Great though his errors were, and wayward as was his temper, he was a man of whom his country had reason to be proud, and it is pleasing to be able to narrate that he was destined to receive atardy recognition for all the works with which he had enriched the literature of Italy. Cardinal Aldobrandini had been raised to the Papal Chair and had assumed the name of Clement VIII, and he and his nephews were anxious to signalise his Pontificate by reviving the Coronation of Petrarch in the Capitol in favour of a poet not less illustrious and more unfortunate. Accordingly, Tasso was summoned to Rome, and he was met outside the gates by an immense concourse of people and a brilliant galaxy of Cardinals, Prelates, and Nobles. But his frame was worn out, and the excitement of this great reception hardly infused sufficient animation to conceal from the bystanders the rapid approach of death. He was lodged in a noble suite of apartments in the Vatican; the poet who for so many years had been doomed to a madman's cell, found himself an honoured guest in the Palace of the Popes.
But the state and ceremony with which he was surrounded were more than his ebbing strength could bear. Religious feelings had always held powerful sway over his sensitive mind, and now, when he felt his end drawing near, he retired to the Monastery of Sant' Onofrio, situated on an eminence outside the town. Here, in prayer and meditation, he devoutly awaited release from all his sorrows. The monks tended him with careand assiduity; but it is recorded of him that his old suspicions revived by fits and starts, and on one occasion he made his attendant swallow the medicine he was directed to take in order to have ocular proof that it was not poisoned.
Worn out by his many sufferings, he passed away peacefully on the twenty-fifth of April, 1595, the day before he was to receive the laurel in the Capitol. But he probably did not regret that death prevented him from enjoying this symbol of greatness. As Leopardi, himself no less familiar with sorrow, beautifully says:
"Morte domandaChi nostro mal conobbe, e non ghirlanda."
There is a peculiar fitness in the circumstance that a poet, so singled out for misfortune, was not destined to wear the wreath of a conqueror. Peaceful after so much agitation, calm after such bitter resentment, he sank to rest in that secluded monastery, and for thirteen years he lay in the Church adjoining the quiet cloisters without a stone to mark his resting-place, until Cardinal Bonifazio Bevilacqua raised a noble monument to his memory, which may still be seen by the visitor who wends his way to Sant' Onofrio to pay the tribute of a sigh to so much glory linked to so much misfortune.
Tasso was tall and active; his countenance was handsome, though in later years much clouded by melancholy. In his younger days he was an expert swordsman, and skilled in all bodily exercises.
The vicissitudes of his life afford such picturesque material for narration and description that we cannot wonder that it became a favourite theme with poets and biographers. The noble play of Goethe is familiar to all lovers of poetry. Of his biographers the earliest was Manso, a Neapolitan nobleman, who had the singular fortune of being, in the course of his long life, the friend of three renowned epic poets, of Tasso himself, of Marino, and of the greatest of all, Milton, whose acquaintance he made during the travels of the English poet in Italy. Tasso mentions him in theGerusalemme Conquistata:
"Fra cavalier magnanimi e cortesiRisplende il Manso."
Marino did not leave his praises unsung, and Milton addressed him in one of his finest Latin poems. He must have had striking qualities to endear him to men so eminent and so different; but his biography, probably because it was the first, gave rise to many legends which have been repeated down to the present day. He seems to have been somewhat credulous, and to have reliedtoo much on the statements made to him by Tasso himself, without distrusting his informant's wild and heated imagination.
The Abbé Serassi, in his biography published in 1785, did what Manso had neglected to do. He sifted the evidence and examined the documents; and gave to the world a picture much nearer the truth than had yet been presented; but it was reserved for the indefatigable labours of Angelo Solerti to produce a really exhaustive history of the poet.
It must be confessed that in turning from Tasso's life, so full of passion and romance, to his poetry, we experience a certain sense of disappointment. Had he not been so striking an object of sympathy and interest, it may be doubted whether his works would have arrested quite so much attention as they actually did. Considering the varied panorama of life that had been unfolded before him and the mental sufferings he underwent, he does not sound those depths of impassioned meditation that might be expected. What traces there are of them, will be found rather in his letters than in his poems. This fact is very strange and points to the limitations of his talent. He had materials in his life sufficient to inspire him with great lyric poems, and yet we find nothing in his odes, sonnets and madrigals to compare to the finest passages ofPetrarch, or of Leopardi, or even of Filicaia. None of his shorter poems impress themselves indelibly on the reader: none glow with the intensity of lyric fire.
Not being able to give him the title of a great lyric poet, we proceed to enquire whether he was a great epic or a great dramatic poet.
His narrative poems are four in number; theRinaldo,theGerusalemme Liberata,theGerusalemme Conquistata,and theSette Giornate del Mondo Creato,a long work in blank verse on the subject of the Creation. HisRinaldois remarkable because it was written in such early youth; hisGerusalemme Conquistatawas admitted even by his admirers to be an utter failure. It has only one striking passage, a prophecy of evil to the house of Bourbon, which seems clearly to foretell the crimes and horrors of the French Revolution, and which deserves to rank among poetical prophecies next to the celebrated prediction of the discovery of America in the tragedy ofMedeaattributed to Seneca. TheSette Giornatefurnished some hints to Milton when he came to the description of the Creation of the World inParadise Lost.It has, however, no intrinsic merit to recommend it, being heavy and uninteresting to the last degree. These three poems had hardly vitality enough to keepthem alive until the close of the Century in which they were written, and to modern readers they are quite dead. And yet the subjects were of sufficient interest to afford brilliant opportunities of displaying the powers of a great writer. We cannot help asking the question, can he be a great poet who allowed such brilliant opportunities to escape?
His pastoral play,Aminta,has much sweetness and freshness of style; his tragedy,Torrismondo,has some touches that lead us to think that under happier circumstances and with a mind less pre-occupied with his own distresses, he might have become a fine dramatist; but the shepherds and nymphs of theAmintaseem vapid and mawkish to readers of the present day; and theTorrismondohas not that convincing power that a tragedy ought to possess.
In all these works, lyric, epic, and dramatic, Tasso's style, though sweet and flowing in the earlier productions, is strangely devoid of originality, and, therefore, of colour; and no writer was more deeply imbued with the conventional phraseology of the poetry of his age. Thought and style are alike devoid of those vivid touches that command admiration and ensure immortality. We are left under the impression that the poet is not fixing all his powers of mind on his verse, andthat his attention is largely engaged elsewhere. This absence of full power is the only trace in his poems of the disordered state of his mind. Many poets, whose sanity has never been questioned, have passages far more morbid and eccentric than any that can be found in Tasso's pages. He never indulges in wild flights of fancy, the order of his thoughts is lucidity itself; and there are no incoherent and very few exaggerated metaphors. On the contrary, they would rather gain by a little more irregularity. They are so logically thought out as to become occasionally almost exasperating.
Thus it will be seen that his claims to rank as a great poet rest entirely on theGerusalemme Liberata.
In considering that celebrated poem, the first thought that must occur to the reader is the extremely happy choice of the subject. It was unhackneyed; it was picturesque; it was noble. We cannot help feeling that Ariosto is sometimes dragged down by the frivolous stories he tells; we cannot help feeling that Tasso is sustained and inspired by the magnificent episodes it is his duty to narrate. He is rather too fond of imitating passages from Homer and Virgil, but such imitation was universal in his day, and in his case it is skilfully executed. The Oriental colouring of the scenes laid in Palestine and Syria is, perhaps,not very vivid, but it is quite as vivid as his contemporaries expected. On the whole it would be harsh to deny that he has done justice to his subject, and in one respect he deserves the highest praise: he imparts a human interest and an air of reality to his characters that cannot be too highly extolled. Ariosto often treats his characters merely as puppets, and is himself the first to laugh at them. Very different is the attitude of Tasso towards his creations. He believes in them with unshaken sincerity, and he loves them because he believes in them. Erminia, Sophronia, Armida, Rinaldo, Goffredo, Tancredi, all stand before us in the life, moving and breathing. As Goethe says, in his play on the subject of Tasso:
"Es sind nicht Schatten die der Wahn erzeugte;Ich weiss es, sie sind ewig, denn sie sind.["They are not shadows by illusion made;I know they live for ever, for they live."]
This great quality undoubtedly explains the universal popularity of theGerusalemme.That poem even penetrated to classes of the community to whom, as a rule, literary poets appeal in vain. Detached passages were set to music, and sung by the people like ballads. For two centuries the gondoliers beguiled their work with the musicalstanzas of the unhappy poet. Who does not remember Byron's lines?—
"In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,And silent rows the songless gondolier."
When they first began to be neglected is not recorded. They seem only to have been handed down orally. Alterations would inevitably creep in, and losing their accuracy, they lost also their charm.
Writing in the same stanza as Ariosto, Tasso could not fail to resemble him in some respects. They are both clear, rapid, and musical. But the style of the earlier poet is richer, stronger, more original, and, I think, in spite of an occasional want of tenderness, more truly poetical. Tasso too often indulges in conventions and common-places, hence he becomes feeble and unimpressive. To give samples of the two poets, I will quote a passage from each.
Ariosto.
A ship of the enemy approaches incautiously the fleet of Charlemagne.
"Quivi il nocchier, eh' ancor non s'era accortoDegl' inimici, entrò con la galea,Lasciando molte miglia addietro il portoD'Algieri, ove calar prima volea,Per un vento gagliardo ch' era sorto,E spinto oltre il dover la poppa avea.Venir tra i suoi credette, e in loco fido,Come vien Progne al suo loquace nido.Ma come poi l'imperiale augello,I gigli d'oro, e i pardi vide appresso,Restò pallido in faccia, come quelloChe 'l piede incauto d'improvviso ha messoSopra 'l serpente venenoso e fello,Dal pigro sonno in mezzo l'erbe oppresso;Che spaventato e smorto si ritira,Fuggendo quel ch'è pien di tosco e d'ira.""Orlando Furioso,"c. xxxìx, st. 31 ani 32.
Tasso.
The Saracens hearing from the walls of Jerusalem the chorus of the Crusaders in the distance.
"Colà s'invia l'esercito canoro,E ne suonan le valli ime e profonde,E gli alti colli e le spelonche loro;E da ben mille parti Eco risponde;E quasi par che boschereccio coroFra quegli antri si celi e quelle fronde,Si chiaramente replicar s'udiaOr di Cristo il gran nome, or di Maria.D'in sulle mura ad ammirar frattantoCheti si stanno e attoniti i PaganiQue' tardi avvolgimenti, e l'umil canto,E l'insolite pompe e i riti estrani.Poi che cessò dello spettacol santoLa novitate, i miseri profaniAlzâr le strida; e di bestemmie e d'onteMugì il torrente e la gran valle e 'l monte.""Gerusalemme Liberata," c. xv, st. 11 ani 12.
Tasso's style has a pathetic air which is very taking at first sight; but when we examine it minutely, we find certain weaknesses which cannot be detected in the style of Ariosto. The magnificent passage from theOrlando Furiosois without a flaw and could not be improved. The same cannot be said of the stanzas from theGerusalemme,musical as they are. We may be sure that Ariosto would never have been guilty of the feeble repetition of the feeble epithet,"gran nome, gran valle."
It is owing to his pathos that Tasso loses so much less in translation than Ariosto. All the renderings of theOrlando Furiosothat I have seen, are somewhat colourless, even the Elizabethan translation of Harrington, and even the careful and accurate translation of Rose. The German translations of Griess and Donner are as admirable as they can possibly be, considering the great difficulties of the task, but even they do not quite succeed in reproducing the exquisite flexibility of Ariosto's style. Tasso, in many respects the most unfortunate of poets, was singularly lucky in the translators who introduced him to foreign nations. He has been translated into many languages with signal success, and with remarkably little loss of spirit and beauty. The earliest English rendering, that of Fairfax, is the best. It is not alwaysscrupulously accurate, but it is delightfully fresh, vigorous, and musical. I will subjoin one of the most successful passages which will give the reader a favourable idea of the skill of Fairfax, and of the thoughts and conceptions of the illustrious Italian poet, illustrious in spite of the shortcomings which occasionally detract from his qualities.
The Christian Knights in search of Rinaldo, find him in the enchanted Palace of Armida.
(Gerusalemme Liberata, CantoXVI.)I.The palace great is builded rich and round,And in the centre of the inmost holdThere lies a garden sweet on fertile ground,Fairer than that where grew the trees of gold.The cunning sprites had buildings reared around,With doors and entries false a thousandfold.A labyrinth they made that fortress brave,Like Daedal's prison or Porsenna's grave.II.The Knights passed through the castle's largest gate.(Though round about a hundred ports there shine),The door leaves framed of carved silver plateUpon their golden hinges turn and twine;They stayed to view this work of wit and state,The workmanship excelled the substance fine,For all the shapes in that rich metal wrought,Save speech, of living bodies wanted nought.III.Alcides there sat telling tales, and spunAmong the feeble troups of damsels mild;(He that the fiery gates of Hell had won,And Heaven upheld); false love stood by and smiled.Armed with his club, fair Iole forth run,His club with blood of monsters foul denied;And on her back his lion's skin had she,Too rough a bark for such a tender tree.IV.Beyond was made a sea, whose azure floodThe hoary froth crushed from the surges blue,Wherein two navies great well-rangéd stoodOf warlike ships, fire from their arms out flew;The waters burnt about their vessels good,Such flames the gold therein enchased threw;Cæsar his Romans hence, the Asian KingsThence Anthony and Indian Princes, brings;V.The Cyclads seemed to swim amid the main,And hill 'gainst hill, and mount 'gainst mountain smote;With such great fury met those armies twain,Here burnt a ship, there sank a bark or boat;Here darts and wildfire flew, there drowned or slainOf Princes dead the bodies fleet and float;Here Cæsar wins, and yonder conquered beenThe eastern ships, there fled the Egyptian Queen.VI.Antonius eke himself to flight betook,The Empire lost to which he would aspire;Yet fled not he, nor flight for fear forsook,But followed her, drawn on by fond desire.Well might you see, within his troubled look,Strive and contend love, courage, shame and ire;Oft looked he back, oft gazed he on the fight,But oftener on his mistress and her flight.VII.Then in the secret creeks of fruitful Nile,Cast in her lap he would sad Death await.And in the pleasure of her lovely smileSweeten the bitter stroke of cursed Fate.All this did art with curious hand compileIn the rich metal of that princely gate.The Knights these stories viewed, first and last;Which seen, they forward pressed, and in they passed.VIII.As through his channel crook'd Meander glidesWith turns and twines, and rolls now to and fro,Whose streams run forth there to the salt sea-sides,Here back return, and to their spring-ward go;Such crooked paths, such ways this palace hides;Yet all the maze their map described soThat through the labyrinth they go in fineAs Theseus did by Ariadne's line.IX.When they had passed all those troubled ways,The garden sweet spread forth her green to shew;The moving crystal from the fountains plays,Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs, and flowers new,Sun-shiny hills, dales hid from Phœbus' rays,Groves, arbours, mossy caves at orice they view;And that which beauty most, most wonder brought,Nowhere appeared the art which all this wrought.X.So with the rude, the polished mingled was,That natural seemed all, and every part.Nature would craft in counterfeiting pass,And imitate her imitator art.Mild was the air, the clouds were clear as glass,The trees no whirlwind felt nor tempest's smart,But ere their fruit drop off, the blossom comes,This springs, that falls, that ripeneth, and this blooms.XI.The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide,Beside the young, the old and ripened fig.Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side,The apples new and old grew on one twig.The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide,That bended underneath their clusters big;The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour,There, purple, ripe and nectar sweet forth pour.XII.The joyous birds, hid under greenwood shade,Sung many notes on every branch and bough;The wind that in the leaves and waters played,With murmur sweet now sang, and whistled now;Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made,And while they sang, it rumbled soft and low;Thus, were it hap or cunning, chance or art,The wind in this strange music bore his part.XIII.With party-coloured plumes and purple billA wondrous bird among the rest there flew,That in plain speech sung lovelays loud and shrill,Her leden[1]was like human language true;So much she talked, and with such wit and skillThat strange it seemed how much good she knew;Her feathered fellows all stood hushed to hear,Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.XIV."The gently-budding rose (quoth she) behold,The first scent peeping forth with virgin beams,Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfoldIn their dear leaves, and less seen fairer seems;And after, spreads them forth more broad and bold,Then languisheth and dies in last extremes;Nor seems the same that decked bed and bowerOf many a lady late and paramour;XV."So in the passing of a day doth passThe bud and blossom of the life of man,Nor e'er doth flourish more, but like the gratisCut down, becometh withered, pale and wan;Oh, gather then the rose while time thou has:Short is the day, done when it scant began;Gather the rose of love which yet thou may'st;Loving be loved; embracing, be embraced."XVI.She ceased; and as approving all she spoke,The choir of birds their heavenly tune renew;The turtles sighed, and sighs with kisses broke;The fowls to shades unseen by pairs withdrew;It seemed the laurel chaste and stubborn oak,And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,It seemed the land, the sea and heaven aboveAll breathed out fancy sweet and sighed out love.XVII.Through all this music rare and strong consentOf strange allurements, sweet 'bove mean and measure,Severe, firm, constant, still the Knights forth went,Hardening their hearts 'gainst false, enticing pleasure;'Twixt leaf and leaf their sight before they sent,And after crept themselves at ease and leisureTill they beheld the Queen sit with their knightBeside the lake, shaded with boughs from sight.* * * * * * *XXVII.The twain that hidden in the bushes, were,Before the Prince in glittering arms appear.XXVIII.As the fierce steed for age withdrawn from war,Wherein the glorious beast had always won,That in vile rest, from fright sequestered far,Feeds with the mares at large, his service done:If arms he sees or hears the trumpet's jar,He neigheth loud, and thither fast doth run,And wisheth on his back the armed knight,Longing for jousts, for tournaments and fight:XXIX.So fared Rinaldo when the glorious lightOf their bright harness glistered in his eyes;His noble spirit awaked at that sight.His blood began to warm, his heart to rise;Though drunk with ease, devoid of wonted might,On sleep till then his weakened virtue lies.Ubaldo forward stepped and to him heldOf diamonds clear that pure and precious shield.XXX.Upon the targe his looks amazed he bent,And therein all his wanton habit spied,His civet, balm, and perfumes redolent,How from his locks they smoked and mantle wideHis sword that many a Pagan stout had shent,[2]Bewrapped with flowers, hung idly by his side,So nicely decked that it seemed the knightWore it for fashion sake, but not for fight.XXXI.As when from sleep and idle dreams abrayed[3]A man awaked calls home his wits again,So in beholding his attire he played,But yet to view himself could not sustain;His looks he downward cast and nought he said,Grieved, shamèd, sad, he would have diéd fain;And oft he wished the earth or ocean wideWould swallow him, and so his errors hide.XXXII.Ubaldo took the time, and thus began—"All Europe now, and Asia be in warAnd all that Christ adore and fame have wonIn battaille strong, in Syria fighting are;But thee alone, Bertoldo's noble son,This little corner keeps, exiled farFrom all the world, buried in sloth and shame,A carpet champion for a wanton dame!XXXIII."What letharge hath in drowsiness append[4]Thy courage thus? What sloth doth thee infect?Up! up! Our camp and Godfrey for thee send,Thee fortune, praise and victory expect;Come fatal champion; bring to happy endThis enterprise begun, and all that sect(Which oft thou shaken hast) to earth full lowWith thy sharp brand strike down, kill, overthrow."XXXIV.This said, the noble infant stood a spaceConfused, speechless, senseless, ill, ashamed,But when that shame to just disdain gave place,To fierce disdain, from courage sprung untamed,Another redness blushèd through his face,Whence worthy anger shone, displeasure flamed;His nice attire in scorn he rent and tore,For of his bondage vile that witness bore;XXXV.That done he hastèd from the charmed fort,And through the maze passed with his searchers twain.Armida of her mount and chiefest portWondered to find the furious keeper slain;Awhile she feared, but she knew in shortThat her dear lord was fled; then saw she plain(Ah! woeful sight!) how from her gates the manIn haste and fear, in wrath and anger ran.
[1]Leden—language.
[1]Leden—language.
[2]Shent—Iniured.
[2]Shent—Iniured.
[3]Abrayed—Awaked.
[3]Abrayed—Awaked.
[4]Append—Tied-up.
[4]Append—Tied-up.
The Annals of Italy during the Seventeenth Century were not signalised by disasters as terrible as those of the Sixteenth Century. The country was not desolated by the invasion of foreign conquerors. Rome was not sacked for a second time. Florence was not convulsed with civil dissensions. But the nation was sick at heart, and the tyranny of her rulers gave only the choice of submission or death. Lombardy, Naples and Sicily were groaning under the iron yoke of Spain. The petty sovereigns ruled with irresponsible despotism over their dominions. Venice and Genoa boasted that they were free; but the freedom of Venice consisted in the rule of a suspicious oligarchy, guiltless, indeed, of wanton oppression, but upholding its rule by merciless punishment of the slightest disaffection. The Papal States wereexhausted in their endeavour to minister to the splendour of the families of a rapid succession of Popes, for never was nepotism more rampant than in the Seventeenth Century, and the illustrious houses of Rome, the Aldobrandini, the Borghese, the Pamphili, the Barberini, the Chigi, the Altieri, the Odescalchi, the Albani, date their greatness from that epoch. The Catholic reaction subsequent to the Reformation established a rigid code of theology, from which it was fatal to dissent. Leo X had underrated the importance of the Reformation, but his successors made up for the error by exercising unceasing vigilance over their spiritual subjects. The only rising in favour of freedom was that of Masaniello in Naples, which was rather a riot than a rebellion. Still, some great minds pined for happier things, and the finest flashes of poetry in the Century were kindled by the fire of patriotism.
It has always been the policy of despots to supply their subjects with plenty of amusements. Accordingly we find in the Seventeenth Century records of gorgeous pageants and brilliant theatrical entertainments, and the already waning wealth of the nation was further exhausted by reckless prodigality of governments and individuals. Italian Opera took its origin early in the Century, andRinucciniwas the first Librettist.The theatre more and more engaged the attention of writers, but nothing remarkable was produced, with the exception, perhaps, of the tragedies ofCardinal Delfino, Patriarch of Aquilea, which present here and there touches worthy of a fine poet. The death-scene of hisCleopatrabears a striking resemblance to the corresponding scene inAnthony and Cleopatra,although he doubtless never so much as heard of Shakespeare's name.
Battista Guarini, who died in 1612, was pre-eminent, by reason of hisPastor Fido,among writers of Pastoral Plays; but these insipid and unreal creations have no attraction for modern readers. ThePastor Fidois a work of much skill and ingenuity; but it is tainted with that fondness for quibbles and conceits which disfigures so much of the literature of the Seventeenth Century, not only in Italy, but also in other countries. If Italy had her Marino, Spain had her Gongora, France her Benserade, and England her Lyly, Donne, and Cowley. It is curious to remark how a literary fashion spreads from one country to another, and in that age of scanty travel and difficult communication, it is doubly curious. Thus, in the early part of the Nineteenth Century, Byronism became a universal epidemic.
The love of far-fetched conceits originated in the latter half of the Sixteenth Century. We seemuch of it in Shakespeare's early comedies, and the traces of it in Tasso gave ground to Boileau one hundred years later to sneer at those who preferred "the tinsel of Tasso to the gold of Virgil."
"A Racan, à Malherbe, préférer Théophile,Et le clinquant du Tasse à tout l'or de Virgile."
It is, however, unjust to blame Tasso for an inordinate profusion of conceits. He presents some, it is true, but they are almost always ingenious and imaginative, and not so far-fetched as to be unnatural.
The poet who really set the fashion of fantastic ingenuity, wasGiambattista Marino(orMarini, for both forms of the name seem to have been used by his contemporaries), a Neapolitan, born in 1569, died in 1625. His chief work is theAdonean epic poem in twenty enormous cantos on the loves of Venus and Adonis. If it were not for its appalling length, the poem would have much to recommend it. He also wrote other epics, not quite so voluminous:La Gerusalemme Distrutta, La Strage degl' Innocenti,on the Massacre of the Innocents, and numerous lyric effusions. When he was at Turin, he had a vulgar dispute with a rival poet of the name of Murtola, andnumerous satires and pasquinades were the result. Murtola was so incensed at the biting sarcasms of Marino, that he waylaid him one evening and fired a pistol. The shot killed, not Marino, but a favourite courtier of the Duke of Savoy, who was walking with the poet. Murtola was thrown into a dungeon, but Marino interceded for his fallen rival, and it is a curious illustration of the absolute power of the Princes of those days, that all proceedings against Murtola were stopped, and he was granted a free pardon. Marino had reason to regret his intercession for so unworthy an object. Murtola accidentally discovered a copy of verses written by Marino many years previously, reflecting on the Duke. He lost no time in forwarding them to the Duke, who was so incensed that he would doubtless have inflicted upon Marino the punishment from which he had saved the treacherous Murtola, had not Marino prudently taken refuge in flight.
He repaired to Paris, where he was enthusiastically received, and Marie de Medici, the second wife of Henry IV, and Regent during the minority of Louis XIII, gave him a large pension and many other tokens of Royal favour. He enjoyed full leisure to complete hisAdone,and when it was published in 1623, it fully satisfied the expectations of his admirers. He returned to his native city ofNaples, where a magnificent ovation awaited him. He did not, however, live long to enjoy his triumph, and Italy had to mourn his loss in 1625.
Marino exactly hit the taste of his contemporaries, and the praises lavished upon him are almost incredible in their exaggeration. The poet Claudio Achillini wrote to him from Bologna: "There is not a doubt in my mind that you are the greatest poet the world has ever seen." Cardinal Bentivoglio, one of the most brilliant intellects of the age, addressed him in terms hardly less rapturous.
There must assuredly have been something remarkable in Marino's works to produce such a dazzling effect on his contemporaries.
In early youth Marino formed a theory that a poet in order to succeed ought to astonish his readers. In every line he wrote, it was his object to excite astonishment. He fully succeeded. The most ingenious thoughts, the most dazzling metaphors, the most vivid descriptions, are crowded together in his pages to such an extent that it is impossible to deny that he was prodigally gifted by Nature with some of the rarest attributes of thought and imagination. But his works present no human interest, no patriotic fire, and no religious inspiration. They are fantastic and unreal, but then they do not pretend to be anything else. Hisimagination presented him with an inexhaustible succession of brilliant and striking images, and provided they glittered and sparkled in his verse, he was careless whether they were true to nature or consistent with each other. He is a delightful poet to read in detached passages when the mind wants to indulge in the refreshing vagaries of fancy. He is very even in his style; possessing consummate mastery over his language, the most elaborate difficulties of rhyme and metre present no obstacles to him. I do not think that he is in any respect inferior to Spenser in strength of poetical inspiration, and he is certainly less heavy and slow. But the subject of his principal work is frivolous, and it is, in truth, a mere bubble of the imagination, made to expand, glitter, and burst. But for that purpose it is much too long. Heroic thoughts alone should assume heroic proportions. Even in Ariosto, we have the same effect too often. Much more so in theAdone.Marino had nothing of the classical simplicity of Ariosto. He probably disdained it as insipid. But high seasoning involves rapid satiety, and the mind derives no nourishment from condiments so artificial. This circumstance alone solves the problem why Marino has fallen into such neglect. Take each stanza of his poems and consider it separately, and it appears a marvel of fancy, ingenuity, and musical diction. Buttake his productions as a whole, and it cannot be denied that they are wanting in sustained interest, in human pathos, and in philosophic intention. Indeed, he had nothing of a philosopher. No great problems occupy his mind; no sublime aspirations raise him above sublunary things. He spends the wealth of his intellect, not on noble monuments, but on filigree trinkets. Hence, probably, his popularity. His contemporaries did not want to be shaken with tempestuous sublimity, or led to an abyss of profound meditation. They wanted to be lulled into voluptuous repose by a singer skilful enough to delight their fancy with strains sufficiently beautiful to compensate the absence of higher qualities, and yet not too elevated to soar beyond the range of the limited horizon to which they confined themselves. Hence Marino's brilliant success. But he sacrificed to immediate popularity the admiration and gratitude of future ages, which with his prodigal gifts of song and imagination he might possibly have acquired.
As a sample of Marino's style, I subjoin the beautiful opening stanza of the seventh canto of theAdone.
"Musica e Poesia son due sorelle,Ristoratrici delle afflitte genti,De' rei pensier le torbide procelleCon liete rime a serenar possenti.Non ha di queste il mondo arti più belle,O più salubri all' affannate menti,Nè cor la Scizia ha barbaro cotanto,Se non è tigre, a cui non piaccia il canto."
As Marino aspired to be the first epic poet of his age,Gabriello Chiabrera, of Savona, aspired to be its first lyric poet, and he took Pindar for his model. He obtained much applause, but it may be doubted whether he was quite so successful as his contemporary. He has nothing like Marino's teeming wealth of imagination, and his more ambitious Odes are often turgid and heavy. On the other hand, it must be allowed that his most successful passages are splendid and sonorous. TheAdoneis the best of the long-winded Italian epics with the exception of the two unapproachable masterpieces, theOrlando Furiosoand theGerusalemme Liberata.But it cannot be said that Chiabrera comes as near to Petrarch as Marino does to his two illustrious predecessors. He is full of those hackneyed mythological allusions which encumbered poetry up to the end of the Eighteenth Century, nor has he the excuse of indulging in them for the purpose of conjuring up gorgeous and romantic visions. His powers of description are but slight, a remarkable circumstance, as his powers of versification were beyond doubt veryextensive. Some of his lighter poems are gay and vivacious, and he wrote a series of epitaphs known to English readers by Wordsworth's noble translation. Not often did Chiabrera indulge in a strain so natural and impassioned as the following:
"Not without heavy grief of heart did heOn whom the duty fell (for at that timeThe father sojourned in a distant land)Deposit in the hollow of this tombA brother's child most tenderly beloved!Francesco was the name the youth had borne,Pozzobonelli his illustrious house;And when beneath this stone the corse was laid,The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.Alas! the twentieth April of his lifeHad scarcely flowered; and at this early timeBy genuine virtue he inspired a hopeThat greatly cheered his country; to his kinHe promised comfort; and the flattering thoughtsHis friends had in their fondness entertained,He suffered not to languish or decay.Now is there not great reason to break forthInto a passionate lament? O Soul!Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,An everlasting spring! in memoryOf that delightful fragrance which was onceFrom thy mild manners quietly exhaled."
The following epitaph on an Admiral is also fine:
"There never breathed a man who, when his lifeWas closing, might not of that life relateToils long and hard. The warrior will reportOf wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomedTo bow his forehead in the Courts of KingsWill tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,Envy and heart-inquietude, derivedFrom intricate cabals of treacherous friends.I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,Could represent the countenance horribleOf the vexed waters, and the indignant rageOf Auster and Bootes. Fifty yearsOver the well-steered galleys did I rule.From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft.Of every cloud which in the heavens might stirI knew the force; and hence the rough sea's prideAvailed not to my Vessel's overthrow.What noble pomp and frequent have not IOn regal decks beheld! yet in the endI learned that one poor moment can sufficeTo equalise the lofty and the low.We sail the sea of life—a Calm one finds,And one a Tempest—and, the voyage o'er,Death is the quiet haven of us all.If more of my condition ye would know,Savona was my birthplace, and I sprangOf noble parents; seventy years and threeLived I—then yielded to a slow desease."
A poet who may not have equalled Chiabrera in the general excellence of his work, but who far surpassed him in sudden and brilliant flashes of inspiration, wasVincenzio Da Filicaia, a Florentine,born in 1642, died in 1707.[1]A few of his very finest verses are so renowned, that when we turn to an edition of his complete works, we are disagreeably surprised to find that the bulk of his poetry is far from coming up to his most striking passages. He is often conventional and turgid, sometimes heavy and awkward. He has not Chiabrera's technical skill, nor has he the vivacity of lighter poets. Hallam complained of a want of sunshine in his verse, and in truth his elegies are occasionally doleful where they ought to be tragic. The man seems to have been greater than his works; but when a chord of his lyre touches his heart, he breaks forth into song so noble and impassioned that he fully deserves to be acclaimed the greatest Italian poet in the Seventeenth Century. First and foremost stands his celebrated Sonnet on Italy, especially the four opening lines:
"Italia! Italia! O tu cui feo la sorteDono infelice di bellezza, ond'haiFunesta dote d'infiniti guaiChe in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte."
But there is something heavy and slow in the continuation and conclusion.
Superior in general excellence, though not possessing the inimitable pathos of the passage just quoted, is the sonnet beginning:
"Dov'è, Italia, il tuo braccio? e a che ti serviTu dell' altrui? non è, s'io scorgo il vero,Da chi t'offende, il difensor men fero,Ambo nemici son, ambo fur servi."
Another sonnet on the same subject opens very impressively:
"Vanno a un termine sol, con passi eguali,Del verno, Italia, e di tua vita l'ore;Nè ancor sai quante di sua man lavoreA tuo danno il Destin saette e strali."
So does a fourth:
"Sono, Italia, per te discordia e morteIn due nomi una cosa; e a si gran maleUn mal s'aggiunge non minor, che fraleNon se' abbastanza, nè abbastanza forte."
Christina, Queen of Sweden, took up her residence in Rome after her abdication, and delighted in attracting a brilliant circle to her Court. Filicaia does not seem to have left his native city, but she extended her patronage to his sons, and he celebrated her munificence in many odes, and wrote a noble Sonnet on her death. In oneof his poems he exhorts Rome to rejoice in Christina's presence:
"Non lungi là dal gelido BoöteSorse indi a poco imperiosa Stella,Ma fausta si, che se mentir non vuoi,Dire a ragion tu puoi:Antica Roma, a par di te son bella."
Filicaia received immense praise and universal renown for a series of Odes on the Liberation of Vienna from the Turks by John Sobiesky, King of Poland, in 1683. No lyric poems in the Italian language are more universally known. They are undoubtedly splendid and effective compositions. They inspired Wordsworth with the following Sonnet:
'Oh, for a kindling touch from that pure flameWhich ministered, erewhile, to a sacrificeOf gratitude, beneath Italian skies,In words like these: 'Up, Voice of Song! proclaim'Thy saintly rapture with celestial aim;'For lo! the Imperial City stands released'From bondage threatened by the embattled East,'And Christendom respires, from guilt and shame'Redeemed, from miserable fear set free'By one day's feat, one mighty victory.'Chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue;'The Cross shall spread, the Crescent hath waxed dim,'He conquering, as in joyful Heaven is sung;'He conquering through God, and God through Him.'"
The poems rise to the occasion, but at times they are more rhetorical than poetical, and the constant apostrophes to God to wake up from His sleep are not in the best taste. Filicaia unfortunately devotes almost as much eulogy to the ungrateful Leopold as to the heroic Sobiesky, and the grovelling adulation with which he addresses Royal and Imperial personages, detracts from the loftiness of the whole.
Filicaia was remarkable for tenderness. One of the finest of his sonnets is on Divine Providence:
"Qual madre i figli con pietoso affetto,"
in which thought and pathos are blended with admirable art. Some of his sonnets are strikingly ingenious. Very beautiful is that on the earth-quake of Sicily, in 1683:
"Quì pur foste, o Città; nè in voi quì restaTestimon di voi stesse un sasso solo,In cui si scriva: Quì s'aperse il suolo,Qui fu Catania, e Siracusa è questa!"
Very beautiful are some of his religious verses:
"Avess' io scritto meno, e assai più pianto;E stil men terso avessi, alma più bella,Men chiaro ingegno, e cor più puro e santo!"
The final impression left by Filicaia's poems is that he was a great nature rather than a perfectpoet, and that it is owing to the loftiness of his spirit rather than to the mastery of his art, that his pages, too often cumbrous and conventional, are irradiated with flashes so brilliant and striking that they leave an indelible impression on the reader and place the poet on a pedestal more lofty and honourable than many writers, gifted with keener wit and more vivid imagination, can ever hope to ascend.
As Chiabrera took Pindar for his model, so didFulvio Testiendeavour to appear in the character of an Italian Horace. And, in truth, he had many qualities to justify his undertaking the task. He has wit, ingenuity, clear and pointed expression, and a mind genuinely poetical. He seems to have developed early, and some of his best pieces were written before he was twenty-five. He dedicated an edition of his poems to Charles Emmanuel, Duke of Savoy, and thereby incurred the wrath of the Spanish Governor of Lombardy, and had to take refuge in flight. The Duke of Modena became his patron and gave him a pension, and his successor, Francis I, was even more favourable to the poet, and took him in his suite to Madrid in 1638, when Philip IV of Spain conferred upon him a lucrative office. Testi resembled Ariosto in being made Governor of the Province of Garfagnana, and Tasso in exciting the most intensehatred and jealousy. For some unexplained reason, he was arrested early in 1646 and thrown into prison, where he met his death on the twenty-eighth of August. It is suspected that he was executed within the precincts of the prison, but nothing certain is known; all is suspicion and mystery. If he has not left anything very memorable, his poems are at least spirited and elegant, and, unlike many of his contemporaries, he is never dull and ponderous. Some of his letters are witty and vivacious.
The great painter,Salvator Rosa, often amused his leisure with writing verses, and if his attention had not been so strongly directed to the sister art of painting, he might have achieved notable success in poetry. Some of his ballads are spontaneous and natural, and his satires show genuine powers of observation and ridicule. That on the painters of his day is, perhaps, the best, and is well worth reading.
Another satirist of merit wasBenedetto Menzini. Like Filicaia, he enjoyed the patronage of Christina of Sweden. Never, since the terrible catastrophe of the sack of Rome under Clement VII, did the Eternal City present such a magnificent aspect as in the latter part of the Seventeenth Century. The stately days of Leo X seemed to be revived. Alexander VII signalised his Pontificateby extraordinary splendour. The colonnade enclosing the square before St. Peter's was erected by Bernini in his reign. Christina vied with the Pope in the magnificence of her Court. The Ambassadors to the Vatican endeavoured to out-shine each other in pomp and luxury. If Menzini who lived in the heart of this splendid society, did not transfer more than a dim reflection of its brilliancy to his pages, he writes at least as a man who has seen and observed much, and he is neither a pedant nor an empty declaimer. He wrote an Art of Poetry—in verse, almost as good as that written in France at the same period by Boileau. His sonnets and serious poems are much more conventional. He was a good Latinist, but the great series of Italian writers of Latin poems closed with the sparkling epigrams of the brothers Amaltei.
Another lyric poet attracted to Rome by the liberality of the Queen of Sweden wasAlessandro Guidi. He found a patron not only in that Princess, but also, early in the Eighteenth Century, in Pope Clement XI, whose Latin homilies he turned into Italian verse. Previous writers had, in the composition of their Odes, observed the most rigid rules of metre and rhyme. The same stanza, the same order of rhymes, was maintained throughout each poem. Guidi, whether from want of skill, orfrom indolence, or from love of originality, was thé first to discard this iron regularity, and to write Odes in irregular stanzas, even occasionally leaving verses without giving them a succeeding rhyme. This was followed at intervals by other writers, until it culminated in the boundless freedom of Leopardi, who, in his last productions, introduces rhymes so sparingly as to make his metre little more than a modification of blank verse. After Leopardi's imitators had tired the public ear with their slipshod effusions, a reaction set in, and regular stanzas are now more than ever in favour, the long and elaborate stanzas of Filicaia being, however, neglected for the lighter and more pointed quatrains.
By this license, strongly censured at the time, Guidi undoubtedly gained greater freedom of movement, and he is never obliged to force his thoughts and twist his phrases. But it cannot be said that his conceptions are more natural and unconventional than those of his predecessors. He has no great glow of imagination, no rainbow hues of fancy, no depth of thought, nor has he any powers of pathos or tenderness. But he is always tasteful and scholarly, and his works are perfectly free from any taint of coarseness or vulgarity.
Alessandro Marchettiwas remarkable rather for his magnificent translation of Lucretius thanfor any of his original productions. The book was considered in Italy of a tendency too dangerous to be allowed to pass the censorship, and it had to be printed in London and smuggled surreptitiously into the country of its origin.
Francesco Rediwrote one very celebrated work,Bacco in Toscana,a dithyramb, full of fire and enthusiasm, a species of poem of which there are few examples in the Italian language. He was a physician by profession, and greatly advanced the science of his time. He died in 1698.
Carlo Maria Maggiwrote some pleasing poems in the Milanese dialect, and some of his Sonnets addressed to Italy have the patriotic fire so much extolled in Filicaia.
Felice ZappiandFaustina Maratti, his wife, wrote some noble and spirited Sonnets. One by Zappi on the Moses of Michael Angelo, has most striking beauty and originality.
The Seventeenth Century was not rich in comic poets. The versifiers of the age are mostly distinguished by a rather monotonous seriousness. Two poets, however, are remarkable for their comic inventions,Lorenzo LippiandAlessandro Tassoni.
The former, a Florentine, was painter as well as poet. He wrote a burlesque poem in Ottava Rima called theMalmantile.It is valuedas a storehouse of Tuscan phrase, and is, indeed, so full of the slang of the Mercato Vecchio as to be almost unintelligible to Italians themselves, much more to foreigners, without the copious annotations of the commentators.
Alessandro Tassoniwas a native of Modena, born in 1565, died in 1635. He distinguished himself as a Commentator on Petrarch, but more especially by his mock-heroic poem,La Secchia Rapita,which may be translatedThe Rape of the Bucket.Like so many other writers of the day, he passed his life in the service of Cardinals md Princes, and he suffered much from the caprice of his masters and the envy of his rivals. But he ended his days peacefully as a pensioner of Francis I, Duke of Modena. His principal work,La Secchia Rapita,has much ingenuity of thought to recommend it, but his style is somewhat deficient in colour, and his subject is not very interesting in itself, nor is it made so by its author. Misled by the similarity of the names, Dickens, in hisPictures from Italy,attributes theSecchia Rapitato Tasso. Among mock-heroic poems of modern times, Boileau'sLutrinmay be said to be slightly inferior to theSecchia Rapita,but Pope'sRape of the Lockand Leopardi'sParalipomenivastly superior, both in brilliancy of thought and perfection of style.
In comparing the poetry of the Seventeenth Century with that of the Sixteenth, we are struck by the curious fact that its authors have a more old-fashioned air than their predecessors. This is partly to be-accounted for by their search for ingenious conceits, which prevents them from being as flowing and natural as the contemporaries of Ariosto and Tasso. Their style, too, is more cumbrous. They are fonder of long and complicated periods than the poets of the Sixteenth Century. But they have many compensating qualities. Their very fault of being too artificial in thought and imagery argues the possession of no little imagination and fertility. A man cannot pervert into strange and fantastic forms his thoughts and conceptions without being at considerable pains to do so. None of these writers spare themselves any trouble, and they often choose the most difficult metres which the language can present. Their great defect is conventionality of phraseology, which began with Tasso and only ended in the Nineteenth Century with Monti. They bedeck themselves with the rags of Ancient Mythology, and do not seem for a moment to suspect that they would look much better in unborrowed garments. Instead of talking of the wind, they talk of Boreas. Instead of mentioning the sea, they mention Neptune and Thetis. Allthis makes even the best of them unnatural and pedantic to a degree, and it is only in their very finest passages that they are enjoyable to the modern reader. The intense love for Classical Antiquity had died out with the Renaissance, and the allusions to the Gods of Greece and Rome were but the outcome of habit and convention. Instead of adorning their works, these allusions positively make them dry, for it is only Marino who uses them as they should be used: for the display of brilliant pageants of description and imagery. He conjures up a fairyland of his own as Keats did two hundred years later.