the\nman had but lately been taken into his service. Rinaldo, as soon as\nhe entered the city, left the damsel in a place of security, and then\nspurred his horse to the scene of action, when he found the accuser and\nthe champion in the very midst of the fight. The Paladin, whose horse,\nnotwithstanding the noise of the combat, had been heard coming like a\ntempest, and whose sudden and heroical appearance turned all eyes towards\nhim, rode straight to the royal canopy, and, begging the king to stop the\ncombat, disclosed the whole state of the matter, to the enchantment of\nall present, except the Duke of Albany; for the villain himself was on\nhorseback there in state as grand constable, and had been feasting his\nmiserable soul with the hope of seeing Ginevra condemned. The combatants\nwere soon changed. Instead of Lurcanio and the unknown champion (whom the\nnew comer had taken care to extol for his generosity), it was the Paladin\nand the Duke that were opposed; and horribly did the latter's heart fail\nhim. But he had no remedy. Fight he must. Rinaldo, desirous to make short\nwork of him, took his station with fierce delight; and at the third sound\nof the trumpets, the Duke was forced to couch his spear and meet him\nat full charge. Sheer went the Paladin's ashen staff through the false\nbosom, sending the villain to the earth eight feet beyond the saddle. The\nconqueror dismounted instantly, and unlacing the man's helmet, enabled\nthe king to hear his dying confession, which he had hardly finished, when\nlife forsook him. Rinaldo then took off his own helmet; and the king,\nwho had seen the great Paladin before, and who felt more rejoiced at his\ndaughter's deliverance than if he had lost and regained his crown, lifted\nup his hands to heaven, and thanked God for having honoured her innocence\nwith so illustrious a defender.\n\nThe other champion, who, in the mean time, had been looking on through\nthe eyelets of his visor, was now entreated to disclose his own face. He\ndid so with peculiar emotion, and king and all recognised with transport\nthe face of the loved and, as it was supposed, lost Ariodante. The\npilgrim, however, had told no falsehood. The lover had indeed thrown\nhimself into the sea, and disappeared from the man's eyes; but (as\noftener happens than people suppose) the death which was desired when\nnot present became hated when it was so; and Ariodante, lover as he\nwas, rising at a little distance, struck out lustily for the shore, and\nreached it.[4] He felt even a secret contempt for his attempt to kill\nhimself; yet putting up at an hermitage, became interested in the reports\nconcerning the princess, whose sorrow flattered, and whose danger,\nthough he could not cease to think her guilty, afflicted him. He grew\nexasperated with the very brother he loved, when he found that Lurcanio\npursued her thus to the death; and on all these accounts he made his\nappearance at the place of combat to fight him, though not to slay. His\npurpose was to seek his own death. He concluded that Ginevra would then\nsee who it was that had really loved her, while his brother would mourn\nthe rashness which made him pursue the destruction of a woman. \"Guilty\nshe is,\" thought he, \"but no such guilt can deserve so cruel a\npunishment. Besides, I could not bear that she should die before me. She\nis still the woman I love, still the idol of my thoughts. Right or wrong,\nI must die in her behalf.\"\n\nWith this intention he purchased a suit of black armour, and obtained a\nsquire unknown in those parts, and so made his appearance in the lists.\nWhat ensued there I need not repeat; but the king was so charmed with the\nissue of the whole business, with the resuscitation of the favourite whom\nhe thought dead, and the restoration of the more than life of his beloved\ndaughter, that, to the joy of all Scotland, and at the special instance\nof the great Paladin, he made the two lovers happy without delay; and the\nbride brought her husband for dowry the title and estates of the man who\nhad wronged him.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: The main point of this story, the personation of Ginevra by\none of her ladies, has been repeated by many writers--among others by\nShakspeare, in _Much Ado about Nothing_. The circumstance is said to have\nactually occurred in Ferrara, and in Ariosto's own time. Was Ariosto\nhimself a party? \"Ariodante\" almost includes his name; and it is certain\nthat he was once in love with a lady of the name of Ginevra.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Rinaldo is an ambassador, and one upon very urgent business;\nyet he halts by the way in search of adventures. This has been said to be\nin the true taste of knight-errantry; and in one respect it is so. We\nmay imagine, however, that the ship is wind-bound, and that he meant to\nreturn to it on change of weather. The Caledonian Forest, it is to be\nobserved, is close at hand.]\n\n[Footnote 3: All honour and glory to the manly and loving poet!\n\n\"Lavezzuola,\" says Panizzi, \"doubts the conjugal concord of beasts, more\nparticularly of bears. 'Ho letto presso degno autore un orso aver cavato\nun occhio ad un orsa con la zampa.' (I have read in an author worthy of\ncredit, that a bear once deprived a she-bear of an eye with a blow of his\npaw.) The reader may choose between Ariosto and this nameless author,\nwhich of them is to be believed. I, of course, am for my poet.\"--Vol. i.\np. 84. I am afraid, however, that Lavezzuola is right. Even turtle-doves\nare said not to be always the models of tenderness they are supposed\nto be. Brutes have even devoured their offspring. The violence is most\nprobably owing (at least in excessive cases) to some unnatural condition\nof circumstances.]\n\n[Footnote 4: This is quite in Ariosto's high and bold taste for truth\nunder all circumstances. A less great and unmisgiving poet would have had\nthe lover picked up by a fisherman.]\n\n\nSUSPICION [1]\n\nIt is impossible to conceive a nobler thing in the world than a just\nprince--a thoroughly good man, who shuns no part of the burden of his\nduty, though it bend him double; who loves and cares for his people as a\nfather does for his children, and who is almost incessantly occupied in\ntheir welfare, very seldom for his own.\n\nSuch a man puts himself in front of dangers and difficulties in order\nthat he may be a shield to others; for he is not a mercenary, taking care\nof none but himself when he sees the wolf coming; he is the right good\nshepherd, staking his own life in that of his flock, and knowing the\nfaces of every one of them, just as they do his own.\n\nSuch princes, in times of old, were Saturn, Hercules, Jupiter, and\nothers--men who reigned gently, yet firmly, equal to all chances that\ncame, and worthy of the divine honours that awaited them. For mankind\ncould not believe that they quitted the world in the same way as other\nmen. They thought they must be taken up into heaven to be the lords of\ndemigods.\n\nWhen the prince is good, the subjects are good, for they always imitate\ntheir masters; or at least, if the subjects cannot attain to this height\nof virtue, they at least are not as bad as they would be otherwise; and,\nat all events, public decency is observed. Oh, blessed kingdoms that are\ngoverned by such hearts! and oh, most miserable ones that are at the\nmercy of a man without justice--a fellow-creature without feelings!\n\nOur Italy is full of such, who will have their reward from the pens of\nposterity. Greater wretches never appeared in the shapes of Neros and\nCaligulas, or any other such monsters, let them have been who they might.\nI enter not into particulars; for it is always better to speak of the\ndead than the living; but I must say, that Agrigentum never fared worse\nunder Phalaris, nor Syracuse under Dionysius, nor Thebes in the hand of\nthe bloody tyrant Eteocles, even though all those wretches were villains\nby whose orders every day, without fault, without even charge, men were\nsent by dozens to the scaffold or into hopeless exile.\n\nBut they are not without torments of their own. At the core of their own\nhearts there stands an inflicter of no less agonies. There he stands\nevery day and every moment--one who was born of the same mother with\nWrath, and Cruelty, and Rapine, and who never ceased tormenting his\ninfant brethren before they saw the light. His name is Suspicion.[2]\n\nYes, Suspicion;--the cruelest visitation, the worst evil spirit and pest\nthat ever haunted with its poisonous whisper the mind of human being.\nThis is their tormentor by excellence. He does not trouble the poor and\nlowly. He agonises the brain in the proud heads of those whom fortune\nhas put over the heads of their fellow-creatures. Well may the man hug\nhimself on his freedom who fears nobody because nobody hates him. Tyrants\nare in perpetual fear. They never cease thinking of the mortal revenge\ntaken upon tormentors of their species openly or in secret. The fear\nwhich all men feel of the one single wretch, makes the single wretch\nafraid of every soul among them.\n\nHear a story of one of these miserables, which, whatever you may think of\nit, is true to the letter; such letter, at all events, as is written upon\nthe hearts of his race. He was one of the first who took to the custom\nof wearing beards, for, great as he was, he had a fear of the race of\nbarbers! He built a tower in his palace, guarded by deep ditches and\nthick walls. It had but one drawbridge and one bay-window. There was no\nother opening; so that the very light of day had scarcely admittance, or\nthe inmates a place to breathe at. In this tower he slept; and it was his\nwife's business to put a ladder down for him when he came in. A dog kept\nwatch at the drawbridge; and except the dog and the wife, not a soul was\nto be discerned about the place. Yet he had such little trust in her,\nthat he always sent spies to look about the room before he withdrew for\nthe night.\n\nOf what use was it all? The woman herself killed him with his own sword,\nand his soul went straight to hell.\n\nRhadamanthus, the judge there, thrust him under the boiling lake, but was\nastonished to find that he betrayed no symptoms of anguish. He did not\nweep and howl as the rest did, or cry out, \"I burn, I burn!\" He evinced\nso little suffering, that Rhadamanthus said, \"I must put this fellow into\nother quarters.\" Accordingly, he sent him into the lowest pit, where the\ntorments are beyond all others.\n\nNevertheless, even here he seemed to be under no distress. At length they\nasked him the reason. The wretch then candidly acknowledged, that hell\nitself had no torments for him, compared with those which suspicion had\ngiven him on earth.\n\nThe sages of hell laid their heads together at this news. Amelioration of\nhis lot on the part of a sinner was not to be thought of in a place of\neternal punishment; so they called a parliament together, the result of\nwhich was an unanimous conclusion, that the man should be sent back to\nearth, and consigned to the torments of suspicion for ever.\n\nHe went; and the earthly fiend re-entered his being anew with a subtlety\nso incorporate, that their two natures were identified, and he became\nSUSPICION ITSELF. Fruits are thus engrafted on wild stocks. One colour\nthus becomes the parent of many, when the painter takes a portion of this\nand of that from his palette in order to imitate flesh.\n\nThe new being took up his abode on a rock by the sea-shore, a thousand\nfeet high, girt all about with mouldering crags, which threatened every\ninstant to fall. It had a fortress on the top, the approach to which was\nby seven drawbridges, and seven gates, each locked up more strongly than\nthe other; and here, now this moment, constantly thinking Death is upon\nhim, Suspicion lives in everlasting terror. He is alone. He is ever\nwatching. He cries out from the battlements, to see that the guards are\nawake below, and never does he sleep day or night. He wears mail upon\nmail, and mail again, and feels the less safe the more he puts on; and is\nalways altering and strengthening everything on gate, and on barricado,\nand on ditch, and on wall. And do whatever he will, he never seems to\nhave done enough.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGreat poet, and good man, Ariosto! your terrors are better than Dante's;\nfor they warn, as far as warning can do good, and they neither afflict\nhumanity nor degrade God.\n\nSpenser has imitated this sublime piece of pleasantry; for, by a curious\nintermixture of all which the mind can experience from such a fiction,\npleasant it is in the midst of its sublimity,--laughable with satirical\narchness, as well as grand and terrible in the climax. The transformation\nin Spenser is from a jealous man into Jealousy. His wife has gone to live\nwith the Satyrs, and a villain has stolen his money. The husband, in\norder to persuade his wife to return, steals into the horde of the\nSatyrs, by mixing with their flock of goats,--as Norandino does in a\npassage imitated from Homer by Ariosto. The wife flatly refuses to do any\nsuch thing, and the poor wretch is obliged to steal out again.\n\n  \"So soon as he the prison door did pass,\n    He ran as fast as both his feet could bear,\n    And never looked who behind him was,\n    Nor scarcely who before. Like as a bear\n    That creeping close among the hives, to rear\n    An honeycomb, the wakeful dogs espy,\n    And him assailing, sore his carcass tear,\n    That hardly he away with life does fly,\n  Nor stays till safe himself he see from jeopardy.\n\n    Nor stay'd he till be came unto the place\n    Where late his treasure he entomb\u00e8d had;\n    Where, when he found it not (for Trompart base\n    Had it purloined for his master bad),\n    With extreme fury he became quite mad,\n    And ran away--ran with himself away;\n    That who so strangely had him seen bestad,\n    With upstart hair and staring eyes' dismay,\n  From Limbo-lake him late escap\u00e8d sure would say.\n\n    High over hills and over dales he fled,\n    As if the wind him on his wings had borne;\n    Nor bank nor bush could stay him, when he sped\n    His nimble feet, as treading still on thorn;\n    Grief, and Despite, and Jealousy, and Scorn,\n    Did all the way him follow hard behind;\n    And he himself himself loath'd so forlorn,\n    So shamefully forlorn of womankind,\n  That, as a snake, still lurk\u00e8d in his wounded mind.\n\n    Still fled he forward, looking backward still;\n    Nor stay'd his flight nor fearful agony\n    Till that he came unto a rocky hill\n    Over the sea suspended dreadfully,\n    That living creature it would terrify\n    To look a-down, or upward to the height\n    From thence he threw himself dispiteously,\n    All desperate of his fore-damn\u00e8d spright,\n  That seem'd no help for him was left in living sight.\n\n    But through long anguish and self-murd'ring thought,\n    He was so wasted and forpin\u00e8d quite,\n    That all his substance was consumed to nought,\n    And nothing left but like an airy sprite;\n    That on the rocks he fell so flit and light,\n    That he thereby received no hurt at all;\n    But chanc\u00e8d on a craggy cliff to light;\n    Whence he with crooked claws so long did crawl,\n  That at the last he found a cave with entrance small.\n\n    Into the same he creeps, and thenceforth there\n    Resolved to build his baleful mansion,\n    In dreary darkness, and continual fear\n    Of that rock's fall, which ever and anon\n    Threats with huge ruin him to fall upon,\n    That he dare never sleep, but that one eye\n    Still ope he keeps for that occasion;\n    Nor ever rests he in tranquillity,\n  The roaring billows beat his bower so boisterously.\n\n    Nor ever is he wont on aught to feed\n    But toads and frogs, his pasture poisonous,\n    Which in his cold complexion do breed\n    A filthy blood, or humour rancorous,\n    Matter of doubt and dread suspicious,\n    That doth with cureless care consume the heart,\n    Corrupts the stomach with gall vicious,\n    Cross-cuts the liver with internal smart,\n  And doth transfix the soul with death's eternal dart.\n\n    Yet can he never die, but dying lives,\n    And doth himself with sorrow new sustain,\n    That death and life at once unto him gives,\n    And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain;\n    There dwells he ever, miserable swain,\n    Hateful both to himself and every wight;\n    Where he, through privy grief and horror vain,\n    Is waxen so deformed, that he has quite\n  Forgot he was a man, and Jealousy is hight.\"\n\nSpenser's picture is more subtly wrought and imaginative than Ariosto's;\nbut it removes the man farther from ourselves, except under very special\ncircumstances. Indeed, it might be taken rather for a picture of\nhypochondria than jealousy, and under that aspect is very appalling. But\nnothing, under more obvious circumstances, comes so dreadfully home to us\nas Ariosto's poor wretch feeling himself \"the less safe the more he puts\non,\" and calling out dismally from his tower, a thousand feet high, to\nthe watchers and warders below to see that all is secure.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: This daring and grand apologue is not in the _Furioso_, but\nin a poem which Ariosto left unfinished, and which goes under the name\nof the _Five Cantos_. The fragment, though bearing marks of want of\ncorrection, is in some respects a beautiful, and altogether a curious\none, especially as it seems to have been written after the _Furioso_;\nfor it touches in a remarkable manner on several points of morals and\npolitics, and contains an extravagance wilder than any thing in Pulci,--a\nwhale _inhabited_ by knights! It was most likely for these reasons that\nhis friend Bembo and others advised him to suppress it. Was it written in\nhis youth? The apologue itself is not one of the least daring attacks on\nthe Borgias and such scoundrels, who had just then afflicted Italy.\n\nDid Ariosto, by the way, omit Macchiavelli in his list of the friends who\nhailed the close of his great poem, from not knowing what to make of his\nbook entitled the _Prince?_ It has perplexed all the world to this day,\nand is not unlikely to have made a particularly unpleasant impression on\na mind at once so candid and humane as Ariosto's.]\n\n[Footnote 2: A tremendous fancy this last!\n\n  \"Sta for la pena, de la qual dicea\n    Che nacque quando la brutt'Ira nacque,\n  La Crudeltade, e la Rapina rea;\n    E quantunque in un ventre con for giacque,\n  Di tormentarle mai non rimanea.\"]\n\n\nISABELLA.[1]\n\nRodomont, King of Algiers, was the fiercest of all the enemies of\nChristendom, not out of love for his own faith (for he had no piety), but\nout of hatred to those that opposed him. He had now quarrelled, however,\nwith his friends too. He had been rejected by a lady, in favour of the\nTartar king, Mandricardo, and mortified by the publicity of the rejection\nbefore his own lord paramount, Agramante, the leader of the infidel\narmies. He could not bear the rejection; he could not bear the sanction\nof it by his liege lord; he resolved to quit the scene of warfare and\nreturn to Africa; and, in the course of his journey thither, he had come\ninto the south of France, where, observing a sequestered spot that suited\nhis humour, be changed his mind as to going home, and persuaded himself\nhe could live in it for the rest of his life. He accordingly took up his\nabode with his attendants in a chapel, which had been deserted by its\nclergy during the rage of war.\n\nThis vehement personage was standing one morning at the door of the\nchapel in a state of unusual thoughtfulness, when he beheld coming\ntowards him, through a path in the green meadow before it, a lady of\na lovely aspect, accompanied by a bearded monk. They were followed by\nsomething covered with black, which they were bringing along on a great\nhorse.\n\nAlas! the lady was the widow of Zerbino, the Scottish prince, who spared\nthe life of Medoro, and who now himself lay dead under that pall. He\nhad expired in her arms from wounds inflicted during a combat with\nMandricardo; and she had been thrown by the loss into such anguish of\nmind that she would have died on his sword but for the intervention of\nthe hermit now with her, who persuaded her to devote the rest of her days\nto God in a nunnery. She had now come into Provence with the good man for\nthat purpose, and to bury the corpse of her husband in the chapel which\nthey were approaching.\n\nThough the lady seemed lost in grief, and was very pale, and had her hair\nall about the ears, and though she did nothing but weep and lament, and\nlooked in all respects quite borne down with her misery, nevertheless she\nwas still so beautiful that love and grace appeared to be indestructible\nin her aspect. The moment the Saracen beheld her, he dismissed from his\nmind all the determinations he had made to hate and detest\n\n  The gentle bevy, that adorns the world.\n\nHe was bent solely on obtaining the new angel before him. She seemed\nprecisely the sort of person to make him forget the one that had rejected\nhim. Advancing, therefore, to meet her without delay, he begged, in as\ngentle a manner as he could assume, to know the cause of her sorrow.\n\nThe lady, with all the candour of wretchedness, explained who she was,\nand how precious a burden she was conveying to its last home, and the\nresolution she had taken to withdraw from a vain world into the service\nof God. The proud pagan, who had no belief in a God, much less any\nrespect for restraints or fidelities of what kind soever, forgot his\nassumed gravity when he heard this determination, and laughed outright at\nthe simplicity of such a proceeding. He pronounced it, in his peremptory\nway, to be foolish and frivolous; compared it with the miser who, in\nburying a treasure, does good neither to himself nor any one else; and\nsaid, that lions and serpents might indeed be shut up in cages, but not\nthings lovely and innocent.\n\nThe monk, overhearing these observations, thought it his duty to\ninterfere. He calmly opposed all which the other asserted, and then\nproceeded to set forth a repast of spiritual consolation not at all to\nthe Saracen's taste. The fierce warrior interrupted the preacher several\ntimes; told him that he had nothing to do with the lady, and that the\nsooner he returned to his cell the better; but the hermit, nothing\ndaunted, went on with his advice till his antagonist lost all patience.\nHe laid hands on his sacred person; seized him by the beard; tore away\nas much of it as he grasped; and at length worked himself up into such a\npitch of fury, that he griped the good man's throat with all the force of\na pair of pincers, and, swinging him twice or thrice round, as one might\na dog, flung him off the headland into the sea.\n\nWhat became of the poor creature I cannot say. Reports are various. Some\ntell us that he was found on the rocks, dashed all to pieces, so that you\ncould not distinguish foot from head; others, that he fell into the\nsea at the distance of three miles, and perished in consequence of not\nknowing how to swim, in spite of the prayers and tears that he addressed\nto Heaven; others again affirm, that a saint came and assisted him, and\ndrew him to shore before people's eyes. I must leave the reader to adopt\nwhich of these accounts he looks upon as the most probable.\n\nThe Pagan, as soon as he had thus disposed of the garrulous hermit,\nturned towards Isabella (for that was the lady's name), and with a face\nsome what less disturbed, began to talk to her in the common language of\ngallantry, protesting that she was his life and soul, and that he should\nnot know what to do without her; for the sweetness of her appearance\nmollified even him; and indeed, with all his violence, he would rather\nhave possessed her by fair means than by foul. He therefore flattered\nhimself that, by a little hypocritical attention, he should dispose her\nto return his inclinations.\n\nOn the other hand, the poor disconsolate creature, who, in a country\nunknown to her, and a place so remote from help, felt like a mouse in the\ncat's claws, began casting in her mind by what possible contrivance she\ncould escape from such a wretch with honour. She had made up her mind to\nperish by her own hand, rather than be faithless, however unwillingly, to\nthe dear husband that had died in her arms: but the question was, how she\ncould protect herself from the pagan's violence, before she had secured\nthe means of so doing; for his manner was becoming very impatient, and\nhis speeches every moment less and less civil.\n\nAt length an expedient occurred to her. She told him, that if he would\npromise to respect her virtue, she would put him in possession of a\nsecret that would redound far more to his honour and glory, than any\nwrong which he could inflict on the innocent. She conjured him not to\nthrow away the satisfaction he would experience all the rest of his life\nfrom the consciousness of having done right, for the sake of injuring one\nunhappy creature. \"There were thousands of her sex,\" she observed, \"with\ncheerful as well as beautiful faces, who might rejoice in his affection;\nwhereas the secret she spoke of was known to scarcely a soul on earth but\nherself.\"\n\nShe then told him the secret; which consisted in the preparation of a\ncertain herb boiled with ivy and rue over a fire of cypress-wood, and\nsqueezed into a cup by hands that had never done harm. The juice thus\nobtained, if applied fresh every month, had the virtue of rendering\nbodies invulnerable. Isabella said she had seen the herb in the\nneighbourhood, as she came along, and that she would not only make the\npreparation forth-with, but let its effects be proved on her own person.\nShe only stipulated, that the receiver of the gift should swear not to\noffend her purity in deed or word.\n\nThe fierce infidel took the oath immediately. It delighted him to think\nthat he should be enabled to have his fill of war and slaughter for\nnothing; and the oath was the more easy to him, inasmuch as he had no\nintention of keeping it.\n\nThe poor Isabella went into the fields to look for her miraculous herb,\nstill, however, attended by the Saracen, who would not let her go out of\nhis sight. She soon found it; and then going with him into his house,\npassed the rest of the day and the whole night in preparing the mixture\nwith busy solemnity,--Rodomont always remaining with her.\n\nThe room became so hot and close with the fire of cypress-wood, that the\nSaracen, contrary to his law and indeed to his habits, indulged himself\nin drinking; and the consequence was, that, as soon as it was morning,\nIsabella lost no time in proving to him the success of her operations.\n\"Now,\" she said, \"you shall be convinced how much in earnest I have been.\nYou shall see all the virtue of this blessed preparation. I have only to\nbathe myself thus, over the head and neck, and if you then strike me with\nall your force, as though you intended to cut off my head,--which you\nmust do in good earnest,--you will see the wonderful result.\"\n\nWith a glad and rejoicing countenance the paragon of virtue held forth\nher neck to the sword; and the bestial pagan, giving way to his natural\nviolence, and heated perhaps beyond all thought of a suspicion with his\nwine, dealt it so fierce a blow, that the head leaped from the shoulders.\n\nThrice it bounded on the ground where it fell, and a clear voice was\nheard to come out of it, calling the name of \"Zerbino,\" doubtless in joy\nof the rare way which its owner had found of escaping from the Saracen.\n\nO blessed soul, that heldest thy virtue and thy fidelity dearer to thee\nthan life and youth! go in peace, then soul blessed and beautiful. If any\nwords of mine could have force in them sufficient to endure so long, hard\nwould I labour to give them all the worthiness that art can bestow, so\nthat the world might rejoice in thy name for thousands and thousands of\nyears. Go in peace, and take thy seat in the skies, and be an example to\nwomankind of faith beyond all weakness.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: The ingenious martyrdom in this story, which has been told\nby other writers of fiction, is taken from an alleged fact related in\nBarbaro's treatise _De Re Uxoria_.It is said, indeed, to have been\nactually resorted to more than once; and possibly may have been so, even\nfrom a knowledge of it; for what is more natural with heroical minds than\nthat the like outrages should produce the like virtues? But the colouring\nof Ariosto's narration is peculiarly his own; and his apostrophe at the\nclose beautiful.]\n\n\n\nTASSO:\n\nCritical Notice of his Life and Genius.\n\nCritical Notice\n\nOF\n\nTASSO'S LIFE AND GENIUS. [1]\n\nThe romantic poetry of Italy having risen to its highest and apparently\nits most lawless pitch in the _Orlando Furioso_, a reaction took place in\nthe next age in the _Jerusalem Delivered_.It did not hurt, however, the\npopularity of Ariosto. It only increased the number of poetic readers;\nand under the auspices, or rather the control, of a Luther-fearing\nChurch, produced, if not as classical a work as it claimed to be, or\none, in the true sense of the word, as catholic as its predecessor, yet\ncertainly a far more Roman Catholic, and at the same time very delightful\nfiction. The circle of fabulous narrative was thus completed, and a link\nformed, though in a very gentle and qualified manner, both with Dante's\ntheocracy and the obvious regularity of the _Aeneid_, the oldest romance\nof Italy.\n\nThe author of this epic of the Crusades was of a family so noble and\nso widely diffused, that, under the patronage of the emperors and the\nItalian princes, it flourished in a very remarkable manner, not only in\nits own country, but in Flanders, Germany, and Spain. There was a\nTasso once in England, ambassador of Philip the Second; another, like\nCervantes, distinguished himself at the battle of Lepanto; and a third\ngave rise to the sovereign German house of Tour and Taxis. _Taxus_ is the\nLatin of Tasso. The Latin word, like the Italian, means both a badger\nand a yew-tree; and the family in general appear to have taken it in the\nformer sense. The animal is in their coat of arms. But the poet, or his\nimmediate relatives, preferred being more romantically shadowed forth by\nthe yew-tree. The parent stock of the race was at Bergamo in Lombardy;\nand here was born the father of Tasso, himself a poet of celebrity,\nthough his fame has been eclipsed by that of his son.\n\nBernardo Tasso, author of many elegant lyrics, of some volumes of\nletters, not uninteresting but too florid, and of the _Amadigi_, an epic\nromance now little read, was a man of small property, very honest and\ngood-hearted, but restless, ambitious, and with a turn for expense beyond\nhis means. He attached himself to various princes, with little ultimate\nadvantage, particularly to the unfortunate Sanseverino, Prince of\nSalerno, whom he faithfully served for many years. The prince had a high\nsense of his worth, and would probably have settled him in the wealth and\nhonours he was qualified to adorn, but for those Spanish oppressions in\nthe history of Naples which ended in the ruin of both master and servant.\nBernardo, however, had one happy interval of prosperity; and during this,\nat the age of forty-six, he married Porzia di Rossi, a young lady of a\nrich and noble family, with a claim to a handsome dowry. He spent some\ndelightful years with her at Sorrento, a spot so charming as to have been\nconsidered the habitation of the Sirens; and here, in the midst of his\norange-trees, his verses, and the breezes of an aromatic coast, he had\nthree children, the eldest of whom was a daughter named Cornelia, and the\nyoungest the author of the _Jerusalem Delivered_. the other child died\nyoung. The house distinguished by the poet's birth was restored from a\ndilapidated condition by order of Joseph Bonaparte when King of Naples,\nand is now an hotel.\n\nTorquato Tasso was born March the 11th, 1544, nine years after the death\nof Ariosto, who was intimate with his father. He was very devoutly\nbrought up; and grew so tall, and became so premature a scholar, that\nat nine, he tells us, he might have been taken for a boy of twelve. At\neleven, in consequence of the misfortunes of his father, who had been\nexiled with the Prince of Salerno, he was forced to part from his mother,\nwho remained at home to look after a dowry which she never received. Her\nbrothers deprived her of it; and in two years' time she died, Bernardo\nthought by poison. Twenty-four years afterwards her illustrious son, in\nthe midst of his own misfortunes, remembered with sighs the tears with\nwhich the kisses of his poor mother were bathed when she was forced to\nlet him go.[2]\n\nThe little Torquato following, as he says, like another Ascanius, the\nfootsteps of his wandering father, joined Bernardo in Rome. After two\nyears' study in that city, partly under an old priest who lived with\nthem, the vicissitudes of the father's lot took away the son first to\nBergamo, among his relations, and then to Pesaro, in the duchy of Urbino,\nwhere his education was associated for nearly two years with that of the\nyoung prince, afterwards Duke Francesco Maria the Second (della Rovere),\nwho retained a regard for him through life. In 1559 the boy joined his\nfather in Venice, where the latter had been appointed secretary to the\nAcademy; but next year he was withdrawn from these pleasing varieties\nof scene by the parental delusion so common in the history of men of\nletters--the study of the law; which Bernardo intended him to pursue\nhenceforth in the city of Padua. He accordingly arrived in Padua at the\nage of sixteen and a half, and fulfilled his legal destiny by writing the\npoem of _Rinaldo_, which was published in the course of less than two\nyears at Venice. The goodnatured and poetic father, convinced by this\nspecimen of jurisprudence how useless it was to thwart the hereditary\npassion, permitted him to devote himself wholly to literature, which he\ntherefore went to study in the university of Bologna; and there, at the\nearly age of nineteen, he began his _Jerusalem Delivered_; that is to\nsay, he planned it, and wrote three cantos, several of the stanzas of\nwhich he retained when the poem was matured. He quitted Bologna, however,\nin a fit of indignation at being accused of the authorship of a satire;\nand after visiting some friends at Castelvetro and Correggio, returned\nto Padua on the invitation of his friend Scipio Gonzaga, afterwards\ncardinal, who wished him to become a member of an academy he had\ninstituted, called the _Eterei_(Ethereals). Here he studied his favourite\nphilosopher, Plato, and composed three Discourses on Heroic Poetry,\ndedicated to his friend. He now paid a visit to his father in Mantua,\nwhere the unsettled man had become secretary to the duke; and here, it is\nsaid, he fell in love with a young lady of a distinguished family, whose\nname was Laura Peperara; but this did not hinder him from returning to\nhis Paduan studies, in which he spent nearly the whole of the following\nyear. He was then informed that the Cardinal of Este, to whom he had\ndedicated his _Rinaldo_, and with whom interest had been made for the\npurpose, had appointed him one of his attendants, and that he was\nexpected at Ferrara by the 1st of December. Returning to Mantua, in order\nto prepare for this appointment with his father, he was seized with a\ndangerous illness, which detained him there nearly a twelvemonth longer.\nOn his recovery he hastened to Ferrara, and arrived in that city on the\nlast day of October, 1565, the first of many years of glory and misery.\n\nThe cardinal of Este was the brother of the reigning Duke of Ferrara,\nAlfonso the Second, grandson of the Alfonso of Ariosto. It is curious\nto see the two most celebrated romantic poets of Italy thrown into\nunfortunate connexion with two princes of the same house and the same\nrespective ranks. Tasso's cardinal, however, though the poet lost his\nfavour, and though very little is known about him, left no such bad\nreputation behind him as Ippolito. It was in the service of the duke that\nthe poet experienced his sufferings.\n\nThis prince, who was haughty, ostentatious, and quarrelsome, was, at the\ntime of the stranger's arrival, rehearsing the shows and tournaments\nintended to welcome his bride, the sister of the Emperor Maximilian the\nSecond. She was his second wife. The first was a daughter of the rival\nhouse of Tuscany, which he detested; and the marriage had not been happy.\nThe new consort arrived in the course of a few weeks, entering the city\nin great pomp; and for a time all went happily with the young poet. He\nwas in a state of ecstasy with the beauty and grandeur he beheld around\nhim--obtained the favourable notice of the duke's two sisters and the\nduke himself--went on with his _Jerusalem Delivered_, which, in spite of\nthe presence of Ariosto's memory, he was resolved to load with praises of\nthe house of Este; and in this tumult of pride and expectation, he beheld\nthe duke, like one of the heroes of his poem, set out to assist the\nemperor against the Turks at the head of three hundred gentlemen, armed\nat all points, and mantled in various-coloured velvets embroidered with\ngold.\n\nTo complete the young poet's happiness, or commence his disappointments,\nhe fell in love, notwithstanding the goddess he had left in Mantua, with\nthe beautiful Lucrezia Bendidio, who does not seem, however, to have\nloved in return; for she became the wife of a Macchiavelli. Among his\nrivals was Guarini, who afterwards emulated him in pastoral poetry, and\nwho accused him on this occasion of courting two ladies at once.\n\nGuarini's accusation has been supposed to refer to the duke's sister\nLeonora, whose name has become so romantically mixed up with the poet's\nbiography; but the latest inquiries render it probable that the allusion\nwas to Laura Peperara.[3] The young poet, however, who had not escaped\nthe influence of the free manners of Italy, and whose senses and vanity\nmay hitherto have been more interested than his heart, rhymed and\nflattered on all sides of him, not of course omitting the charms of\nprincesses. In order to win the admiration of the ladies in a body, he\nsustained for three days, in public, after the fashion of the times,\n_Fifty Amorous Conclusions_; that is to say, affirmations on the subject\nof love; doubtless to the equal delight of his fair auditors and himself,\nand the creation of a good deal of jealousy and ill-will on the part of\nsuch persons of his own sex as had not wit or spirits enough for the\ndisplay of so much logic and love-making.\n\nIn 1569, the death of his father, who had been made governor of Ostiglia\nby the Duke of Mantua, cost the loving son a fit of illness; but the\ncontinuation of his _Jerusalem_, an _Oration_ spoken at the opening of\nthe Ferrarese academy, the marriage of Leonora's sister Lucrezia with the\nPrince of Urbino, and the society of Leonora herself, who led the retired\nlife of a person in delicate health, and was fond of the company of men\nof letters, helped to divert him from melancholy recollections; and a\njourney to France, at the close of the year following, took him into\nscenes that were not only totally new, but otherwise highly interesting\nto the singer of Godfrey of Boulogne. The occasion of it was a visit of\nthe cardinal, his master, to the court of his relative Charles the Ninth.\nIt is supposed that his Eminence went to confer with the king on matters\nrelative to the disputes which not long afterwards occasioned the\ndetestable massacre of St. Bartholomew.\n\nBefore his departure, Tasso put into the hands of one of his friends a\ndocument, which, as it is very curious, and serves to illustrate perhaps\nmore than one cause of his misfortunes, is here given entire.\n\n_Memorial left by Tasso on his departure to France._\n\n\"Since life is frail, and it may please Almighty God to dispose of me\notherwise in this my journey to France, it is requested of Signor Ercole\nRondinelli that he will, in that case, undertake the management of the\nfollowing concerns:\n\n\"In the first place, with regard to my compositions, it is my wish that\nall my love-sonnets and madrigals should be collected and published; but\nwith regard to those, whether amatory or otherwise, _which I have written\nfor any friend_, my request is, that _they should be buried with myself_,\nsave only the one commencing \"_Or che l'aura mia dolce altrove spira_.\" I\nwish the publication of the _Oration_ spoken in Ferrara at the opening of\nthe academy, of the four books on _Heroic Poetry_, of the six last cantos\nof the _Godfrey_ (the _Jerusalem_), and of those stanzas of the two first\nwhich shall seem least imperfect. All these compositions, however, are to\nbe submitted to the review and consideration of Signor Scipio Gonzaga, of\nSignor Domenico Veniero, and of Signor Battista Guarini, who, I persuade\nmyself, will not refuse this trouble, when they consider the zealous\nfriendship I have entertained for themselves.\n\n\"Let them be informed, too, that it was my intention that they should\ncut and hew without mercy whatever should appear to them defective or\nsuperfluous. With regard to additions or changes, I should wish them\nto proceed more cautiously, since, after all, the poem would remain\nimperfect. As to my other compositions, should there be any which, to\nthe aforesaid Signor Rondinelli and the other gentlemen, might seem not\nunworthy of publication, let them be disposed of according to their\npleasure.\n\n\"In respect to my property, I wish that such part of it as I have\n_pledged to Abram --_ for twenty-five lire, and seven pieces of arras,\nwhich are _likewise in pledge to Signor Ascanio for thirteen scudi_,\ntogether with whatever I have in this house, should be sold, and that the\noverplus of the proceeds should go to defray the expense of the following\nepitaph to be inscribed on a monument to my father, whose body is in St.\nPolo. And should any impediment take place in these matters, I entreat\nSignor Ercole _to have recourse to the favour of the most excellent\nMadame Leonora, whose liberality I confide in, for my sake._\n\n\"I, Torquato Tasso, have written this, Ferrara, 1570.\"\n\nI shall have occasion to recur to this document by and by. I will merely\nobserve, for the present, that the marks in it, both of imprudence in\nmoney-matters and confidence in the goodwill of a princess, are very\nstriking. \"Abram\" and \"Signor Ascanio\" were both Jews. The pieces of\narras belonged to his father; and probably this was an additional reason\nwhy the affectionate son wished the proceeds to defray the expense of the\nepitaph. The epitaph recorded his father's poetry, state-services, and\nvicissitudes of fortune.\n\nTasso was introduced to the French king as the poet of a French hero and\nof a Catholic victory; and his reception was so favourable (particularly\nas the wretched Charles, the victim of his mother's bigotry, had himself\nno mean poetic feeling), that, with a rash mixture of simplicity and\nself-reliance (respect makes me unwilling to call it self-importance),\nthe poet expressed an impolitic amount of astonishment at the favour\nshewn at court to the Hugonots--little suspecting the horrible design it\ncovered. He shortly afterwards broke with his master the cardinal; and\nit is supposed that this unseasonable escape of zeal was the cause. He\nhimself appears to have thought so.[4] Perhaps the cardinal only wanted\nto get the imprudent poet back to Italy; for, on Tasso's return to\nFerrara, he was not only received into the service of the duke with\na salary of some fifteen golden scudi a-month, but told that he was\nexempted from any particular duty, and might attend in peace to his\nstudies. Balzac affirms, that while Tasso was at the court of France, he\nwas so poor as to beg a crown from a friend; and that, when he left it,\nhe had the same coat on his back that he came in.[5] The assertions of a\nprofessed wit and hyperbolist are not to be taken for granted; yet it is\ndifficult to say to what shifts improvidence may not be reduced.\n\nThe singer of the house of Este would now, it might have been supposed,\nbe happy. He had leisure; he had money; he had the worldly honours that\nhe was fond of; he occupied himself in perfecting the _Jerusalem_; and he\nwrote his beautiful pastoral, the _Aminta_, which was performed before\nthe duke and his court to the delight of the brilliant assembly. The\nduke's sister Lucrezia, princess of Urbino, who was a special friend of\nthe poet, sent for him to read it to her at Pesaro; and in the course of\nthe ensuing carnival it was performed with similar applause at the\ncourt of her father-in-law. The poet had been as much enchanted by the\nspectacle which the audience at Ferrara presented to his eyes, as the\naudience with the loves and graces with which he enriched their stage.\nThe shepherd Thyrsis; by whom he meant himself, reflected it back upon\nthem in a passage of the performance. It is worth while dwelling on this\npassage a little, because it exhibits a brief interval of happiness in\nthe author's life, and also chews us what he had already begun to\nthink of courts at the moment he was praising them. But he ingeniously\ncontrives to put the praise in his own mouth, and the blame in another's.\nThe shepherd's friend, Mopsus (by whom Tasso is thought to have meant\nSperoni), had warned him against going to court\n\n  \"Per\u00f2, figlio,\n  Va su l'avviso,\" &c.\n\n  \"Therefore, my son, take my advice. Avoid\n  The places where thou seest much drapery,\n  Colours, and gold, and plumes, and heraldries,\n  And such new-fanglements. But, above all,\n  Take care how evil chance or youthful wandering\n  Bring thee upon the house of Idle Babble.\"\n  \"What place is that?\" said I; and he resumed;--\n  \"Enchantresses dwell there, who make one see\n  Things as they are not, ay and hear them too.\n  That which shall seem pure diamond and fine gold\n  Is glass and brass; and coffers that look silver,\n  Heavy with wealth, are baskets full of bladders.[6]\n\n         *       *       *       *       *\n\n  The very walls there are so strangely made,\n  They answer those who talk; and not in syllables,\n  Or bits of words, like echo in our woods,\n  But go the whole talk over, word for word,\n  With something else besides, that no one said[7].\n  The tressels, tables, bedsteads, curtains, lockers,\n  Chairs, and whatever furniture there is\n  In room or bedroom, all have tongues and speech,\n  And are for ever tattling. Idle Babble\n  Is always going about, playing the child;\n  And should a dumb man enter in that place,\n  The dumb would babble in his own despite.\n  And yet this evil is the least of all\n  That might assail thee. Thou might'st be arrested\n  In fearful transformation to a willow,\n  A beast, fire, water,--fire for ever sighing,\n  Water for ever weeping.\"--Here he ceased:\n  And I, with all this fine foreknowledge, went\n  To the great city; and, by Heaven's kind will,\n  Came where they live so happily. The first sound\n  I heard was a delightful harmony,\n  Which issued forth, of voices loud and sweet;--Sirens,\n  and swans, and nymphs, a heavenly noise\n  Of heavenly things;--which gave me such delight,\n  That, all admiring, and amazed, and joyed,\n  I stopped awhile quite motionless. There stood\n  Within the entrance, as if keeping guard\n  Of those fine things, one of a high-souled aspect,\n  Stalwart withal, of whom I was in doubt\n\n  Whether to think him better knight or leader.[8]\n  He, with a look at once benign and grave,\n  In royal guise, invited me within;\n  He, great and in esteem; me, lorn and lowly.\n  Oh, the sensations and the sights which then\n  Shower'd on me! Goddesses I saw, and nymphs\n  Graceful and beautiful, and harpers fine\n  As Linus or as Orpheus; and more deities,\n  All without veil or cloud, bright as the virgin\n  Aurora, when she glads immortal eyes,\n  And sows her beams and dew-drops, silver and gold.\n\nIn the summer of 1574, the Duke of Ferrara went to Venice to pay his\nrespects to the successor of Charles the Ninth, Henry the Third, then on\nhis way to France from his kingdom of Poland. Tasso went with the duke,\nand is understood to have taken the opportunity of looking for a printer\nof his _Jerusalem_, which was now almost finished. Writers were anxious\nto publish in that crafty city, because its government would give no\nsecurity of profit to books printed elsewhere. Alfonso, who was in\nmourning for Henry's brother, and to whom mourning itself only suggested\na new occasion of pomp and vanity, took with him to this interview five\nhundred Ferrarese gentlemen, all dressed in long black cloaks; who\nwalking about Venice (says a reporter) \"by twos and threes,\" wonderfully\nimpressed the inhabitants with their \"gravity and magnificence.\"[9] The\nmourners feasted, however; and Tasso had a quartan fever, which delayed\nthe completion of the _Jerusalem_ till next year. This was at length\neffected; and now once more, it might have been thought, that the writer\nwould have reposed on his laurels.\n\nBut Tasso had already begun to experience the uneasiness attending\nsuperiority; and, unfortunately, the strength of his mind was not equal\nto that of his genius. He was of an ultra-sensitive temperament, and\nsubject to depressing fits of sickness. He could not calmly bear envy.\nSarcasm exasperated, and hostile criticism afflicted him. The seeds of a\nsuspicious temper were nourished by prosperity itself. The author of the\n_Armida_ and the _Jerusalem_ began to think the attentions he received\nunequal to his merits; while with a sort of hysterical mixture of demand\nfor applause, and provocation of censure, he not only condescended to\nread his poems in manuscript wherever he went, but, in order to secure\nthe goodwill of the papal licenser, he transmitted it for revisal to\nRome, where it was mercilessly criticised for the space of two years by\nthe bigots and hypocrites of a court, which Luther had rendered a very\ndifferent one from that in the time of Ariosto.\n\nThis new source of chagrin exasperated the complexional restlessness,\nwhich now made our author think that he should be more easy any where\nthan in Ferrara; perhaps more able to communicate with and convince\nhis critics; and, unfortunately, he permitted himself to descend to a\nweakness the most fatal of all others to a mind naturally exalted\nand ingenuous. Perhaps it was one of the main causes of all which he\nsuffered. Indeed, he himself attributed his misfortunes to irresolution.\nWhat I mean in the present instance was, that he did not disdain to adopt\nunderhand measures. He skewed a face of satisfaction with Alfonso, at the\nmoment that he was taking steps to exchange his court for another. He\nwrote for that purpose to his friend Scipio Gonzaga, now a prelate at the\ncourt of Rome, earnestly begging him, at the same time, not to commit him\nin their correspondence; and Scipio, who was one of his kindest and most\nindulgent friends, and who doubtless saw that the Duke of Ferrara and his\npoet were not of dispositions to accord, did all he could to procure him\nan appointment with one of the family of the Medici.\n\nMost unhappily for this speculation (and perhaps even the good-natured\nGonzaga took a little more pleasure in it on that account), Alfonso\ninherited all the detestation of his house for that lucky race; and it is\nremarkable, that the same jealousies which hindered Ariosto's advancement\nwith the Medici were still more fatal to the hopes of Tasso; for they\nserved to plunge him into the deepest adversity. In vain he had warnings\ngiven him, both friendly and hostile. The princess, now Duchess of\nUrbino, who was his particular friend, strongly cautioned him against the\ntemptation of going away. She said he was watched. He himself thought his\nletters were opened; and probably they were. They certainly were at a\nsubsequent period. Tasso, however, persisted, and went to Rome. Scipio\nGonzaga introduced him to Cardinal Ferdinand de' Medici, afterwards Grand\nDuke of Tuscany; and Ferdinand made him offers of protection so handsome,\nthat they excited his suspicion. The self-tormenting poet thought they\nsavoured more of hatred to the Este family, than honour to himself.[10]\nHe did not accept them. He did nothing at Rome but make friends, in order\nto perplex them; listen to his critics, in order to worry himself;\nand perform acts of piety in the churches, by way of shewing that the\nlove-scenes in the _Jerusalem_ were innocent. For the bigots had begun to\nfind something very questionable in mixing up so much love with war. The\nbloodshed they had no objection to. The love bearded their prejudices,\nand excited their envy.\n\nTasso returned to Ferrara, and endeavoured to solace himself\nwith eulogising two fair strangers who had arrived at Alfonso's\ncourt,--Eleonora Sanvitale, who had been newly married to the Count of\nScandiano (a Tiene, not a Boiardo, whose line was extinct), and Barbara\nSanseverino, Countess of Sala, her mother-in-law. The mother-in-law, who\nwas a Juno-like beauty, wore her hair in the form of a crown. The still\nmore beautiful daughter-in-law had an under lip such as Anacreon or Sir\nJohn Suckling would have admired,--pouting and provoking,--[prokaloymenon\nphileama]. Tasso wrote verses on them both, but particularly to the lip;\nand this Countess of Scandiano is the second, out of the three Leonoras,\nwith whom Tasso was said by his friend Manso to have been in love. The\nthird, it is now ascertained, never existed; and his love-making to the\nnew, or second Leonora, goes to shew how little of real passion there was\nin the praises of the first (the Princess Leonora), or probably of\nany lady at court. He even professed love, as a forlorn hope, to the\ncountess's waiting-maid. Yet these gallantries of sonnets are exalted\ninto bewilderments of the heart.\n\nHis restlessness returning, the poet now condescended to craft a second\ntime. Expecting to meet with a refusal, and so to be afforded a\npretext for quitting Ferrara, he applied for the vacant office of\nhistoriographer. It was granted him; and he then disgusted the Medici by\npleading an unlooked-for engagement, which he could only reconcile to his\napplications for their favour by renouncing his claim to be believed. If\nhe could have deceived others, why might he not have deceived them?\n\nAll the lurking weakness of the poet's temperament began to display\nitself at this juncture. His perplexity excited him to a degree of\nirritability bordering on delirium; and circumstances conspired to\nincrease it. He had lent an acquaintance the key of his rooms at court,\nfor the purpose (he tells us) of accommodating some intrigue; and\nhe suspected this person of opening cabinets containing his papers.\nRemonstrating with him one day in the court of the palace, either on that\nor some other account, the man gave him the lie. He received in return\na blow on the face, and is said by Tasso to have brought a set of his\nkinsmen to assassinate him, all of whom the heroical poet immediately put\nto flight. At one time he suspected the duke of jealousy respecting\nthe dedication of his poem, and at another, of a wish to burn it. He\nsuspected his servants. He became suspicious of the truth of his friend\nGonzaga. He doubted, even, whether some praises addressed to him by\nOrazio Ariosto, the nephew of the great poet, which, one would have\nthought, would have been to him a consummation of bliss, were not\nintended to mystify and hurt him. At length he fancied that his\npersecutors had accused him of heresy to the Inquisition; and, as he had\ngone through the metaphysical doubts, common with most men of reflection\nrespecting points of faith and the mysteries of creation, he feared that\nsome indiscreet words had escaped him, giving colour to the charge. He\nthus beheld enemies all around him. He dreaded stabbing and poison; and\none day, in some paroxysm of rage or horror, how occasioned it is not\nknown, ran with a knife or dagger at one of the servants of the Duchess\nof Urbino in her own chamber.\n\nAlfonso, upon this, apparently in the mildest and most reasonable manner,\ndirected that he should be confined to his apartments, and put into the\nhands of the physician. These unfortunate events took place in the summer\nof 1577, and in the poet's thirty-third year.\n\nTasso shewed so much affliction at this treatment, and, at the same time,\nbore it so patiently, that the duke took him to his beautiful country\nseat of Belriguardo; where, in one of his accounts of the matter, the\npoet says that he treated him as a brother; but in another, he accuses\nhim of having taken pains to make him criminate himself, and confess\ncertain matters, real or supposed, the nature of which is a puzzle with\nposterity. Some are of opinion (and this is the prevailing one), that he\nwas found guilty of being in love with the Princess Leonora, perhaps of\nbeing loved by herself. Others think the love out of the question, and\nthat the duke was concerned at nothing but his endeavouring to transfer\nhis services and his poetic reputation into the hands of the Medici.\nOthers see in the duke's conduct nothing but that of a good master\ninteresting himself in the welfare of an afflicted servant.\n\nIt is certain that Alfonso did all he could to prevent the surreptitious\nprinting of the _Jerusalem Delivered_ in various towns of Italy, the\ndread of which had much afflicted the poet; and he also endeavoured,\nthough in vain, to ease his mind on the subject of the Inquisition;\nfor these facts are attested by state-papers and other documents, not\ndependent either on the testimony of third persons or the partial\nrepresentations of the sufferer. But Tasso felt so uneasy at Belriguardo,\nthat he requested leave to retire a while into a convent. He remained\nthere several days, apparently so much to his satisfaction, that he wrote\nto the duke to say that it was his intention to become a friar; and, yet\nhe had no sooner got into the place, than he addressed a letter to the\nInquisition at Rome, beseeching it to desire permission for him to come\nto that city, in order to clear himself from the charges of his enemies.\nHe also wrote to two other friends, requesting them to further his\npetition; and adding that the duke was enraged with him in consequence of\nthe anger of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, who, it is supposed, had accused\nTasso of having revealed to Alfonso some indecent epithet which his\nhighness had applied to him.[11] These letters were undoubtedly\nintercepted, for they were found among the secret archives of Modena,\nthe only principality ultimately remaining in the Este family; so that,\nagreeably to the saying of listeners hearing no good of themselves, if\nAlfonso did not know the epithet before, he learnt it then. The reader\nmay conceive his feelings. Tasso, too, at the same time, was plaguing\nhim with letters to similar purpose; and it is observable, that while\nin those which he sent to Rome he speaks of Cosmo de' Medici as \"Grand\nDuke,\" he takes care in the others to call him simply the \"Duke of\nFlorence.\" Alfonso had been exasperated to the last degree at Cosmo's\nhaving had the epithet \"Grand\" added by the Pope to his ducal title;\nand the reader may imagine the little allowance that would be made by\na haughty and angry prince for the rebellious courtesy thus shewn to a\ndetested rival. Tasso, furthermore, who had not only an infantine hatred\nof bitter \"physic,\" but reasonably thought the fashion of the age\nfor giving it a ridiculous one, begged hard, in a manner which it is\nhumiliating to witness, that he might not be drenched with medicine. The\nduke at length forbade his writing to him any more; and Tasso, whose\nfears of every kind of ill usage had been wound up to a pitch unbearable,\nwatched an opportunity when he was carelessly guarded, and fled at once\nfrom the convent and Ferrara.\n\nThe unhappy poet selected the loneliest ways he could find, and directed\nhis course to the kingdom of Naples, where his sister lived. He was\nafraid of pursuit; he probably had little money; and considering his ill\nhealth and his dread of the Inquisition, it is pitiable to think what he\nmay have endured while picking his long way through the back states of\nthe Church and over the mountains of Abruzzo, as far as the Gulf of\nNaples. For better security, he exchanged clothes with a shepherd; and as\nhe feared even his sister at first, from doubting whether she still\nloved him, his interview with her was in all its circumstances painfully\ndramatic. Cornelia Tasso, now a widow, with two sons, was still residing\nat Sorrento, where the poet, casting his eyes around him as he\nproceeded towards the house, must have beheld with singular feelings of\nwretchedness the lovely spots in which he had been a happy little boy. He\ndid not announce himself at once. He brought letters, he said, from the\nlady's brother; and it is affecting to think, that whether his sister\nmight or might not have retained otherwise any personal recollection\nof him since that time (for he had not seen her in the interval), his\ndisguise was completed by the alterations which sorrow had made in his\nappearance. For, at all events, she did not know him. She saw in him\nnothing but a haggard stranger who was acquainted with the writer of the\nletters, and to whom they referred for particulars of the risk which\nher brother ran, unless she could afford him her protection. These\nparticulars were given by the stranger with all the pathos of the real\nman, and the loving sister fainted away. On her recovery, the visitor\nsaid what he could to reassure her, and then by degrees discovered\nhimself. Cornelia welcomed him in the tenderest manner. She did all that\nhe desired; and gave out to her friends that the gentleman was a cousin\nfrom Bergamo, who had come to Naples on family affairs.\n\nFor a little while, the affection of his sister, and the beauty and\nfreshness of Sorrento, rendered the mind of Tasso more easy: but his\nrestlessness returned. He feared he had mortally offended the Duke of\nFerrara; and, with his wonted fluctuation of purpose, he now wished to be\nrestored to his presence for the very reason he had run away from it. He\ndid not know with what vengeance he might be pursued. He wrote to the\nduke; but received no answer. The Duchess of Urbino was equally silent.\nLeonora alone responded, but with no encouragement. These appearances\nonly made him the more anxious to dare or to propitiate his doom; and he\naccordingly determined to put himself in the duke's hands. His sister\nentreated him in vain to alter his resolution. He quitted her before the\nautumn was over; and, proceeding to Rome, went directly to the house of\nthe duke's agent there, who, in concert with the Ferrarese ambassador,\ngave his master advice of the circumstance. Gonzaga, however, and another\ngood friend, Cardinal Albano, doubted whether it would be wise in the\npoet to return to Ferrara under any circumstances. They counselled him\nto be satisfied with being pardoned at a distance, and with having his\npapers and other things returned to him; and the two friends immediately\nwrote to the duke requesting as much. The duke apparently acquiesced in\nall that was desired; but he said that the illness of his sister, the\nDuchess of Urbino, delayed the procuration of the papers, which, it\nseems, were chiefly in her hands. The upshot was, that the papers did not\ncome; and Tasso, with a mixture of rage and fear, and perhaps for more\nreasons than he has told, became uncontrollably desirous of retracing the\nrest of his steps to Ferrara.\n\nLove may have been among these reasons--probably was; though it does not\nfollow that the passion must have been for a princess. The poet now,\ntherefore, petitioned to that effect; and Alfonso wrote again, and said\nhe might come, but only on condition of his again undergoing the ducal\ncourse of medicine; adding, that if he did not, he was to be finally\nexpelled his highness's territories.\n\nHe was graciously received--too graciously, it would seem, for his\nequanimity; for it gave him such a flow of spirits, that the duke appears\nto have thought it necessary to repress them. The unhappy poet, at this,\nbegan to have some of his old suspicions; and the unaccountable detention\nof his papers confirmed them. He made an effort to keep the suspicions\ndown, but it was by means, unfortunately, of drowning them in wine and\njollity; and this gave him such a fit of sickness as had nearly been his\ndeath. He recovered, only to make a fresh stir about his papers, and\na still greater one about his poems in general, which, though his\n_Jerusalem_ was yet only known in manuscript, and not even his _Aminta_\npublished, he believed ought to occupy the attention of mankind. People\nat Ferrara, therefore, not foreseeing the respect that posterity would\nentertain for the poet, and having no great desire perhaps to encourage a\nman who claimed to be a rival of their countryman Ariosto, now began to\nconsider their Neapolitan guest not merely an ingenious and pitiable, but\nan overweening and tiresome enthusiast. The court, however, still seemed\nto be interested in its panegyrist, though Tasso feared that Alfonso\nmeant to burn his _Jerusalem_. Alfonso, on the other hand, is supposed to\nhave feared that he would burn it himself, and the ducal praises with it.\nThe papers, at all events, apparently including the only fair copy of the\npoem, were constantly withheld; and Tasso, in a new fit of despair,\nagain quitted Ferrara. This mystery of the papers is certainly very\nextraordinary.\n\nThe poet's first steps were to Mantua, where he met with no such\nreception as encouraged him to stay. He then went to Urbino, but did not\nstop long. The prince, it is true, was very gracious; and bandages for\na cautery were applied by the fair hands of his highness's sister; but,\nthough the nurse enchanted, the surgery frightened him. The hapless poet\nfound himself pursued wherever he went by the tormenting beneficence\nof medicine. He escaped, and went to Turin. He had no passport; and\npresented, besides, so miserable an appearance, that the people at the\ngates roughly refused him admittance. He was well received, however, at\ncourt; and as he had begun to acknowledge that he was subject to humours\nand delusions, and wrote to say as much to Cardinal Albano, who returned\nhim a most excellent and affecting letter, full of the kindest regard\nand good counsel, his friends entertained a hope that he would become\ntranquil. But he disappointed them. He again applied to Alfonso for\npermission to return to Ferrara--again received it, though on worse than\nthe old conditions--and again found himself in that city in the beginning\nof the year 1579, delighted at seeing a brilliant assemblage from all\nquarters of Italy on occasion of a new marriage of the duke's (with a\nprincess of Mantua). He made up his mind to think that nothing could be\ndenied him, at such a moment, by the bridegroom whom he meant to honour\nand glorify.\n\nAlas! the very circumstance to which he looked for success, tended to\nthrow him into the greatest of his calamities. Alfonso was to be married\nthe day after the poet's arrival. He was therefore too busy to attend to\nhim. The princesses did not attend to him. Nobody attended to him. He\nagain applied in vain for his papers. He regretted his return; became\nanxious to be any where else; thought himself not only neglected but\nderided; and at length became excited to a pitch of frenzy. He broke\nforth into the most unmeasured invectives against the duke, even in\npublic; invoked curses on his head and that of his whole race; retracted\nall he had ever said in the praise of any of them, prince or otherwise;\nand pronounced him and his whole court \"a parcel of ingrates, rascals,\nand poltroons.\"[12] The outbreak was reported to the duke; and the\nconsequence was, that the poet was sent to the hospital of St. Anne,\nan establishment for the reception of the poor and lunatic, where he\nremained (with the exception of a few unaccountable leave-days) upwards\nof seven years. This melancholy event happened in the March of the year\n1579.\n\nTasso was stunned by this blow as much as if he had never done or\nsuffered any thing to expect it. He could at first do nothing but wonder\nand bewail himself, and implore to be set free. The duke answered, that\nhe must be cured first. Tasso replied by fresh entreaties; the duke\nreturned the same answers. The unhappy poet had recourse to every friend,\nprince, and great man he could think of, to join his entreaties; he\nsought refuge in composition, but still entreated; he occasionally\nreproached and even bantered the duke in some of his letters to his\nfriends, all of which, doubtless, were opened; but still he entreated,\nflattered, adored, all to no purpose, for seven long years and upwards.\nIn time he became subject to maniacal illusions; so that if he was not\nactually mad before, he was now considered so. He was not only visited\nwith sights and sounds, such as many people have experienced whose brains\nhave been over-excited, but he fancied himself haunted by a sprite, and\nbecome the sport of \"magicians.\" The sprite stole his things, and the\nmagicians would not let him get well. He had a vision such as Benvenuto\nCellini had, of the Virgin Mary in her glory; and his nights were so\nmiserable, that he ate too much in order that he might sleep. When he\nwas temperate, he lay awake. Sometimes he felt \"as if a horse had thrown\nhimself on him.\" \"Have pity on me,\" he says to the friend to whom he\ngives these affecting accounts; \"I am miserable, because the world is\nunjust.\"[13]\n\nThe physicians advised him to leave off wine; but he says he could not do\nthat, though he was content to use it in moderation. In truth he required\nsomething to support him against the physicians themselves, for they\ncontinued to exhaust his strength by their medicines, and could not\nsupply the want of it with air and freedom. He had ringings in the ears,\nvomits, and fluxes of blood. It would be ludicrous, if it were not\ndeplorably pathetic, to hear so great a man, in the commonest\nmedical terms, now protesting against the eternal drenches of these\npractitioners, now humbly submitting to them, and now entreating like a\nchild, that they might at least not be \"so bitter.\" The physicians, with\nthe duke at their head, were as mad for their rhubarbs and lancets as the\nquacks in Moli\u00e8re; and nothing but the very imagination that had nearly\nsacrificed the poet's life to their ignorance could have hindered\nhim from dashing his head against the wall, and leaving them to the\nexecrations of posterity. It is the only occasion in which the noble\nprofession of medicine has not appeared in wise and beneficent connexion\nwith the sufferings of men of letters. Why did Ferrara possess no\nBrocklesby in those days? no Garth, Mead, Warren, or Southwood Smith?\n\nTasso enabled himself to endure his imprisonment with composition. He\nsupported it with his poetry and his poem, and what, alas! he had been\ntoo proud of during his liberty, the praises of his admirers. His genius\nbrought him gifts from princes, and some money from the booksellers:\nit supported him even against his critics. During his confinement the\n_Jerusalem Delivered_ was first published; though, to his grief, from\na surreptitious and mutilated copy. But it was followed by a storm of\napplause; and if this was succeeded by as great a storm of objection and\ncontroversy, still the healthier part of his faculties were roused, and\nhe exasperated his critics and astonished the world by shewing how coolly\nand learnedly the poor, wild, imprisoned genius could discuss the most\nintricate questions of poetry and philosophy. The disputes excited by his\npoem are generally supposed to have done him harm; but the conclusion\nappears to be ill founded. They diverted his thoughts, and made him\nconscious of his powers and his fame. I doubt whether he would have\nbeen better for entire approbation: it would have put him in a state of\nelevation, unfit for what he had to endure. He had found his pen\nhis great solace, and he had never employed it so well. It would be\nincredible what a heap of things he wrote in this complicated torment of\nimprisonment, sickness, and \"physic,\" if habit and mental activity had\nnot been sufficient to account for much greater wonders. His letters\nto his friends and others would make a good-sized volume; those to his\ncritics, another; sonnets and odes, a third; and his Dialogues after\nthe manner of Plato, two more. Perhaps a good half of all he wrote was\nwritten in this hospital of St. Anne; and he studied as well as composed,\nand had to read all that was written at the time, _pro_ and _con_, in the\ndiscussions about his _Jerusalem_, which, in the latest edition of his\nworks, amount to three out of six volumes octavo! Many of the occasions,\nhowever, of his poems, as well as letters, are most painful to think\nof, their object having been to exchange praise for money. And it is\ndistressing, in the letters, to see his other little wants, and the\nfluctuations and moods of his mind. Now he is angry about some book not\nrestored, or some gift promised and delayed. Now he is in want of some\nbooks to be lent him; now of some praise to comfort him; now of a little\nfresh linen. He is very thankful for visits, for respectful letters, for\n\"sweetmeats;\" and greatly puzzled to know what to do with the bad sonnets\nand panegyrics that are sent him. They were sometimes too much even for\nthe allowed ultra courtesies of Italian acknowledgment. His compliments\nto most people are varied with astonishing grace and ingenuity; his\naccounts of his condition often sufficient to bring the tears into\nthe manliest eyes; and his ceaseless and vain efforts to procure his\nliberation mortifying when we think of himself, and exasperating when we\nthink of the petty despot who detained him in so long, so degrading, and\nso worse than useless a confinement.\n\nTasso could not always conceal his contempt of his imprisoner from the\nducal servants. Alfonso excelled the grandiloquent poet himself in his\nlove of pomp and worship; and as he had no particular merits to warrant\nit, his victim bantered his love of titles. He says, in a letter to the\nduke's steward, \"If it is the pleasure of the Most Serene Signor Duke,\nMost Clement and Most Invincible, to keep me in prison, may I beg that he\nwill have the goodness to return certain little things of mine, which\nhis Most Invincible, Most Clement, and Most Serene Highness has so often\npromised me.[14]\n\nBut these were rare ebullitions of gaiety, perhaps rather of bitter\ndespair. A playful address to a cat to lend him her eyes to write by,\nduring some hour in which he happened to be without a light (for it\ndoes not appear to have been denied him), may be taken as more probable\nevidence of a mind relieved at the moment, though the necessity for\nthe relief may have been very sad. But the style in which he generally\nalludes to his situation is far different. He continually begs his\ncorrespondents to pity him, to pray for him, to attribute his errors to\ninfirmity. He complains of impaired memory, and acknowledges that he has\nbecome subject to the deliriums formerly attributed to him by the enemies\nthat had helped to produce them. Petitioning the native city of his\nancestors (Bergamo) to intercede for him with the duke, he speaks of the\nwriter as \"this unhappy person;\" and subscribes himself,--\n\n\"Most illustrious Signors, your affectionate servant, Torquato Tasso, a\nprisoner, and infirm, in the hospital of St. Anne in Ferrara.\"\n\nIn one of his addresses to Alfonso, he says most affectingly:\n\n\"I have sometimes attributed much to myself, and considered myself as\nsomebody. But now, seeing in how many ways imagination has imposed on\nme, I suspect that it has also deceived me in this opinion of my own\nconsequence. Indeed, methinks the past has been a dream; and hence I am\nresolved to rely on my imagination no longer.\"\n\nAlfonso made no answer.\n\nThe causes of Tasso's imprisonment, and its long duration, are among\nthe puzzles of biography. The prevailing opinion, notwithstanding the\nopposition made to it by Serassi and Black, is, that the poet made love\nto the Princess Leonora--perhaps was beloved by her; and that her brother\nthe duke punished him for his arrogance. This was the belief of his\nearliest biographer, Manso, who was intimately acquainted with the poet\nin his latter days; and from Manso (though he did not profess to receive\nthe information from Tasso, but only to gather it from his poems) it\nspread over all Europe. Milton took it on trust from him;[15] and so have\nour English translators Hoole and Wiffen. The Abb\u00e9 de Charnes, however,\ndeclined to do so;[16] and Montaigne, who saw the poet in St. Anne's\nhospital, says nothing of the love at all. He attributes his condition\nto poetical excitement, hard study, and the meeting of the extremes of\nwisdom and folly. The philosopher, however, speaks of the poet's having\nsurvived his reason, and become unconscious both of himself and his\nworks, which the reader knows to be untrue. He does not appear to have\nconversed with Tasso. The poet was only shewn him; probably at a sick\nmoment, or by a new and ignorant official.[17] Muratori, who was in the\nservice of the Este family at Modena, tells us, on the authority of\nan old acquaintance who knew contemporaries of Tasso, that the \"good\nTorquato\" finding himself one day in company with the duke and his\nsister, and going close to the princess in order to answer some question\nwhich she had put to him, was so transported by an impulse \"more than\npoetical,\" as to give her a kiss; upon which the duke, who had observed\nit, turned about to his gentlemen, and said, \"What a pity to see so great\na man distracted!\" and so ordered him to be locked up.[18] But this\nwriter adds, that he does not know what to think of the anecdote: he\nneither denies nor admits it. Tiraboschi, who was also in the service of\nthe Este family, doubts the truth of the anecdote, and believes that\nthe duke shut the poet up solely for fear lest his violence should do\nharm.[19] Serassi, the second biographer of Tasso, who dedicated his\nbook to an Este princess inimical to the poet's memory, attributes the\nconfinement, on his own shewing, to the violent words he had uttered\nagainst his master.[20] Walker, the author of the _Memoir on Italian\nTragedy_, says, that the life by Serassi himself induced him to credit\nthe love-story:[21] so does Gingu\u00e9n\u00e9.[22] Black, forgetting the age and\nillnesses of hundreds of enamoured ladies, and the distraction of lovers\nat all times, derides the notion of passion on either side; because, he\nargues, Tasso was subject to frenzies, and Leonora forty-two years of\nage, and not in good health.[23] What would Madame d'Houdetot have said\nto him? or Mademoiselle L'Espinasse? or Mrs. Inchbald, who used to walk\nup and down Sackville Street in order that she might see Dr. Warren's\nlight in his window? Foscolo was a believer in the love;[24] Sismondi\nadmits it;[25] and Rosini, the editor of the latest edition of the poet's\nworks, is passionate for it. He wonders how any body can fail to discern\nit in a number of passages, which, in truth, may mean a variety of other\nloves; and he insists much upon certain loose verses (_lascivi_) which\nthe poet, among his various accounts of the origin of his imprisonment,\nassigns as the cause, or one of the causes, of it. [26]\n\nI confess, after a reasonable amount of inquiry into this subject, that\nI can find no proofs whatsoever of Tasso's having made love to Leonora;\nthough I think it highly probable. I believe the main cause of the duke's\nproceedings was the poet's own violence of behaviour and incontinence\nof speech. I think it very likely that, in the course of the poetical\nlove-making to various ladies, which was almost identical in that age\nwith addressing them in verse, Torquato, whether he was in love or not,\ntook more liberties with the princesses than Alfonso approved; and it is\nequally probable, that one of those liberties consisted in his indulging\nhis imagination too far. It is not even impossible, that more gallantry\nmay have been going on at court than Alfonso could endure to see alluded\nto, especially by an ambitious pen. But there is no evidence that such\nwas the case. Tasso, as a gentleman, could not have hinted at such a\nthing on the part of a princess of staid reputation; and, on the other\nhand, the \"love\" he speaks of as entertained by her for him, and\nwarranting the application to her for money in case of his death, was\ntoo plainly worded to mean any thing but love in the sense of friendly\nregard. \"Per amor mio\" is an idiomatical expression, meaning \"for my\nsake;\" a strong one, no doubt, and such as a proud man like Alfonso might\nthink a liberty, but not at all of necessity an amatory boast. If it was,\nits very effrontery and vanity were presumptions of its falsehood. The\nlady whom Tasso alludes to in the passage quoted on his first confinement\nis complained of for her coldness towards him; and, unless this was\nitself a gentlemanly blind, it might apply to fifty other ladies besides\nthe princess. The man who assaulted him in the streets, and who is\nsupposed to have been the violator of his papers, need not have found any\nsecrets of love in them. The servant at whom he aimed the knife or the\ndagger might be as little connected with such matters; and the sonnets\nwhich the poet said he wrote for a friend, and which he desired to be\nburied with him, might be alike innocent of all reference to Leonora,\nwhether he wrote them for a friend or not. Leonora's death took\nplace during the poet's confinement; and, lamented as she was by the\nverse-writers according to custom, Tasso wrote nothing on the event. This\nsilence has been attributed to the depth of his passion; but how is the\nfact proved? and why may it not have been occasioned by there having been\nno passion at all?\n\nAll that appears certain is, that Tasso spoke violent and contemptuous\nwords against the duke; that he often spoke ill of him in his letters;\nthat he endeavoured, not with perfect ingenuousness, to exchange his\nservice for that of another prince; that he asserted his madness to have\nbeen pretended in the first instance purely to gratify the duke's whim\nfor thinking it so (which was one of the reasons perhaps why Alfonso,\nas he complained, would not believe a word be said); and finally, that,\nwhether the madness was or was not so pretended, it unfortunately became\na confirmed though milder form of mania, during a long confinement.\nAlfonso, too proud to forgive the poet's contempt, continued thus to\ndetain him, partly perhaps because he was not sorry to have a pretext for\nrevenge, partly because he did not know what to do with him, consistently\neither with his own or the poet's safety. He had not been generous enough\nto put Tasso above his wants; he had not address enough to secure his\nrespect; he had not merit enough to overlook his reproaches. If Tasso had\nbeen as great a man as he was a poet, Alfonso would not have been reduced\nto these perplexities. The poet would have known how to settle quietly\ndown on his small court-income, and wait patiently in the midst of his\nbeautiful visions for what fortune had or had not in store for him. But\nin truth, he, as well as the duke, was weak; they made a bad business of\nit between them; and Alfonso the Second closed the accounts of the\nEste family with the Muses, by keeping his panegyrist seven years in a\nmad-house, to the astonishment of posterity, and the destruction of his\nown claims to renown.\n\nIt does not appear that Tasso was confined in any such dungeon as they\nnow exhibit in Ferrara. The conduct of the Prior of the Hospital is more\ndoubtful. His name was Agostino Mosti; and, strangely enough, he was\nthe person who had raised a monument to Ariosto, of whom he was an\nenthusiastic admirer. To this predilection has been attributed his\nalleged cruelty to the stranger from Sorrento, who dared to emulate the\nfame of his idol;--an extraordinary, though perhaps not incredible, mode\nof skewing a critic's regard for poetry. But Tasso, while he laments\nhis severity, wonders at it in a man so well bred and so imbued with\nliterature, and thinks it can only have originated in \"orders.\"[27]\nPerhaps there were faults of temper on both sides; and Mosti, not liking\nhis office, forgot the allowance to be made for that of a prisoner and\nsick man. His nephew, Giulio Mosti, became strongly attached to the poet,\nand was a great comfort to him.\n\nAt length the time for liberation arrived. In the summer of 1586, Don\nVincenzo Gonzaga, Prince of Mantua, kinsman of the poet's friend Scipio,\ncame to Ferrara for the purpose of complimenting Alfonso's heir on his\nnuptials. The whole court of Mantua, with hereditary regard for Tasso,\nwhose father had been one of their ornaments, were desirous of having\nhim among them; and the prince extorted Alfonso's permission to take him\naway, on condition (so hard did he find this late concession to humanity,\nand so fearful was he of losing the dignity of jailor) that his deliverer\nshould not allow him to quit Mantua without obtaining leave. A young and\ndear friend, his most frequent visitor, Antonio Constantini, secretary\nto the Tuscan ambassador, went to St. Anne's to prepare the captive by\ndegrees for the good news. He told him that he really might look for his\nrelease in the course of a few days. The sensitive poet, now a premature\nold man of forty-two, was thrown into a transport of mingled delight and\nanxiety. He had been disappointed so often that he could scarcely believe\nhis good fortune. In a day or two he writes thus to his visitor\n\n\"Your kindness, my dear friend, has so accustomed me to your precious and\nfrequent visits, that I have been all day long at the window expecting\nyour coming to comfort me as you are wont. But since you have not yet\narrived, and in order not to remain altogether without consolation, I\nvisit you with this letter. It encloses a sonnet to the ambassador,\nwritten with a trembling hand, and in such a manner that he will not,\nperhaps, have less difficulty in reading it than I had in writing.\"\n\nTwo days afterwards, the prince himself came again, requested of the poet\nsome verses on a given subject, expressed his esteem for his genius and\nvirtues, and told him that, on his return to Mantua, he should have the\npleasure of conducting him to that city. Tasso lay awake almost all\nnight, composing the verses; and next day enclosed them, with a letter,\nin another to Constantini, ardently begging him to keep the prince in\nmind of his promise. The prince had not forgotten it; and two or three\ndays afterwards, the order for the release arrived, and Tasso quitted his\nprison. He had been confined seven years, two months, and several days.\nHe awaited the prince's departure for a week or two in his friend's\nabode, paying no visits, probably from inability to endure so much\nnovelty. Neither was he inclined or sent for to pay his respects to the\nduke. Two such parties could hardly have been desirous to look on each\nother. The duke must especially have disliked the thought of it; though\nTasso afterwards fancied otherwise, and that he was offended at his\nnon-appearance. But his letters, unfortunately, differ with themselves on\nthis point, as on most others. About the middle of July 1586, the poet\nquitted Ferrara for ever.\n\nAt Mantua Tasso was greeted with all the honours and attentions which his\nlove of distinction could desire. The good old duke, the friend of his\nfather, ordered handsome apartments to be provided for him in the palace;\nthe prince made him presents of costly attire, including perfumed silken\nhose (kindred elegancies to the Italian gloves of Queen Elizabeth); the\nprincess and her mother-in-law were declared admirers of his poetry; the\ncourtiers caressed the favourite of their masters; Tasso found literary\nsociety; he pronounced the very bread and fruit, the fish and the flesh,\nexcellent; the wines were sharp and brisk (\"such as his father was fond\nof\"); and even the physician was admirable, for he ordered confections.\nOne might imagine, if circumstances had not proved the cordial nature of\nthe Gonzaga family, and the real respect and admiration entertained for\nthe poet's genius by the greatest men of the time, in spite of the rebuke\nit had received from Alfonso, that there had been a confederacy to mock\nand mystify him, after the fashion of the duke and duchess with Don\nQuixote (the only blot, by the way, in the book of Cervantes; if, indeed,\nhe did not intend it as a satire on the mystifiers).\n\nFor a while, in short, the liberated prisoner thought himself happy.\nHe corrected his prose works, resumed and finished the tragedy of\n_Torrismond_, which he had begun some years before, corresponded with\nprinces, and completed and published a narrative poem left unfinished by\nhis father. Torquato was as loving a son as Mozart or Montaigne. Whenever\nhe had a glimpse of felicity, he appears to have associated the idea of\nit with that of his father. In the conclusion of his fragment, \"O del\ngrand' Apennino,\" he affectingly begs pardon of his blessed spirit for\ntroubling him with his earthly griefs.[28]\n\nBut, alas, what had been an indulgence of self-esteem had now become the\nhabit of a disease; and in the course of a few months the restless poet\nbegan to make his old discovery, that he was not sufficiently cared for.\nThe prince had no leisure to attend to him; the nobility did not \"yield\nhim the first place,\" or at least (he adds) they did not allow him to be\ntreated \"externally as their equal;\" and he candidly confessed that he\ncould not live in a place where such was the custom.[29] He felt also,\nnaturally enough, however well it might have been intended, that it was\nnot pleasant to be confined to the range of the city of Mantua, attended\nby a servant, even though he confessed that he was now subject to\n\"frenzy.\" He contrived to stay another half-year by help of a brilliant\ncarnival and of the select society of the prince's court, who were\nevidently most kind to him; but at the end of the twelvemonth he was in\nBergamo among his relations. The prince gave him leave to go; and the\nCavaliere Tasso, his kinsman, sent his chariot on purpose to fetch him.\n\nHere again he found himself at a beautiful country-seat, which the family\nof Tasso still possesses near that city; and here again, in the house of\nhis father, he proposed to be happy, \"having never desired,\" he says,\n\"any journey more earnestly than this.\" He left it in the course of a\nmonth, to return to Mantua.\n\nAnd it was only to wander still. Mantua he quitted in less than two\nmonths to go to Rome, in spite of the advice of his best friends.\nHe vindicated the proceeding by a hope of obtaining some permanent\nsettlement from the Pope. He took Loretto by the way, to refresh himself\nwith devotion; arrived in a transport at Rome; got nothing from the Pope\n(the hard-minded Sixtus the Fifth); and in the spring of the next year,\nin the triple hope of again embracing his sister, and recovering the\ndowry of his mother and the confiscated property of his father, he\nproceeded to Naples.\n\nNaples was in its most beautiful vernal condition, and the Neapolitans\nwelcomed the poet with all honour and glory; but his sister, alas, was\ndead; he got none of his father's property, nor (till too late) any of\nhis mother's; and before the year was out, he was again in Rome. He\nacquired in Naples, however, another friend, as attached to him and\nas constant in his attentions as his beloved Constantini, to wit,\nGiambattista Manso, Marquis of Villa, who became his biographer, and who\nwas visited and praised for his good offices by Milton. In the society of\nthis gentleman he seemed for a short while to have become a new man. He\nentered into field-sports, listened to songs and music, nay, danced, says\nManso, with \"the girls.\" (One fancies a poetical Dr. Johnson with the two\ncountry damsels on his knees.) In short, good air and freedom, and no\nmedicine, had conspired with the lessons of disappointment to give him,\nbefore he died, a glimpse of the power to be pleased. He had not got rid\nof all his spiritual illusions, even those of a melancholy nature; but he\ntook the latter more quietly, and had grown so comfortable with the race\nin general, that he encouraged them. He was so entirely freed from his\nfears of the Inquisition and of charges of magic, that whereas he had\nformerly been anxious to shew that he meant nothing but a poetical fancy\nby the spirit which he introduced as communing with him in his dialogue\nentitled the _Messenger_, he now maintained its reality against the\narguments of his friend Manso; and these arguments gave rise to the most\npoetical scene in his history. He told Manso that he should have ocular\ntestimony of the spirit's existence; and accordingly one day while they\nwere sitting together at the marquis's fireside, \"he turned his eyes,\"\nsays Manso, \"towards a window, and held them a long time so intensely on\nit, that, when I called him, he did not answer. At last, 'Behold,' said\nhe, 'the friendly spirit which has courteously come to talk with me. Lift\nup your eyes, and see the truth.' I turned my eyes thither immediately\n(continues the marquis); but though I endeavoured to look as keenly as I\ncould, I beheld nothing but the rays of the sun, which streamed through\nthe panes of the window into the chamber. Whilst I still looked around,\nwithout beholding any object, Torquato began to hold, with this unknown\nsomething, a most lofty converse. I heard, indeed, and saw nothing but\nhimself; nevertheless his words, at one time questioning, at another\nreplying, were such as take place between those who reason strictly on\nsome important subject. And from what was said by the one, the reply of\nthe other might be easily comprehended by the intellect, although it was\nnot heard by the ear. The discourses were so lofty and marvellous,\nboth by the sublimity of their topics and a certain unwonted manner of\ntalking, that, exalted above myself in a kind of ecstasy, I did not dare\nto interrupt them, nor ask Tasso about the spirit, which he had announced\nto me, but which I did not see. In this way, while I listened between\nstupefaction and rapture, a considerable time had elapsed; till at last\nthe spirit departed, as I learned from the words of Torquato; who,\nturning to me, said, 'From this day forward all your doubts will have\nvanished from your mind.' 'Nay,' said I, 'they are rather increased;\nsince, though I have heard many things worthy of marvel, I have seen\nnothing of what you promised to shew me to dispel them.' He smiled, and\nsaid, 'You have seen and heard more of him than perhaps --,' and here\nhe paused. Fearful of importuning him with new questions, the discourse\nended; and the only conclusion I can draw is, what I before said, that\nit is more likely his visions or frenzies will disorder my own mind than\nthat I shall extirpate his true or imaginary opinion.\"[30]\n\nDid the \"smile\" of Tasso at the close of this extraordinary scene, and\nthe words which he omitted to add, signify that his friend had seen and\nheard more, perhaps, than the poet _would have liked_ to explain? Did he\nmean that he himself alone had been seen and heard, and was author of the\nwhole dialogue? Perhaps he did; for credulity itself can impose;--can\ntake pleasure in seeing others as credulous as itself. On the other\nhand, enough has become known in our days of the phenomena of morbid\nperception, to render Tasso's actual belief in such visions not at\nall surprising. It is not uncommon for the sanest people of delicate\norganisation to see faces before them while going to sleep, sometimes\nin fantastical succession. A stronger exercise of this disposition in\ntemperaments more delicate will enlarge the face to figure; and there can\nbe no question that an imagination so heated as Tasso's, so full of the\nspeculations of the later Platonists, and accompanied by a state of body\nso \"nervous,\" and a will so bent on its fancies, might embody whatever\nhe chose to behold. The dialogue he could as easily read in the vision's\nlooks, whether he heard it or not with ears. If Nicholay, the Prussian\nbookseller, who saw crowds of spiritual people go through his rooms, had\nbeen a poet, and possessed of as wilful an imagination as Tasso, he might\nhave gifted them all with _speaking countenances_ as easily as with coats\nand waistcoats. Swedenborg founded a religion on this morbid faculty; and\nthe Catholics worship a hundred stories of the like sort in the Lives of\nthe Saints, many of which are equally true and false; false in reality,\nthough true in supposition. Luther himself wrote and studied till he\nsaw the Devil; only the great reformer retained enough of his naturally\nsturdy health and judgment to throw an inkstand at Satan's head,--a thing\nthat philosophy has been doing ever since.\n\nTasso's principal residence while at Naples had been in the beautiful\nmonastery of Mount Olivet, on which the good monks begged he would write\nthem a poem; which he did. A cold reception at Rome, and perhaps the\ndifference of the air, brought back his old lamentations; but here again\na monastery gave him refuge, and he set himself down to correct his\nformer works and compose new ones. He missed, however, the comforts of\nsociety and amusement which he had experienced at Naples. Nevertheless,\nhe did not return thither. He persuaded himself that it was necessary to\nbe in Rome in order to expedite the receipt of some books and manuscripts\nfrom Bergamo and other places; but his restlessness desired novelty. He\nthus slipped back from the neighbourhood of Rome to the city itself, and\nfrom the city back to the monastery, his friends in both places being\nprobably tired of his instability. He thought of returning to Mantua; but\na present from the Grand Duke of Tuscany, accompanied by an invitation to\nhis court, drew him, in one of his short-lived transports, to Florence.\nHe returned, in spite of the best and most generous reception, to Rome;\nthen left Rome for Mantua, on invitation from his ever-kind deliverer\nfrom prison, now the reigning duke; tired again, even of him; returned to\nRome; then once more to Naples, where the Prince of Conca, Grand Admiral\nof the kingdom, lodged and treated him like an equal; but he grew\nsuspicious of the admiral, and went to live with his friend Manso;\nquitted Manso for Rome again; was treated with reverence on the way, like\nAriosto, by a famous leader of banditti; was received at Rome into the\nVatican itself, in the apartments of his friend Cintio Aldobrandino,\nnephew of the new pope Clement the Eighth, where his hopes now seemed to\nbe raised at once to their highest and most reasonable pitch; but fell\nill, and was obliged to go back to Naples for the benefit of the air.\nA life so strangely erratic to the last (for mortal illness was\napproaching) is perhaps unique in the history of men of letters, and\nmight be therefore worth recording even in that of a less man than Tasso;\nbut when we recollect that this poet, in spite of all his weaknesses, and\nnotwithstanding the enemies they provoked and the friends they cooled,\nwas really almost adored for his genius in his own time, and instead\nof refusing jewels one day and soliciting a ducat the next, might have\nsettled down almost any where in quiet and glory, if he had but possessed\nthe patience to do so, it becomes an association of weakness with power,\nand of adversity with the means of prosperity, the absurdity of which\nadmiration itself can only drown in pity.\n\nHe now took up his abode in another monastery, that of San Severino,\nwhere he was comforted by the visits of his friend Manso, to whom he had\nlately inscribed a dialogue on _Friendship_; for he continued writing\nto the last. He had also the consolation, such as it was, of having the\nlaw-suit for his mother's dowry settled in his favour, though under\ncircumstances that rendered it of little importance, and only three\nmonths before his death. So strangely did Fortune seem to take delight in\nsporting with a man of genius, who had thought both too much of her and\ntoo little; too much for pomp's sake, and too little in prudence. Among\nhis new acquaintances were the young Marino, afterwards the corrupter of\nItalian poetry, and the Prince of Venosa, an amateur composer of music.\nThe dying poet wrote madrigals for him so much to his satisfaction, that,\nbeing about to marry into the house of Este, he wished to reconcile him\nwith the Duke of Ferrara; and Tasso, who to the last moment of his life\nseems never to have been able to resist the chance of resuming old\nquarters, apparently from the double temptation of renouncing them, wrote\nhis old master a letter full of respects and regrets. But the duke, who\nhimself died in the course of the year, was not to be moved from his\nsilence. The poet had given him the last possible offence by recasting\nhis _Jerusalem_, omitting the glories of the house of Este, and\ndedicating it to another patron. Alfonso, who had been extravagantly\nmagnificent, though not to poets, had so weakened his government, that\nthe Pope wrested Ferrara from the hands of his successor, and reduced\nthe Este family to the possession of Modena, which it still holds and\ndishonours. The duke and the poet were thus fading away at the same time;\nthey never met again in this world; and a new Dante would have divided\nthem far enough in the next.[31]\n\nThe last glimpse of honour and glory was now opening in a very grand\nmanner on the poet--the last and the greatest, as if on purpose to give\nthe climax to his disappointments. Cardinal Cintio requested the Pope to\ngive him the honour of a coronation. It had been desired by the poet, it\nseems, three years before. He was disappointed of it at that time; and\nnow that it was granted, he was disappointed of the ceremony. Manso says\nhe no longer cared for it; and, as he felt himself dying, this is not\nimprobable. Nevertheless he went to Rome for the purpose; and though the\nseverity of the winter there delayed the intention till spring, wealth\nand honours seemed determined to come in floods upon the poor expiring\ngreat man, in order to take away the breath which they had refused to\nsupport. The Pope assigned him a yearly pension of a hundred scudi; and\nthe withholders of his mother's dowry came to an accommodation by which\nhe was to have an annuity of a hundred ducats, and a considerable sum\nin hand. His hand was losing strength enough to close upon the money.\nScarcely was the day for the coronation about to dawn, when the poet felt\nhis dissolution approaching. Alfonso's doctors had killed him at last by\nsuperinducing a habit of medicine-taking, which defeated its purpose.\nHe requested leave to return to the monastery of St. Onofrio--wrote a\nfarewell letter to Constantini--received the distinguished honour of a\nplenary indulgence from the Pope--said (in terms very like what Milton\nmight have used, had he died a Catholic), that \"this was the chariot upon\nwhich he hoped to go crowned, not with laurel as a poet into the capitol,\nbut with glory as a saint to heaven\"--and expired on the 25th of April,\n1575, and the fifty-first year of his age, closely embracing the\ncrucifix, and imperfectly uttering the sentence beginning, \"Into thy\nhands, O Lord!\"[32]\n\nEven after death, success mocked him; for the coronation took place on\nthe senseless dead body. The head was wreathed with laurel; a magnificent\ntoga delayed for a while the shroud; and a procession took place through\nthe city by torchlight, all the inhabitants pouring forth to behold it,\nand painters crowding over the bier to gaze on the poet's lineaments,\nfrom which they produced a multitude of portraits. The corpse was then\nburied in the church of St. Onofrio; and magnificent monuments talked of,\nwhich never appeared. Manso, however, obtained leave to set up a modest\ntablet; and eight years afterwards a Ferrarese cardinal (Bevilacqua) made\nwhat amends he could for his countrymen, by erecting the stately memorial\nwhich is still to be seen.\n\nPoor, illustrious Tasso! weak enough to warrant pity from his\ninferiors--great enough to overshadow in death his once-fancied\nsuperiors. He has been a by-word for the misfortunes of genius: but\ngenius was not his misfortune; it was his only good, and might have\nbrought him all happiness. It is the want of genius, as far as it\ngoes, and apart from martyrdoms for conscience' sake, which produces\nmisfortunes even to genius itself--the want of as much wit and balance\non the common side of things, as genius is supposed to confine to the\nuncommon.\n\nManso has left a minute account of his friend's person and manners. He\nwas tall even among the tall; had a pale complexion, sunken cheeks,\nlightish brown hair, head bald at the top, large blue eyes, square\nforehead, big nose inclining towards the mouth, lips pale and thin, white\nteeth, delicate white hands, long arms, broad chest and shoulders, legs\nrather strong than fleshy, and the body altogether better proportioned\nthan in good condition; the result, nevertheless, being an aspect of\nmanly beauty and expression, particularly in the countenance, the dignity\nof which marked him for an extraordinary person even to those who did not\nknow him. His demeanour was grave and deliberate; he laughed seldom;\nand though his tongue was prompt, his delivery was slow; and he was\naccustomed to repeat his last words. He was expert in all manly\nexercises, but not equally graceful; and the same defect attended his\notherwise striking eloquence in public assemblies. His putting to flight\nthe assassins in Ferrara gave him such a reputation for courage, that\nthere went about in his honour a popular couplet\n\n  \"Colla penna e colla spada\n  Nessun val quanto Torquato.\"\n\n  For the sword as well as pen\n  Tasso is the man of men.\n\nHe was a little eater, but not averse to wine, particularly such as\ncombined piquancy with sweetness; and he always dressed in black. Manso's\naccount is still more particular, and yet it does not tell all; for Tasso\nhimself informs us that he stammered, and was near-sighted;[33] and a\nNeapolitan writer who knew him adds to the near-sightedness some visible\ndefect in the eyes.[34] I should doubt, from what Tasso says in his\nletters, whether he was fond of speaking in public, notwithstanding his\n_d\u00e9but_ in that line with the _Fifty Amorous Conclusions_.Nor does he\nappear to have been remarkable for his conversation. Manso has left a\ncollection of one hundred of his pithy sayings--a suspicious amount, and\nunfortunately more than warranting the suspicion; for almost every one of\nthem is traceable to some other man. They come from the Greek and Latin\nphilosophers, and the apothegms of Erasmus. The two following have the\ngreatest appearance of being genuine:\n\nA Greek, complaining that he had spoken ill of his country, and\nmaintaining that all the virtues in the world had issued out of it, the\npoet assented; with the addition, that they had not left one behind them.\n\nA foolish young fellow, garnished with a number of golden chains, coming\ninto a room where he was, and being overheard by him exclaiming, \"Is this\nthe great man that was mad?\" Tasso said, \"Yes; but that people had never\nput on him more than one chain at a time.\"\n\nHis character may be gathered, but not perhaps entirely, from what has\nbeen written of his life; for some of his earlier letters shew him to\nhave been not quite so grave and refined in his way of talking as readers\nof the _Jerusalem_ might suppose. He was probably at that time of life\nnot so scrupulous in his morals as he professed to be during the greater\npart of it. His mother is thought to have died of chagrin and impatience\nat being separated so long from her husband, and not knowing what to do\nto save her dowry from her brothers; and I take her son to have combined\nhis mother's ultra-sensitive organisation with his father's worldly\nimprudence and unequal spirits. The addition of the nervous temperament\nof one parent to the aspiring nature of the other gave rise to the poet's\ntrembling eagerness for distinction; and Torquato's very love for them\nboth hindered him from seeing what should have been corrected in the\ninfirmities which he inherited. Falling from the highest hopes of\nprosperity into the most painful afflictions, he thus wanted solid\nprinciples of action to support him, and was forced to retreat upon an\nexcess of self-esteem, which allowed his pride to become a beggar, and\nhis naturally kind, loving, just, and heroical disposition to condescend\nto almost every species of inconsistency. The Duke of Ferrara, he\ncomplains, did not believe a word he said;[35] and the fact is, that,\npartly from disease, and partly from a want of courage to look his\ndefects in the face, he beheld the same things in so many different\nlights, and according as it suited him at the moment, that, without\nintending falsehood, his statements are really not to be relied on. He\ndegraded even his verses, sometimes with panegyrics for interest's sake,\nsometimes out of weak wishes to oblige, of which he was afterwards\nashamed; and, with the exception of Constantini, we cannot be sure that\nany one person praised in them retained his regard in his last days. His\nsuspicion made him a kind of Rousseau; but he was more amiable than\nthe Genevese, and far from being in the habit of talking against old\nacquaintances, whatever he might have thought of them. It is observable,\nnot only that he never married, but he told Manso he had led a life of\nentire continence ever since he entered the walls of his prison, being\nthen in his thirty-fifth year.[36] Was this out of fidelity to some\nmistress? or the consequence of a previous life the reverse of continent?\nor was it from some principle of superstition? He had become a devotee,\napparently out of a dread of disbelief; and he remained extremely\nreligious for the rest of his days. The two unhappiest of Italian poets,\nTasso and Dante, were the two most superstitious.\n\nAs for the once formidable question concerning the comparative merits\nof this poet and Ariosto, which anticipated the modern quarrels of the\nclassical and romantic schools, some idea of the treatment which Tasso\nexperienced may be conceived by supposing all that used to be sarcastic\nand bitter in the periodical party-criticism among ourselves some thirty\nyears back, collected into one huge vial of wrath, and poured upon the\nnew poet's head. Even the great Galileo, who was a man of wit, bred up\nin the pure Tuscan school of Berni and Casa, and who was an idolator\nof Ariosto, wrote, when he was young, a \"review\" of the _Jerusalem\nDelivered_, which it is painful to read, it is so unjust and\ncontemptuous.[37] But now that the only final arbiter, posterity, has\naccepted both the poets, the dispute is surely the easiest thing in the\nworld to settle; not, indeed, with prejudices of creeds or temperaments,\nbut before any judges thoroughly sympathising with the two claimants. Its\nsolution is the principle of the greater including the less. For Ariosto\nerrs only by having an unbounded circle to move in. His sympathies are\nunlimited; and those who think him inferior to Tasso, only do so in\nconsequence of their own want of sympathy with the vivacities that\ndegrade him in their eyes. Ariosto can be as grave and exalted as Tasso\nwhen he pleases, and he could do a hundred things which Tasso never\nattempted. He is as different in this respect as Shakspeare from Milton.\nHe had far more knowledge of mankind than Tasso, and he was superior in\npoint of taste. But it is painful to make disadvantageous comparisons of\none great poet with another. Let us be thankful for Tasso's enchanted\ngardens, without being forced to vindicate the universal world of his\npredecessor. Suffice it to bear in mind, that the grave poet himself\nagreed with the rest of the Italians in calling the Ferrarese the \"divine\nAriosto;\" a title which has never been popularly given to his rival.\n\nThe _Jerusalem Delivered_ is the history of a Crusade, related with\npoetic license. The Infidels are assisted by unlawful arts; and the\nlibertinism that brought scandal on the Christians, is converted into\nyouthful susceptibility, led away by enchantment. The author proposed\nto combine the ancient epic poets with Ariosto, or a simple plot, and\nuniformly dignified style, with romantic varieties of adventure, and\nthe luxuriance of fairy-land. He did what he proposed to do, but with a\njudgment inferior to Virgil's; nay, in point of the interdependence of\nthe adventures, to Ariosto, and with far less general vigour. The mixture\nof affectation with his dignity is so frequent, that, whether Boileau's\nfamous line about Tasso's tinsel and Virgil's gold did or did not mean to\nimply that the _Jerusalem_ was nothing but tinsel, and the _\u00c6neid_ all\ngold, it is certain that the tinsel is so interwoven with the gold, as to\nrender it more of a rule than an exception, and put a provoking distance\nbetween Tasso's epic pretensions and those of the greatest masters of the\nart. People who take for granted the conceits because of the \"wildness\"\nof Ariosto, and the good taste because of the \"regularity\" of Tasso, just\nassume the reverse of the fact. It is a rare thing to find a conceit in\nAriosto; and, where it does exist, it is most likely defensible on some\nShakspearian ground of subtle propriety. Open Tasso in almost any part,\nparticularly the love-scenes, and it is marvellous if, before long, you\ndo not see the conceits vexatiously interfering with the beauties.\n\n  \"Oh maraviglia! Amor, the appena \u00e8 nato,\n  Gi\u00e0 grande vola, e gi\u00e0 trionfa armato.\" Canto i. St. 47.\n\n  Oh, miracle! Love is scarce born, when, lo,\n  He flies full wing'd, and lords it with his bow!\n\n  \"Se 'l miri fulminar ne l'arme avvolto,\n  Marte lo stimi; Amor, se scopre il volto.\" St. 58.\n\n  Mars you would think him, when his thund'ring race\n  In arms he ran; Love, when he shew'd his face.\n\nWhich is as little true to reason as to taste; for no god of war could\nlook like a god of love. The habit of mind would render it impossible.\nBut the poet found the prettiness of the Greek Anthology irresistible.\n\nOlindo, tied to the stake amidst the flames of martyrdom, can say to his\nmistress\n\n  \"Altre fiamme, altri nodi amor promise.\" Canto ii. st. 34.\n\n  Other flames, other bonds than these, love promised.\n\nThe sentiment is natural, but the double use of the \"flames\" on such an\noccasion, miserable.\n\nIn the third canto the fair Amazon Clorinda challenges her love to single\ncombat.\n\n  \"E di due morti in un punto lo sfida.\" St. 23.\n\n  \"And so at once she threats to kill him twice.\" _Fairfax_.\n\nThat is to say, with her valour and beauty.\n\nAnother twofold employment of flame, with an exclamation to secure our\nastonishment, makes its appearance in the fourth canto\n\n  \"Oh miracol d'amor! che le faville\n  Tragge del pianto, e'i cor' ne l'acqua accende.\" St. 76.\n\n  Oh, miracle of love! that draweth sparks\n  Of fire from tears, and kindlest hearts in water!\n\nThis puerile antithesis of _fire_ and _water, fire_ and _ice, light_\nin _darkness, silence_ in _speech_, together with such pretty turns as\n_wounding one's-self in wounding others_, and the worse sacrifice of\nconsistency and truth of feeling,--lovers making long speeches on the\nleast fitting occasions, and ladies retaining their rosy cheeks in the\nmidst of fears of death,--is to be met with, more or less, throughout\nthe poem. I have no doubt they were the proximate cause of that general\ncorruption of taste which was afterwards completed by Marino, the\nacquaintance and ardent admirer of Tasso when a boy. They have been laid\nto the charge of Petrarch; but, without entering into the question, how\nfar and in what instances conceits may not be natural to lovers haunted,\nas Petrarch was, with one idea, and seeing it in every thing they behold,\nwhat had the great epic poet to do with the faults of the lyrical? And\nwhat is to be said for his standing in need of the excuse of bad example?\nHomer and Milton were in no such want. Virgil would not have copied the\ntricks of Ovid. There is an effeminacy and self-reflection in Tasso,\nanalogous to his Rinaldo, in the enchanted garden; where the hero wore\na looking-glass by his side, in which he contemplated his sophisticated\nself, and the meretricious beauty of his enchantress.[38] Agreeably to\nthis tendency to weakness, the style of Tasso, when not supported by\ngreat occasions (and even the occasion itself sometimes fails him), is\ntoo apt to fall into tameness and common-place,--to want movement and\npicture; while, at the same time, with singular defect of enjoyment, it\ndoes not possess the music which might be expected from a lyrical and\nvoluptuous poet. Bernardo prophesied of his son, that, however he might\nsurpass him in other respects, he would never equal him in sweetness;\nand he seems to have judged him rightly. I have met with a passage in\nTorquato's prose writings (but I cannot lay my hands on it), in which he\nexpresses a singular predilection for verses full of the same vowel.\nHe seems, if I remember rightly, to have regarded it, not merely as a\npleasing variety, which it is on occasion, but as a reigning principle.\nVoltaire (I think, in his treatise on _Epic Poetry_) has noticed the\nmultitude of _o_'s in the exordium of the _Jerusalem_.This apparent\nnegligence seems to have been intentional.\n\n  \"Cant\u00f2 l'armi piet\u00f2se e 'l capitan\u00f2\n    Che 'l gran Sep\u00f2ler\u00f2 liber\u00f2 di Crist\u00f2;\n  M\u00f2lt\u00f2 egli \u00f2pr\u00f2 c\u00f2l senn\u00f2 e c\u00f2n la man\u00f2,\n    M\u00f2lt\u00f2 s\u00f2ffri nel gl\u00f2ri\u00f2s\u00f2 acquist\u00f2;\n  E invan l'infern\u00f2 a lui s'\u00f2pp\u00f2se; e invan\u00f2\n    S'arm\u00f2 d'Asia e di Libia il p\u00f2p\u00f2l mist\u00f2;\n  Che il ciel gli di\u00e8 fav\u00f2re, e s\u00f2tt\u00f2 ai santi\n  Segni ridusse i su\u00f2i c\u00f2mpagni erranti.\"\n\nThe reader will not be surprised to find, that he who could thus confound\nmonotony with music, and commence his greatest poem with it, is too often\ndiscordant in the rest of his versification. It has been thought, that\nMilton might have taken from the Italians the grand musical account to\nwhich he turns a list of proper names, as in his enumerations of realms\nand deities; but I have been surprised to find how little the most\nmusical of languages appears to have suggested to its poets anything of\nthe sort. I am not aware of it, indeed, in any poets but our own. All\nothers, from Homer, with his catalogue of leaders and ships, down to\nMetastasio himself, though he wrote for music, appear to have overlooked\nthis opportunity of playing a voluntary of fine sounds, where they had no\nother theme on which to modulate. Its inventor, as far as I am aware, is\nthat great poet, Marlowe.[39]\n\nThere are faults of invention as well as style in the _Jerusalem_. The\nTalking Bird, or bird that sings with a human voice (canto iv. 13), is a\npiece of inverisimilitude, which the author, perhaps, thought justifiable\nby the speaking horses of the ancients. But the latter were moved\nsupernaturally for the occasion, and for a very fine occasion. Tasso's\nbird is a mere born contradiction to nature and for no necessity. The\nvulgar idea of the devil with horns and a tail (though the retention\nof it argued a genius in Tasso very inferior to that of Milton) is\ndefensible, I think, on the plea of the German critics, that malignity\nshould be made a thing low and deformed; but as much cannot be said for\nthe storehouse in heaven, where St. Michael's spear is kept with which\nhe slew the dragon, and the trident which is used for making earthquakes\n(canto vii. st. 81). The tomb which supernaturally comes out of the\nground, inscribed with the name and virtues of Sueno (canto viii. st.\n39), is worthy only of a pantomime; and the wizard in robes, with\nbeech-leaves on his head, who walks dry-shod on water, and superfluously\nhelps the knights on their way to Armida's retirement (xiv. 33), is\nalmost as ludicrous as the burlesque of the river-god in the _Voyage_ of\nBachaumont and Chapelle.\n\nBut let us not wonder, nevertheless, at the effect which the _Jerusalem_\nhas had upon the world. It could not have had it without great nature and\npower. Rinaldo, in spite of his aberrations with Armida, knew the path\nto renown, and so did his poet. Tasso's epic, with all its faults, is a\nnoble production, and justly considered one of the poems of the world.\nEach of those poems hit some one great point of universal attraction,\nat least in their respective countries, and among the givers of fame in\nothers. Homer's poem is that of action; Dante's, of passion; Virgil's, of\njudgment; Milton's, of religion; Spenser's, of poetry itself; Ariosto's,\nof animal spirits (I do not mean as respects gaiety only, but in strength\nand readiness of accord with the whole play of nature); Tasso looked\nround with an ultra-sensitive temperament, and an ambition which required\nencouragement, and his poem is that of tenderness. Every thing inclines\nto this point in his circle, with the tremulousness of the needle. Love\nis its all in all, even to the design of the religious war which is\nto rescue the sepulchre of the God of Charity from the hands of the\nunloving. His heroes are all in love, at least those on the right side;\nhis leader, Godfrey, notwithstanding his prudence, narrowly escapes the\npassion, and is full of a loving consideration; his amazon, Clorinda,\ninspires the truest passion, and dies taking her lover's hand; his\nErminia is all love for an enemy; his enchantress Armida falls from\npretended love into real, and forsakes her religion for its sake. An old\nfather (canto ix.) loses his five sons in battle, and dies on their\ndead bodies of a wound which he has provoked on purpose. Tancred cannot\nachieve the enterprise of the Enchanted Forest, because his dead mistress\nseems to come out of one of the trees. Olindo thinks it happiness to be\nmartyred at the same stake with Sophronia. The reconciliation of Rinaldo\nwith his enchantress takes place within a few stanzas of the close of\nthe poem, as if contesting its interest with religion. The _Jerusalem\nDelivered_, in short, is the favourite epic of the young: all the lovers\nin Europe have loved it. The French have forgiven the author his conceits\nfor the sake of his gallantry: he is the poet of the gondoliers; and\nSpenser, the most luxurious of his brethren, plundered his bowers of\nbliss. Read Tasso's poem by this gentle light of his genius, and you pity\nhim twentyfold, and know not what excuse to find for his jailer.\n\nThe stories translated in the present volume, though including war and\nmagic, are all love-stories. They were not selected on that account. They\nsuggested themselves for selection, as containing most of the finest\nthings in the poem. They are conducted with great art, and the characters\nand affections happily varied. The first (_Olindo and Sophronia_) is\nperhaps unique for the hopelessness of its commencement (I mean with\nregard to the lovers), and the perfect, and at the same time quite\nprobable, felicity of the conclusion. There is no reason to believe that\nthe staid and devout Sophronia would have loved her adorer at all, but\nfor the circumstance that first dooms them both to a shocking death,\nand then sends them, with perfect warrant, from the stake to the altar.\nClorinda is an Amazon, the idea of whom, as such, it is impossible for\nus to separate from very repulsive and unfeminine images; yet, under the\ncircumstances of the story, we call to mind in her behalf the possibility\nof a Joan of Arc's having loved and been beloved; and her death is a\nsurprising and most affecting variation upon that of Agrican in Boiardo.\nTasso's enchantress Armida is a variation of the Angelica of the same\npoet, combined with Ariosto's Alcina; but her passionate voluptuousness\nmakes her quite a new character in regard to the one; and she is as\ndifferent from the painted hag of the _Orlando_ as youth, beauty, and\npatriotic intention can make her. She is not very sentimental; but all\nthe passion in the world has sympathised with her; and it was manly and\nhonest in the poet not to let her Paganism and vehemence hinder him from\ndoing justice to her claims as a human being and a deserted woman. Her\nfate is left in so pleasing a state of doubt, that we gladly avail\nourselves of it to suppose her married to Rinaldo, and becoming the\nmother of a line of Christian princes. I wish they had treated her poet\nhalf so well as she would infallibly have treated him herself.\n\nBut the singer of the Crusades can be strong as well as gentle. You\ndiscern in his battles and single combats the poet ambitious of renown,\nand the accomplished swordsman. The duel of Tancred and Argantes, in\nwhich the latter is slain, is as earnest and fiery writing throughout as\ntruth and passion could desire; that of Tancred and Clorinda is also\nvery powerful as well as affecting; and the whole siege of Jerusalem is\nadmirable for the strength of its interest. Every body knows the grand\nverse (not, however, quite original) that summons the devils to council,\n\"Chiama gli abitator,\" &c.; and the still grander, though less original\none, describing the desolations of time, \"Giace l'alta Cartago.\"[40] The\nforest filled with supernatural terrors by a magician, in order that the\nChristians may not cut wood from it to make their engines of war, is one\nof the happiest pieces of invention in romance. It is founded in as true\nhuman feeling as those of Ariosto, and is made an admirable instrument\nfor the aggrandizement of the character of Rinaldo. Godfrey's attestation\nof all time, and of the host of heaven, when he addresses his army in the\nfirst canto, is in the highest spirit of epic magnificence. So is the\nappearance of the celestial armies, together with that of the souls of\nthe slain Christian warriors, in the last canto, where they issue forth\nin the air to assist the entrance into the conquered city. The classical\npoets are turned to great and frequent account throughout the poem;\nand yet the work has a strong air of originality, partly owing to the\nsubject, partly to the abundance of love-scenes, and to a certain\ncompactness in the treatment of the main story, notwithstanding the\nluxuriance of the episodes. The _Jerusalem Delivered_ is stately,\nwell-ordered, full of action and character, sometimes sublime, always\nelegant, and very interesting-more so, I think, as a whole, and in\na popular sense, than any other story in verse, not excepting the\n_Odyssey_. For the exquisite domestic attractiveness of the second\nHomeric poem is injured, like the hero himself, by too many diversions\nfrom the main point. There is an interest, it is true, in that very\ndelay; but we become too much used to the disappointment. In the epic\nof Tasso the reader constantly desires to learn how the success of the\nenterprise is to be brought about; and he scarcely loses sight of any of\nthe persons but he wishes to see them again. Even in the love-scenes,\ntender and absorbed as they are, we feel that the heroes are fighters, or\ngoing to fight. When you are introduced to Armida in the Bower of Bliss,\nit is by warriors who come to take her lover away to battle.\n\nOne of the reasons why Tasso hurt the style of his poem by a manner too\nlyrical was, that notwithstanding its deficiency in sweetness, he was one\nof the profusest lyrical writers of his nation, and always having his\nfeelings turned in upon himself. I am not sufficiently acquainted with\nhis odes and sonnets to speak of them in the gross; but I may be allowed\nto express my belief that they possess a great deal of fancy and feeling.\nIt has been wondered how he could write so many, considering the troubles\nhe went through; but the experience was the reason. The constant\nsuccession of hopes, fears, wants, gratitudes, loves, and the necessity\nof employing his imagination, accounts for all. Some of his sonnets, such\nas those on the Countess of Scandiano's lip (\"Quel labbro,\" &c.); the one\nto Stigliano, concluding with the affecting mention of himself and his\nlost harp; that beginning\n\n  \"Io veggio in cielo scintillar le stelle,\"\n\nrecur to my mind oftener than any others except Dante's \"Tanto gentile\"\nand Filicaia's _Lament on Italy_; and, with the exception of a few of the\nmore famous odes of Petrarch, and one or two of Filicaia's and Guidi's, I\nknow of none in Italian like several of Tasso's, including his fragment\n\"O del grand' Apennino,\" and the exquisite chorus on the _Golden Age_,\nwhich struck a note in the hearts of the world.\n\nHis _Aminta_, the chief pastoral poem of Italy, though, with the\nexception of that ode, not equal in passages to the _Faithful\nShepherdess_ (which is a Pan to it compared with a beardless shepherd),\nis elegant, interesting, and as superior to Guarini's more sophisticate\nyet still beautiful _Pastor Fido_ as a first thought may be supposed to\nbe to its emulator. The objection of its being too elegant for shepherds\nhe anticipated and nullified by making Love himself account for it in a\ncharming prologue, of which the god is the speaker:\n\n  \"Queste selve oggi ragionar d'Amore\n  S'udranno in nuova guisa; e ben parassi,\n  Che la mia Deit\u00e0 sia qu\u00ec presente\n  In se medesma, e non ne' suoi ministri.\n  Spirer\u00f2 nobil sensi \u00e0 rozzi petti;\n  Raddolcir\u00f2 nelle lor lingue il suono:\n  Perch\u00e8, ovunque i' mi sia, io sono Amore\n  Ne' pastori non men che negli eroi;\n  E la disagguaglianza de' soggetti,\n  Come a me piace, agguaglio: e questa \u00e8 pure\n  Suprema gloria, e gran miracol mio,\n  Render simili alle pi\u00f9 dotte cetre\n  Le rustiche sampogne.\"\n\n  After new fashion shall these woods to-day\n  Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen\n  That my divinity is present here\n  In its own person, not its ministers.\n  I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts;\n  I will refine and render dulcet sweet\n  Their tongues; because, wherever I may be,\n  Whether with rustic or heroic men,\n  There am I Love; and inequality,\n  As it may please me, do I equalise;\n  And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle\n  To make the rural pipe as eloquent\n  Even as the subtlest harp.\n\nI ought not to speak of Tasso's other poetry, or of his prose, for I\nhave read little of either; though, as they are not popular with his\ncountrymen, a foreigner may be pardoned for thinking his classical\ntragedy, _Torrismondo_, not attractive--his _Sette Giornate_ (Seven\nDays of the Creation) still less so--and his platonical and critical\ndiscourses better filled with authorities than reasons. Tasso was a\nlesser kind of Milton, enchanted by the Sirens. We discern the weak parts\nof his character, more or less, in all his writings; but we see also the\nirrepressible elegance and superiority of the mind, which, in spite of\nall weakness, was felt to tower above its age, and to draw to it the\nhomage as well as the resentment of princes.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: My authorities for this notice are, Black's _Life of Tasso_\n(2 vols. 4to, 1810), his original, Serassi, _Vita di Torquato Tasso_ (do.\n1790), and the works of the poet in the Pisan edition of Professor Rosini\n(33 vols. 8vo, 1332). I have been indebted to nothing in Black which I\nhave not ascertained by reference to the Italian biographer, and quoted\nnothing stated by Tasso himself but from the works. Black's Life, which\nis a free version of Serassi's, modified by the translator's own opinions\nand criticism, is elegant, industrious, and interesting. Serassi's was\nthe first copious biography of the poet founded on original documents;\nand it deserved to be translated by Mr. Black, though servile to\nthe house of Este, and, as might be expected, far from being always\ningenuous. Among other instances of this writer's want of candour is the\nfact of his having been the discoverer and suppresser of the manuscript\nreview of Tasso by Galileo. The best summary account of the poet's life\nand writings which I have met with is Gingu\u00e9n\u00e9's, in the fifth volume\nof his _Histoire Litt\u00e9raire_, &c. It is written with his usual grace,\nvivacity, and acuteness, and contains a good notice of the Tasso\ncontroversy. As to the Pisan edition of the works, it is the completest,\nI believe, in point of contents ever published, comprises all the\ncontroversial criticism, and is, of course, very useful; but it contains\nno life except Manso's (now known to be very inconclusive), has got a\nheap of feeble variorum comments on the _Jerusalem_, no notes worth\nspeaking of to the rest of the works, and, notwithstanding the claim\nin the title-page to the merit of a \"better order,\" has left the\ncorrespondence in a deplorable state of irregularity, as well as totally\nwithout elucidation. The learned Professor is an agreeable writer, and, I\nbelieve, a very pleasant man, but he certainly is a provoking editor.]\n\n[Footnote 2: In the beautiful fragment beginning, _O del grand'Apennino:_\n\n  \"Me dal sen della madre empia fortuna\n  Pargoletto divelse. Ah! di que' baci,\n  Ch'ella bagn\u00f2 di lagrime dolenti,\n  Con sospir mi rimembra, e degli ardenti\n  Preghi, che sen port\u00e1r l'aure fugaci,\n  Ch'io giunger non dovea pi\u00f9 volto a volto\n  Fra quelle braccia accolto\n  Con nodi cos\u00ec stretti e s\u00ec tenaci.\n  Lasso! e seguii con mal sicure piante,\n  Qual Ascanio, o Camilla, il padre errante.\"\n\n  Me from my mother's bosom my hard lot\n  Took when a child. Alas! though all these years\n  I have been used to sorrow,\n  I sigh to think upon the floods of tears\n  which bathed her kisses on that doleful morrow:\n\n  I sigh to think of all the prayers and cries\n  She wasted, straining me with lifted eyes:\n  For never more on one another's face\n  was it our lot to gaze and to embrace!\n  Her little stumbling boy,\n  Like to the child of Troy,\n  Or like to one doomed to no haven rather,\n  Followed the footsteps of his wandering father.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Rosini, _Saggio sugli Amori di Torquato Tasso_, &c., in the\nProfessor's edition of his works, vol. xxxiii.]\n\n[Footnote 4: _Lettere Inedite_, p. 33, in the _Opere_, vol. xvii.]\n\n[Footnote 5: _Entretiens_, 1663, p.169 quoted by Scrassi, pp. 175, 182.]\n\n[Footnote 6: Suggested by Ariosto's furniture in the Moon.]\n\n[Footnote 7: This was a trick which he afterwards thought he had reason\nto complain of in a style very different from pleasantry.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Alfonso. The word for \"leader\" in the original, _duce_, made\nthe allusion more obvious. The epithet \"royal,\" in the next sentence,\nconveyed a welcome intimation to the ducal car, the house of Este being\nvery proud of its connexion with the sovereigns of Europe, and very\ndesirous of becoming royal itself.]\n\n[Footnote 9: Serassi, vol i. p. 210.]\n\n(Footnote 10: \"Alla lor magnanimit\u00e0 \u00e8 convenevole il mostrar, ch'amor\ndelle virt\u00f9, non odio verso altri, gli abbia gi\u00e0 mossi ad invitarmi con\ninvito cos\u00ec largo.\" _Opere_, vol. xv. p. 94.]\n\n[Footnote 11: The application is the conjecture of Black, vol. i. p. 317.\nSerassi suppressed the whole passage. The indecent word would have been\nknown but for the delicacy or courtliness of Muratori, who substituted an\n_et-cetera_ in its place, observing, that he had \"covered\" with it \"an\nindecent word not fit to be printed\" (\"sotto quell'_et-cetera_ ho io\ncoperta un'indecente parola, che non era lecito di lasciar correre alle\nstampe.\" _Opere del Tasso,_ vol. xvi. p. 114). By \"covered\" he seems to\nhave meant blotted out; for in the latest edition of Tasso the _et-cetera\nis_ retained.]\n\n[Footnote 12: Black's version (vol. ii. p. 58) is not strong enough. The\nwords in Serassi are \"una ciurma di poltroni, ingrati, e ribaldi.\" ii. p.\n33.]\n\n[Footnote 13: _Opere_, vol xiv. pp. 158, 174, &c.]\n\n[Footnote 14: \"Prego V. Signoria the si contenti, se piace al Serenissimo\nSignor Duca, Clementissimo ed Invitissimo, the io stia in prigione, di\nfarmi dar le poche robicciole mie, the S.A. Invitissima, Clementissima,\nSerenissima m' ha promesse tante volte,\" &c. _Opere_, vol. xiv. p. 6.]\n\n[Footnote 15: \"Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam,\" &c.]\n\n[Footnote 16: _Vie du Tasse,_ 1695, p. 51.]\n\n[Footnote 17: In the Apology _for Raimond de Sebonde_; Essays,\nvol. ii. ch. 12.]\n\n[Footnote 18: In his _Letter to Zeno,--Opere del\n\nTasso_, xvi. p. 118.]\n\n[Footnote 19: _Storia della Poesia Italiana_ (Mathias's edition), vol.\niii. part i. p 236.]\n\n[Footnote 20: Serassi is very peremptory, and even abusive. He charges\nevery body who has said any thing to the contrary with imposture. \"Egli\nnon v' ha dubbio, che le troppe imprudenti e temerarie parole, che il\nTasso si lasci\u00f2 uscir di bocca in questo incontro, furone la sola cagione\ndella sua prigionia, e ch' \u00e8 mera favola ed _impostura_ tutto ci\u00f2, che\ndiversamente \u00e8 stato affermato e scritto da altri in tale proposito.\"\nVol. ii. p. 33. But we have seen that the good Abb\u00e8 could practise a\nlittle imposition himself.]\n\n[Footnote 21: Black, ii. 88.]\n\n[Footnote 22: _Hist. Litt. d'Italie_, v. 243, &c.]\n\n[Footnote 23: Vol. ii. p. 89.]\n\n[Footnote 24: Such at least is my impression; but I cannot call the\nevidence to mind.]\n\n[Footnote 25: _Literature of the South of Europe_ (Roscoe's translation),\nvol. ii. p. 165. To shew the loose way in which the conclusions of a\nman's own mind are presented as facts admitted by others, Sismondi says,\nthat Tasso's \"passion\" was the cause of his return to Ferrara. There is\nnot a tittle of evidence to shew for it.]\n\n[Footnote 26: _Saggio sugli Amori_, &c. ut sup p. 84, and passim. As\nspecimens of the learned professor's reasoning, it may be observed that\nwhenever the words _humble, daring, high, noble_, and _royal_, occur in\nthe poet's love-verses, he thinks they _must_ allude to the Princess\nLeonora; and he argues, that Alfonso never could have been so angry with\nany \"versi lascivi,\" if they had not had the same direction.]\n\n[Footnote 27: _Opere_, vol. xvii. p.32.]\n\n[Footnote 28:\n\n  \"Padre, o buon padre, che dal ciel rimiri,\n    Egro e morto ti piansi, e ben tu il sai;\n  E gemendo scaldai\n    La tomba e il letto. Or che negli altri giri\n  Tu godi, a te si deve onor, non lutto:\n    A me versato il mio dolor sia tutto.\"\n\n  O father, my good father, looking now\n    On thy poor son from heaven, well knowest thou\n  What scalding tears I shed\n    Upon thy grave, upon thy dying bed;\n  But since thou dwellest in the happy skies,\n    'Tis fit I raise to thee no sorrowing eyes\n  Be all my grief on my own head.]\n\n[Footnote 29:\n\n  \" Non posso viver in citt\u00e0, ove tutti i nobili, o non mi\nconcedano i primi luoghi, o almeno non si contentino the la cosa in\nquel the appartiene a queste esteriori dimostrazioni, vada del pari.\"\n                                             _Opere,_, vol. xiii. p. 153.]\n\n[Footnote 30: Black, vol. ii. p. 240.]\n\n[Footnote 31: The world in general have taken no notice of Tasso's\nreconstruction of his _Jerusalem_, which he called the _Gerusalemme\nConquistata_. It never \"obtained,\" as the phrase is. It was the mere\ntribute of his declining years to bigotry and new acquaintances; and\ntherefore I say no more of it.]\n\n[Footnote 32: _In manus tuas, Domine_. One likes to know the actual\nwords; at least so it appears to me.]\n\n[Footnote 33: Serassi, ii. 276.]\n\n[Footnote 34: \"Quem _cernis_, quisquis es, procera statura virum,\n_luscis_ oculis, &c. hic Torquatus est.\"--Cappacio, _Illustrium Literis\nVirorum Elogia et Judici_, quoted by Serassi, ut sup. The Latin word\n_luscus_, as well as the Italian _losco_, means, I believe, near-sighted;\nbut it certainly means also a great deal more; and unless the word\n_cernis_ (thou beholdest) is a mere form of speech implying a foregone\nconclusion, it shews that the defect was obvious to the spectator.]\n\n[Footnote 35: \"Il Signor Duca non crede ad alcuna mia parola.\"\n                                                       _Opere_, xiv. 161.]\n\n[Footnote 36: \"Fui da bocca di lui medesimo rassicurato, che dal tempo\ndel suo ritegno in sant'Anna, ch'avenne negli anni trentacinque della sua\nvita e sedici avanti la morte, egli intieramente fu casto: degli anni\nprimi non mi favell\u00f2 mai di modo ch' io possa alcuna cosa di certo qui\nraccontare.\"\n                                                    _Opere_, xxxiii. 235.]\n\n[Footnote 37: It is to be found in the collected works, _ut supra_; both\nof the philosopher and the poet.]\n\n[Footnote 38: It is an extraordinary instance of a man's violating, in\nolder life, the better critical principles of his youth,--that Tasso, in\nhis _Discourses on Poetry_, should have objected to a passage in Ariosto\nabout sighs and tears, as being a \"conceit too lyrical,\" (though it was\nwarranted by the subtleties of madness, see present volume, p. 219), and\nyet afterwards not in the same conceits when wholly without warrant.]\n\n[Footnote 39: [Greek:\n\n  Dardanion aut aerchen, eus pais Agchisao,\n  Aineias ton hup Agchisae teke di Aphroditae\n  Idaes en knaemoisi, thea brotps eunaetheisa\n  Ouk oios hama toge duo Antaenoros uie,\n  Archilochos t, Akamas te machaes en eidute pasaes.\n\n                                                        _Iliad_, ii. 819.]\n\nIt is curious that these five lines should abound as much in _a_'s\nTasso's first stanza does in o's. Similar monotonies are strikingly\nobservable in the nomenclatures of Virgil. See his most perfect poem, the\n  _Georgics_:\n\n  \"Omni\u00e0 secum\n  `Arment\u00e0rius `Afer \u00e0git, tectumque, L\u00e0remque,\n  `Armaque, `Amycl\u00e6umque c\u00e0nem, Cress\u00e0mque pharetr\u00e0m.\"\n                                                         Lib. iii. 343.\n\nIt is clear that Dante never thought of this point. See his Mangiadore,\nSanvittore, Natan, Raban, &c. at the end of the twelfth canto of the\n_Paradiso_. Yet in his time poetry was _recitatived_ to music. So it was\nin Petrarch's, who was a lutenist, and who \"tried\" his verses, to see\nhow they would go to the instrument. Yet Petrarch could allow himself to\n  write such a quatrain as the following list of rivers\n\n  \"Non Tesin, P\u00f2, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro,\n  Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo c Gange,\n  Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garrona, \u00e8 'l mar the frange,\n  Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Senna, _Albia, Era, Ebro!_\"\n\nIn Tasso's _Sette Giornate_, to which Black thinks Milton indebted for\nhis grand use of proper names, the following is the way in which the poet\nwrites\n\n  \"Di Silv\u00e0ni\n  Di P\u00e0ni, e d' Egip\u00e0ni, e d' \u00e0ltri err\u00e0nti,\n  Ch'empier l\u00e8 solitari\u00e8 incult\u00e8 selv\u00e8\n  D'antich\u00e8 maravigli\u00e8; e quell'acc\u00f2lt\u00f2\n  Esercit\u00f2 di Bacc\u00f2 in \u00f2riente\n  Ond'egli vinse, e trionf\u00f2 degl'Indi,\n  Tornand\u00f2 gl\u00f2ri\u00f2s\u00f2 ai Greci lidi,\n  Sicc\u00f2m'e fav\u00f2l\u00f2s\u00f2 antic\u00f2 grid\u00f2.\"\n\nThe most diversified passage of this kind (as far as I an, aware) is\nAriosto's list of his friends at the close of the _Orlando_; and yet such\nwriting as follows would seem to shew that it was an accident:\n\n  \"I\u00f2 veggi\u00f2 il Fracast\u00f2r\u00f2, il Bevazzan\u00f2,\n    Trif\u00f2n Gabriel, e il Tass\u00f2 pi\u00f9 l\u00f2ntan\u00f2;\n  Veggo Nicc\u00f2l\u00f2 Tiepoli, e con esso\n    Nicc\u00f2l\u00f2 Amani\u00f2 in me affissar le ciglia;\n  Aut\u00f2n Fulg\u00f2s\u00f2, ch'a vedermi appress\u00f2\n    Al lit\u00f2, m\u00f2stra gaudi\u00f2 e maraviglia.\n  Il mi\u00f2 Valeri\u00f2 e quel che l\u00e0 s'\u00e8 mess\u00f2\n  Fu\u00f2r de le d\u00f2nne,\" &c.\n\n Even Metastasio, who wrote expressly for singers, and often with\nexquisite modulation, especially in his songs, forgets himself when he\ncomes to the names of his dramatis persome,--\"`Artaserse, `Art\u00e0b\u00e0no,\n`Arb\u00e0ce, M\u00e0nd\u00e0ne, Semir\u00e0, Meg\u00e0bise,\"--all in one play.\n\n  \"Gran cose io temo. Il mio germ\u00e0no `Arb\u00e0ce\n  P\u00e0rte pri\u00e0 de l'auror\u00e0. Il p\u00e0dre arm\u00e0to\n  Incontro, e non mi p\u00e0rl\u00e0. `Accus\u00e0 il cielo\n  `Agit\u00e0to `Art\u00e0serse, e m'\u00e0bb\u00e0ndon\u00e0.\"\n\n                                                 Atto i. se. 6.\n\nI am far from intending to say that these reiterations are not sometimes\nallowable, nay, often beautiful and desirable. Alliteration itself may be\nrendered an exquisite instrument of music. I am only speaking of monotony\nor discord in the enumeration of proper names.]\n\n[Footnote 40: See them both in the present volume, pp. 420 and 445.]\n\n\nOLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.\n\nArgument.\n\nThe Mahomedan king of Jerusalem, at the instigation of Ismeno, a\nmagician, deprives a Christian church of its image of the Virgin, and\nsets it up in a mosque, under a spell of enchantment, as a palladium\nagainst the Crusaders. The image is stolen in the night; and the king,\nunable to discover who has taken it, orders a massacre of the Christian\nportion of his subjects, which is prevented by Sophronia's accusing\nherself of the offence. Her lover, Olindo, finding her sentenced to the\nstake in consequence, disputes with her the right of martyrdom. He is\ncondemned to suffer with her. The Amazon Clorinda, who has come to fight\non the side of Aladin, obtains their pardon in acknowledgment of her\nservices; and Sophronia, who had not loved Olindo before, now returns his\npassion, and goes with him from the stake to the marriage-altar.\n\nOLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.\n\nGodfrey of Boulogne, the leader of the Crusaders, was now in full march\nfor Jerusalem with the Christian army; and Aladin, the old infidel king,\nbecame agitated with wrath and terror. He had heard nothing but accounts\nof the enemy's irresistible advance. There were many Christians within\nhis walls whose insurrection he dreaded; and though he had appeared to\ngrow milder with age, he now, in spite of the frost in his veins, felt as\nhot for cruelty, as the snake excited by the fire of summer. He longed\nto stifle his fears of insurrection by a massacre, but dreaded the\nconsequence in the event of the city's being taken. He therefore\ncontented himself, for the present, with laying waste the country round\nabout it, destroying every possible receptacle of the invaders,\npoisoning the wells, and doubly fortifying the only weak point in his\nfortifications.\n\nAt this juncture the renegade Ismeno stood before him--a bad old man who\nhad studied unlawful arts. He could bind and loose evil spirits, and draw\nthe dead out of their tombs, restoring to them breath and perception.\nThis man told the king, that in the church belonging to his Christian\nsubjects there was an altar underground, on which stood a veiled image of\nthe woman whom they worshipped--the mother, as they called her, of their\ndead and buried God. A dazzling light burnt for ever before it; and the\nwalls were hung with the offerings of her credulous devotees. If this\nimage, he said, were taken away by the king's own hand, and set up in a\nmosque, such a spell of enchantment could be thrown about it as should\nrender the city impregnable so long as the idol was kept safe.\n\nAladin proceeded instantly to the Christian temple, and, treating the\npriests with violence, tore the image from its shrine and conveyed it to\nhis own place of worship. The necromancer then muttered before it his\nblasphemous enchantment. But the light of morning no sooner appeared in\nthe mosque, than the official to whose charge the palladium had been\ncommitted missed it from its place, and in vain searched every other to\nfind it. In truth it never was found again; nor is it known to this\nday how it went. Some think the Christians took it; others that Heaven\ninterfered in order to save it from profanation. And well (says the\npoet) does it become a pious humility so to think of a disappearance so\nwonderful.\n\nThe king, who fell into a paroxysm of rage, not doubting that some\nChristian was the offender, issued a proclamation setting a price on\nthe head of any one who concealed it. But no discovery was made. The\nnecromancer resorted to his art with as little effect. The king then\nordered a general Christian massacre. His savage wrath hugged itself on\nthe reflection, that the criminal would be sure to perish, perish else\nwho might.\n\nThe Christians heard the order with an astonishment that took away all\ntheir powers of resistance. The suddenness of the presence of death\nstupified them. They did not resort even to an entreaty. They waited,\nlike sheep, to be butchered. Little did they think what kind of saviour\nwas at hand.\n\nThere was a maiden among them of ripe years, grave and beautiful; one who\ntook no heed of her beauty, but was altogether absorbed in high and holy\nthoughts. If she thought of her beauty ever, it was only to subject it to\nthe dignity of virtue. The greater her worth, the more she concealed it\nfrom the world, living a close life at home, and veiling herself from all\neyes.\n\nBut the rays of such a jewel could not but break through their casket.\nLove would not consent to have it so locked up. Love turned her very\nretirement into attraction. There was a youth who had become enamoured\nof this hidden treasure. His name was Olindo; Sophronia was that of the\nmaiden. Olindo, like herself, was a Christian; and the humbleness of his\npassion was equal to the worth of her that inspired it. He desired much,\nhoped little, asked nothing.[1] He either knew not how to disclose his\nlove, or did not dare it. And she either despised it, or did not, or\nwould not, see it. The poor youth, up to this day, had got nothing by his\ndevotion, not even a look.\n\nThe maiden, who was nevertheless as generous as she was virtuous, fell\ninto deep thought how she might save her Christian brethren. She soon\ncame to her resolve. She delayed the execution of it a little, only out\nof a sense of virgin decorum, which, in its turn, made her still more\nresolute. She issued forth by herself, in the sight of all, not muffling\nup her beauty, nor yet exposing it. She withdrew her eyes beneath a veil,\nand, attired neither with ostentation nor carelessness, passed through\nthe streets with unaffected simplicity, admired by all save herself. She\nwent straight before the king. His angry aspect did not repel her. She\ndrew aside the veil, and looked him steadily in the face.\n\n\"I am come,\" she said, \"to beg that you will suspend your wrath, and\nwithhold the orders given to your people. I know and will give up the\nauthor of the deed which has offended you, on that condition.\"\n\nAt the noble confidence thus displayed, at the sudden apparition of so\nmuch lofty and virtuous beauty, the king's countenance was confused, and\nits angry expression abated. Had his spirit been less stern, or the look\nshe gave him less firm in its purpose, he would have loved her. But\nhaughty beauty and haughty beholder are seldom drawn together. Glances\nof pleasure are the baits of love. And yet, if the ungentle king was not\nenamoured, he was impressed. He was bent on gazing at her; he felt an\nemotion of delight.\n\n\"Say on,\" he replied; \"I accept the condition.\"\n\n\"Behold then,\" said she, \"the offender. The deed was the work of this\nhand. It was I that conveyed away the image. I am she whom you look for.\nI am the criminal to be punished.\"\n\nAnd as she spake, she bent her head before him, as already yielding it to\nthe executioner.\n\nOh, noble falsehood! when was truth to be compared with thee?[2]\n\nThe king was struck dumb. He did not fall into his accustomed transports\nof rage. When he recovered from his astonishment, he said, \"Who advised\nyou to do this? Who was your accomplice?\"\n\n\"Not a soul,\" replied the maiden. \"I would not have allowed another\nperson to share a particle of my glory. I alone knew of the deed; I alone\ncounselled it; I alone did it.\"\n\n\"Then be the consequence,\" cried he, \"on your own head!\"\n\n\"'Tis but just,\" returned Sophronia. \"Mine was the sole honour; mine,\ntherefore, should be the only punishment.\"\n\nThe tyrant at this began to feel the accession of his old wrath. \"Where,\"\nhe said, \"have You hidden the image?\"\n\n\"I did not hide it,\" she replied, \"I burnt it. I thought it fit and\nrighteous to do so. I knew of no other way to save it from the hands of\nthe unbelieving. Ask not for what will never again be found. Be content\nwith the vengeance you have before you.\"\n\nOh, chaste heart! oh, exalted soul! oh, creature full of nobleness! think\nnot to find a forgiving moment return. Beauty itself is thy shield no\nlonger.\n\nThe glorious maiden is taken and bound. The cruel king has condemned her\nto the stake. Her veil, and the mantle that concealed her chaste bosom,\nare torn away, and her soft arms tied with a hard knot behind her. She\nsaid nothing; she was not terrified; but yet she was not unmoved. Her\nbosom heaved in spite of its courage. Her lovely colour was lost in a\npure white.\n\nThe news spread in an instant, and the city crowded to the sight,\nChristians and all, Olindo among them. He had thought within himself,\n\"What if it should be Sophronia!\" But when he beheld that it was she\nindeed, and not only condemned, but already at the stake, he made\nway through the crowd with violence, crying out, \"This is not the\nperson,--this poor simpleton! She never thought of such a thing; she had\nnot the courage to do it; she had not the strength. How was she to carry\nthe sacred image away? Let her abide by her story if she dare. I did it.\"\n\nSuch was the love of the poor youth for her that loved him not.\n\nWhen he came up to the stake, he gave a formal account of what he\npretended to have done. \"I climbed in,\" he said, \"at the window of your\nmosque at night, and found a narrow passage round to the image, where\nnobody could expect to meet me. I shall not suffer the penalty to be\nusurped by another. I did the deed, and I will have the honour of doing\nit, now that it comes to this. Let our places be changed.\"\n\nSophronia had looked up when she heard the youth call out, and she gazed\non him with eyes of pity. \"What madness is this!\" exclaimed she. \"What\ncan induce an innocent person to bring destruction on himself for\nnothing? Can I not bear the thing by myself? Is the anger of one man so\ntremendous, that one person cannot sustain it? Trust me, friend, you are\nmistaken. I stand in no need of your company.\"\n\nThus spoke Sophronia to her lover; but not a whit was he disposed to\nalter his mind. Oh, great and beautiful spectacle! Love and virtue at\nstrife;--death the prize they contend for;--ruin itself the salvation of\nthe conqueror! But the contest irritated the king. He felt himself set at\nnought; felt death itself despised, as if in despite of the inflictor.\n\"Let them be taken at their words,\" cried be; \"let both have the prize\nthey long for.\"\n\nThe youth is seized on the instant, and bound like the maiden. Both are\ntied to the stake, and set back to back. They behold not the face of one\nanother. The wood is heaped round about them; the fire is kindled.\n\nThe youth broke out into lamentations, but only loud enough to be heard\nby his fellow-sufferer. \"Is this, then,\" said he, \"the bond which I hoped\nmight join us? Is this the fire which I thought might possibly warm two\nlovers' hearts?[3] Too long (is it not so?) have we been divided, and now\ntoo cruelly are we united: too cruelly, I say, but not as regards me;\nfor since I am not to be partner of thy existence, gladly do I share thy\ndeath. It is thy fate, not mine, that afflicts me. Oh! too happy were it\nto me, too sweet and fortunate, if I could obtain grace enough to be\nset with thee heart to heart, and so breathe out my soul into thy lips!\nPerhaps thou wouldst do the like with mine, and so give me thy last\nsigh.\"\n\nThus spoke the youth in tears; but the maiden gently reproved him.\n\nShe said: \"Other thoughts, my friend, and other lamentations befit a time\nlike this. Why thinkest thou not of thy sins, and of the rewards which\nGod has promised to the righteous? Meet thy sufferings in his name; so\nshall their bitterness be made sweet, and thy soul be carried into the\nrealms above. Cast thine eyes upwards, and behold them. See how beautiful\nis the sky; how the sun seems to invite thee towards it with its\nsplendour.\"\n\nAt words so noble and piteous as these, the Pagans themselves, who stood\nwithin hearing, began to weep. The Christians wept too, but in voices\nmore lowly. Even the king felt an emotion of pity; but disdaining to give\nway to it, he turned aside and withdrew. The maiden alone partook not of\nthe common grief. She for whom every body wept, wept not for herself.\n\nThe flames were now beginning to approach the stake, when there appeared,\ncoming through the crowd, a warrior of noble mien, habited in the arms of\nanother country. The tiger, which formed the crest of his helmet, drew\nall eyes to it, for it was a cognizance well known. The people began to\nthink that it was a heroine instead of a hero which they saw, even the\nfamous Clorinda. Nor did they err in the supposition.\n\nA despiser of feminine habits had Clorinda been from her childhood. She\ndisdained to put her hand to the needle and the distaff. She renounced\nevery soft indulgence, every timid retirement, thinking that virtue could\nbe safe wherever it went in its own courageous heart; and so she armed\nher countenance with pride, and pleased herself with making it stern, but\nnot to the effect she looked for, for the sternness itself pleased. While\nyet a child her little right hand would control the bit of the charger,\nand she wielded the sword and spear, and hardened her limbs with\nwrestling, and made them supple for the race; and then as she grew up,\nshe tracked the footsteps of the bear and lion, and followed the trumpet\nto the wars; and in those and in the depths of the forest she seemed a\nwild creature to mankind, and a man to the wildest creature. She had now\ncome out of Persia to wreak her displeasure on the Christians, who had\nalready felt the sharpness of her sword; and as she arrived near this\nassembled multitude, death was the first thing that met her eyes, but in\na shape so perplexing, that she looked narrowly to discern what it was,\nand then spurred her horse towards the scene of action. The crowd gave\nway as she approached, and she halted as she entered the circle round the\nstake, and sat gazing on the youth and maiden. She wondered to see the\nmale victim lamenting, while the female was mute. But indeed she saw that\nhe was weeping not out of grief but pity; or at least, not out of grief\nfor himself; and as to the maiden, she observed her to be so wrapt up\nin the contemplation of the heavens at which she was gazing, that she\nappeared to have already taken leave of earth.\n\nPity touched the heart of the Amazon, and the tears came into her eyes.\nShe felt sorry for both the victims, but chiefly for the one that said\nnothing. She turned to a white-headed man beside her, and said, \"What is\nthis? Who are these two persons, whom crime, or their ill fortune, has\nbrought hither?\"\n\nThe man answered her briefly, but to the purpose; and she discerned at\nonce that both must be innocent. She therefore determined to save them.\nShe dismounted, and set the example of putting a stop to the flames, and\nthen said to the officers, \"Let nobody continue this work till I have\nspoken to the king. Rest assured he will hold you guiltless of the\ndelay.\" The officers obeyed, being struck with her air of confidence and\nauthority; and she went straight towards the king, who had heard of her\narrival, and who was coming to bid her welcome.\n\n\"I am Clorinda,\" she said. \"Thou knowest me? Then thou knowest, sir, one\nwho is desirous to defend the good faith and the king of Jerusalem. I am\nready for any duty that may be assigned me. I fear not the greatest, nor\ndo I disdain the least. Open field or walled city, no post will come\namiss to the king's servant.\"\n\n\"Illustrious maiden,\" answered the king, \"who knoweth not Clorinda? What\nregion is there so distant from Asia, or so far away out of the paths of\nthe sun, to which the sound of thy achievements has not arrived? Joined\nby thee and by thy sword I fear nothing. Godfrey, methinks, is too slow\nto attack me. Dost thou ask to which post thou shalt be appointed? To the\ngreatest. None else becomes thee. Thou art lady and mistress of the war.\"\n\nClorinda gave the king thanks for his courtesy, and then resumed.\n\"Strange is it, in truth,\" she said, \"to ask my reward before I have\nearned it; but confidence like this reassures me. Grant me, for what I\npropose to do in the good cause, the lives of these two persons. I wave\nthe uncertainty of their offence; I wave the presumption of innocence\nafforded by their own behaviour. I ask their liberation as a favour. And\nyet it becomes me, at the same time, to confess, that I do not believe\nthe Christians to have taken the image out of the mosque. It was an\nimpious thing of the magician to put it there. An idol has no business in\na Mussulman temple, much less the idols of unbelievers; and my opinion\nis, that the miracle was the work of Mahomet himself, out of scorn and\nhatred of the contamination. Let Ismeno prefer his craft, if he will, to\nthe weapons of a man; but let him not take upon himself the defence of a\nnation of warriors.\"\n\nThe warlike damsel was silent; and the king, though he could with\ndifficulty conquer his anger, yet did so, to please his guest. \"They are\nfree,\" said he; \"I can deny nothing to such a petitioner. Whether it be\njustice or not to absolve them, absolved they are. If they are innocent,\nI pronounce them so; if guilty, I concede their pardon.\"\n\nAt these words the youth and the maiden were set free. And blissful\nindeed was the fortune of Olindo; for love, so proved as his, awoke love\nin the noble bosom of Sophronia; and so he passed from the stake to\nthe marriage-altar, a husband, instead of a wretch condemned--a lover\nbeloved, instead of a hopeless adorer.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: \"Brama assai, poco spera, e nulla chiede.\" Canto ii. st. 16.\nA line justly famous.]\n\n[Footnote 2:\n\n  \"Magnanima menzogna! or quando \u00e8 il vero\n  S\u00ec bello, che si possa a te preporre?\"]\n\n[Footnote 3: This conceit is more dwelt upon in the original, coupled\nwith the one noticed at p. 362.]\n\n\nTANCRED AND CLORINDA.\n\nArgument.\n\nThe Mussulman Amazon Clorinda, who is beloved by the Christian chief\nTancred, goes forth in disguise at night to burn the battering tower of\nthe Christian army. She effects her purpose; but, in retreating from its\ndiscoverers, is accidentally shut out of the gate through which she had\nleft the city. She makes her way into the open country, trusting to get\nin at one of the other gates; but, having been watched by Tancred, who\ndoes not know her in the armour in which she is disguised, a combat\nensues between them, in which she is slain. She requests baptism in her\nlast moments, and receives it from the hands of her despairing lover.\n\nTANCRED AND CLORINDA\n\nThe Christians, in their siege of Jerusalem, had brought a huge rolling\ntower against the walls, from which they battered and commanded the city\nwith such deadly effect, that the generous Amazon Clorinda resolved to go\nforth in disguise and burn it. She disclosed her design to the chieftain\nArgantes, for the purpose of recommending to him the care of her damsels,\nin case any misfortune should happen to her; but the warrior, jealous of\nthe glory of such an enterprise, insisted on partaking it. The old king,\nweeping for gratitude, joyfully gave them leave; and the Soldan of Egypt,\nwith a generous emulation, would fain have joined them. Argantes was\nabout to give him a disdainful refusal, when the king interposed, and\npersuaded the Soldan to remain behind, lest the city should miss too many\nof its best defenders at one time; adding, that the risk of sallying\nforth should be his, in case the burners of the tower were pursued on\ntheir return. Argantes and the Amazon then retired to prepare for the\nexploit, and the magician Ismeno compounded two balls of sulphur for the\nwork of destruction.\n\nClorinda took off her beautiful helmet, and her surcoat of cloth of\nsilver, and laid aside all her haughty arms, and dressed herself (hapless\nomen!) in black armour without polish, the better to conceal herself from\nthe enemy. Her faithful servant, the good old eunuch Arsetes, who had\nattended her from infancy, and was now following her about as well as he\ncould with his accustomed zeal, anxiously noticed what she was doing,\nand guessing it was for some desperate enterprise, entreated her, by his\nwhite hairs and all the love he had shewn her, to give it up. Finding his\nprayers to no purpose, he requested with great emotion that she would\ngive ear to certain matters in her family history, which he at length\nfelt it his duty to disclose. \"It would then,\" he said, \"be for herself\nto judge, whether she would persist in the enterprise or renounce it.\"\nClorinda, at this, looked at the good man, and listened with attention.\n\n\"Not long ago,\" said he, \"there reigned in Ethiopia, and perhaps is still\nreigning, a king named Senapus, who in common with his people professed\nthe Christian religion. They are a black though a handsome people, and\nthe king and his queen were of the salve colour. The king loved her\ndearly, but was unfortunately so jealous, that he concealed her from\nthe sight of mankind. Had it been in his power, I think he would have\nhindered the very eyes of heaven from beholding her. The sweet lady,\nhowever, was wise and humble, and did every thing she could to please\nhim.\n\n\"I was not a Christian myself. I was a Pagan slave, employed among the\nwomen about the queen, and making one of her special attendants.\n\n\"It happened, that the royal bed-chamber was painted with the story of a\nholy knight saving a maiden from a dragon;[1] and the maiden had a face\nbeautifully fair, with blooming cheeks. The queen often prayed and\nwept before this picture; and it made so great an impression on her,\nparticularly the maiden's face, that when she bore a child, she saw with\nconsternation that the infant's skin was of the same fair colour. This\nchild was thyself. [2]\n\n\"Terrified with the thoughts of what her husband would feel at such a\nsight, what a convincing proof he would hold it of a faith on her part\nthe reverse of spotless,[3] she procured a babe of her own colour by\nmeans of a confidant; and before thou wert baptised (which is a ceremony\nthat takes place in Ethiopia later than elsewhere) committed thee to my\ncare to be brought up at a distance. Who shall relate the tears which\nthy mother poured forth, and the sighs and sobs with which they were\ninterrupted? How many times, when she thought she had given thee the\nlast embrace, did she not gather thee to her bosom once more! At length,\nraising her eyes to heaven, she said, 'O Thou that seest into the hearts\nof mortals, and knowest in this matter the spotlessness of mine, dark\nthough it be otherwise with frailty and with sin, save, I pray thee,\nthis innocent creature who is denied the milk of its mother's breast.\nVouchsafe that she resemble her hapless parent in nothing but a chaste\nlife. And thou, celestial warrior, that didst deliver the maiden out of\nthe serpent's mouth, if I have ever lit humble taper on thine altar, and\nset before thee offerings of gold and incense, be, I implore thee, her\nadvocate. Be her advocate to such purpose, that in every turn of fortune\nshe may be enabled to count on thy good help.' Here she ceased, torn to\nher very heart-strings, with a face painted of the colour of death; and\nI, weeping myself, received thee, and bore thee away, hidden in a sweet\ncovering of flowers and leaves.\n\n\"I journeyed with thee along a forest, where a tiger came upon us with\nfury in its eyes. I betook me, alas, to a tree, and left thee lying on\nthe ground, such terror was in me; and the horrible beast looked down\nupon thee. But it fell to licking thee with its dreadful tongue, and thou\ndidst smile to it, and put thy little hand to its jaws; and, lo, it gave\nthee suck, being a mother itself; and then, wonderful to relate, it\nreturned into the woods, leaving me to venture down from the tree, and\nbear thee onward to my place of refuge. There, in a little obscure\ncottage, I had thee nursed for more than a year; till, feeling that I\ngrew old, I resolved to avail myself of the riches the queen had given\nme, and go into my own country, which was Egypt. I set out for it\naccordingly, and had to cross a torrent where thieves threatened me on\none side, and the fierce water on the other. I plunged in, holding thee\nabove the torrent with one hand, till I came to an eddy that tore thee\nfrom me. I thought thee lost. What was my delight and astonishment, on\nreaching the bank, to find that the water itself had tossed thee upon it\nin safety!\n\n\"But I had a dream at night, which seemed to shew me the cause of\nthy good fortune. A warrior appeared before me with a threatening\ncountenance, holding a sword in my face, and saying in an imperious\nvoice, 'Obey the commands of the child's mother and of me, and baptise\nit. She is favoured of Heaven, and her lot is in my keeping. It was I\nthat put tenderness in the heart of the wild beast, and even a will to\nsave her in the water. Woe to thee, if thou believest not this vision. It\nis a message from the skies.'\n\n\"The spirit vanished, and I awoke and pursued my journey; but thinking my\nown creed the true one, and therefore concluding the dream to be false, I\nbaptised thee not; I bred thee what I was myself, a Pagan; and thou didst\ngrow up, and become great and wonderful in arms, surpassing the deeds\nof men, and didst acquire riches and lands; and what thy life has been\nsince, then knowest as well as I; ay, and thou knowest mine own ways too,\nhow I have followed and cautiously waited on thee ever, being to thee\nboth as a servant and father.\n\n\"Now yesterday morning, as I lay heavily asleep, in consequence of my\ntroubled mind, the same figure of the warrior made its appearance, but\nwith a countenance still more threatening, and speaking in a louder\nvoice. 'Wretch,' it exclaimed, 'the hour is approaching when Clorinda\nshall end both her life and her belief. She is mine in despite of thee.\nMisery be thine.' With these words it darted away as though it flew.\n\n\"Consider then, delight of my soul, what these dreams may portend. They\nthreaten thee terrible things; for what reason I know not. Can it be,\nthat mine own faith is the wrong one, and that of thy parents the right?\nAh! take thought at least, and repress this daring courage. Lay aside\nthese arms that frighten me.\"\n\nTears hindered the old man from saying more. Clorinda grew thoughtful,\nand felt something of dread, for she had had a like kind of dream. At\nlength, however, cheerfully looking up, she said, \"I must follow the\nfaith I was bred in; the faith which thou thyself bred'st me in,\nalthough thy words would now make me doubt it. Neither can I give up the\nenterprise that calls me forth. Such a withdrawal is not to be expected\nof an honourable soul. Death may put on the worst face it pleases. I\nshall not retreat.\"\n\nThe intrepid maiden, however, did her best to console her good friend;\nbut the time having arrived for the adventure, she finally bade him be of\ngood heart, and so left him.\n\nSilently, and in the middle of the night, Argantes and Clorinda took\ntheir way down the hills of Jerusalem, and, quitting the gates, went\nstealthily towards the site of the tower. But its ever-watchful guards\nwere alarmed. They demanded the watch-word; and, not receiving it, cried\nout, \"To arms! to arms!\" The dauntless adventurers plunged forwards with\ntheir swords; they dashed aside every assailant, pitched the balls of\nsulphur into the machine, and in a short time, in the midst of a daring\nconflict, had the pleasure of seeing the smoke and the flame arise, and\nthe whole tower blazing to its destruction. A terrible sight it was to\nthe Christians. Waked up, they came crowding to the place; and the two\ncompanions, notwithstanding their skill and audacity, were compelled to\nmake a retreat. The besieged, with the king at their head, now arrived\nalso, crowding on the walls; and the gate was opened to let the\nadventurers in. The Soldan issued forth at the same moment to cover the\nretreat. Argantes was forced through the gate by Clorinda in spite of\nhimself; and she, but for a luckless antagonist, would have followed him;\nbut a soldier aiming at her a last blow, she rushed back to give the man\nhis death; and, in the confusion of the moment, the warders, believing\nher to have entered, shut up the gate, and the heroine was left without.\n\nBehind Clorinda was the gate--before and round about her was a host of\nfoes; and surely at that moment she thought that her life was drawing to\nits end. Finding, however, that her dark armour befriended her in\nthe tumult, she mingled with the enemy as though she had been one of\nthemselves, and so, by degrees, picked her way through the confusion\ncaused by the fire. As the wolf, with its bloody mouth, seeks covert\nin the woods, even so Clorinda got clear out of the multitude into the\ndarkness and the open country.\n\nNot, however, so clear, alas, but that Tancred perceived her--Tancred,\nher foe in creed, but her adoring lover, whose heart she had conquered in\nthe midst of strife, and whose passion for her she knew. But now she knew\nnot that he had seen her; nor did he, poor valiant wretch, know that\nthe knight in black armour whom he pursued, was a woman, and Clorinda.\nTancred had seen the warrior strike down the assailant at the gate; he\nhad watched him as he picked his way to escape; and Clorinda now heard\nthe unknown Tancred coming swiftly on horseback behind her as she was\nspeeding round towards another gate in hopes of being let in.\n\nThe heroine at length turned, and said, \"How now, friend?--what is thy\nbusiness?\"\n\n\"Death!\" answered the pursuer.\n\n\"Thou shalt have it,\" replied the maiden.\n\nThe knight, as his enemy was on foot, dismounted, in order to render\nthe combat equal; and their swords are drawn in fury, and the fight\nbegins.[4]\n\nWorthy of the brightest day-time was that fight--worthy of a theatre full\nof valiant be-holders. Be not displeased, O. Night! that I draw it out of\nthy bosom, and set it in the serene light of renown: the splendour will\nbut the more exhibit the great shade of thy darkness.\n\nNo trial was this of skill--no contest of warding and traversing and\ntaking heed--no artful interchange of blows now pretended, now given in\nearnest, now glancing. Night-time and rage flung aside all consideration.\nThe swords horribly clashed and hammered on one another. Not a cut\ndescended in vain--not a thrust was without substance. Shame and fury\naggravated one another. Every blow became fiercer than the last. They\nclosed--they could use their blades no longer; they dashed the pummels of\ntheir swords at one another's faces; they butted and shouldered with helm\nand buckler. Three times the man threw his arms round the woman with\nother embraces than those of love--three times they returned to their\nswords, and cut and slashed one another's bleeding bodies; till at length\nthey were obliged to hold back for the purpose of taking breath.\n\nTancred and Clorinda stood fronting one another in the darkness, leaning\non their swords for want of strength. The last star in the heavens was\nfading in the tinge of dawn; and Tancred saw that his enemy had lost more\nblood than himself, and it made him proud and joyful. Oh, foolish mind of\nus humans, elated at every fancy of success! Poor wretch! for what dost\nthou rejoice? How sad will be thy victory! What a misery to look back\nupon, thy delight! Every drop of that blood will be paid for with worlds\nof tears!\n\nDimly thus looking at one another stood the combatants, bleeding a while\nin peace. At length Tancred, who wished to know his antagonist, said, \"It\nhath been no good fortune of ours to be compelled thus to fight where\nnobody can behold us; but we have at least become acquainted with the\ngood swords of one another. Let me request, therefore (if to request any\nthing at such a time be not unbecoming), that I may be no stranger to thy\nname. Permit me to learn, whatever be the result, who it is that shall\nhonour my death or my victory.\"\n\n\"I am not accustomed,\" answered the fierce maiden, \"to disclose who I am;\nnor shall I disclose it now. Suffice to hear, that thou seest before thee\none of the burners of the tower.\"\n\nTancred was exasperated at this discovery. \"In an evil moment,\" cried he,\n\"hast thou said it. Thy silence and thy speech alike disgust me.\" Into\nthe combat again they dash, feeble as they were. Ferocious indeed is the\nstrife in which skill is not thought of, and strength itself is dead; in\nwhich valour rages instead of contends, and feebleness becomes hate and\nfury. Oh, the gates of blood that were set open in wounds upon wounds!\nIf life itself did not come pouring forth, it was only because scorn\nwithheld it.\n\nAs in the \u00c6gean Sea, when the south and north winds have lost the\nviolence of their strength, the billows do not subside nevertheless, but\nretain the noise and magnitude of their first motion; so the continued\nimpulse of the combatants carried them still against one another,\nhurling them into mutual injury, though they had scarcely life in their\nbodies.[5]\n\nAnd now the fatal hour has come when Clorinda must die. The sword of\nTancred is in her bosom to the very hilt. The stomacher under the cuirass\nwhich enclosed it is filled with a hot flood.\n\nHer legs give way beneath her. She falls--she feels that she is\ndeparting. The conqueror, with a still threatening countenance, prepares\nto follow up his victory, and treads on her as she lies.\n\nBut a new spirit had come upon her--the spirit which called the beloved\nof Heaven to itself; and, speaking in a sorrowing voice, she thus uttered\nher last words:\n\n\"My friend, thou hast conquered--I forgive thee. Forgive thou me, not for\nmy body's sake, which fears nothing, but for the sake, alas, of my soul.\nBaptise me, I beseech thee.\"\n\nThere was something in the voice, as the dying person spake these words,\nthat went, he knew not why, to the heart of Tancred. The tears forced\nthemselves into his eyes. Not far off there was a little stream, and the\nconqueror went to it and filled his helmet; and returning, prepared for\nthe pious office by unlacing his adversary's helmet. His hands trembled\nwhen he first beheld the forehead, though he did not yet know it; but\nwhen the vizor was all down, and the face disclosed, he remained without\nspeech and motion.\n\nOh, the sight! oh, the recognition!\n\nHe did not die. He summoned up all the powers within him to support his\nheart for that moment. He resolved to hold up his duty above his misery,\nand give life with the sweet water to her whom he had slain with sword.\nHe dipped his fingers in it, and marked her forehead with the cross, and\nrepeated the words of the sacred office; and while he was repeating them,\nthe sufferer changed countenance for joy, and smiled, and seemed to say,\nin the cheerfulness of her departure, \"The heavens are opening--I go in\npeace.\" A paleness and a shade together then came over her countenance,\nas if lilies had been mixed with violets. She looked up at heaven, and\nheaven itself might be thought for very tenderness to be looking at her;\nand then she raised a little her hand towards that of the knight (for she\ncould not speak), and so gave it him in sign of goodwill; and with his\npressure of it her soul passed away, and she seemed asleep.\n\nBut Tancred no sooner beheld her dead, than all the strength of mind\nwhich he had summoned up to support him fell flat on the instant. He\nwould have given way to the most frantic outcries; but life and speech\nseemed to be shut up in one point in his heart; despair seized him like\ndeath, and he fell senseless beside her. And surely he would have died\nindeed, had not a party of his countrymen happened to come up. They were\nlooking for water, and had found it, and they discovered the bodies at\nthe same time. The leader knew Tancred by his arms. The beautiful body of\nClorinda, though he deemed her a Pagan, he would not leave exposed to\nthe wolves; so he directed them both to be carried to the pavilion of\nTancred, and there placed in separate chambers.\n\nDreadful was the waking of Tancred--not for the solemn whispering around\nhim--not for his aching wounds, terrible as they were,--but for the agony\nof the recollection that rushed upon him. He would have gone staggering\nout of the pavilion to seek the remains of his Clorinda, and save them\nfrom the wolves; but his friends told him they were at hand, under the\ncurtain of his own tent. A gleam of pleasure shot across his face, and be\nstaggered into the chamber; but when he beheld the body gored with his\nown hand, and the face, calm indeed, but calm like a pale night without\nstars, he trembled so, that he would have sunk to the ground but for his\nsupporters.\n\n\"O sweet face!\" he exclaimed; \"thou mayst be calm now; but what is to\ncalm me? O hand that was held up to me in sign of peace and forgiveness!\nto what have I brought thee? Wretch that I am, I do not even weep. Mine\neyes are as cruel as my hands. My blood shall be shed instead.\"\n\nAnd with these words he began tearing off the bandages which the surgeons\nhad put upon him; and he thrust his fingers into his wounds, and would\nhave slain himself thus outright, had not the pain made him faint away.\n\nHe was then taken back to his own chamber. Godfrey came in the mean\ntime with the venerable hermit Peter; and when the sufferer awoke, they\naddressed him in kind words, which even his impatience respected; but it\nwas not to be calmed till the preacher put on the terrors of religion,\nremonstrating with him as an ingrate to God, and threatening him with the\ndoom of a sinner. The tears then crept into his eyes, and he tried to be\npatient, and in some degree was so--only breaking out ever and anon, now\ninto exclamations of horror, and now into fond lamentations, talking as\nif with the shade of his beloved.\n\nThus lay Tancred for days together, ever woful; till, falling asleep one\nnight towards the dawn, the shade of Clorinda did indeed appear to him,\nmore beautiful than ever, and clad in light and joy. She seemed to stoop\nand wipe the tears from his eyes; and then said, \"Behold how happy I am.\nBehold me, O beloved friend, and see how happy, and bright, and beautiful\nI am; and consider that it is all owing to thyself. 'Twas thou that\ntook'st me out of the false path, and made me worthy of admission among\nsaints and angels. There, in heaven, I love and rejoice; and there I look\nto see thee in thine appointed time; after which we shall both love the\ngreat God and one another for ever and ever. Be faithful, and command\nthyself, and look to the end; for, lo, as far as it is permitted to a\nblessed spirit to love mortality, even now I love thee!\"\n\nWith these words the eyes of the vision grew bright beyond mortal beauty;\nand then it turned and was hidden in the depth of its radiance, and\ndisappeared.\n\nTancred slept a quiet sleep; and when he awoke, he gave himself patiently\nup to the will of the physician; and the remains of Clorinda were\ngathered into a noble tomb.[6]\n\n\n[Footnote 1: St. George.]\n\n[Footnote 2: This fiction of a white Ethiop child is taken from the Greek\nromance of Heliodorus, book the fourth. The imaginative principle on\nwhich it is founded is true to physiology, and Tasso had a right to use\nit; but the particular and excessive instance does not appear happy in\nthe eyes of a modern reader acquainted with the history of _albinos._]\n\n[Footnote 3: The conceit is more antithetically put in the original\n\n  \"Ch'egli avria del candor che in te si vede\n  Argomentato in lei non bianca fede.\"\n\n  Canto xii. st. 24.]\n\n[Footnote 4: The poet here compares his hero and heroine to two jealous\n\n\"bulls,\" no happy comparison certainly.\n\n  \"Vansi a ritrovar non altrimenti\n  Che duo tori gelosi.\"           St. 53.]\n\n[Footnote 5:\n\n  \"Qual l'alto Egeo, perch\u00e8 Aquilone o Noto\n    Cessi, che tutto prima il volse e scosse,\n  Non s'accheta per\u00f2, ma 'l suono e 'l moto\n    Ritien de l'onde anco agitate e grosse;\n  Tal, se ben manca in lor col sangue voto\n    Quel vigor che le braccia ai colpi mosse,\n  Serbano ancor l'impeto primo, e vanno\n  Da quel sospinti a giunger danno a danno.\"\n                                                      Canto xii. st. 63.]\n\n[Footnote 6: This tomb, Tancred says, in an address which he makes to it,\n\n  \"has his flames inside of it, and his tears without:\"\n  \"Che dentro hai le mie fiamme, e fuori il pianto.\" St. 96.]\n\nI am loath to disturb the effect of a really touching story; but if I do\nnot occasionally give instances of these conceits, my translations will\nbelie my criticism.]\n\n\nRINALDO AND ARMIDA:\n\nWITH THE\n\nADVENTURES OF THE ENCHANTED FOREST.\n\nArgument.\n\nPART I.--Satan assembles the fiends in council to consider the best means\nof opposing the Christians. Armida, the niece of the wizard king of\nDamascus, is incited to go to their camp under false pretences, and\nendeavour to weaken it; which she does by seducing away many of the\nknights, and sowing a discord which ends in the flight of Rinaldo.\n\nPART II.--Armida, after making the knights feel the power of her magic,\ndismisses them bound prisoners for Damascus. They are rescued on their\nway by Rinaldo. Armida pursues him in wrath, but falls in love with him.\n\nPART III.--The magician Ismeno succeeds in frightening the Christians in\ntheir attempt to cut wood from the Enchanted Forest. Rinaldo is sent for,\nas the person fated to undo the enchantment.\n\nPART IV.--Rinaldo and Armida, in love with each other, pass their time in\na bower of bliss. He is fetched away by two knights, and leaves her in\ndespair.\n\nPART V.--Rinaldo disenchants the forest, and has the chief hand in the\ntaking of Jerusalem. He meets and reconciles Armida. RINALDO AND ARMIDA,\nETC.\n\nPart the First\n\nARMIDA IN THE CHRISTIAN CAMP.\n\nThe Christians had now commenced their attack on Jerusalem, and brought a\ngreat rolling tower against the walls, built from the wood of a forest in\nthe neigbbourhood; when the Malignant Spirit, who has never ceased his\nwar with Heaven, cast in his mind how he might best defeat their purpose.\nIt was necessary to divide their forces; to destroy their tower; to\nhinder them from building another; and to make one final triumphant\neffort against the whole progress of their arms.\n\nForgetting how the right arm of God could launch its thunderbolts, the\nFiend accordingly seated himself on his throne, and ordered his powers to\nbe brought together. The Tartarean trumpet, with its hoarse voice, called\nup the dwellers in everlasting darkness. The huge black caverns trembled\nto their depths, and the blind air rebellowed with the thunder. The bolt\ndoes not break forth so horribly when it comes bursting after the flash\nout of the heavens; nor had the world before ever trembled with such an\nearthquake.[1]\n\nThe gods of the abyss came thronging up on all sides through the\ngates;--terrible-looking beings with unaccountable aspects, dispensers of\ndeath and horror with their eyes;--some stamping with hoofs, some rolling\non enormous spires,--their faces human, their hair serpents. There were\nthousands of shameless Harpies, of pallid Gorgons, of barking Scyllas,\nof Chimeras that vomited ashes, and of monsters never before heard or\nthought of, with perverse aspects all mixed up in one.\n\nThe Power of Evil sat looking down upon them, huger than a rock in the\nsea, or an alp with forked summits. A certain horrible majesty augmented\nthe terrors of his aspect. His eyes reddened; his poisonous look hung in\nthe air like a comet; the mouth, as it opened in the midst of clouds of\nbeard, seemed an abyss of darkness and blood; and out of it, as from a\nvolcano, issued fires, and vapours, and disgust.\n\nSatan laid forth to his dreadful hearers his old quarrel with Heaven,\nand its new threats of an extension of its empire. Christendom was to be\nbrought into Asia; their worshippers were to perish; souls were to be\nrescued from their devices, and Satan's kingdom on earth put an end to.\nHe exhorted them therefore to issue forth once for all and prevent this\nfatal consummation by the destruction of the Christian forces. Some of\nthe leaders he bade them do their best to disperse, others to slay,\nothers to draw into effeminate pleasures, into rebellion, into the ruin\nof the whole camp, so that not a vestige might remain of its existence.\n\nThe assembly broke up with the noise of hurricanes. They issued forth\nto look once more upon the stars, and to sow seeds every where of\ndestruction to the Christians. Satan himself followed them, and entered\nthe heart of Hydraotes, king of Damascus.\n\nHydraotes was a wizard as well as a king, and held the Christians in\nabhorrence. But he was wise enough to respect their valour; and with\nSatan's help he discerned the likeliest way to counteract it. He had a\nniece, who was the greatest beauty of the age. He had taught her his art:\nand he concluded, that the enchantments of beauty and magic united would\nprove irresistible. He therefore disclosed to her his object. He told her\nthat every artifice was lawful, when the intention was to serve one's\ncountry and one's faith; and he conjured her to do her utmost to separate\nGodfrey himself from his army, or in the event of that not being\npossible, to bring away as many as she could of his noblest captains.\n\nArmida (for that was her name), proud of her beauty, and of the unusual\narts that she had acquired, took her way the same evening, alone, and by\nthe most sequestered paths,--a female in gown and tresses issuing forth\nto conquer an army.[2]\n\nShe had not travelled many days ere she came in sight of the Christian\ncamp, the outskirts of which she entered immediately. The Frenchmen all\nflocked to see her, wondering who she was, and who could have sent them\nso lovely a messenger. Armida passed onwards, not with a misgiving air,\nnot with an unalluring, and yet not with an immodest one. Her golden\ntresses she suffered at one moment to escape from under her veil, and\nat another she gathered them again within it. Her rosy mouth breathed\nsimplicity as well as voluptuousness. Her bosom was so artfully draped,\nas to let itself be discerned without seeming to intend it. And thus she\npassed along, surprising and transporting every body. Coming at length\namong the tents of the officers, she requested to be shewn that of the\nleader; and Eustace eagerly stepped forward to conduct her.\n\nEustace was the younger brother of Godfrey. He had all the ardour of his\ntime of life, and the gallantry, in every respect, of a Frenchman. After\npaying her a profusion of compliments, and learning that she was a\nfugitive in distress, he promised her every thing which his brother's\nauthority and his own sword could do for her; and so led her into\nGodfrey's presence.\n\nThe pretended fugitive made a lowly obeisance, and then stood mute and\nblushing, till the general re-assured her. She then told him, that she\nwas the rightful queen of Damascus, whose throne was usurped by an uncle;\nthat her uncle sought her death, from which she had been saved by the man\nwho was bribed to inflict it; and that although her creed was Mahometan,\nshe had brought her mind to conclude, that so noble an enemy as Godfrey\nwould take pity on her condition, and permit some of his captains to aid\nthe secret wishes of her people, and seat her on the throne. Ten selected\nchiefs would overcome, she said, all opposition; and she promised in\nreturn to become his grateful and faithful vassal.\n\nThe leader of the Christian army sat a while in deliberation. His heart\nwas inclined to befriend the lady, but his prudence was afraid of a Pagan\nartifice. He thought also that it did not become his piety to turn aside\nfrom the enterprise which God had favoured. He therefore gave her a\ngentle refusal; but added, that should success attend him, and Jerusalem\nbe taken, he would instantly do what she required.\n\nArmida looked down, and wept. A mixture of indignation and despair\nappeared to seize her; and exclaiming that she had no longer a wish to\nlive, she accused, she said, not a heart so renowned for generosity as\nhis, but Heaven itself which had steeled it against her. What was she to\ndo? She could not remain in his camp. Virgin modesty forbade that. She\nwas not safe out of its bounds. Her enemies tracked her steps. It was fit\nthat she should die by her own hand.\n\nAn indignant pity took possession of the French officers. They wondered\nhow Godfrey could resist the prayers of a creature so beautiful; and\nEustace openly, though respectfully, remonstrated. He said, that if ten\nof the best of his captains could not be spared, ten others might;\nthat it especially became the Christians to redress the wrongs of the\ninnocent; that the death of a tyrant, instead of being a deviation from\nthe service of God, was one of the directest means of performing it; and\nthat France would never endure to hear, that a lady had applied to her\nknights for assistance, and found her suit refused.\n\nA murmur of approbation followed the words of Eustace. His companions\npressed nearer to the general, and warmly urged his request.\n\nGodfrey assented to a wish expressed by so many, but not with perfect\ngoodwill. He bade them remember, that the measure was the result of their\nown opinion, not his; and concluded by requesting them at all events, for\nhis sake, to moderate the excess of their confidence. The transported\nwarriors had scarcely any answer to make but that of congratulations to\nthe lady. She, on her side, while mischief was rejoicing in her heart,\nfirst expressed her gratitude to all in words intermixed with smiles and\ntears, and then carried herself towards every one in particular in the\nmanner which she thought most fitted to ensnare. She behaved to this\nperson with cordiality, to that with comparative reserve; to one with\nphrases only, to another with looks besides, and intimations of secret\npreference. The ardour of some she repressed, but still in a manner to\nrekindle it. To others she was all gaiety and attraction; and when others\nagain had their eyes upon her, she would fall into fits of absence, and\nshed tears, as if in secret, and then look up suddenly and laugh, and put\non a cheerful patience. And thus she drew them all into her net.\n\nYet none of all these men confessed that passion impelled them; every\nbody laid his enthusiasm to the account of honour--Eustace particularly,\nbecause he was most in love. He was also very jealous, especially of the\nheroical Rinaldo, Prince of Este; and as the squadron of horse to which\nthey both belonged--the greatest in the army--had lately been deprived of\nits chief, Eustace cast in his mind how he might keep Rinaldo from going\nwith Armida, and at the same time secure his own attendance on her, by\nadvancing him to the vacant post. He offered his services to Rinaldo for\nthe purpose, not without such emotion as let the hero into his secret;\nbut as the latter had no desire to wait on the lady, he smilingly\nassented, agreeing at the same time to assist the wishes of the lover.\nThe emissaries of Satan, however, were at work in all quarters. If\nEustace was jealous of Rinaldo as a rival in love, Gernando, Prince of\nNorway, another of the squadron that had lost its chief, was no less\nso of his gallantry in war, and of his qualifications for being his\ncommander. Gernando was a haughty barbarian, who thought that every sort\nof pre-eminence was confined to princes of blood royal. He heard of\nthe proposal of Eustace with a disgust that broke into the unworthiest\nexpressions. He even vented it in public, in the open part of the camp,\nwhen Rinaldo was standing at no great distance; and the words coming to\nthe hero's ears, and breaking down the tranquillity of his contempt,\nthe latter darted towards him, sword in hand, and defied him to single\ncombat. Gernando beheld death before him, but made a show of valour, and\nstood on his defence. A thousand swords leaped forth to back him, mixed\nwith as many voices; and half the camp of Godfrey tried to withhold the\nimpetuous youth who was for deciding his quarrel without the general's\nleave. But the hero's transport was not to be stopped; he dashed through\nthem all, forced the Norwegian to encounter him, and after a storm of\nblows that dazzled the man's eyes and took away his senses, ran his sword\nthrice through the prince's body. He then sent the blade into its sheath\nreeking as it was, and, taking his way back to his tent, reposed in the\ncalmness of his triumph.\n\nThe victor had scarcely gone, when the general arrived on the ground. He\nbeheld the slain Prince of Norway with acute feelings of regret. What was\nto become of his army, if the leaders thus quarrelled among themselves,\nand his authority was set at nought? The friends of the slain man\nincreased his anger against Rinaldo, by charging him with all the blame\nof the catastrophe. The hero's friend, Tancred, assuaged it somewhat by\ndisclosing the truth, and then ventured to ask pardon for the outbreak.\nBut the wise commander skewed so many reasons why such an offence could\nnot be overlooked, and his countenance expressed such a determination to\nresent it, that the gallant youth hastened secretly to his friend, and\nurged him to quit the camp till his services should be needed. Rinaldo at\nfirst called for his arms, and was bent on resisting every body who came\nto seize him, had it been even Godfrey himself; but Tancred shewing\nhim how unjust that would be, and how fatal to the Christian cause, he\nconsented with an ill grace to depart. He would take nobody with him but\ntwo squires; and he went away raging with a sense of ill requital for\nhis achievements, but resolving to prove their value by destroying every\ninfidel prince that he could encounter.\n\nArmida now tried in vain to make an impression on the heart of Godfrey.\nHe was insensible to all her devices; but she succeeded in quitting the\ncamp with her ten champions. Lots were drawn to determine who should go;\nand all who failed to be in the list--Eustace among them--were so jealous\nof the rest, that at night-time, after the others had been long on\nthe road, they set out to overtake them, each by himself, and all in\nviolation of their soldierly words. The ten opposed them as they came up,\nbut to no purpose. Armida reconciled them all in appearance, by feigning\nto be devoted to each in secret; and thus she rode on with them many a\nmile, till she came to a castle on the Dead Sea, where she was accustomed\nto practise her unfriendliest arts.\n\nMeanwhile news came to Godfrey that his Egyptian enemies were at hand\nwith a great fleet, and that his caravan of provisions had been taken by\nthe robbers of the desert. His army was thus threatened with ruin from\ndesertion, starvation, and the sword. He maintained a calm and even a\ncheerful countenance; but in his thoughts he had great anxiety.\n\nPart the Second.\n\nARMIDA'S HATE AND LOVE.\n\nThe castle to which Armida took her prisoners occupied an island close to\nthe shore in the loathsome Dead Sea. They entered it by means of a narrow\nbridge; but if their pity had been great at seeing her forced to take\nrefuge in a spot so desolate and repulsive, how pleasingly was it changed\ninto as great a surprise at finding a totally different region within the\nwalls! The gardens were extensive and lovely; the rivulets and fountains\nas sweet as the flowery thickets they watered; the breezes refreshing,\nthe skies of a sapphire blue, and the birds were singing round about them\nin the trees. Her riches astonished them no less. The side of the castle\nthat looked on the gardens was all marble and gold; a banquet awaited\nthem beside a water on a shady lawn, consisting of the exquisitest viands\non the costliest plate; and a hundred beautiful maidens attended them\nwhile they feasted. The enchantress was all smiles and delight; and such\nwas her art, that although she bestowed no favour on any body beyond his\nbanquet and his hopes, every body thought himself the favoured lover.\n\nBut no sooner was the feast over, than the greatest and worst of their\nastonishments ensued. The lady quitted them, saying she should return\npresently. She did so with a troubled and unfriendly countenance, having\na book in one hand, and a little wand in the other. She read in the book\nin a low voice, and while she was reading shook the little wand; and the\nguests, altering in every part of their being, and shrinking into minute\nbodies, felt an inclination, which they obeyed, to plunge into the water\nbeside them. They were fish. In a little while they were again men,\nlooking her in the face with dread and amazement. She had restored them\nto their humanity. She regarded them with a severe countenance, and said\n\"You have tasted my power; I can exercise it far more terribly--can put\nyou in dungeons for ever--can turn you to roots in the ground--to flints\nwithin the rock. Beware of my wrath, and please me; quit your faiths for\nmine, and fight against the blasphemer Godfrey.\"\n\nEvery Christian but one rejected her alternative with abhorrence. Him she\nmade one of her champions; the rest were tied and bound, and after being\nkept a while in a dungeon were sent off as a present to the King of\nEgypt, with an escort that came from Damascus to fetch them.\n\nExulting was left the fair and bigoted magician; but she little guessed\nwhat a new fortune awaited them on the road. The discord with which the\npowers of evil had seconded her endeavours to weaken the Christian camp,\nhad turned in this instance against herself. It had made Rinaldo a\nwanderer; it had brought his wanderings into this very path; and he now\nmet the prisoners, and bade defiance to the escort. A battle ensued, in\nwhich the hero won his accustomed victory. The Christians, receiving the\narmour of their foes, joyfully took their way back to the camp; and one\nof the escort, who escaped the slaughter, returned to Armida with news of\nthe deliverance of her captives.\n\nThe mortified enchantress took horse and went in pursuit of Rinaldo, with\nwrath and vengeance in her heart. She tracked him from place to place,\ntill she knew he must arrive on the banks of the Orontes; and there,\nmaking a stealthy circuit, she cast a spell, and lay in wait for him in a\nlittle island which divided the stream in two.[3]\n\nRinaldo came up with his squires; he beheld on the bank a pillar of white\nmarble, and beside it on the water a little boat. The pillar presented\nan inscription, inviting travellers to cross to the island and behold a\nwonder of the world. The hero accepted the invitation; but as the boat\nwas too small to hold more than one person, and the circumstance probably\nan appeal to his courage, he bade his squires wait for him, and proceeded\nby himself.\n\nOn reaching the island and casting his eyes eagerly round about, the\nadventurer could discern nothing but trees and grottos, flowers and\ngrass, and water. He thought himself trifled with; but as the spot was\nbeautiful and refreshing, he took off his helmet, resolving to stay a\nlittle and repose. He crossed to the farther side of the island, and lay\ndown on the river-side. On a sudden he observed the water bubble and\ngurgle in a manner that was very strange; and presently the top of a head\narose with beautiful hair, then the face of a damsel, then the bosom.\nThe fair creature stood half out of the stream, and warbled a song so\nluxurious and so lulling, that the little wind there was seemed to\nfall in order to listen; and the young warrior was so drowsed with the\nsweetness, that languor crept through all his senses, and he slept.\nArmida came from out a thicket and looked on him. She had resolved that\nhe should perish. But when she saw how placidly he breathed, and what an\nintimation of beautiful eyes there was in his very eyelids, she hung over\nhim, still looking.\n\nIn a little while she sat down by his side, always looking. She hung over\nhim as Narcissus did over the water, and indignation melted out of her\nheart. She cooled his face with her veil; she made a fan of it; she gave\nherself up to the worship of those hidden eyes. Of an enemy she became a\nlover.[4]\n\nArmida gathered trails of roses and lilies from the thickets around her,\nand cast a spell on them, and made bands with which she fettered his\nsleeping limbs; and then she called her nymphs, and they put him into her\near, and she went away with him through the air far off, even to one of\nthe Fortunate Islands in the great ocean, where her jealousy, assisted by\nher art, would be in dread of no visitors, no discovery. She bore him to\nthe top of a mountain, and cast a spell about the mountain, to make the\ntop lovely and the sides inaccessible. She put shapes of wild beasts\nand monsters in the woods of the lowest region, and heaps of ice in the\nsecond, and alluring and betraying shapes and enchantments towards the\nsummit; and round the summit she put walls and labyrinths of inextricable\nerror; and in the heart of these was a palace by a lake, and the\nloveliest of gardens.\n\nMere Rinaldo was awaked by love and beauty; and here for the present he\nis left.\n\nPart the Third.\n\nTHE TERRORS OF THE ENCHANTED FOREST.\n\nMeantime the siege of the Holy City had gone on, with various success on\neither side, but chiefly to the loss of the Christians. The machinations\nof Satan were prevailing. Rinaldo, in his absence, was thought to have\nbeen slain by the contrivance of Godfrey, which nearly produced a revolt\nof the forces. Godfrey was himself wounded in battle by Clorinda: and now\nthe great wooden tower was burnt, and Clorinda slain in consequence (as\nyou have heard in another place), which oppressed the courage of Tancred\nwith melancholy.\n\nOn the other hand, the Powers of Evil were far from being as prosperous\nas they wished. They had lost the soul of Clorinda. They had seen Godfrey\nhealed by a secret messenger from Heaven, who dropt celestial balsam\ninto his wound. They had seen the return of Armida's prisoners, who had\narrived just in time to change the fortune of a battle, and drive the\nPagans back within their walls. And worse than all, they had again felt\nthe arm of St. Michael, who had threatened them with worse consequences\nif they reappeared in the contest.\n\nThe fiends, however, had colleagues on earth, who plotted for them\nmeanwhile. The Christians had set about making another tower; but in\nthis proceeding they were thwarted by the enchanter Ismeno, who cast his\nspells to better purpose this time than he had done in the affair of the\nstolen image. The forest in which the Christians obtained wood for these\nengines lay in a solitary valley, not far from the camp. It was very old,\ndark, and intricate; and had already an evil fame as the haunt of impure\nspirits. No shepherd ever took his flock there; no Pagan would cut a\nbough from it; no traveller approached it, unless he had lost his way:\nhe made a large circuit to avoid it, and pointed it out anxiously to his\ncompanions.\n\nThe necessity of the Christians compelled them to defy this evil repute\nof the forest; and Ismeno hastened to oppose them. He drew his line, and\nuttered his incantations, and called on the spirits whom St. Michael had\nrebuked, bidding them come and take charge of the forest--every one of\nhis tree, as a soul of its body. The spirits delayed at first, not only\nfor dread of the great angel, but because they resented the biddings of\nmortality, even in their own cause. The magician, however, persisted; and\nhis spells becoming too powerful to be withstood, presently they came\npouring in by myriads, occupying the whole place, and rendering the very\napproach to it a task of fear and labour. The first party of men that\ncame to cut wood were unable to advance when they beheld the trees, but\nturned like children, and became the mockery of the camp. Godfrey sent\nthem back, with a chosen squadron to animate them to the work; but the\nsquadron themselves, however boldly they affected to proceed, lead no\nsooner approached the spot, than they found reason to forgive the fears\nof the woodcutters. The earth shook; a great wind began rising, with a\nsound of waters; and presently, every dreadful noise ever heard by man\nseemed mingled into one, and advancing to meet them--roarings of lions,\nhissings of serpents, pealings and rolls of thunder. The squadron went\nback to Godfrey, and plainly confessed that it had not courage enough to\nenter such a place.\n\nA leader, of the name of Alcasto, shook his head at this candour with a\ncontemptuous smile. He was a man of the stupider sort of courage, without\nmind enough to conceive danger. \"Pretty soldiers,\" exclaimed he, \"to be\nafraid of noises and sights! Give the duty to me. Nothing shall stop\nAlcasto, though the place be the mouth of hell.\"\n\nAlcasto went; and he went farther than the rest, and the trembling\nwoodcutters once more prepared their axes; but, on a sudden, there sprang\nup between them and the trees a wall of fire which girded the whole\nforest. It had glowing battlements and towers; and on these there\nappeared armed spirits, with the strangest and most bewildering aspects.\nAlcasto retired--slowly indeed, but with shame and terror; nor had he the\ncourage to re-appear before his commander. Godfrey had him brought, but\ncould hardly get a word from his lips. The man talked like one in a\ndream.\n\nAt last Tancred went. He would have, gone before; but he had neither\nthought the task so difficult, nor did he care for any thing that was\ngoing forward. His mind was occupied with the dead Clorinda. He had now\nwork that aroused him; and he set out in good earnest for the forest, not\nunmoved in his imagination, but resolved to defy all appearances.\n\nArrived at the wall of fire, Tancred halted a moment, and looked up at\nthe visages on its battlements, not without alarm. Many reflections\npassed swiftly through his mind, some urging him forward, others\nwithholding; but he concluded with stepping right through the fire. It\ndid not resist him: he did not feel it.\n\nThe fire vanished; and, in its stead, there poured down a storm of hail\nand rain, black as midnight. This vanished also.\n\nTancred stood amazed for an instant, and then passed on. He was soon in\nthe thick of the wood, and for some time made his way with difficulty. On\na sudden, he issued forth into a large open glade, like an amphitheatre,\nin which there was nothing but a cypress-tree that stood in the middle.\nThe cypress was marked with hieroglyphical characters, mixed with some\nwords in the Syrian tongue which he could read; and these words requested\nthe stranger to spare the fated place, nor trouble the departed souls who\nwere there shut up in the trees. Meantime the wind was constantly moaning\naround it; and in the moaning was a sound of human sighs and tears.\n\nTancred's heart, for a moment, was overcome with awe and pity; but\nrecollecting himself, and resolving to make amends for his credulity,\nhe smote with all his might at the cypress. The blow, wonderful to see,\nproduced an effusion of blood, which dyed the grass about the root.\nTancred's hair stood on end. He smote, however, again, with double\nviolence, resolving to see the end of the marvel; and then he heard a\nwoful voice issuing as from a tomb.\n\n\"Hast thou not hurt me,\" it said, \"Tancred, enough already? Hast thou\nslain the human body which I once joyfully inhabited; and now must thou\ncut and rend me, even in this wretched enclosure? My name was Clorinda.\nEvery tree which thou beholdest is the habitation of some Christian or\nPagan soul; for all come hither that are slain beneath the walls of the\ncity, compelled by I know not what power, or for what reason. Every bough\nin the forest is alive; and when thou cuttest down a tree, thou slayest a\nsoul.\"\n\nAs a sick man in a dream thinks, and yet thinks not, that he sees some\ndreadful monster, and, notwithstanding his doubt, wishes to fly from the\nhorrible perplexity; so the trembling lover, though suspecting what he\nbeheld, had so frightful an image before his thoughts of Clorinda weeping\nand wailing after death, and bleeding in her very soul, that he had\nnot the heart to do more, or to remain in the place. He returned in\nbewildered sorrow to Godfrey, and told him all. \"It is not in my power,\"\nhe said, \"to touch another bough of that forest.\"[5]\n\nThe astonished leader of the Christians now made up his mind to go\nhimself; and so, with prayer and valour united, bring this appalling\nadventure to some conclusion. But the hermit Peter dissuaded him. The\nholy man, in an ecstacy of foreknowledge, beheld the coming of the only\nchampion fated to conclude it; and Godfrey himself the same night had a\nvision from heaven, bidding him grant the petition of those who should\nsue him next day for the recall of Rinaldo from exile--Rinaldo, the right\nhand of the army, as Godfrey was its head.\n\nThe petition was made as soon as daylight appeared; and two knights,\nCarlo and Ubaldo, were despatched in search of the fated hero.\n\nPart the Fourth\n\nTHE LOVES OF RINALDO AND ARMIDA.\n\nThe knights, with information procured on the road from a good wizard,\nstruck off for the sea-coast, and embarking in a pinnace which\nmiraculously awaited them, sailed along the shores of the Mediterranean\nfor the retreat of Armida. They saw the Egyptian army assembled at Gaza,\nbut hoped to return with Rinaldo before it could effect anything at\nJerusalem. They passed the mouths of the Nile, and Alexandria, and\nCyrene, and Ptolemais, and the cities of the Moors, and the dangers of\nthe Greater and Lesser Whirlpools, and their pilot showed them the spot\nwhere Carthage stood,--Carthage, now a dead city, whose grave is scarcely\ndiscernible. For cities die; kingdoms die;--a little sand and grass\ncovers all that was once lofty in them and glorious. And yet man,\nforsooth, disdains that he is mortal! Oh, mind of ours, inordinate and\nproud![6]\n\nAfter looking towards the site of Carthage, they passed Algiers, and\nOran, and Tingitana, and beheld the opposite coast of Spain, and\nthen they cleared the narrow sea of Gibraltar, and came out into the\nimmeasurable ocean, leaving all sight of land behind them; and so\nspeeding ever onward in the billows, they beheld at last a cluster of\nmountainous and beautiful islands; the larger ones inhabited by a simple\npeople, the smaller quite wild and desolate. So at least they appeared.\nBut in one of these smaller islands was the mountain, on the top of\nwhich, in the indulgence of every lawless pleasure, lay the champion of\nthe Christian faith. This the pilot shewed to the two knights, and then\nsteered the pinnace into its bay; and here, after a voyage of four days\nand nights, it dropped its sails without need of anchor, so mild and\nsheltered was the port, with natural moles curving towards the entrance,\nand evergreen woods overhead.\n\nIt was evening, with a beautiful sunset. The knights took leave of the\npilot, and setting out instantly on their journey, well furnished with\nall advices how to proceed, slept that night at the foot of the mountain;\nfor they were not to begin to scale it till sunrise. With the first beams\nof the sun they arose and ascended. They had not climbed far, when a\nserpent rushed out upon the path, entirely stopping it, but fled at the\nsound of a slender rod, which Ubaldo whisked as he advanced. A lion, for\nall his cavernous jaws, did the same; nor was greater resistance made by\na whole herd of monsters. They now mounted with great labour the region\nof ice and snow; but, at the top of it, emerged from winter-time into\nsummer. The air was full of sweet odours, yet fresh; they sauntered (for\nthey could not walk fast) over a velvet sward, under trees, by the side\nof a shady river; and a bewitching pleasure began to invite their senses.\nBut they knew the river, and bore in mind their duty. It was called the\nRiver of Laughter.[7] A little way on, increasing in beauty as it went,\nit formed a lucid pool in a dell; and by the side of this pool was a\ntable spread with every delicacy, and in the midst of it two bathing\ndamsels, talking and laughing. Sometimes they sprinkled one another, then\ndived, then partly came up without spewing their faces, then played a\nhundred tricks, pretending all the while not to see the travellers. Then\nthey became quiet, and sunk gently; and, as they reappeared, one of them\nrose half into sight, sweetly as the morning star when it issues from the\nwater, dewy and dropping, or as Venus herself arose out of the froth of\nthe sea. Such looked this damsel, and so did the crystal moisture\ngo dropping from her tresses. Then she turned her eyes towards the\ntravellers, and feigning to behold them for the first time, shrunk within\nherself. She hastened to undo the knot in which her tresses were tied up,\nand shook them round about her, and down they fell to the water thick and\nlong, enclosing that beautiful sight; and yet the enclosure itself was\nnot less beautiful. So, hid in the pool below, and in her tresses above,\nshe glanced at the knights through her hair, with a blushing gladness.\nShe blushed and she laughed at the same time; and the blushing was more\nbeautiful for the laughter, and the laughter for the blushing; and then\nshe said, in a voice which would alone have conquered any other hearers,\n\"You are very happy to be allowed to come to this place. Nothing but\ndelight is here. Our queen must have chosen you from a great number. But\nbe pleased first to rid you of the dust of your journey, and to refresh\nyourselves at this table.\"\n\nSo spake the one; and the other accompanied her speech with accordant\nlooks and gestures, as the dance accompanies the music.\n\nNor was the allurement unfelt.\n\nBut the companions passed on, taking no notice; and the bathers went\nsullenly under the water.[8]\n\nThe knights passed through the gates of the park of Armida, and entered a\nlabyrinth made with contrivance the most intricate. Here their path would\nhave been lost, but for a map traced by one who knew the secret. By\nthe help of this they threaded it in safety, and issued upon a garden\nbeautiful beyond conception. Every thing that could be desired in\ngardens was presented to their eyes in one landscape, and yet without\ncontradiction or confusion,--flowers, fruits, water, sunny hills,\ndescending woods, retreats into corners and grottos: and what put the\nlast loveliness upon the scene was, that the art which did it all was no\nwhere discernible.[9] You might have supposed (so exquisitely was the\nwild and the cultivated united) that all had somehow happened, not been\ncontrived. It seemed to be the art of Nature herself; as though, in a fit\nof playfulness, she had imitated her imitator. But the temperature of the\nplace, if nothing else, was plainly the work of magic, for blossoms and\nfruit abounded at the same time. The ripe and the budding fig grew on the\nsame bough; green apples were clustered upon those with red cheeks; the\nvines in one place had small leaves and hard little grapes, and in the\nnext they laid forth their richest tapestry in the sun, heavy with\nbunches full of wine. At one time you listened to the warbling of birds;\nand a minute after, as if they had stopped on purpose, nothing was heard\nbut the whispering of winds and the fall of waters. It seemed as if every\nthing in the place contributed to the harmony and the sweetness. The\nnotes of the turtle-dove were deeper here than any where else; the hard\noak, and the chaste laurel, and the whole exuberant family of trees,\nthe earth, the water, every element of creation, seemed to have been\ncompounded but for one object, and to breathe forth the fulness of its\nbliss.[10]\n\nThe two messengers, hardening their souls with all their might against\nthe enchanting impression, moved forward silently among the trees; till,\nlooking through the branches into a little opening which formed a bower,\nthey saw--or did they but think they saw?--no, they saw indeed the hero\nand his Armida reclining on the grass.[11] Her dress was careless,\nher hair loose in the summer-wind. His head lay in her bosom; a smile\ntrembled on her lips and in her eyes, like a sunbeam in water; and as she\nthus looked on him with passionate love, he looked up at her, face to\nface, and returned it with all his soul.\n\nNow she kissed his lips, now his eyes; and then they looked again at one\nanother with their ever-hungry looks; and then she kissed him again, and\nhe gave a sigh so deep you would have thought his soul had gone out of\nhim, and passed into hers. The two warriors from their covert gazed on\nthe loving scene.\n\nAt the lover's side there hung a strange accoutrement for a warrior,\nnamely, a crystal mirror. He rose a little on his elbow, and gave it into\nArmida's hands: and in two different objects each beheld but one emotion,\nshe hers in the glass, and he his own in her eyes. But he would not\nsuffer her to look long at any thing but himself; and then they spake\nloving and adoring words; and after a while Armida bound up her hair, and\nput some flowers into it, as jewels might be put upon gold, and added a\nrose or two to the lilies of her bosom, and adjusted her veil. And never\ndid peacock look so proudly beautiful when he displays the pomp of his\neyed plumes; nor was ever the rainbow so sweetly coloured when it curves\nforth its dewy bosom against the light.[12] But lovely above all was the\neffect of a magic girdle which the enchantress had made with her whole\nart, and which she never laid aside day or night. Spirit in it had taken\nsubstance; the subtlest emotions of the soul a shape and palpability.\nTender disdains were in it, and repulses that attracted, and levities\nthat endeared, and contentments full of joy, and smiles, and little\nwords, and drops of delicious tears, and short-coming sighs, and soft\nkisses. All these she had mingled together, and made one delight out\nof many, and wound it about her heart, and wore it for a charm\nirresistible.[13]\n\nAnd now she kissed him once more, and begged leave of a little absence\n(for love is courteous ever), and so went as usual to her books and her\nmagic arts. Rinaldo remained where he was, for he had no power to wish\nhimself out of the sweet spot; only he would stray a while among the\ntrees, and amuse himself with the birds and squirrels, and so be a loving\nhermit till she returned. And at night they retired under one roof, still\nin the midst of the garden.\n\nBut no sooner had Armida gone, than the two warriors issued from their\nhiding-place, and stood before the lover, glittering in their noble arms.\n\nAs a war-horse, that has been taken from the wars, and become the\nluxurious husband of the stud, wanders among the drove in the meadows in\nvile enjoyment; should by chance a trumpet be heard in the place, or a\ndazzling battle-axe become visible, he turns towards it on the instant,\nand neighs, and longs to be in the lists, and vehemently desires the\nrider on his back who is to dash and be dashed at in the encounter;--even\nso turned the young hero when the light of the armour flashed upon him,\neven so longed for the war, even so shook himself up out of his bed of\npleasure, with all his great qualities awaked and eager.\n\nUbaldo saw the movement in his heart, and held right in his face the\nshield of adamant, which had been brought for the purpose. It was a\nmirror that shewed to the eyes of every one who looked into it the very\nman as he was.\n\nBut when Rinaldo beheld himself indeed,--when he read his transformation,\nnot in the flattering glass of the enchantress, but by the light of\nthis true, and simple, and severe reflector,--his hair tricked out with\nflowers and unguents, his soft mantle of exquisitest dye, and his very\nsword rendered undistinguishable for what it was by a garland,--shame and\nremorse fell upon him. He felt indeed like a dreamer come to himself. He\nlooked down. He could not speak. He wished to hide himself in the bottom\nof the sea.\n\nUbaldo raised his voice and spoke. \"All Europe and Asia,\" said he, \"are\nin arms. Whoever desires fame, or is a worshipper of his Saviour, is a\nfighter in the land of Syria. Thou only, O son of Bertoldo, remainest\nout of the high way of renown--in luxury--in a little corner; thou only,\nunmoved with the movement of the world, the champion of a girl. What\ndream, what lethargy can have drowned a valour like thine? What vileness\nhave had attraction for thee? Up, up, and with us. The camp, the\ncommander himself calls for thee; fortune and victory await thee. Come,\nfated warrior, and finish thy work; see the false creed which thou hast\nshaken, laid low beneath thy inevitable sword.\"\n\nOn hearing these words the noble youth remained for a time without\nspeaking, without moving. At length shame gave way to a passionate sense\nof his duty. With a new fire in his cheeks, he tore away the effeminate\nornaments of his servitude, and quitted the spot without a word. In a few\nmoments he had threaded the labyrinth: he was outside the gate. Ere long\nhe was descending the mountain.\n\nBut meantime Armida had received news of the two visitors; and coming to\nlook for them, and casting her eyes down the steep, she beheld--with his\nface, alas, turned no longer towards her own--the hasty steps of her hero\nbetween his companions. She wished to cry aloud, but was unable. She\nmight have resorted to some of her magic devices, but her heart forbade\nher. She ran, however--for what cared she for dignity?--she ran down\nthe mountain, hoping still by her beauty and her tears to arrest the\nfugitive; but his feet were too strong, even for love: she did not reach\nhim till he had arrived on the sea-shore. Where was her pride now? where\nthe scorn she had exhibited to so many suitors? where her coquetry and\nher self-sufficiency--her love of being loved, with the power to hate the\nlover? The enchantress was now taught what the passion was, in all its\ndespair as well as delight. She cried aloud. She cared not for the\npresence of the messengers. \"Oh, go not, Rinaldo,\" she cried; \"go not, or\ntake me with thee. My heart is torn to pieces. Take me, or turn and kill\nme. Stop, at least, and be cruel to me here. If thou hast the heart to\nfly me, it will not be hard to thee to stay and be unkind.\"\n\nEven the messengers were moved at this, or seemed to be moved. Ubaldo\ntold the fugitive that it would be heroical in him to wait and hear what\nthe lady had to say, with gentleness and firmness.\n\nHis conquest over himself would then be complete.\n\nRinaldo stopped, and Armida came up breathless and in tears--lovelier\nthan ever. She looked earnestly at him at first, without a word. He gave\nher but a glance, and looked aside.\n\nAs a fine singer, before he lets loose his tongue in the lofty utterance\nof his emotion, prepares the minds of his hearers with some sweet\nprelude, exquisitely modulating in a lower tone,--so the enchantress,\nwhose anguish had not deprived her of all sense of her art, breathed a\nfew sighs to dispose the soul of her idol to listen, and then said: \"I\ndo not beg thee to hear me as one that loves me. We both loved once; but\nthat is over. I beg thee to hear, even though as one that loves me not.\nIt will cost thy disdain nothing to grant me that. Perhaps thou hast\ndiscovered a pleasure in hating me. Do so. I come not to deprive thee of\nit. If it seem just to thee, just let it be. I too once hated. I hated\nthe Christians--hated even thyself. I thought it right to do so: I was\nbred up to think it. I pursued thee to do thee mischief; I overtook thee;\nI bore thee away; and worse than all--for now perhaps thou loathest me\nfor it--I loved thee. I loved thee, for the first time that I loved any\none; nay, I made thee love me in turn; and, alas, I gave myself into\nthine arms. It was wrong. I was foolish; I was wicked. I grant that I\nhave deserved thou shouldst think ill of me, that thou shouldst punish\nme, and quit me, and hate to have any remembrance of this place which I\nhad filled with delights. Go; pass over the seas; make war against my\nfriends and my country; destroy us all, and the religion we believe in.\nAlas! _'we'_ do I say? The religion is mine no longer--O thou, the cruel\nidol of my soul. Oh, let me go with thee, if it be but as thy servant,\nthy slave. Let the conqueror take with him his captive; let her be\nmocked; let her be pointed at; only let her be with thee. I will cut off\nthese tresses, which no longer please thee: I will clothe myself in other\nattire, and go with thee into the battle. I have courage and strength\nenough to bear thy lance, to lead thy spare-horse, to be, above all,\nthy shield-bearer--thy shield. Nothing shall touch thee but through\nme--through this bosom, Rinaldo. Perhaps mischance may spare thee for\nits sake. Not a word? not a little word? Do I dare to boast of what thou\nhadst once a kind word for, though now thou wilt neither look upon me nor\nspeak to me?\"\n\nShe could say no more: her words were suffocated by a torrent of tears.\nBut she sought to take his hand, to arrest him by his mantle--in vain.\nHe could scarcely, it is true, restrain his tears: but he did. He looked\nsorrowful, but composed; and at length he said: \"Armida, would I could do\nas thou wishest; but I cannot. I would relieve thee instantly of all this\ntumult of emotion. No hate is there in him that must quit thee; no such\ndisdain as thou fanciest; nothing but the melancholy and impetuous sense\nof his duty. Thou hast erred, it is true--erred both in love and hate;\nbut have I not erred with thee? and can I find excuse which is not found\nfor thyself? Dear and honoured ever wilt thou be with Rinaldo, whether in\njoy or sorrow. Count me, if it please thee, thy champion still, as far as\nmy country and my faith permit; but here, in this spot, must be buried\nall else--buried, not for my sake only, but for that of thy beauty, thy\nworthiness, thy royal blood. Consent to disparage thyself no longer.\nPeace be with thee. I go where I have no permission to take thee with me.\nBe happy; be wise.\" While Rinaldo was speaking in this manner, Armida\nchanged colour; her bosom heaved; her eyes took a new kind of fire; scorn\nrose upon her lip. When he finished, she looked at him with a bitterness\nthat rejected every word he had said; and then she exclaimed: \"Thou hast\nno such blood in thine own veins as thou canst fear to degrade. Thy\nboasted descent is a fiction: base, and brutish, and insensible was thy\nstock. What being of gentle blood could quit a love like mine without\neven a tear--a sigh? What but the mockery of a man could call me his, and\nyet leave me? vouchsafe me his pardon, as if I had offended him? excuse\nmy guilt and my tenderness; he, the sage of virtue, and me, the wretch! O\nGod! and these are the men that take upon them to slaughter the innocent,\nand dictate faiths to the world! Go, hard heart, with such peace as thou\nleavest in this bosom. Begone; take thine injustice from my sight for\never. My spirit will follow thee, not as a help, but as a retribution.\nI shall die first, and thou wilt die speedily: thou wilt perish in the\nbattle. Thou wilt lie expiring among the dead and bleeding, and wilt call\non Armida in thy last moments, and I shall hear it--yes, I shall hear it;\nI shall look for that.\"\n\nDown fell Armida on the ground, senseless; and Rinaldo stood over her,\nweeping at last. Open thine eyes, poor wretch, and see him. Alas, the\nheavens deny thee the consolation! What will he do? Will he leave thee\nlying there betwixt dead and alive? Or will he go--pitying thee, but\nstill going? He goes; he is gone; he is in the bark, and the wind is in\nthe sail; and he looks back--ever back; but still goes: the shore begins\nto be out of sight.\n\nArmida woke, and was alone. She raved again, but it was for vengeance.\nIn a few days she was with the Egyptian army, a queen at the head of her\nvassals, going against the Christians at Jerusalem.\n\nPart the Fifth.\n\nTHE DISENCHANTMENT OF THE FOREST, AND THE TAKING OF JERUSALEM, &c.\n\nRinaldo arrived without loss of time in the Christian camp before\nJerusalem. Every body rejoiced to see the right hand of the army. Godfrey\ngladly pardoned him; the hermit Peter blessed him; he himself retired to\nbeg the forgiveness and favour of Heaven; and then he went straight to\nthe Enchanted Forest.\n\nIt was a beautiful morning, and the forest, instead of presenting its\nusual terrors, appeared to him singularly tranquil and pleasing. On\nentering it he heard, not dreadful thunder-claps, but harmonies made\nup of all sorts of gentle and lovely sounds--brooks, whispering winds,\nnightingales, organs, harps, human voices. He went slowly and cautiously,\nand soon came to a beautiful river which encircled the heart of the wood.\nA bridge of gold carried him over. He had no sooner crossed it, than the\nriver higher up suddenly swelled and rushed like a torrent, sweeping\nthe bridge away. The harmony meanwhile had become silent. Admiring, but\nnothing daunted, the hero went on.\n\nEvery thing as he advanced appeared to start into fresh beauty. His steps\nproduced lilies and roses; here leaped up a fountain, and there came\nfalling a cascade; the wood itself seemed to grow young as with sudden\nspring; and he again heard the music and the human voices, though he\ncould see no one.\n\nPassing through the trees, he came into a glade in the heart of the wood,\nin the centre of which he beheld a myrtle-tree, the largest and most\nbeautiful ever seen: it was taller than a cypress or palm, and seemed the\nqueen of the forest. Looking around him, he observed to his astonishment\nan oak suddenly cleave itself open, and out of it there came a nymph. A\nhundred other trees did the same, giving birth to as many nymphs. They\nwere all habited as we see them in theatres; only, instead of bows and\narrows, each held a lute or guitar. Coming towards the hero with joyful\neyes, they formed a circle about him, and danced; and in their dancing\nthey sang, and bade him welcome to the haunt of their mistress, their\nloving mistress, of whom he was the only hope and joy. Looking as they\nspoke towards the myrtle, Rinaldo looked also, and beheld, issuing out of\nit--Armida.\n\nArmida came sweetly towards him, with a countenance at once grieving and\nrejoicing, but expressing above all infinite affection. \"And do I indeed\nsee thee again?\" she said; \"and wilt thou not fly me a second time? am\nI visited to be consoled, or to be treated again as an enemy? is poor\nArmida so formidable, that thou must needs close up thine helmet when\nthou beholdest her? Thou mightest surely have vouchsafed her once more a\nsight of thine eyes. Let us be friends, at least, if we may be nothing\nmore. Wilt thou not take her hand?\"\n\nRinaldo's answer was, to turn away as from a cheat, to look towards the\nmyrtle-tree, to draw his sword, and proceed with manifest intentions of\nassailing it. She ran before him shrieking, and hugged it round. \"Nay,\nthou wilt not,\" she said, \"thou wilt not hurt my tree--not cut and slay\nwhat is bound up with the life of Armida? Thy sword must pass first\nthrough her bosom.\"\n\nArmida writhed and wailed; Rinaldo nevertheless raised his sword, and it\nwas coming against the tree, when her shape, like a thing in a dream,\nwas metamorphosed as quick as lightning. It became a giant, a Briareus,\nwielding a hundred swords, and speaking in a voice of thunder. Every\none of the nymphs at the same instant became a Cyclops; tempest and\nearthquake ensued, and the air was full of ghastly spectres.\n\nRinaldo again raised his arm with a more vehement will; he struck, and\nat the same instant every horror disappeared. The sky was cloudless; the\nforest was neither terrible nor beautiful, but heavy and sombre as of\nold--a natural gloomy wood, but no prodigy.\n\nRinaldo returned to the camp, his aspect that of a conqueror; the silver\nwings of his crest, the white eagle, glittering in the sun. The hermit\nPeter came forward to greet him; a shout was sent up by the whole camp;\nGodfrey gave him high reception; nobody envied him. Workmen, no longer\ntrembling, were sent to the forest to cut wood for the machines of war;\nand the tower was rebuilt, together with battering-rams and balistas, and\ncatapults, most of them an addition to what they had before. The tower\nalso was now clothed with bulls-hides, as a security against being set on\nfire; and a bridge was added to the tower, from which the besiegers could\nat once step on the city-walls.\n\nWith these long-desired invigorations of his strength, the commander of\nthe army lost no time in making a general assault on Jerusalem; for\na dove, supernaturally pursued by a falcon, had brought him letters\nintended for the besieged, informing them, that if they could only hold\nout four days longer, their Egyptian allies would be at hand. The Pagans\nbeheld with dismay the resuscitated tower, and all the new engines coming\nagainst them. They fought valiantly; but Rinaldo and Godfrey prevailed.\nThe former was the first to scale the walls, the latter to plant his\nstandard from the bridge. The city was entered on all sides, and the\nenemy driven, first into Solomon's Temple, and then into the Citadel, or\nTower of David. Before the assault, Godfrey had been vouchsafed a sight\nof armies of angels in the air, accompanied by the souls of those who had\nfallen before Jerusalem; the latter still fighting, the former rejoicing;\nso that there was no longer doubt of triumph; only it still pleased\nHeaven that human virtue should be tried.\n\nAnd now, after farther exploits on both sides, the last day of the war,\nand the last hope of the Infidels, arrived at the same time; for the\nEgyptian army came up to give battle with the Christians, and to restore\nJerusalem, if possible, to its late owners, now cramped up in one corner\nof it--the citadel. The besiegers in their narrow hold raised a shout of\njoy at the sight; and Godfrey, leaving them to be detained in it by an\nexperienced captain, went forth to meet his new opponents. Crowns of\nAfrica and of Persia were there, and the king of the Indies; and in the\nmidst of all, in a chariot surrounded by her knights and suitors, was\nArmida.\n\nThe battle joined, and great was the bravery and the slaughter on both\nsides. It seemed at first all glitter and gaiety--its streamers flying,\nits arms flashing, drums and trumpets rejoicing, and horses rushing with\ntheir horsemen as to the tournament. Horror looked beautiful in the\nspectacle. Out of the midst of the dread itself there issued a delight.\nBut soon it was a bloody, and a turbulent, and a raging, and a groaning\nthing:--pennons down, horses and men rolling over, foes heaped upon one\nanother, bright armour exchanged for blood and dirt, flesh trampled, and\nspirit fatigued. Brave were the Pagans; but how could they stand against\nHeaven? Godfrey ordered every thing calmly, like a divine mind; Rinaldo\nswept down the fiercest multitudes, like an arm of God. The besieged in\nthe citadel broke forth, only to let the conquerors in. Jerusalem was won\nbefore the battle was over. King after king fell, and yet the vanquished\ndid not fly. Rinaldo went every where to hasten the rout; and still had\nto fight and slay on. Armida beheld him coming where she sat in the midst\nof her knights; he saw her, and blushed a little: she turned as cold as\nice, then as hot as fire. Her anger was doubled by the slaughter of her\nfriends; and with her woman's hand she sent an arrow out of her bow,\nhoping, and yet even then hoping not, to slay or to hurt him. The arrow\nfell on him like a toy; and he turned aside, as she thought, in disdain.\nYet he disdained not to smite down her champions. Hope of every kind\ndeserted her. Resolving to die by herself in some lonely spot, she got\ndown from her chariot to horse, and fled out of the field. Rinaldo saw\nthe flight; and though one of the knights that remained to her struck him\nsuch a blow as made him reel in his saddle, he despatched the man with\nanother like a thunderbolt, and then galloped after the fugitive.\n\nArmida was in the act of putting a shaft to her bosom, in order to die\nupon it, when her arm was arrested by a mighty grasp; and turning round,\nshe beheld with a shriek the beloved face of him who had caused the ruin\nof her and hers. She closed her disdainful eyes and fainted away. Rinaldo\nsupported her; he loosened her girdle; he bathed her bosom and her\neyelids with his tears. Coming at length to herself, still she would\nnot look at him. She would fain not have been supported by him. She\nendeavoured with her weak fingers to undo the strong ones that clasped\nher; she wept bitterly, and at length spoke, but still without meeting\nhis eyes.\n\n\"And may I not,\" she said, \"even die? must I be followed and tormented\neven in my last moments? What mockery of a wish to save me is this! I\nwill not be watched; I believe not a syllable of such pity; and I will\nnot be made a sight of, and a by-word. I ask my life of thee no longer;\nI want nothing but death; and death itself I would not receive at such\nhands; they would render even that felicity hateful. Leave me. I could\nnot be hindered long from putting an end to my miseries, whatever\nbarbarous restraint might be put upon me. There are a thousand ways of\ndying; and I will be neither hindered, nor deceived, nor flattered--oh,\nnever more!\"\n\nWeeping she spoke--weeping always, and sobbing, and full of wilful words.\nBut yet she felt all the time the arm that was round her.\n\n\"Armida,\" said Rinaldo, in a voice full of tenderness, \"be calm, and know\nme for what I am--no enemy, no conqueror, nothing that intends thee shame\nor dishonour; but thy champion, thy restorer--he that will preserve thy\nkingdom for thee, and seat thee in house and home. Look at me--look in\nthese eyes, and see if they speak false. And oh, would to Heaven thou\nwouldst indeed be as I am in faith. There isn't a queen in all the East\nshould equal thee in glory.\"\n\nHis tears fell on her eyelids as he spoke--scalding tears; and she looked\nat him, and her heart re-opened to its lord, all love and worship; and\nArmida said, \"Behold thy handmaid; dispose of her even as thou wilt.\"\n\nAnd that same day Godfrey of Boulogne was lord of Jerusalem, and paid his\nvows on the sepulchre of his Master.\n\n\n[Footnote 1:\n\n  \"Chiama gli abitator' de l'ombre eterne\n    Il rauco suon de la tartarea tromba.\n  Treman le spaziose atre caverne,\n    E l'aer cieco a quel romor rimbomba.\n  N\u00e8 s\u00ec stridendo mai da le superne\n    Regioni del cielo il folgor piomba:\n  N\u00e8 s\u00ec scossa gi\u00e0 mai trema la terra,\n  Quando i vapori in sen gravida serra.\"\n                                               Canto iv. st. 3.\n\n  The trump of Tartarus, with iron roar,\n    Called to the dwellers the black regions under:\n  Hell through its caverns trembled to the core,\n    And the blind air rebellowed to the thunder:\n  Never yet fiery bolt more fiercely tore\n    The crashing firmament, like rocks, asunder;\n  Nor with so huge a shudder earth's foundations\n  Shook to their mighty heart, lifting the nations.\n\nThe tone of this stanza (suggested otherwise by Vida) was caught from a\nfine one in Politian, the passage in which about the Nile I ought to have\ncalled to mind at page 168.\n\n  \"Con tal romor, qualor l'aer discorda,\n    Di Giove il foco d'alta nube piomba:\n  Con tal tumulto, onde la gente assorda,\n    Da l'alte cataratte il Nil rimbomba:\n  Con tal orror del Latin sangue ingorda\n    Son\u00f2 Megera la tartarea tromba.\"\n\n_Fragment on the Jousting of Giuliano de' Medici_.\n\n  Such is the noise, when through his cloudy floor\n    The bolt of Jove falls on the pale world under;\n  So shakes the land, where Nile with deafening roar\n    Plunges his clattering cataracts in thunder;\n  Horribly so, through Latium's realm of yore,\n    The trump of Tartarus blew ghastly wonder.]\n\n[Footnote 2:\n\n  \"La bella Armida, di sua forma altiera,\n    E de' doni del sesso e de l'etate,\n  L' impresa prende: e in su la prima sera\n    Parte, e tiene sol vie chiuse e celate:\n  E 'n treccia e 'n gonna femminile spera\n    Vincer popoli invitti e schiere armate.\"\n                                          Canto iv. st. 27.]\n\n[Footnote 3:\n\n  \"That sweet grove\n  Of Daphne by Orontes.\"\n_Parad. Lost_, b. iv.\n\nIt was famous for the most luxurious worship of antiquity. Vide Gibbon,\nvol. iii. p. 198.]\n\n[Footnote 4: I omit a point about \"fires\" of love, and \"ices\" of the\nheart; and I will here observe, once for all, that I omit many such in\nthese versions of Tasso, for the reason given in the Preface.]\n\n[Footnote 5: In the original, an impetuous gust of wind carries away the\nsword of Tancred; a circumstance which I mention because Collins admired\nit (see his Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands). I confess I\ncannot do so. It seems to me quite superfluous; and when the reader\nfinds the sword conveniently lying for the hero outside the wood, as he\nreturns, the effect is childish and pantomimic. If the magician wished\nhim not to fight any more, why should he give him the sword back? And if\nit was meant as a present to him from Clorinda, what gave her the\npower to make the present? Tasso retained both the particulars in the\n_Gerusalemme Conquistata_.]\n\n[Footnote 6:\n\n  \"Giace l'alta Cartago: appena i segni\n     De l'alte sue ruine il lido serba.\n\n  Muoiono le citt\u00e0: muoiono i regni:\n    Copre i fasti e le pompe arena ed erba:\n  E l'uom d'esser mortal par che si sdegni.\n    Oh nostra mente cupida e superba!\"\n\n                                        Canto xv. st. 20.\n\n  Great Carthage is laid low. Scarcely can eye\n    Trace where she stood with all her mighty crowd\n  For cities die; kingdoms and nations die;\n    A little sand and grass is all their shroud;\n  Yet mortal man disdains mortality!\n    O mind of ours, inordinate and proud!\n\nVery fine is this stanza of Tasso; and yet, like some of the finest\nwriting of Gray, it is scarcely more than a cento. The commentators call\nit a \"beautiful imitation\" of a passage in Sannazzaro; and it is; but the\npassage in Sannazzaro is also beautiful. It contains not only the \"Giace\nCartago,\" and the \"appena i segni,\" &c., but the contrast of the pride\nwith the mortality of man, and, above all, the \"dying\" of the cities,\nwhich is the finest thing in the stanza of its imitator.\n\n                     \"Qua devictae Carthaginis arces\n  Procubuere, jacentque infausto in littore turres\n  Eversae; quantum ille metus, quantum illa laborum\n  Urbs dedit insultans Latio et Laurentibus arvis!\n  Nunc passim vix reliquias, vix nomina servans,\n  Obruitur propriis non agnoscenda ruinis.\n  Et querimur genus infelix, humana labare\n  Membra aevo, cum regna palam moriantur et urbes.\"\n\n                                             _De Partu Virginis_, lib. ii.\n\nThe commentators trace the conclusion of this passage to Dante, where he\nsays that it is no wonder families perish, when cities themselves \"have\ntheir terminations\" (termin hanuo): but though there is a like germ of\nthought in Dante, the mournful flower of it, the word \"death,\" is not\nthere. It was evidently suggested by a passage (also pointed out by the\ncommentators) in the consolatory letter of Sulpicius to Cicero, on the\ndeath of his daughter Tullia;--\"Heu nos homunculi indignamur, si quis\nnostrum interiit, aut occisus est, quorum vita brevior esse debet, cum\nuno loco tot oppidorum cadavera projecta jaceant.\" (Alas! we poor human\ncreatures are indignant if any one of us dies or is slain, frail as are\nthe materials of which we are constituted; and yet we can see, lying\ntogether in one place, the dead bodies of I know not how many cities!)\nThe music of Tasso's line was indebted to one in Petrarch's _Trionfo del\nTempo, v. 112\n\n  _\" Passan le signorie, passano i regni;\"\n\nand the fine concluding verse, \"Oh nostra mente,\" to another perhaps\nin his _Trionfo della Divinit\u00e0, v. 61_, not without a recollection of\nLucretius, lib. ii. v. 14:\n\n  \"O miseras hominum menteis! o pectora caeca!\"]\n\n[Footnote 7: A fountain which caused laughter that killed people is in\nPomponius Mela's account of the Fortunate Islands; and was the origin of\nthat of Boiardo; as I ought to have noticed in the place.]\n\n[Footnote 8: All this description of the females bathing is in the\nhighest taste of the voluptuous; particularly the latter part:\n\n  \"Qual mattutina stella esce de l'onde\n    Rugiadosa e stillante: o come fuore\n  Spunt\u00f2 nascendo gi\u00e0 da le feconde\n    Spume de l'ocean la Dea d'Amore:\n  Tale apparve costei: tal le sue bionde\n    Chiome stillavan cristallino umore.\n  Poi gir\u00f2 gli occhi, e pur allor s'infinse\n  Que' duo vedere, e in se tutta si strinse:\n\n  E 'l crin the 'n cima al capo avea raccolto\n    In un sol nodo, immantinente sciolse;\n  Che lunghissimo in gi\u00f9 cadendo, e folto,\n    D'un aureo manto i molli avori involse.\n  Oh che vago spettacolo \u00e8 lor tolto!\n    Ma mon men vago fu chi loro il tolse.\n  Cos\u00ec da l'acque e da capelli ascosa,\n  A lor si volse, lieta e vergognosa.\n\n  Rideva insieme, e insieme ella arrossia;\n    Ed era nel rossor pi\u00f9 bello il riso,\n  E nel riso il rossor, the le copria\n    Insino al mento il delicato viso.\"\n                                         Canto xv. st. 60.\n\nSpenser, among the other obligations which it delighted him to owe to\nthis part of Tasso's poem, has translated these last twelve lines:\n\n  \"With that the other likewise up arose,\n  And her fair locks, which formerly were bound\n  Up in one knot, she low adown did loose,\n  Which, flowing long and thick, her cloth'd around,\n  And th' ivory in golden mantle gown'd:\n  So that fair spectacle from him was reft;\n  Yet that which reft it, no less fair was found.\n     So hid in locks and waves from looker's theft,\n  Nought but her lovely face she for his looking left.\n\n     Withal she laugh\u00e8d, and she blush'd withal;\n     That blushing to her laughter gave more grace,\n     And laughter to her blushing.\"\n                              Fairy Queen, book ii. canto 12, St. 67.\n\nTasso's translator, Fairfax, worthy both of his original and of Spenser,\nhas had the latter before him in his version of the passage, not without\na charming addition of his own at the close of the first stanza:\n\n  \"And her fair locks, that in a knot were tied\n    High on her crown, she 'gan at large unfold;\n  Which falling long and thick, and spreading wide,\n    The ivory soft and white mantled in gold:\n  Thus her fair skin the dame would clothe and hide;\n    And that which hid it, no less fair was hold.\n  Thus clad in waves and locks, her eyes divine\n  From them ashamed would she turn and twine.\n\n  Withal she smil\u00e8d, and she blush'd withal;\n    Her blush her smiling, smiles her blushing graced.\"]\n\n[Footnote 9:\n\n  \"E quel che 'l bello e 'l caro accresce a l'opre,\n  L'arte, the tutto fa, nulla si scopre.\n\n  Stimi (si misto il culto \u00e8 col negletto)\n    Sol naturali e gli ornamenti e i siti.\n  Di natura arte par, the per diletto\n    L'imitatrice sua scherzando imiti.\"\n\nThe idea of Nature imitating Art, and playfully imitating her, is in\nOvid; but that of a mixture of cultivation and wildness is, as far as I\nam aware, Tasso's own. It gives him the honour of having been the first\nto suggest the picturesque principle of modern gardening; as I ought\nto have remembered, when assigning it to Spenser in a late publication\n(_Imagination and Fancy, p. 109_). I should have noticed also, in the\nsame work, the obligations of Spenser to the Italian poet for the passage\nbefore quoted about the nymph in the water.]\n\n[Footnote 10:\n\n  \"Par che la dura quercia e 'l casto alloro,\n    E tutta la frondosa ampia famiglia,\n  Par the la terra e l'acqua e formi e spiri\n  Dolcissimi d'amor sensi e sospiri.\"\n                                          St. 16.\n\nFairfax in this passage is very graceful and happy (in the first part of\nhis stanza he is speaking of a bird that sings with a human voice--which\nI have omitted):\n\n  \"She ceased: and as approving all she spoke,\n    The choir of birds their heavenly tunes renew;\n  The turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke;\n    The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew;\n  It seem'd the laurel chaste and stubborn oak,\n    And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,\n  It seem'd the land, the sea, and heaven above,\n  All breath'd out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love.\"]\n\n[Footnote 11:\n\n  \"Ecco tra fronde e fronde il guardo avante\n  Penetra, e vede, o pargli di vedere,\n  Vede per certo,\" &c.\n                                                                   St. 17.]\n\n[Footnote 12: The line about the peacock,\n\n  \"Spiega la pompa de l'occhiute piume,\"\n  Opens wide the pomp of his eyed plumes,\n\nwas such a favourite with Tasso, that he has repeated it from the\n_Aminta_, and (I think) in some other place, but I cannot call it to\nmind.]\n\n[Footnote 13:\n\n \"Teneri sdegni, e placide e tranquille\n    Repulse, e cari vezzi, e liete paci,\n  Sorrisi, e parolette, e dolci stille\n  Di pianto, e sospir' tronchi, e molli baci.\"      St. 5\n\nThis is the cestus in Homer, which Venus lends to Juno for the purpose of\nenchanting Jupiter\n\nGreek: N kai apo staethesphin elusato keston himanta\n  Poikilon' entha de ohi thelktaeria panta tetukto'\n  Enth' heni men philotaes, en d' himeras, en d' oaristus,\n  Parphasis, hae t' eklepse noon puka per phroneonton.]\n\n                                                     Iliad, lib. xiv. 214.\n\n  She said; and from her balmy bosom loosed\n  The girdle that contained all temptinguess--\n  Love, and desire, and sweet and secret talk\n  Lavish, which robs the wisest of their wits.]\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo. I.\n\nTHE DEATH OF AGRICAN.\n\nBOIARDO.\n\n  Orlando ed Agricane un' altra fiata\n    Ripreso insieme avean crudel battaglia,\n  La pi\u00f9 terribil mai non fu mirata,\n    L'arme l'un l'altro a pezzo a pezzo taglia.\n  Vede Agrican sua gente sbarattata,\n    N\u00e8 le pu\u00f2 dar aiuto, che le vaglia.\n  Per\u00f2 che Orlando tanto stretto il tiene,\n  Che star con seco a fronte gli conviene.\n\n  Nel suo segreto f\u00e8 questo pensiero,\n    Trar fuor di schiera quel Conte gagliardo;\n  E poi Che ucciso l'abbia in su 'l sentiero,\n    Tornare a la battaglia senza tardo;\n  Per\u00f2 che a lui par facile e leggiero\n    Cacciar soletto quel popol codardo;\n  Ch\u00e8 tutti insieme, e 'l suo Re Galafrone,\n  Non li stimava quanto un vil bottone.\n\n  Con tal proposto si pone a fuggire,\n    Forte correndo sopra la pianura;\n  Il Conte nulla pensa a quel fallire,\n    Anzi crede che 'l faccia per paura.\n  Senz' altro dubbio se 'l pone a seguire,\n    E gi\u00e0 son giunti ad una selva scura\n  Appunto in mezzo a quella selva piana,\n  Era un bel prato intorno a una fontana.\n\n  Fermossi ivi Agricane a quella fonte,\n    E smont\u00f2 de l'arcion per riposare,\n  Ma non si tolse l'elmo da la fronte,\n    N\u00e8 piastra, o scudo si volse levare;\n  E poco dimor\u00f2, che giunse 'l Conte,\n    E come il vide a la fonte aspettare,\n  Dissegli: Cavalier, tu sei fuggito,\n  E s\u00ec forte mostravi e tanto ardito!\n\n  Come tanta vergogna puoi soffrire,\n    A dar le spalle ad un sol cavaliero!\n  Forse credesti la morte fuggire,\n    Or vedi che fallito hai il pensiero;\n  Chi morir pu\u00f2 onorato dee morire;\n    Che spesse volte avviene e di leggiero,\n  Che, per durar in questa vita trista,\n  Morte e vergogna ad un tratto s'acquista.\n\n  Agrican prima rimont\u00f2 in arcione,\n    Poi con voce soave rispondia\n  Tu sei per certo il pi\u00f9 franco Barone,\n    Ch'io mai trovassi ne la vita mia,\n  E per\u00f2 del tuo scampo fia cagione\n    La tua prodezza e quella cortesia,\n  Che oggi s\u00ec grande al campo usato m'hai,\n  Quando soccorso a mia gente donai.\n\n  Per\u00f2 ti voglio la vita lasciare,\n    Ma non tornasti pi\u00f9 per darmi inciampo.\n  Questo la fuga mi f\u00e8 simulare,\n   N\u00e8 v'ebbi altro partito a darti scampo.\n  Se pur ti piace meco battagliare,\n    Morto ne rimarrai su questo campo;\n  Ma siami testimonio il cielo e 'l sole,\n  Che darti morte mi dispiace e duole.\n\n  Il Conte gli rispose molto umano,\n    Perch\u00e8 avea preso gi\u00e0 di lui pietate;\n  Quanto sei, disse, pi\u00f9 franco e soprano,\n    Pi\u00f9 di te mi rincresce in veritate,\n  Che sarai morto, e non sei Cristiano,\n    Ed anderai tra l'anime dannate;\n  Ma se vuoi il corpo e l'anima salvare,\n  Piglia battesmo, e lascierotti andare.\n\n  Disse Agricane, e riguardollo in viso:\n    Se tu sei Cristiano, Orlando sei.\n  Chi mi facesse Re del Paradiso,\n    Con tal ventura non la cangierei;\n  Ma sin or ti ricordo e dotti avviso,\n    Che non mi parli de' fatti de' Dei,\n  Perch\u00e8 potresti predicar invano;\n  Difenda it suo ciascun co 'l brando in mano.\n\n  N\u00e8 pi\u00f9 parole; ma trasse Tranchera,\n    E verso Orlando con ardir s'affronta.\n  Or si comincia la battaglia fiera,\n    Con aspri colpi, di taglio e di ponta;\n  Ciascun \u00e8 di prodezza una lumiera,\n    E sterno insieme, com'il libro conta,\n  Da mezzo giorno insino a notte scura,\n  Sempre pi\u00f9 franchi a la battaglia dura.\n\n  Ma poi che 'l sol avea passato il monte\n    E cominciossi a far il ciel stellato,\n  Prima verso del Re parlava it Conte;\n    Che farem, disse, the 'l giorno n'\u00e8 andato?\n  Disse Agricane, con parole pronte:\n    Ambi ci poseremo in questo prato,\n  E domattina, come il giorno appare,\n  Ritorneremo insieme a battagliare.\n\n  Cos\u00ec d'accordo il partito si prese;\n    Lega il destrier ciascun come gli piace,\n  Poi sopra a l'erba verde si distese:\n    Come fosse tra loro antica pace,\n  L'uno a l'altro vicino era e palese.\n    Orlando presso al fonte isteso giace,\n  Ed Agricane al bosco pi\u00f9 vicino\n  Stassi colcato, a l'ombra d'un gran pino.\n\n  E ragionando insieme tutta via\n    Di cose degne e condecenti a loro,\n  Guardava il Conte il ciel, poscia dicia:\n    Questo the ora veggiamo, \u00e8 un bel lavoro,\n  Che fece la divina Monarchia,\n    La luna d'argento e le stelle d'oro,\n  E la luce del giorno e 'l sol lucente,\n  Dio tutto ha fatto per l'umana gente.\n\n  Disse Agricane: Io comprendo per certo,\n    Che to vuoi de la fede ragionare;\n  Io di nulla scienza son esperto,\n    N\u00e8 mai sendo fanciul, volsi imparare;\n  E ruppi il capo al maestro mio per merto;\n    Poi non si pot\u00e8 un altro ritrovare,\n  Che mi mostrasse libro, n\u00e8 scrittura,\n  Tanto ciascun avea di me paura.\n\n  E cos\u00ec spesi la mia fanciullezza,\n    In caccie, in giochi d'arme e in cavalcare;\n  N\u00e8 mi par che convenga a gentilezza,\n    Star tutto il giorno ne' libri a pensare;\n  Ma la forza del corpo e la destrezza\n    Conviensi al cavaliero esercitare;\n  Dottrina al prete, ed al dottor sta bene;\n  Io tanto saccio quanto mi conviene.\n\n  Rispose Orlando: Io tiro teco a un seguo,\n    Che l'armi son del'uomo il primo onore;\n  Ma non gi\u00e0 che 'l saper faccia un men degno,\n    Anzi l'adorna com' un prato il fiore;\n  Ed \u00e8 simile a un bove, a un sasso, a un legno,\n    Che non pensa a l'eterno Creatore;\n  N\u00e8 ben si puo pensar, senza dottrina,\n  La somma maestade, alta e divina.\n\n  Disse Agricane: Egli \u00e8 gran scortesia\n    A voler contrastar con avvantaggio.\n  Io t' ho scoperto la natura mia,\n    E to conosco, the sei dotto e saggio;\n  Se pi\u00f9 parlassi, io non risponderia;\n    Piacendoti dormir, dormiti ad aggio;\n  E se meco parlar hai pur diletto,\n  D'arme o d' amor a ragionar t' aspetto.\n\n  Ora ti prego, che a quel ch' io domando\n    Risponda il vero, a f\u00e8 d' uomo pregiato;\n  Se in se' veramente quell' Orlando,\n    Che vien tanto nel mondo nominato;\n  E perch\u00e8 qui sei giunto, e come, e quando;\n    E se mai fosti ancora innamorato;\n  Perche ogni cavalier, ch'\u00e8 senza amore,\n  Se in vista \u00e8 vivo, vivo senza core.\n\n  Rispose il Conte: Quell' Orlando sono,\n    Che uccise Almonte e'l suo fratel Troiano;\n  Amor m' ha posto tutto in abbandono,\n    E venir fammi in questo luogo strano.\n  E perch\u00e8 teco piu largo ragiono,\n    Voglio the sappi che 'l mio cor \u00e8 in mano\n  De la figliuola del Re Galafrone,\n  Che ad Albracca dimora nel girone.\n\n  Tu fai co 'l padre guerra a gran furore,\n    Per prender suo paese e sua castella;\n  Ed io qu\u00e0 son condotto per amore,\n    E per piacer a quella damisella;\n  Molte fiate son stato per onore\n    E per la fede mia sopra la sella;\n  Or sol per acquistar la bella dama\n  Faccio battaglia, e d'altro non ho brama.\n\n  Quando Agrican ha nel parlare accolto,\n    Che questo \u00e8 Orlando, ed Angelica amava,\n  Fuor di misura si turb\u00f2 nel volto,\n    Ma per la notte non lo dimostrava;\n  Piangeva sospirando come un stolto,\n    L'anima e 'l petto e 'l spirto gli avvampava,\n  E tanto gelosia gli batte il core,\n  Che non \u00e8 vivo, e di doglia non more.\n\n  Poi disse a Orlando: Tu debbi pensare,\n    Che come il giorno sar\u00e0 dimostrato,\n  Debbiamo insieme la battaglia fare,\n    E l'uno o l'altro rimarr\u00e0 su 'l prato.\n  Or d'una cosa ti voglio pregare,\n    Che, prima che vegnamo e cotal piato,\n  Quella donzella, che 'l tuo cor disia,\n  Tu l'abbandoni e lascila per mia.\n\n  Io non potria patire, essendo vivo,\n    Che altri con meco amasse il viso adorno:\n  O l'uno o l'altro al tutto sar\u00e0 privo\n    Del spirto e de la dama al novo giorno;\n  Altri mai non sapr\u00e0, che questo rivo\n    E questo bosco, ch'\u00e8 quivi d'intorno,\n  Che l'abbi rifiutata in cotal loco\n  E in cotal tempo, che sar\u00e0 s\u00ec poco.\n\n  Diceva Orlando al Re: Le mie promesse\n    Tutte ho servate, quante mai ne fei;\n  Ma se quel che or mi chiedi io promettesse\n    E s'io il giurassi, io non l'attenderei;\n  Cos\u00ec poria spiccar mie membra istesse\n    E levarmi di fronte gli occhi miei,\n  E viver senza spirto e senza core,\n  Come lasciar d' Angelica l'amore.\n\n  Il Re Agrican, che ardeva oltre misura,\n    Non puote tal risposta comportare;\n  Bench\u00e8 sia 'l mezzo de la notte scura,\n    Prese Bajardo e su v' ebbe a montare,\n  Ed orgoglioso, con vista sicura,\n    Isgrida al Conte, ed ebbel a sfidare,\n  Dicendo: Cavalier, la dama gaglia\n  Lasciar convienti, o far meco battaglia.\n\n  Era gi\u00e0 il Conte in su l' arcion salito,\n    Perch\u00e8, come si mosse il Re possente,\n  Temendo dal Pagan esser tradito,\n    Salt\u00f2 sopra 'l destrier subitamente;\n  Onde rispose con animo ardito:\n    Lasciar colei non posso per niente;\n  E s'io potess, ancora io non vorria;\n  Avertela convien per altra via.\n\n  Come in mar la tempesta a gran fortuna,\n    Cominciarno l' assalto i cavalieri\n  Nel verde prato, per la notte bruna,\n    Con sproni urtarno addosso i buon destrieri;\n  E si scorgeano al lume de la luna,\n    Dandosi colpi dispietati e fieri,\n  Ch' era ciascun difor forte ed ardito\n  Ma pi\u00f9 non dico; il Canto \u00e8 qu\u00ec finito.\n\nARIOSTO.\n\n  Seguon gli Scotti ove la guida loro\n    Per l'alta selva alto disdegno mena,\n  Poi che lasciato ha l'uno e l'altro Moro,\n    L'un morto in tutto, e l'altro vivo a pena.\n  Giacque gran pezzo il giovine Medoro,\n    Spicciando il sangue da s\u00ec larga vena,\n  Che di sua vita al fin saria venuto,\n  Se non sopravenia chi gli di\u00e8 aiuto.\n\n  Gli sopravenne a caso una donzella,\n    Avvolta in pastorale et umil veste,\n  Ma di real presenzia, e in viso bella,\n    D'alte maniere e accortamente oneste.\n  Tanto \u00e8 ch'io non ne dissi pi\u00f9 novella,\n    Ch'a pena riconoscer la dovreste;\n  Questa, se non sapete, Angelica era,\n  Del gran Can del Catai la figlia altiera.\n\n  Poi che 'l suo annello Angelica riebbe,\n    Di the Brunel l'avea tenuta priva,\n  In tanto fasto, in tanto orgoglio crebbe,\n    Ch'esser parea di tutto 'l mondo schiva:\n  Se ne va sola, e non si degnerebbe\n    Compagno aver qual pi\u00f9 famoso viva;\n  Si sdegna a rimembrar the gi\u00e0 suo amante\n  Abbia Orlando nomato, o Sacripante.\n\n  E, sopra ogn'altro error, via pi\u00f9 pentita\n    Era del ben che gi\u00e0 a Rinaldo volse.\n  Troppo parendole essersi avvilita,\n    Ch'a riguardar s\u00ec basso gli occhi volse.\n  Tant'arroganzia avendo Amor sentita,\n    Pi\u00f9 lungamente comportar non volse.\n  Dove giacea Medor, si pose al varco,\n  E l'aspett\u00f2, posto lo strale all'arco.\n\n  Quando Angelica vide il giovinetto\n    Languir ferito, assai vicino a morte,\n  Che del suo Re che giacea senza tetto,\n    Pi\u00f9 che del proprio mal, si dolea forte,\n  Insolita pietade in mezo al petto\n    Si sent\u00ec entrar per disusate porte,\n  Che le fe' il duro cor tenero e molle;\n  E pi\u00f9 quando il suo caso egli narrolle.\n\n  E rivocando alla memoria l'arte\n    Ch'in India impar\u00f2 gi\u00e0 chirurgia,\n  (Ch\u00e8 par che questo studio in quella parte\n    Nobile e degno e di gran laude sia;\n  E, senza molto rivoltar di carte,\n    Che 'l patre a i figli ereditario il dia)\n  Si dispose operar con succo d'erbe,\n  Ch'a pi\u00f9 matura vita lo riserbe.\n\n  E ricordossi che passando avea\n    Veduta un'erba in una piaggia amena;\n  Fosse dittamo, o fosse panacea,\n    O non so qual di tal effetto piena,\n  Che stagna il sangue, e de la piaga rea\n    Leva ogni spasmo e perigliosa pena,\n  La trov\u00f2 non lontana, e, quella c\u00f4lta,\n  Dove lasciato avea Medor, di\u00e8 volta.\n\n  Nel ritornar s'incontra in un pastore,\n    Ch'a cavallo pel bosco ne veniva\n  Cercando una iuvenca, che gli fuore\n    Duo d\u00ec di mandra e senza guardia giva.\n  Seco lo trasse ove perdea il vigore\n    Medor col sangue che del petto usciva;\n  E gi\u00e0 n'avea di tanto il terren tinto,\n  Ch'era omai presso a rimanere estinto.\n\n  Del palafreno Angelica gi\u00f9 scese,\n    E scendere il pastor seco fece anche.\n  Pest\u00f2 con sassi l'erba, indi la presse,\n    E succo ne cav\u00f2 fra le man bianche:\n  Ne la piaga n'infuse, e ne distese\n    E pel petto e pel ventre e fin a l'anche;\n  E fu di tal virt\u00f9 questo liquore,\n  Che stagn\u00f2 il sangue e gli torn\u00f2 il vigore:\n\n  E gli di\u00e8 forza, che pot\u00e9 salire\n    Sopra il cavallo the 'l pastor condusse.\n  Non per\u00f2 volse indi Medor partire\n    Prima ch'in terra il suo signor non fosse,\n  E Cloridan col Re fe' sepelire;\n    E poi dove a lei piacque si ridusse;\n  Et ella per piet\u00e0 ne l'umil case\n  Del cortese pastor seco rimase.\n\n  N\u00e8, fin che nol tornasse in sanitade,\n    Volea partir: cos\u00ec di lui fe' stima:\n  Tanto s\u00e8 intener\u00ec de la pietade\n    Che n'ebbe, come in terra il vide prima.\n  Poi, vistone i costumi e la beltade,\n    Roder si sent\u00ec il cor d'ascosa lima;\n  Roder si sent\u00ec il core, e a poco a poco\n  Tutto infiammato d'amoroso fuoco.\n\n  Stava il pastore in assai buona e bella\n    Stanza, nel bosco infra duo monti piatta,\n  Con la moglie e co i figli; et avea quella\n    Tutta di nuovo e poco inanzi fatta.\n  Quivi a Medoro fu per la donzella\n    La piaga in breve a sanit\u00e0 ritratta;\n  Ma in minor tempo si sent\u00ec maggiore\n  Piaga di questa avere ella nel core.\n\n  Assai pi\u00f9 larga piaga e pi\u00f9 profonda\n    Nel cor senti da non veduto strale,\n  Che da' begli occhi e da la testa bionda\n    Di Medoro avvent\u00e8 l'arcier c'ha l'ale.\n  Arder si sente, e sempre il fuoco abonda,\n    E pi\u00f9 cura l'altrui che 'l proprio male.\n  Di s\u00e8 non cura; e non \u00e8 ad altro intenta,\n  Ch'a risanar chi lei fere e tormenta.\n\n  La sua piaga pi\u00f9 s'apre e pi\u00f9 incrudisce,\n    Quanto piu l' altra si restringe e salda.\n  Il giovine si sana: ella languisce\n    Di nuova febbre, or agghiacciata or calda.\n  Di giorno in giorno in lui belt\u00e0 fiorisce:\n    La m\u00edsera si strugge, come falda\n  Strugger di nieve intempestiva suole,\n  Ch'in loco aprico abbia scoperta il sole.\n\n  Se di disio non vuol morir, bisogna\n    Che senza indugio ella s\u00e8 stessa a\u00efti:\n  E ben le par che, di quel ch' essa agogna,\n    Non sia tempo aspettar ch' altri la 'nviti.\n  Dunque, rotto ogni freno di vergogna,\n    La lingua ebbe non men che gli occhi arditi;\n  E di quel colpo domand\u00f2 mercede,\n  Che, forse non sapendo, esso le diede.\n\n  O Conte Orlando, o Re di Circassia,\n    Vestra inclita virt\u00f9, dite, che giova?\n  Vostro alto onor, dite, in che prezzo sia?\n    O che merce vostro servir ritruova?\n  Mostratemi una sola cortesia,\n    Che mai costei v'usasse, o vecchia o nuova,\n  Per ricompensa e guidardone e merto\n  Di quanto avete gi\u00e0 per lei sofferto.\n\n  Oh, se potessi ritornar mai vivo,\n    Quanto ti parria duro, o Re Agricane!\n  Che gi\u00e0 mostr\u00f2 costei s\u00ec averti a schivo\n    Con repulse crudeli et inumane.\n  O Ferra\u00f9, o mille altri ch'io non scrivo,\n    Ch'avete fatto mille pruove vane\n  Per questa ingrata, quanto aspro vi fora\n  S'a costu' in braccio voi la vedesse ora!\n\n  Angelica a Medor la prima r\u00f4sa\n    Coglier lasci\u00f2, non ancor tocca inante;\n  N\u00e8 persona fu mai si avventurosa,\n    Ch'in quel giardin potesse por le piante.\n  Per adombrar, per onestar la cosa,\n    Si celebr\u00f2 con cerimonie sante\n  Il matrimonio, ch'auspice ebbe Amore,\n  E pronuba la moglie del pastore.\n\n  F\u00earsi le nozze sotto all'umil tetto\n    Le pi\u00f9 solenni che vi potean farsi;\n  E pi\u00f9 d'un mese poi stero a diletto\n    I duo tranquilli amanti a ricrearsi.\n  Pi\u00f9 lunge non vedea del giovinetto\n    La donna, n\u00e8 di lui potea saziarsi:\n  N\u00e8, per mai sempre pendegli dal cello,\n  Il suo disir sent\u00eca di lui satollo.\n\n  Se stava all'ombra, o se del tetto usciva,\n    Avea d\u00ec e notte il bel giovine a lato:\n  Matino e sera or questa or quella riva\n    Cercando andava, o qualche verde prato:\n  Nel mezo giorno un antro li copriva,\n    Forse non men di quel commodo e grato\n  Ch'ebber, fuggendo l'acque, Enea e Dido,\n  De' lor secreti testimonio fido.\n\n  Fra piacer tanti, ovunque un arbor dritto\n    Vedesse ombrare o fonte o rivo puro,\n  V'avea spillo o coltel subito fitto;\n    Cos\u00ec, se v'era alcun sasso men duro.\n  Et era fuori in mille luoghi scritto,\n    E cos\u00ec in casa in altri tanti il muro,\n  Angelica e Medoro, in varii modi\n  Legati insieme di diversi nodi.\n\n  Poi che le parve aver fatto soggiorno\n    Quivi pi\u00f9 ch'a bastanza, fe' disegno\n  Di fare in India del Catai ritorno,\n    E Medor coronar del suo bel regno.\n  Portava al braccio un cerchio d'oro, adorno\n    Di ricche gemme, in testimonio e segno\n  Del ben che 'l Conte Orlando le volea;\n  E portato gran tempo ve l'avea.\n\n  Quel dono gi\u00e0 Morgana a Ziliante,\n    Nel tempo the nel lago ascoso il tenne;\n  Et esso, poi ch'al padre Monodante\n    Per opra e per virt\u00f9 d'Orlando venne,\n  Lo diede a Orlando: Orlando ch'era amante,\n    Di porsi al braccio it cerchio d'or sostenne,\n  Avendo disegnato di donarlo\n  Alla Regina sua di ch'io vi parlo.\n\n  Non per amor del Paladino, quanto\n    Perch'era ricco e d'artificio egregio,\n  Caro avuto l'avea la donna tanto\n    Che pi\u00f9 non si pu\u00f2 aver cosa di pregio.\n  S\u00e8 lo serb\u00f2 ne l'Isola del pianto,\n    Non so gi\u00e0 dirvi con the privilegio,\n  L\u00e0 dove esposta al marin mostro nuda\n  Fu da la gente inospitale e cruda.\n\n  Quivi non si trovando altra mercede,\n    Ch'al buon pastore et alla moglie dessi,\n  Che serviti gli avea con s\u00ec gran fede\n    Dal d\u00ec che nel suo albergo si fur messi;\n  Lev\u00f2 dal braccio il cerchio, e gli lo diede,\n    E volse per suo amor che lo tenessi;\n  Indi saliron verso la montagna\n  Che divide la Francia da la Spagna.\n\n  Dentro a Valenza o dentro a Barcellona\n    Per qualche giorno avean pensato porsi,\n  Fin che accadesse alcuna nave buona,\n    Che per Levante apparecchiasse a sciorsi.\n  Videro il mar scoprir sotto a Girona\n    Ne lo smontar gi\u00f9 de i montani dorsi;\n  E, costeggiando a man sinistra il lito,\n  A Barcellona and\u00e2r pel camin trito.\n\n  Ma non vi giunser prima ch'un uom pazzo\n    Giacer trovaro in su l'estreme arene,\n  Che, come porco, di loto e di guazzo\n    Tutto era brutto, e volto e petto e schene.\n  Costui si scagli\u00f2 lor, come cagnazzo\n    Ch' assalir forestier subito viene;\n  E di\u00e8 for noia e fu per far lor scorno.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  The troop then follow'd where their chief had gone,\n    Pursuing his stern chase among the trees,\n  And leave the two companions there alone,\n   One surely dead, the other scarcely less.\n  Long time Medoro lay without a groan,\n    Losing his blood in such large quantities,\n  That life would surely have gone out at last,\n  Had not a helping hand been coming past.\n\n  There came, by chance, a damsel passing there,\n    Dress'd like a shepherdess in lowly wise,\n  But of a royal presence, and an air\n    Noble as handsome, with clear maiden eyes.\n  'Tis so long since I told you news of her,\n    Perhaps you know her not in this disguise.\n  This, you must know then, was Angelica,\n  Proud daughter of the Khan of great Cathay.\n\n  You know the magic ring and her distress?\n    Well, when she had recover'd this same ring,\n  It so increas'd her pride and haughtiness,\n    She seem'd too high for any living thing.\n  She goes alone, desiring nothing less\n    Than a companion, even though a king\n  She even scorns to recollect the flame\n  Of one Orlando, or his very name.\n\n  But, above all, she hates to recollect\n    That she had taken to Rinaldo so;\n  She thinks it the last want of self-respect,\n    Pure degradation, to have look'd so low.\n  \"Such arrogance,\" said Cupid, \"must be check'd.\"\n    The little god betook him with his bow\n  To where Medoro lay; and, standing by,\n  Held the shaft ready with a lurking eye.\n\n  Now when the princess saw the youth all pale,\n    And found him grieving with his bitter wound,\n  Not for what one so young might well bewail,\n    But that his king should not be laid in ground,--\n  She felt a something strange and gentle steal\n    Into her heart by some new way it found,\n  Which touch'd its hardness, and turn'd all to grace;\n  And more so, when he told her all his case.\n\n  And calling to her mind the little arts\n    Of healing, which she learnt in India,\n  (For 'twas a study valued in those parts\n    Even by those who were in sovereign sway,\n  And yet so easy too, that, like the heart's,\n    'Twas more inherited than learnt, they say),\n  She cast about, with herbs and balmy juices,\n  To save so fair a life for all its uses.\n\n  And thinking of an herb that caught her eye\n    As she was coming, in a pleasant plain\n  (Whether 'twas panacea, dittany,\n    Or some such herb accounted sovereign\n  For stanching blood quickly and tenderly,\n    And winning out all spasm and bad pain),\n  She found it not far off, and gathering some,\n  Returned with it to save Medoro's bloom.\n\n  In coming back she met upon the way\n    A shepherd, who was riding through the wood\n  To find a heifer that had gone astray,\n    And been two days about the solitude.\n  She took him with her where Medoro lay,\n    Still feebler than he was with loss of blood;\n  So much he lost, and drew so hard a breath,\n  That he was now fast fading to his death.\n\n  Angelica got off her horse in haste,\n    And made the shepherd get as fast from his;\n  She ground the herbs with stones, and then express'd\n    With her white hands the balmy milkiness;\n  Then dropp'd it in the wound, and bath'd his breast,\n    His stomach, feet, and all that was amiss\n  And of such virtue was it, that at length\n  The blood was stopp'd, and he look'd round with strength.\n\n  At last he got upon the shepherd's horse,\n    But would not quit the place till he had seen\n  Laid in the ground his lord and master's corse;\n    And Cloridan lay with it, who had been\n  Smitten so fatally with sweet remorse.\n    He then obey'd the will of the fair queen;\n  And she, for very pity of his lot,\n  Went and stay'd with him at the shepherd's cot.\n\n  Nor would she leave him, she esteem'd him so,\n    Till she had seen him well with her own eye;\n  So full of pity did her bosom grow,\n    Since first she saw him faint and like to die.\n  Seeing his manners now, and beauty too,\n    She felt her heart yearn somehow inwardly;\n  She felt her heart yearn somehow, till at last\n  'Twas all on fire, and burning warm and fast.\n\n  The shepherd's home was good enough and neat,\n    A little shady cottage in a dell\n  The man had just rebuilt it all complete,\n    With room to spare, in case more births befell.\n  There with such knowledge did the lady treat\n    Her handsome patient, that he soon grew well;\n  But not before she had, on her own part,\n  A secret wound much greater in her heart.\n\n  Much greater was the wound, and deeper far,\n    Which the sweet arrow made in her heart's strings;\n  'Twas from Medoro's lovely eyes and hair;\n    'Twas from the naked archer with the wings.\n  She feels it now; she feels, and yet can bear\n    Another's less than her own sufferings.\n  She thinks not of herself: she thinks alone\n  How to cure him by whom she is undone.\n\n  The more his wound recovers and gets ease,\n    Her own grows worse, and widens day by day.\n  The youth gets well; the lady languishes,\n    Now warm, now cold, as fitful fevers play.\n  His beauty heightens, like the flowering trees;\n    She, miserable creature, melts away\n  Like the weak snow, which some warm sun has found\n  Fall'n, out of season, on a rising ground.\n\n  And must she speak at last, rather than die?\n    And must she plead, without another's aid?\n  She must, she must: the vital moments fly\n    She lives--she dies, a passion-wasted maid.\n  At length she bursts all ties of modesty:\n    Her tongue explains her eyes; the words are said\n  And she asks pity, underneath that blow\n  Which he, perhaps, that gave it did not know.\n\n  O County Orlando! O King Sacripant!\n    That fame of yours, say, what avails it ye?\n  That lofty honour, those great deeds ye vaunt,--\n    Say, what's their value with the lovely she\n  Shew me--recall to memory (for I can't)--\n    Shew me, I beg, one single courtesy\n  That ever she vouchsafed ye, far or near,\n  For all you've done and have endured for her.\n\n  And you, if you could come to life again,\n    O Agrican, how hard 'twould seem to you,\n  Whose love was met by nothing but disdain,\n    And vile repulses, shocking to go through!\n  O Ferragus! O thousands, who, in vain,\n    Did all that loving and great hearts could do,\n  How would ye feel, to see, with all her charms,\n  This thankless creature in a stripling's arms?\n\n  The young Medoro had the gathering\n    Of the world's rose, the rose untouch'd before;\n  For never, since that garden blush'd with spring,\n    Had human being dared to touch the door.\n  To sanction it--to consecrate the thing--\n    The priest was called to read the service o'er,\n  (For without marriage what can come but strife?)\n  And the bride-mother was the shepherd's wife.\n\n  All was perform'd, in short, that could be so\n    In such a place, to make the nuptials good;\n  Nor did the happy pair think fit to go,\n    But spent the month and more within the wood.\n  The lady to the stripling seemed to grow.\n    His step her step, his eyes her eyes pursued;\n  Nor did her love lose any of its zest,\n  Though she was always hanging on his breast.\n\n  In doors and out of doors, by night, by day,\n    She had the charmer by her side for ever;\n  Morning and evening they would stroll away,\n    Now by some field or little tufted river;\n  They chose a cave in middle of the day,\n    Perhaps not less agreeable or clever\n  Than Dido and \u00c6neas found to screen them,\n  When they had secrets to discuss between them.\n\n  And all this while there was not a smooth tree,\n    That stood by stream or fountain with glad breath,\n  Nor stone less hard than stones are apt to be,\n    But they would find a knife to carve it with;\n  And in a thousand places you might see,\n    And on the walls about you and beneath,\n  ANGELICA AND MEDORO, tied in one,\n  As many ways as lovers' knots can run.\n\n  And when they thought they had outspent their time,\n    Angelica the royal took her way,\n  She and Medoro, to the Indian clime,\n    To crown him king of her great realm, Cathay.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: This version of the present episode has appeared in print\nbefore. So has a portion of the _Monks and the Giants_, in the first\nvolume.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo. III.\n\nTHE JEALOUSY OF ORLANDO.\n\nTHE SAME.\n\n  Feron camin diverso i cavallieri,\n    Di qu\u00e0 Zerbino, e di l\u00e0 il Conte Orlando.\n  Prima che pigli il Conte altri sentieri,\n    All'arbor tolse, e a s\u00e8 ripose il brando;\n  E, dove meglio col Pagan pensosse\n    Di potersi incontrare, il destrier mosse.\n\n  Lo strano corso the tenne il cavallo\n    Del Saracin pel bosco senza via,\n  Fece ch'Orlando and\u00f2 duo giorni in fallo,\n    N\u00e8 lo trov\u00f2, n\u00e8 pot\u00e8 averne spia.\n  Giunse ad un rivo, che parea cristallo,\n    Ne le cui sponde un bel pratel fioria,\n  Di nativo color vago e dipinto,\n  E di molti e belli arbori distinto.\n\n  Il merigge facea grato l'orezo\n    Al duro armento et al pastore ignudo;\n  Si che n\u00e8 Orlando sentia alcun ribrezo,\n    Che la corazza avea, l'elmo e lo scudo.\n  Quivi egli entr\u00f2, per riposarsi, in mezo;\n    E v'ebbe travaglioso albergo e crudo,\n  E, pi\u00f9 che dir si possa, empio soggiorno,\n  Quell'infelice e sfortunato giorno.\n\n  Volgendosi ivi intorno, vidi scritti\n    Molti arbuscelli in su l'ombrosa riva.\n  Tosto the fermi v'ebbe gli occhi e fitti,\n    Fu certo esser di man de la sua Diva.\n  Questo era un di quei lochi gi\u00e0 descritti,\n    Ove sovente con Medor veniva\n  Da casa del pastore indi vicina\n  La bella donna del Catai Regina.\n\n  Angelica e Medor con cento nodi\n    Legati insieme, e in cento lochi vede.\n  Quante lettere son, tanti son chiodi\n    Co i quali Amore il cor gli punge e fiede.\n  Va col pensier cercando in mille modi\n    Non creder quel ch'al suo dispetto crede:\n  Ch'altra Angelica sia, creder si sforza,\n  Ch'abbia scritto il suo nome in quella scorza.\n\n  Poi dice: Conosco io pur queste note;\n    Di tal io n'he tante e vedute e lette.\n  Finger questo Medoro ella si puote;\n    Forse ch'a me questo cognome mette.\n  Con tali opinion dal ver remote\n    Usando fraude a s\u00e8 medesmo, stette\n  Ne la speranza il mal contento Orlando,\n  Che si seppe a s\u00e8 stesso ir procacciando.\n\n  Ma sempre pi\u00f9 raccende e pi\u00f9 rinuova,\n    Quanto spenger pi\u00f9 cerca, il rio sospetto;\n  Come l'incauto augel che si ritrova\n    In ragna o in visco aver dato di petto,\n  Quanto pi\u00f9 batte l'ale e pi\u00f9 si prova\n    Di disbrigar, pi\u00f9 vi si lega stretto.\n  Orlando viene ove s'incurva il monte\n  A guisa d'arco in su la chiara fonte.\n\n  Aveano in su l'entrata il luogo adorno\n    Coi piedi storti edere e viti erranti.\n  Quivi soleano al pi\u00f9 cocente giorno\n    Stare abbracciati i duo felici amanti.\n  V'aveano i nomi lor dentro e d'intorno\n    Pi\u00f9 che in altro de i luoghi circonstanti,\n  Scritti, qual con carbone e qual con gesso,\n  E qual con punte di coltelli impresso.\n\n  Il mesto Conte a pi\u00e8 quivi discese;\n    E vide in su l'entrata de la grotta\n  Parole assai, che di sua man distese\n    Medoro avea, che parean scritte allotta.\n  Del gran piacer che ne la grotta prese,\n    Questa sentenzia in versi avea ridotta:\n  Che fosse culta in suo linguaggio io penso;\n  Et era ne la nostra tale in senso:\n\n  Liete piante, verdi erbe, limpide acque,\n    Spelunca opaca e di fredde ombre grata,\n  Dove la bella Angelica, che nacque\n    Di Galafron, da molti in vano amata,\n  Spesso ne le mie braccia nuda giacque;\n    De la commodit\u00e0 che qui m'\u00e8 data,\n  Io povero Medor ricompensarvi\n  D'altro non posso, che d'ognior lodarvi:\n\n  E di pregare ogni signore amante\n    E cavallieri e damigelle, e ognuna\n  Persona o pa\u00ebsana o viandante,\n    Che qu\u00ec sua volont\u00e0 meni o Fortuna,\n  Ch'all'erbe, all'ombra, all'antro, al rio, alle piante\n    Dica: Benigno abbiate e sole e luna,\n  E de le nimfe il coro che provveggia,\n  Che non conduca a voi pastor mai greggia.\n\n  Era scritta in Arabico, che 'l Conte\n    Intendea cos\u00ec ben, come Latino.\n  Fra molte lingue e molte ch'avea pronte\n    Prontissima avea quella il Paladino\n  E gli schiv\u00f2 pi\u00f9 volte e danni et onte,\n    Che si trov\u00f2 tra il popul Saracino.\n  Ma non si vanti, se gi\u00e0 n'ebbe frutto;\n  Ch'un danno or n'ha, che pu\u00f2 scontargli il tutto.\n\n  Tre volte, e quattro, e sei, lesse lo scritto\n    Quello infelice, e pur cercando in vano\n  Che non vi fosse quel che v'era scritto;\n    E sempre lo vedea pi\u00f9 chiaro e piano;\n  Et ogni volta in mezo il petto afflitto\n    Stringersi il cor sentia con fredda mano.\n  Rimase il fin con gli occhi e con la mente\n  Fissi nel sasso, al sasso indifferente.\n\n  Fu allora per uscir del sentimento;\n    S\u00ec tutto in preda del dolor si lassa.\n  Credete a chi n'ha fatto esperimento,\n    Che questo \u00e8 'l duol che tutti gli altri passa.\n  Caduto gli era sopra il petto il mento,\n    La fronte priva di baldanza, e bassa;\n  N\u00e8 pot\u00e8 aver (che 'l duol l'occup\u00f2 tanto)\n  Alle querele voce, o umore al pianto.\n\n  L'impetuosa doglia entro rimase,\n    Che volea tutta uscir con troppa fretta.\n  Cos\u00ec veggian restar l'acqua nel vase,\n    Che largo il ventre e la bocca abbia stretta;\n  Ch\u00e8, nel voltar che si fa in su la base,\n    L'umor, che vorria uscir, tanto s'affretta,\n  E ne l'angusta via tanto s'intrica,\n  Ch'a goccia a goccia fuore esce a fatica.\n\n  Poi ritorna in s\u00e8 alquanto, e pensa come\n    Possa esser che non sia la cosa vera:\n  Che voglia alcun cos\u00ec infamare il nome\n    De la sua donna e crede e brama e spera,\n  O gravar lui d'insopportabil some\n    Tanto di gelosia, che s\u00e8 ne pera;\n  Et abbia quel, sia chi si voglia stato,\n  Molto la man di lei bene imitato.\n\n  In cos\u00ec poca, in cos\u00ec debol speme\n    Sveglia gli spirti, e gli rifranca un poco;\n  Indi al suo Brigliadoro il dosso preme,\n    Dando gi\u00e0 il sole alla sorella loco.\n  Non molto va, che da le vie supreme\n    De i tetti uscir vede il vapor del fuoco,\n  Sente cani abbaiar, muggiare armento;\n  Viene alla villa, e piglia alloggiamento.\n\n  Languido smonta, e lascia Brigliadoro\n    A un discreto garzon che n'abbia cura.\n  Altri il disarma, altri gli sproni d'oro\n    Gli leva, altri a forbir va l'armatura.\n  Era questa la casa ove Medoro\n    Giacque ferito, e v'ebbe alta avventura.\n  Corcarsi Orlando e non cenar domanda,\n  Di dolor sazio e non d'altra vivanda.\n\n  Quanto pi\u00f9 cerca ritrovar quiete,\n    Tanto ritrova pi\u00f9 travaglio e pene;\n  Che de l'odiato scritto ogni parete,\n    Ogni uscio, ogni finestra vede piena.\n  Chieder ne vuol: poi tien le labra chete;\n    Ch\u00e8 teme non si far troppo serena,\n  Troppo chiara la cosa, che di nebbia\n  Cerca offuscar, perch\u00e8 men nuocer debbia.\n\n  Poco gli giova usar fraude a s\u00e8 stesso;\n    Ch\u00e8 senza domandarne \u00e8 chi ne parla.\n  Il pastor, che lo vede cos\u00ec oppresso\n    Da sua tristrizia, e che vorria levarla,\n  L'istoria nota a s\u00e8 the dicea spesso\n    Di quei duo amanti a chi volea ascoltarla,\n  Ch'a molti dilettevole fu a udire,\n  Gl'incominci\u00f2 senza rispetto a dire:\n\n  Come esso a prieghi d'Angelica bella,\n    Portato avea Medoro alla sua villa;\n  Ch'era ferito gravemente, e ch'ella\n    Cur\u00f2 la piaga, e in pochi d\u00ec guarilla;\n  Ma che nel cor d'una maggior di quella\n    Lei fer\u00ec amor: e di poca scintilla\n  L'accese tanto e s\u00ec cocente fuoco,\n  Che n'ardea tutta, e non trovava loco.\n\n  E, sanza aver rispetto ch'ella fosse\n    Figlia del maggior Re ch'abbia il Levante,\n  Da troppo amor constretta si condusse\n    A farsi moglie d'un povero fante.\n  All'ultimo l'istoria si ridusse,\n    Che 'l pastor fe' portar la gemma inante,\n  Ch'alla sua dipartenza, per mercede\n  Del buono albergo, Angelica gli diede.\n\n  Questa conclusion fu la secure\n    Che 'l capo a un colpo gli lev\u00f2 dal collo,\n  Poi che d'innumerabil battiture\n    Si vide il manigoldo Amor satollo.\n  Celar si studia Orlando il duolo; e pure\n    Quel gli fa forza, e male asconder puollo;\n  Per lacrime e suspir da bocca e d'occhi\n  Convien, voglia o non voglia, al fin che scocchi.\n\n  Poi ch'allagare il freno al dolor puote\n    (Che resta solo, e senza altrui rispetto),\n  Gi\u00f9 da gli occhi rigando per le gote\n    Sparge un fiume di lacrime su 'l petto:\n  Sospira e geme, e va con spesse ruote\n    Di qua di l\u00e0 tutto cercando il letto;\n  E pi\u00f9 duro ch'un sasso, e pi\u00f9 pungente\n  Che se fosse d'urtica, s\u00e8 lo sente.\n\n  In tanto aspro travaglio gli soccorre,\n    Che nel medesmo letto in che giaceva\n  L'ingrata donna venutasi a porre\n    Col suo drudo pi\u00f9 volte esser doveva.\n  Non altrimenti or quella piuma abborre\n    N\u00e8 con minor prestezza s\u00e8 ne leva,\n  Che de l'erba il villan, che s'era messo\n  Per chiuder gli occhi, e vegga il serpe appresso.\n\n  Quel letto, quella casa, quel pastore\n    Immantinente in tant'odio gli casca,\n  Che senza aspettar luna, o che l'albore\n    Che va dinanzi al nuovo giorno, nasca,\n  Piglia l'arme e il destriero, et esce fuore\n    Per mezo il bosco alla pi\u00f9 oscura frasca;\n  E quando poi gli \u00e8 avviso d'esser solo,\n  Con gridi et urli apre le porte al duolo.\n\n  Di pianger mai, mai di gridar non resta;\n    N\u00e8 la notte n\u00e8 'l d\u00ec si d\u00e0 mai pace;\n  Fugge cittadi e borghi, e alla foresta\n    Su 'l terren duro al discoperto giace.\n  Di s\u00e8 si maraviglia ch'abbia in testa\n    Una fontana d'acqua s\u00ec vivace,\n  E come sospirar possa mai tanto;\n  E spesso dice a s\u00e8 cos\u00ec nel pianto:\n\n  Queste non son pi\u00f9 lacrime, che fuore\n    Stillo da gli occhi con s\u00ec larga vena.\n  Non suppliron le lacrime al dolore;\n    Fin\u00eer, ch'a mezo era il dolore a pena.\n  Dal fuoco spinto ora il vitale umore\n    Fugge per quella via ch'a gli occhi mena;\n  Et \u00e8 quel che si versa, e trarr\u00e0 insieme\n  E 'l dolore e la vita all'ore estreme.\n\n  Questi, ch'indizio fan del mio tormento,\n    Sospir non sono; n\u00e8 i sospir son tali.\n  Quelli han triegua talora; io mai non sento\n    Che 'l petto mio men la sua pena esali.\n  Amor, che m'arde il cor, fa questo vento,\n    Mentre dibatte intorno al fuoco l'ali.\n  Amor, con che miracolo lo fai,\n  Che 'n fuoco il tenghi, e nol consumi mai?\n\n  Non son, non sono io quel che paio in viso;\n    Quel, ch'era Orlando, \u00e8 morto, et \u00e8 sotterra;\n  La sua donna ingratissima l'ha ucciso;\n    Si, mancando di fe, gli ha fatto guerra.\n  Io son lo spirito suo da lui diviso,\n    Ch'in questo inferno tormentandosi erra,\n  Acci\u00f2 con l'ombra sia, che sola avanza,\n  Esempio a chi in amor pone speranza.\n\n  Pel bosco err\u00f2 tutta la notte il Conte;\n    E allo spuntar della diurna fiamma\n  Lo torn\u00f2 il suo destin sopra la fonte,\n    Dove Medoro insculse l'epigramma.\n  Veder l'ingiuria sua scritta nel monte\n    L'accese s\u00ec, ch'in lui non rest\u00f2 dramma\n  Che non fosse odio, rabbia, ira e furore;\n  N\u00e9 pi\u00f9 indugi\u00f2, che trasse il brando fuore.\n\n  Tagli\u00f2 lo scritto e 'l sasso, e sin al cielo\n    A volo alzar fe'le minute schegge.\n  Infelice quell'antro, et ogni stelo\n    In cui Medoro e Angelica si legge!\n  Cos\u00ec rest\u00e2r quel d\u00ec, ch'ombra n\u00e8 gielo\n    A pastor mai non daran pi\u00f9, n\u00e8 a gregge:\n  E quella fonte gi\u00e0 si chiara e pura,\n  Da cotanta ira fu poco sicura:\n\n  Che rami, e ceppi, e tronchi, e sassi, e zolle\n    Non cess\u00f2 di gittar ne le bell'onde,\n  Fin che da sommo ad imo si turbolle\n    Che non furo mai pi\u00f9 chiare n\u00e8 monde;\n  E stanco al fin, e, al fin di sudor molle,\n    Poi che la lena vinta non risponde\n  Allo sdegno, al grave odio, all'ardente ira,\n  Cade sul prato, e verso il ciel sospira.\n\n  Afflitto e stanco al fin cade ne l'erba,\n    E ficca gli occhi al cielo, e non fa motto;\n  Senza cibo e dormir cos\u00ec si serba,\n    Che 'l sole esce tre volte, e torna sotto.\n  Di crescer non cess\u00f2 la pena acerba,\n    Che fuor del senno al fin l'ebbe condotto.\n  Il quarto d\u00ec, da gran furor commosso,\n  E maglic e piastre si straccio di dosso.\n\n  Qu\u00ec riman l'elmo, e l\u00e0 riman lo scudo;\n    Lontan gli arnesi, e pi\u00f9 lontan l'usbergo\n  L'arme sue tutte, in somma vi concludo,\n    Avean pel bosco differente albergo.\n  E poi si squarci\u00f2 i panni, e mostr\u00f2 ignudo\n    L'ispido ventre, e tutto 'l petto e 'l tergo;\n  E cominci\u00f2 la gran follia, s\u00ec orrenda,\n  Che de la pi\u00f9 non sar\u00e0 mai ch'intenda.\n\n  In tanta rabbia, in tanto furor venne,\n    Che rimase offuscato in ogni senso.\n  Di tor la spada in man non gli sovvenne,\n    Che fatte avria mirabil cose, penso.\n  Ma n\u00e8 quella n\u00e8 scure n\u00e8 bipenne\n    Era bisogno al suo vigore immenso.\n  Quivi fe' ben de le sue prove eccelse;\n  Ch'un alto pine al primo crollo svelse;\n\n  E svelse dopo il primo altri parecchi,\n    Come tosser finocchi, ebuli o aneti;\n  E fe' il simil di querce e d'olmi vecchi,\n    Di faggi e d' orni e d' illici a d' abeti;\n  Quel ch'un uccellator, the s'apparecchi\n    Il campo mondo, fa, per por le reti,\n  De i giunchi e de le stoppie e de l'urtiche,\n  Facchi de cerri e d' altre piante antiche.\n\n  I pastor, che sentito hanno il fracasso,\n    Lasciando il gregge sparso alla foresta,\n  Chi di qu\u00e0, chi di l\u00e0, tutti a gran passo\n    Vi vengono a veder che cosa \u00e8 questa.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe poet breaks off here, and enters afterwards at large into the\nconsequences of the madness of Orlando; omitted in this work, for the\nreasons mentioned at page 224.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo. IV.\n\nTHE DEATH OF CLORINDA.\n\n  TASSO.\n\n  Ma, ecco omai l'ora fatale \u00e8 giunta\n    Che 'l viver di Clorinda al suo fin deve.\n  Spinge egli il ferro nel bel sen di punta,\n    Che vi s'immerge, e 'l sangue avido beve;\n  E la veste che d'or vago trapunta\n    Le mammelle stringea tenera e leve\n  L'empie d'un caldo fiume. Ella gi\u00e0 sente\n  Morirsi, e 'l pi\u00e8 le manea egro e languente.\n\n  Quel segue la vittoria, e la trafitta\n    Vergine minacciando incalza e preme:\n  Ella, mentre cadea, la voce afitta\n    Movendo, disse le parole estreme:\n  Parole ch'a lei novo on spirto ditta,\n    Spirto di f\u00e8, di carit\u00e0, di speme:\n  Virt\u00f9 ch'or Dio le infonde; e se rubella\n  In vita fu, la vuole in morte ancella:\n\n  Amico, hai vinto; io ti perdon: perdona\n    Tu ancora, al corpo no, che nulla pave,\n  All'alma s\u00ec: deh! per lei prega: e dona\n    Battesmo a me ch'ogni mia colpe lave.\n  In queste voci languide risuona\n    Un non so che di flebile e soave,\n  Che al cor gli serpe, ed ogni sdegno ammorza,\n  E gli occhi a lagrimar gl' invoglia e sforza.\n\n  Poco quindi lontan nel sen del monte\n    Scatur\u00eda mormorando an picciol rio:\n  Egli v'accorse, e l'elmo empi\u00e8 nel fonte,\n    E torn\u00f2 mesto al grande ufficio e pio.\n  Tremar sent\u00ec la man, mentre la fronte,\n    Non conosciuta ancor, sciolse e scoprio.\n  La vide, e la conobbe; e rest\u00f2 senza\n  E voce, e moto. Ahi vista! ahi cognoscenza!\n\n  Non mor\u00ec gi\u00e0; che sue virtuti accolse\n    Tutte in quel punto, e in guardia al cor le mise;\n  E, premendo il suo affanno, a dar si volse\n    Vita coll'acqua a chi col ferro uccise.\n  Mentre egli il suon de' sacri detti sciolse,\n    Colei di gioia trasmutossi, e rise:\n  E in atto di morir lieto e vivace,\n  Dir parea; S'apre il cielo; io vado in pace.\n\n  D'un bel pallore ha il bianco volto asperso,\n    Come a gigli sarian miste viole;\n  E gli occhi al cielo affisa, e in lei converso\n    Sembra per la pietate il cielo e 'l sole;\n  E la man nuda e fredda alzando verso\n    Il cavaliero, in vece di parole,\n  Gli d\u00e0 pegno di pace. In questa forma\n  Passa la bella donna, e par che dorma.\n\n  Come l'alma gentile uscita ei vede,\n    Rallenta quel vigor ch'avea raccolto,\n  E l'imperio di s\u00e8 libero cede\n    Al duol gi\u00e0 fatto impetuoso e stolto,\n  Ch' al cor si stringe, e chiusa in breve sede\n    La vita, empie di morte i sensi e 'l volto.\n  Gi\u00e0 simile all' estinto il vivo langue\n  Al colore, al silenzio, agli atti, al sangue.\n\n  E ben la vita sua sdegnosa e schiva,\n    Spezzando a sforza il suo ritegno frale,\n  La bell'anima sciolta alfin seguiva,\n    Che poco innanzi a lei spiegava l'ale;\n  Ma quivi stuol de' Franchi a caso arriva,\n    Cui trae bisogno d' acqua, o d'altro tale;\n  E con la donna il cavalier ne porta,\n  In s\u00e8 mal vivo, e morto in lei ch'\u00e8 morta.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNo V.\n\nTANCRED IN THE ENCHANTED FOREST.\n\nTHE SAME.\n\n  Era in prence Tancredi intanto sorto\n    A seppellir la sua diletta amica;\n  E, bench\u00e8 in volto sia languido e smorto,\n    E mal atto a portar elmo e lorica,\n  Nulladimen, poi che 'l bisogno ha scorto,\n    Ei non ricusa il rischio o la fatica;\n  Che 'l cor vivace il suo vigor trasfonde\n  Al corpo s\u00ec, che par ch'esso n'abbonde.\n\n  Vassene il valoroso in s\u00e8 ristretto,\n    E tacito e guardingo al rischio ignoto\n  E sostien della selva il fero aspetto,\n    E 'l gran romor del tuono e del tremoto;\n  E nulla sbigottisce; e sol nel petto\n    Sente, ma tosto il seda, un picciol moto.\n  Trapassa; ed ecco in quel silvestre loco\n  Sorge improvvisa la citt\u00e0 del foco.\n\n  Allor s' arretra, e dubbio alquanto resta,\n    Fra s\u00e8 dicendo: Or qui che vaglion l'armi?\n  Nelle fauci de' mostri, e 'n gola a questa\n    Divoratrice fiamma andr\u00f2 a gettarmi?\n  Non mai la vita, ove cagione onesta\n    Del comun pro la chieda, altri risparmi;\n  Ma n\u00e8 prodigo sia d' anima grande\n  Uom denso; e tale \u00e8 ben chi qui la spande.\n\n  Pur l'oste che dir\u00e0, s'indarno io riedo?\n    Qual altra selva ha di troncar speranza?\n  N\u00e8 intentato lasciar vorr\u00e0 Goffredo\n    Mai questo varco. Or, s'oltre alcun s'avanza,\n  Forse l'incendio, che qui sorto i' vedo,\n    Fia d'effetto minor che sembianza;\n  Ma seguane che puote. E in questo dire\n  Dentro saltovvi: oh memorando ardire!\n\n  N\u00e8 sotto l'arme gi\u00e0 sentir gli parve\n    Caldo o fervor come di foco intenso;\n  Ma pur, se fosser vere fiamme o larve,\n    Mal pot\u00e8 giudicar s\u00ec tosto il senso:\n  Perch\u00e8 repente, appena tocco, sparve\n    Quel simulacro, e giunse un nuvol denso,\n  Che port\u00f2 notte e verno; e 'l verno ancora\n  E l'ombra dileguossi in picciol'ora.\n\n  Stupido s\u00ec, ma intrepido rimane\n    Tancredi; e poich\u00e8 vede il tutto cheto,\n  Mette securo il pi\u00e8 nelle profane\n    Soglie, e spia della selva ogni secreto.\n  N\u00e8 pi\u00f9 apparenze inusitate e strane,\n    N\u00e8 trova alcun per via scontro o divieto,\n  Se non quanto per s\u00e8 ritarda il bosco\n  La vista e i passi, inviluppato e fosco.\n\n  Alfine un largo spazio in forma scorge\n    D'anfiteatro, e non \u00e8 pianta in esso,\n  Salvo che nel suo mezzo altero sorge,\n    Quasi eccelsa piramide, un cipresso.\n  Col\u00e0 si drizza, e nel mirar s' accorge\n    Ch' era di varj segni il tronco impresso,\n  Simil a quei, ch\u00e8 in vece us\u00f2 di scritto\n  L'antico gi\u00e0 misterioso Egitto.\n\n  Fra i segni ignoti alcune note ha scorte\n    Del sermon di Soria, ch'ei ben possiede:\n  O tu, che dentro ai chiostri della morte\n    Osasti por, guerriero audace, il piede,\n  Deh! se non sei crudel, quanto sei forte,\n    Deh! non turbar questa secreta sede.\n  Perdona all'alme omai di luce prive:\n  Non dee guerra co' morti aver chi vive.\n\n  Cos\u00ec dicea quel motto. Egli era intento\n    Delle brevi parole ai segni occulti.\n  Fremere intanto udia continuo il vento\n    Tra le frondi del bosco e tra i virgulti;\n  E trarne un suon che flebile concento\n    Par d'umani sospiri e di singulti;\n  E un non so che confuso instilla al core\n  Di piet\u00e0, di spavento e di dolore.\n\n  Pur tragge alfin la spada, e con gran forza\n    Percote l'alta pianta. Oh maraviglia!\n  Manda fuor sangue la recisa scorza,\n    E fa la terra intorno a s\u00e8 vermiglia.\n  Tutto si raccapriccia; e pur rinforza\n    Il colpo, e 'l fin vederne ei si consiglia.\n  Allor, quasi di tomba, uscir ne sente\n  Un indistinto gemito dolente;\n\n  Che poi distinto in voci: Ahi troppo, disse,\n    M' hai tu, Tancredi, offesso: or tanto basti:\n  Tu dal corpo, che meco e per me visse,\n    Felice albergo gia, mi discacciasti.\n  Perch\u00e8 il misero tronco, a cui m'affisse\n    Il mio duro destino, ancor mi guasti?\n  Dopo la morte gli avversarj tuoi,\n  Crudel, ne' lor sepolcri offender vuoi?\n\n  Clorinda fui: n\u00e8 sol qui spirto umano\n    Albergo in questa pianta rozza e dura;\n  Ma ciascun altro ancor, Franco o Pagano,\n    Che lassi i membri a pi\u00e8 dell'alte mura,\n  Astretto \u00e8 qui da novo incanto e strano,\n    Non so s' io dica in corpo o in sepoltura.\n  Son di sensi animati i rami e i tronchi;\n  E micidial sei tu, se legno tronchi.\n\n  Qual infermo talor, ch'in sogno scorge\n    Drago, o cinta di fiamme alta Chimera,\n  Sebben sospetta, o in parte anco s'accorge\n    Che simulacro sia non forma vera,\n  Pur desia di fuggir, tanto gli porge\n    Spavento la sembianza orrida e fera:\n  Tale il timido amante appien non crede\n  Ai falsi inganni: e pur ne teme, e cede:\n\n  E dentro il cor gli \u00e8 in modo tal conquiso\n    Da varj affetti, che s' agghiaccia e trema;\n  E nel moto potente ed improvviso\n    Gli cade il ferro: e 'l manco e in lui la tema.\n  Va fuor di s\u00e8. Presente aver gli \u00e8 avviso\n    L' offesa donna sua, che plori e gema:\n  N\u00e8 pu\u00f2 soffrir di rimirar quel sangue,\n  N\u00e8 quei gemiti udir d'egro che langue.\n\n  Cos\u00ec quel contra morte audace core\n    Nulla forma turb\u00f2 d' alto spavento;\n  Ma lui, che solo \u00e8 fievole in amore,\n    Falsa imago deluse e van lamento.\n  Il suo caduto ferro instanto fuore\n    Port\u00f2 del bosco impetuoso vento,\n  Sicch\u00e8 vinto partissi; e in sulla strada\n  Ritrov\u00f2 poscia, e ripigli\u00f2 la spada.\n\n  Pur non torn\u00f2, n\u00e9 ritentando ardio\n    Spiar di novo le cagioni ascose;\n  E poi che, giunto al sommo Duce, unio\n    Gli spirti alquanto, e l'animo compose,\n  Incominci\u00f2: Signor, nunzio son io\n    Di non credute e non credibil cose.\n  Ci\u00f2 che dicean dello spettacol fero,\n  E del suon paventoso, \u00e8 tutto vero.\n\n  Maraviglioso foco indi m'apparse,\n    Senza materia in un istante appreso;\n  Che sorse, e, dilatando un muro farse\n    Parve, e d' armati mostri esser difeso.\n  Pur vi passai; che ne l'incendio m' arse,\n    N\u00e8 dal ferro mi fu l'andar conteso:\n  Vern\u00f2 in quel punto, ed annott\u00f2: fe' il giorno\n  E la serenit\u00e0 poscia ritorno.\n\n  Di pi\u00f9 dir\u00f2; ch'agli alberi d\u00e0 vita\n    Spirito uman, che sente e che ragiona.\n  Per prova sollo: io n'ho la voce udita,\n    Che nel cor flebilmente anco mi suona.\n  Stilla sangue de' tronchi ogni ferita,\n    Quasi di molle carne abbian persona.\n  No, no, pi\u00f9 non potrei (vinto mi chiamo)\n  N\u00e8 corteccia scorzar, n\u00e8 sveller ramo.","title":"Stories from the Italian Poets: with Lives of the Writers, Volume 2","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":105975}