CHAPTER VI.

"She sought her chamber; Vulcan, her own son,That chamber built. He framed the solid doors,And to the posts fast closed them with a keyMysterious, which, herself except, in heav'nNone understood. Entering, she securedThe splendid portal. First, she laved all o'erHer beauteous body with ambrosial lymph,Then, polish'd it with richest oil divineOf boundless fragrance; oil that, in the courtsEternal only shaken, through the skiesBreathed odours, and through all the distant earth.Her whole fair body with those sweets bedew'd,She pass'd the comb through her ambrosial hair,And braided her bright locks, streaming profuseFrom her immortal brows; with golden studsShe made her gorgeous mantle fast before,Ethereal texture, labour of the handsOf Pallas, beautified with various art,And braced it with a zone fringed all roundAn hundred fold; her pendents triple-gemm'dLuminous, graceful, in her ears she hung,And cov'ring all her glories with a veil,Sun-bright, new-woven, bound to her fair feetHer sandals elegant. Thus, full attiredIn all her ornaments, she issued forth,And beck'ning Venus from the other pow'rsOf Heav'n apart, the Goddess thus bespake:'Daughter, beloved! Shall I obtain my suit?Or wilt thou thwart me, angry that I aidThe Grecians, while thine aid is given to Troy?'"To whom Jove's daughter, Venus, thus replied.'What would majestic Juno, daughter dreadOf Saturn, sire of Jove? I feel a mindDisposed to gratify thee, if thou askThings possible, and possible to me.'"Then thus, with wiles veiling her deep design,Imperial Juno. 'Give me those desires,That love-enkindling power by which thou sway'stImmortal hearts, and mortal, all alike.For to the green Earth's utmost bounds I go,To visit there the parent of the Gods,Oceanus, and Tethys his espoused,Mother of all. They kindly from the handsOf Rhea took, and with parental careSustain'd and cherish'd me, what time from heav'nThe Thund'rer howl'd down Saturn, and beneathThe earth fast bound him and the barren Deep.Them, go I now to visit, and their feudsInnumerable to compose; for longThey have from conjugal embrace abstain'dThrough mutual wrath; whom by persuasive speechMight I restore into each other's arms,They would for ever love me and revere."Her, foam-born Venus then, Goddess of smiles,Thus answer'd. 'Thy request, who in the armsOf Jove reposest the Omnipotent,Nor just it were, nor seemly, to refuse.'"So saying, the cincture from her breast she loos'dEmbroider'd, various, her all-charming zone.It was an ambush of sweet snares, repleteWith love, desire, soft intercourse of hearts,And music of resistless whisper'd soundsThat from the wisest steal their best resolves;She placed it in her hands and thus she said.'Take this—this girdle fraught with ev'ry charm.Hide this within thy bosom, and return,Whate'er thy purpose, mistress of it all.'She spake; imperial Juno smiled, and stillSmiling complacent, bosom'd safe the zone."

Euphorbus falls thus under the spear of Menelaus: Iliad, B. XVII. p. 452. v. 60.

"Sounding he fell; loud rang his batter'd arms.His locks, which even the Graces might have own'd,Blood-sullied, and his ringlets wound aboutWith twine of gold and silver, swept the dust.As the luxuriant olive, by a swainRear'd in some solitude where rills abound,Puts forth her buds, and, fann'd by genial airsOn all sides, hangs her boughs with whitest flow'rs,But by a sudden whirlwind from its trenchUptorn, it lies extended on the field,Such, Panthus' warlike son, Euphorbus seem'd,By Menelaus, son of Atreus, slainSuddenly, and of all his arms despoil'd.But as the lion on the mountains bred,Glorious in strength, when he hath seiz'd the bestAnd fairest of the herd, with savage fangsFirst breaks her neck, then laps the bloody paunchTorn wide; meantime, around him, but remote,Dogs stand and swains clamouring, yet by fearRepress'd, annoy him not or dare approach;So there, all wanted courage to opposeThe force of Menelaus, glorious chief."

The beauty of this passage will no doubt prompt Mr. C. to revise the words descriptive of the olive's gender. He cannot possibly have had an eye to the passage in the XIth B. of the Odyssey, relating to the spirit of Tiresias; the licence there, and the beauty obtained by it, are founded on very different principles.

With the following ample scene between Achilles, Lycaon, and Asteropæus, we conclude our extracts from the Iliad, B. XXI. p. 553. v. 119.

"Such supplication the illustrious sonOf Priam made, but answer harsh received.'Fool! speak'st of ransom? Name it not to me.For till my friend his miserable fateAccomplish'd, I was somewhat giv'n to spare,And num'rous; whom I seized alive, I sold;But now, of all the Trojans whom the GodsDeliver to me, none shall death escape,'Specially of the house of Priam, none.Die, therefore, even thou, my friend! What meanThy tears, unreasonably shed, and vain?Died not Patroclus, braver far than thou?And look on me—see'st not to what an heightMy stature tow'rs, and what a bulk I boast?A king begat me, and a Goddess bore.What then! A death by violence awaitsMe also, and at morn, or eve, or noonI perish, whensoe'er the destin'd spearShall reach me, or the arrow from the nerve.'"He ceased, and where the suppliant kneel, he died.Quitting the spear, with both hands spread abroadHe sat; but swift Achilles with his sword'Twixt neck and key-bone smote him, and his bladeOf double edge sank all into the wound.He prone extended on the champion lay,Bedewing with his sable blood the glebe,'Till, by the foot, Achilles cast him farInto the stream, and as he floated down,Thus in wing'd accents, glorying exclaim'd.'Lie there, and feed the fishes, which shall lickThy blood secure. Thy mother ne'er shall placeThee on thy bier, nor on thy body weep,But swift Scamander on his giddy tideShall bear thee to the bosom of the sea.There, many a fish shall through the crystal floodAscending to the rippled surface, findLycaon's pamper'd flesh delicious fare.Die Trojans! till we reach your city, youFleeing, and slaughtering, I. This pleasant streamOf dimpling silver, which ye worship oftWith victim bulls, and sate with living steedsHis rapid whirlpools, shall avail you nought,But ye shall die, die terribly till allShall have requited me with just amendsFor my Patroclus, and for other GreeksSlain at the ships, while I declined the war.'"He ended, at whose words still more incensedScamander means devised, thenceforth, to checkAchilles, and avert the doom of Troy.Meantime the son of Peleus, his huge spearGrasping, assail'd Asteropæus, sonOf Pelegon, on fire to take his life.Fair Peribœa, daughter eldest-bornOf Acessamenus, his father boreTo broad-stream'd Axius, who had clasp'd the nymphIn his embrace. On him Achilles sprang.He, newly risen from the river, stoodArm'd with two lances opposite, for himXanthus embolden'd, at the deaths incensedOf many a youth whom, mercy none vouchsafed,Achilles had in all his current slain.And now, small distance interposed, they facedEach other, when Achilles thus began.'Who art and whence, who dar'st encounter me?Hapless, the sires whose sons my force defy.'"To whom the noble son of Pelegon,Pelides, mighty chief. 'Why hast thou ask'dMy derivation? From the land I comeOf mellow-soil'd Pæonia, far remote,Chief-leader of Pæonia's host spear-arm'd;This day hath also the eleventh ris'nSince I at Troy arriv'd. For my descent,It is from Axius' river, wide-diffused,From Axius, fairest stream that waters earth,Sire of bold Pelegon, whom men reportMy sire. Let this suffice. Now fight, Achilles!'"So spake he threat'ning, and Achilles rais'dDauntless the Pelian ash. At once two spearsThe hero bold, Asteropæus threw,With both hands apt for battle. One his shieldStruck but pierced not, impeded by the gold,Gift of a God; the other as it flewGrazed his right elbow; sprang the sable blood;But, overflying him, the spear in earthStood planted deep, still hung'ring for the prey.Then, full at the Pæonian Peleus' sonHurl'd forth his weapon with unsparing force,But vain; he struck the sloping river-bank,And mid-length deep stood plunged the ashen beam.Then, with his faulchion drawn, Achilles flewTo smite him; he in vain, meantime, essay'dTo pluck the rooted spear forth from the bank;Thrice with full force he shook the beam, and thrice,Although reluctant, left it; at his fourthLast effort, bending it, he sought to breakThe ashen spear-beam of Æacides,But perish'd by his keen-edg'd faulchion first;For on the belly, at his navel's side,He smote him; to the ground effused fell allHis bowels, Death's dim shadows veil'd his eyes,Achilles ardent on his bosom fix'dHis foot, despoil'd him, and exulting cried.'Lie there; though river-sprung thou find'st it hardTo cope with sons of Jove omnipotent.Thou said'st, a mighty river is my sire—But my descent from mightier Jove I boast;My father, whom the myrmidons obey,Is son of Æacus, and he, of Jove.As Jove all streams excels that seek the sea,So, Jove's descendants nobler are than theirs.Behold a River at thy side—Let HimAfford thee, if he can, some succour—No,He may not fight against Saturnian Jove.Therefore, not kingly Achelous,Nor yet the strength of Ocean's vast profound,Although from him all rivers and all seas,All fountains, and all wells proceed, may boastComparison with Jove, but even HeAstonish'd trembles at his fiery bolt,And his dread thunders rattling in the sky."

On opening the Odyssey, we present the reader with the interview of Ulysses and his mother in the Shades, and the description of Tyro's amour with Neptune.—Odyss. B. XI. p. 254.

"She said; I ardent wish'd to clasp the shadeOf my departed mother; thrice I sprangToward her, by desire impetuous urged,And thrice she flitted from between my arms,Light as a passing shadow or a dream.Then, pierced by keener grief, in accents wing'dWith filial earnestness, I thus replied:—'My mother, why elud'st thou my attemptTo clasp thee, that ev'n here, in Pluto's realm,We might to full satiety indulgeOur grief, enfolded in each other's arms?Hath Proserpine, alas! only dispatch'dA shadow to me, to augment my woe?'"Then, instant, thus the venerable form.'Ah, son! thou most afflicted of mankind!On thee, Jove's daughter, Proserpine, obtrudesNo airy semblance vain; but such the stateAnd nature is of mortals once deceased.For they nor muscle have, nor flesh, nor bone;All those, (the spirit from the body onceDivorced) the violence of fire consumes,And, like a dream, the soul flies swift away.But haste thou back to light, and, taught thyselfThese sacred truths, hereafter teach thy spouse.'"Thus mutual we conferr'd. Then, thither came,Encouraged forth by royal Proserpine,Shades female num'rous, all who consorts, erst,Or daughters were of mighty chiefs renown'd.About the sable blood frequent they swarm'd,But I consid'ring sat, how I might eachInterrogate, and thus resolv'd. My swordForth drawing from beside my sturdy thigh,Firm I prohibited the ghosts to drinkThe blood together; they successive came;Each told her own distress; I question'd all."There, first, the high-born Tyro I beheld;She claim'd Salmoneus as her sire, and wifeWas once of Cretheus, son of Æolus,Enamour'd of Enipeus, stream divine.Loveliest of all that water earth, besideHis limpid current she was wont to stray,When Ocean's God (Enipeus' form assumed)Within the eddy-whirling river's mouthEmbraced her; there, while the o'er-arching flood,Uplifted mountainous, conceal'd the GodAnd his fair human bride, her virgin zoneHe loos'd, and o'er her eyes sweet sleep diffused.His am'rous purpose satisfied, he grasp'dHer hand, affectionate, and thus he said.'Rejoice in this, my love, and when the yearShall tend to consummation of its course,Thou shalt produce illustrious twins, for loveImmortal never is unfruitful love.Rear them with all a mother's care; meantime,Hence to thy home. Be silent. Name it not,For I am Neptune, shaker of the shores.'"So saying, he plunged into the billowy deep.She, pregnant grown, Pelias and Neleus bore,Both valiant ministers of mighty Jove."

The visit of Hermes to Calypso and her abode, are thus described.—Odyss. B. V. p. 110.

"He ended, nor the Argicide refused,Messenger of the skies; his sandals fair,Ambrosial, golden, to his feet he bound,Which o'er the moist wave, rapid as the wind,Bear him, and o'er th' illimitable earth,Then took his rod, with which, at will, all eyesHe closes soft, or opes them wide again.So arm'd, forth flew the valiant Argicide.Alighting on Pieria, down he stoop'dTo ocean, and the billows lightly skimm'dIn form a sea-mew, such as in the baysTremendous of the barren deep her foodSeeking dips oft in brine her ample wing.In such disguise, o'er many a wave he rode,But reaching, now, that isle remote, forsookThe azure deep, and at the spacious grotWhere dwelt the amber-tressed nymph arrived,Found her within. A fire on all the hearthBlazed sprightly, and, afar-diffused, the scentOf smooth split cedar and of cyprus-wood.Odorous, burning, cheer'd the happy isle.She, busied at the loom, and plying fastHer golden shuttle, with melodious voiceSat chaunting there; a grove on either side,Alder and poplar, and the redolent branchWide-spread of cypress, skirted dark the cave.There many a bird of broadest pinion builtSecure her nest, the owl, the kite, and dawLong-tongued, frequenter of the sandy shores.A garden-vine luxuriant on all sidesMantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hungProfuse; four fountains of serenest lymphTheir sinuous course pursuing side by side,Stray'd all around, and ev'ry where appear'dMeadows of softest verdure, purpled o'erWith violets; it was a scene to fillA God from heav'n with wonder and delight.Hermes, heav'n's messenger, admiring stoodThat sight, and having all survey'd, at lengthEnter'd the grotto; nor the lovely nymphHim knew not soon as seen, for not unknownEach to the other the immortals are,How far soever sep'rate their abodes.Yet found he not within the mighty chiefUlysses; he sat weeping on the shore,Forlorn, for there his custom was with groansOf sad regret t' afflict his breaking heart,Looking continual o'er the barren deep.Then thus Calypso, nymph divine, the GodQuestion'd from her resplendent throne august."

With the subsequent passage of Ulysses' stratagem in the cave of Polypheme, we shall dismiss the Odyssey, and add a few observations.—Odyss. B. IX. p. 207.

"'Cyclops! thou hast my noble name inquired,Which I will tell thee. Give me, in return,The promised boon, some hospitable pledge.My name is[25]Outis; Outis I am call'd,At home, abroad, wherever I am known.'"So I; to whom he, savage, thus replied:'Outis, when I have eaten all his friends,Shall be my last regale. Be that thy boon.'"He spake, and, downward sway'd, fell resupine,With his huge neck aslant. All conqu'ring sleepSoon seized him. From his gullet gush'd the wineWith human morsels mingled, many a blastSonorous issuing from his glutted maw.Then, thrusting far the spike of olive-woodInto the embers glowing on the hearth,I heated it, and cheer'd my friends the while,Lest any should, through fear, shrink from his part.But when that stake of olive-wood, though green,Should soon have flamed, for it was glowing hot,I bore it to his side. Then all my aidsAround me gather'd, and the Gods infusedHeroic fortitude into our hearts.

They, seizing the hot stake rasp'd to a point,Bored his eye with it, and myself, advancedTo a superior stand, twirl'd it about.As when a shipwright with his wimble boresTough oaken timber, placed on either sideBelow, his fellow artists strain the thongAlternate, and the restless iron spins;So grasping hard the stake pointed with fire,We twirl'd it in his eye; the bubbling bloodBoil'd round about the brand; his pupil sentA scalding vapour forth that singed his brow,And all his eye-roots crackled in the flame.As when the smith an hatchet or large axeTemp'ring with skill, plunges the hissing bladeDeep in cold water, (whence the strength of steel,)So hiss'd his eye around the olive-wood.The howling monster with his outcry fill'dThe hollow rock, and I, with all my aids,Fled terrified. He, plucking forth the spikeFrom his burnt socket, mad with anguish, castThe implement, all bloody, far away.Then, bellowing, he sounded forth the nameOf ev'ry Cyclops dwelling in the cavesAround him, on the wind-swept mountain tops;They, at his cry flocking from ev'ry part,Circled his den, and of his ail enquired.'What grievous hurt hath caused thee, Polypheme!Thus yelling, to alarm the peaceful earOf Night, and break our slumbers? Fear'st thou lestSome mortal man drive off thy flocks? or fear'stThyself to die by cunning or by force?'"Them answer'd, then, Polypheme from his cave,'Oh, friends! I die, and Outis gives the blow.'"To whom with accents wing'd his friends without.'If no[26]man harm thee, but thou art alone,And sickness feel'st, it is the stroke of Jove,And thou must bear it; yet invoke for aidThy father Neptune, sov'reign of the floods.'"So saying, they went, and in my heart I laugh'd;That by the fiction only of a name,Slight stratagem! I had deceived them all."

If translation be chiefly written for those who cannot read the original, it is, we apprehend, self-evident, that Polypheme's chargingOutiswith an attempt on his life, and the departure of his associates in consequence of this information, must remain a problem to those who do not understand the Greek. To them,Outisis the name of somebody, and why that should pacify the giants who came to assist the Cyclops, appears unsatisfactory, if not inconceivable. Clarke, when he adduces the passage from the Acta Eruditorum, which censures Gyphanius for having translatedOutis,nemo, would have done well if he had adduced other reasons in support of his opinion (if indeed he coincided in opinion with that passage) than grammatical futilities. The separation ofου-δεcan be no reason why the brethren of Polypheme should depart; his destruction remained a call equally urgent for their assistance, whether it was carrying on by fraud or force. In Homer, whenever a man is asked after his name, he replies, they call me so,or my mother has given me such a name; and this is always in the accusative. Ulysses, to deceive Polypheme, consults probability, and the customary reply to a question after a name, and therefore calls himOutin, notOutina, to escape the suspicion of the Cyclops; but well surmised, or Homer at least for him, that his enemy would pronounce his name in the nominative, if he should be asked who was his destroyer. If the deception be puerile, it is to be considered, that no sense can be obtained without it; and on whom is it practised? on something worse than a solitary barbarian not trained up in social craft; it is exerted on a monster of mixed nature, unacquainted with other ideas than the immediate ones of self-preservation, brutal force, and greedy appetite. The whole fiction is indeed one of those which Longinus calls dreams, but the dreams of Jupiter; and the improbabilities of the component parts vanish in the pathos, and the restless anguish of curiosity which overwhelms us in the conduct of the tale.[27]

That the translation of the wordΚραταυς, in the celebrated passage of Sisyphus, should have met with indulgence from those who insist on the preservation ofOutis, may not be matter of surprise, because, as Mr. C. observes, 'it is now perhaps impossible to ascertain with precision what Homer meant by the wordκραταυς, which he only uses here and in the next book, where it is the name of Scylla's dam.' We give it up too, though not willingly, because the ancients appear to have been as ignorant of the being so called as ourselves; some of whom, by cutting the word into two, attempted to make it rather an attribute of the stone itself, than the effect of some external power: but fromhim, we are more surprised at the observation on the word 'ἀναιδης,' in the same passage, as 'also of very doubtful explication.' Is it not the constant practice of Homer to diffuse energy by animating the inanimate? has he forgotten the maddening lances, the greedy arrows, the roaring shores, the groaning earth, the winged words, the cruel brass, and a thousand other metaphors from life? and if these occurred not to his memory, the observation ofAristotleon the passage in question, as quoted by Clarke, might have removed all doubts about the true sense of the wordἀναιδης, when applied to a rock.

Mr. Cowper, in his interpretation of many words and expressions of dubious explication, has generally chosen that sense which seemed most to contribute to the perspicuity of the passage: thus in Iliad, iv. v. 306, seq. when Nestor instructs his troops before the battle, he has, in our opinion, adopted the best and only sense, though rejected by Clarke, with more subtilty thanreason. Thus he has substituted the word 'monster' for the epithetἀμαιμακετος, Iliad, xvi. 329, with sufficient propriety, whether that word be expressive of enormity of dimension, or untameableness of disposition; in both which senses it occurs in Pindar.[28]We might enlarge on the termsἀμητροχιτωνας;τροπαι Ἠελιοιο;ορσοθυρη, and a variety of others equally disputed or obscure; but as they will be sufficiently recognized by the scholar, whilst the unlearned reader is enabled to pass smoothly over them, we shall just observe, that the interpretation of the proverbial passage in Odyss. viii. v. 351,

Δειλαι τοι δειλων γε και ἐγγυαι ἐγγυαασθαι'Lame suitor, lame security,'

is the happiest instance of the superiority of plain sense over learning merely intricate.

When, in Odyss. iv. v. 73, Telemachus describes the mansion of Menelaus, Mr. C., with all the translators, rendersἨλεκτρον'amber,' contrary to the explanation of Pliny,who defines electrum to be gold, containing a fifth part of silver, and quotes the Homeric passage.[29]Amber ornaments, we believe, are not mentioned by Homer in the singular. Thus, in Odyss. xviii. 294-5, the golden necklace presented by Eurymachus, is calledἨλεκτροισιν ἐερμενον, inlaid with amber drops.

Homer, Odyss. xi. v. 579, seq., places two vultures by the sides of Tityus, who entered his entrails, and tore his liver by turns, and adds, to enhance the terror of the image,

ὁ δ' οὐκ ἀπαμυνετο χερσι,

'he had not hands to rescue him;' entranced, no doubt, or chained to the ground. This Mr. C. translates—

"——Two vultures on his liver prey'd,Scooping his entrails; nor suffic'd his handsTo fray them thence."——

Why not, if he had a hand for each vulture, unless we suppose him chained or entranced?

Odyss. xix. 389, Ulysses removes from the light of the hearth into the shade, lest the nurse, who had already discovered a striking resemblance in his shape, voice, and limbs, to those of her lost master, by handling his thigh, and seeing all at once the scar on it, should be convinced that he could be no other, and betray him. This Mr. C. translates thus: p. 453.

"Ulysses (for beside the hearth he sat)Turn'd quickhis faceinto the shade, alarm'dLest, handling him, she should at once remarkHis scar, and all his stratagem unveil."

He who, unacquainted with the rest, should read these lines, would either conclude that the nurse had not looked at the face before, or that the scar was in the face. Minerva had taken care that Ulysses should not be discovered by his countenance, making identity vanish into mere resemblance; but as the scar in such a place, without a miracle, could belong only to Ulysses, he attempted to elude the farther guesses of the nurse, by having his thigh washed in the dark.

Odyss. viii. 400, Euryalus, eager to appease Ulysses for the affront offered to him, addressed Alcinous his chief—

Τον δ' αυτ' Ἐυρυαλος ἀπαμειβετο, φωνησεν τεἈλκινοε κρειοι.——

But Mr. C. turns Alcinous into his father;

"When thus Euryalus hissireaddressed."

The sons of Alcinous were Laodamus, Halius, and Clytoneus.

When Mr. C., Odyss. xi. v. 317, seq. tells us that Alcmena bore Megara to Creon, he says surely what Homer has not said,[30]who mentions Megara as thedaughter of Creon, and one of the women Ulyssessaw, and not as the sister and wife of Hercules together.

But enough. Of similar observations, perhaps more might be added. These at least will show the attention with which we have compared copy and original. If, among the emendations of a future edition, they be not passed over as cavils, or treated as nugatory, our purpose will be fully answered. It would be difficult to determine in which of the two poems Mr. C. has succeeded best. We however incline to decide in favour of the Odyssey. The prevalent mixture of social intercourse, domestic manners, and rural images, with the scenes of terror and sublimity, as upon the whole it renders that poem more pleasing, though not more interesting than the Iliad, and what we would call a poem for all hours, appears to us to have been more adapted to the mild tones of our translator, than the uninterrupted sublimity and pathos of the Iliad. In parting from both, we congratulate the author on the production, and the public on the acquisition of so much excellence. We contemplate the whole in its mass as an immense fabric reared for some noble purpose: on too near an approach, not perhaps of equal beauty, with parts left rough that might have been smoothed to neatness, and others only neat that might have been polished into elegance; blemishes that vanish at a proper distance: by uniform grandeur of style, the whole strikes with awe and delight, attracts now the eyes of the race who saw it rise, and, secure of duration from the firmness of its base and the solidity of its materials, will command the admiration of posterity.

Fuseli's proficiency in Italian History, Literature, and the Fine Arts, exemplified in his Criticism on Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici.

Thefollowing review of Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici, will shew Fuseli's critical knowledge of Italian history.

"The close of the fifteenth, (says Mr. R. Pref. p. i.) and the beginning of the sixteenth century, comprehend one of those periods of history which are entitled to our minutest study and enquiry. Almost all the great events from which Europe derives its present advantages are to be traced up to those times. The invention of the art of printing, the discovery of the great Western Continent, the schism from the Church of Rome, which ended in the reformation of many of its abuses, and established the precedent of reform; the degree of perfection attained in the fine arts, compose such an illustrious assemblage of luminous points,as cannot fail of attracting for ages the curiosity and admiration of mankind.

"A complete history of these times has long been a great desideratum in literature; and whoever considers the magnitude of the undertaking will not think it likely to be soon supplied. Indeed, from the nature of the transactions that then took place, they can only be exhibited in detail, and under separate and particular views. That the author of the following pages has frequently turned his eye towards this interesting period is true; but he has felt himself rather dazzled than informed by the survey. A mind of greater compass, and the possession of uninterrupted leisure, would be requisite to comprehend, to select, and to arrange the immense varieties of circumstances which a full narrative of those times would involve, when almost every city of Italy was a new Athens, and that favoured country could boast its historians, its poets, its orators, and its artists, who may contend with the great names of antiquity for the palm of mental excellence: when Venice, Milan, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Ferrara, and several other places, vied with each other, not in arms, but in science and in genius, and the splendour of a court was estimated by the number and talents of learned men, who illustrated it by their presence, each of whose lives and productions would, in a work of this nature, merit a full and separate discussion."

"From this full blaze of talents, the author has turned towards a period when its first faint gleams afford a subject, if not more interesting, at least more suitable to his powers; when, after a night of unexpected darkness,Florence again saw the sun break forth with a lustre more permanent, though perhaps not so bright. The days of Dante, Boccaccio, and of Petrarch, were indeed past; but under the auspices of the House of Medici, and particularly through the ardour and example of Lorenzo, the empire of science and taste was again restored."

Having thus, with great modesty, stated the motives for his choice of subject, the author presents us with a rapid sketch of the Medician family, the literary and political character of Lorenzo, and his undeserved fate as statesman and writer in the succeeding century: he then proceeds to a critical enumeration of the narratives composed of his life, from the contemporary one of Niccolo Valori to the recent volumes of Fabroni, the mass of whose valuable documents, together with the communications of a learned friend, admitted to the printed and manuscript treasure of the Laurentian library, and the acquisition of a number of scarce tracts, procured from the sales of the Crevenna and Pinelli books, arranged and concentrated by indefatigable assiduity, he considers as the basis on which he was enabled to erect his own system, and to fill up the chasm that had hitherto separated from legitimate history, the period elapsed between the last stage of decay and final dissolution of the Byzantine empire by Mahommed II. and the brilliant epoch that rose with the accession of Charles the Fifth to the German throne.

The first chapter opens with Florence, its origin, its tempestuous though not improsperous liberty during the political schism of its citizens into the two factionsof Ghibelines and Guelphs, or Bianchi and Neri, subsiding at length under the levelling preponderance of the Medicean family, whose annals our author traces from the real or romantic date of Charlemagne to the accession of Cosmo, emphatically decorated with the appellation ofPater Patriæ, and the height of its commercial and political influence.

'The authority,' observes our author, p. 13, 'which Cosmo and his descendants exercised in Florence during the fifteenth century, was of a very peculiar nature; and consisted rather in a tacit influence on their part, and a voluntary acquiescence on that of the people, than in any prescribed or definite compact between them. The form of government was ostensibly a republic, and was directed by a counsel of ten citizens, and a chief executive officer, called theGonfaloniere, or standard-bearer, who was chosen every two months. Under this establishment, the citizens imagined they enjoyed the full exercise of their liberties; but such was the power of the Medici, that they generally either assumed to themselves the first offices of the state, or nominated such persons as they thought proper to those employments. In this, however, they paid great respect to popular opinion. That opposition of interests so generally apparent between the people and their rulers, was, at this time, scarcely perceived at Florence, where superior qualifications and industry were the surest recommendations to public authority and favour. Convinced of the benefits constantly received from this family, and satisfied that they could, at any time, withdraw themselves from a connexion that exacted no engagements, and required only a temporaryacquiescence, the Florentines considered the Medici as the fathers, and not as the rulers of the republic. On the other hand, the chiefs of this house, by appearing rather to decline than to court the honours bestowed on them, and by a singular moderation of the use of them when obtained, were careful to maintain the character of simple citizens of Florence, and servants of the state. An interchange of reciprocal good offices was the only tie by which the Florentines and the Medici were bound; and, perhaps, the long continuance of this connexion may be attributed to the very circumstance, of its being in the power of either of the parties, at any time, to have dissolved it.'

The temporary interruption of Cosmo's power by the successful struggle of an opposite party, headed by families eclipsed in his blaze, his exile, and his banishment to the Venetian state, tended only, from the resignation and magnanimity of his conduct, to rivet, at his recall, the voluntary chains of his fellow-citizens;—and he continued the unrivalled arbiter of Florence and it's dependencies, the primary restorer of Greek and Latin literature, and the most enlightened patron of the arts, to the advanced age of seventy-five, and the hour of his death, gratified with the prospect of the continuation of family power, from the character of his son Piero, and that of his two grandsons, Lorenzo and Juliano. The ample and varied detail of this assemblage of important subjects we leave, as preliminary, to the curiosity of our readers, and hasten to the second chapter, and the appearance of Lorenzo.

'Lorenzo de' Medici,' says, Mr. R., p. 69, 'was about sixteen years of age when Cosmo died, and had at thattime given striking indications of extraordinary talents. From his earliest years he had exhibited proofs of a retentive and vigorous mind, which was cultivated not only by all the attention which his father's infirmities would permit him to bestow, but by a frequent intercourse with his venerable grandfather. He owed also great obligations, in this respect, to his mother, Lucretia, who was one of the most accomplished women of the age, and distinguished herself not only as a patroness of learning, but by her own writings. Of these some specimens yet remain, which are the more entitled to approbation, as they were produced at a time when poetry was at its lowest ebb in Italy. The disposition of Lorenzo, which afterwards gave him a peculiar claim to the title ofmagnificent, was apparent in his childhood. Having received as a present a horse from Sicily, he sent the donor, in return, a gift of much greater value, and on being reproved for his profuseness, he remarked that there was nothing more glorious than to overcome others in acts of generosity. Of his proficiency in classical learning, and the different branches of that philosophy which was then in repute, he has left indisputable proofs. Born to restore the lustre of his native tongue, he had rendered himself conspicuous by his poetical talents, before he arrived at manhood. To these accomplishments he united a considerable share of strong, natural penetration and good sense, which enabled him, amidst the many difficulties that he was involved in, to act with a promptitude and decision which surprised those who were witnesses of his conduct; whilst the endowments which entitled him to admiration and respect, wereaccompanied by others that conciliated, in an eminent degree, the esteem and affections of his fellow-citizens.

'In his person, Lorenzo was tall and athletic, and had more the appearance of strength than of elegance. From his birth, he laboured under some peculiar disadvantages—his sight was weak, his voice harsh and unpleasing, and he was totally deprived of the sense of smell. With all these defects his countenance was dignified, and gave an idea of the magnanimity of his character; and the effects of his eloquence were conspicuous on many important occasions. In his youth, he was much addicted to active and laborious exercises, to hawking, horsemanship, and country sports. Though not born to support a military character, he gave sufficient proofs of his courage, not only in public tournaments, which were then not unfrequent in Italy, but also upon more trying occasions. Such was the versatility of his talents, that it is difficult to discover any department of business, or of amusement, of art, or of science, to which they were not at some time applied; and in whatever he undertook, he arrived at a proficiency which would seem to have required the labour of a life much longer than that which he was permitted to enjoy.

'The native energy and versatility of his character were invigorated by a suitable education: to the notions of piety, imbibed from Gentile d'Urbino, and perhaps from his mother, he added the accomplishments of a scholar, under the tuition of Landino, and received the elements of the Aristotelian and Platonic philosophy from Argyropylus and Ficino; but that exquisite taste in poetry,in music, and in every department of the fine arts, which enabled him to contribute so powerfully towards their restoration, was an endowment of nature, the want of which no education could have supplied.'

Such were the qualifications with which Lorenzo entered on the stage of public life, and which enabled him, with the political experience he had acquired on his travels through the most powerful states of Italy, and the connexions he had then formed, to defeat, at his return, the conspiracy framed by Luca Pitti against his father Piero, and probably to frustrate the war raised against Florence by its exiles, without the loss of much blood or treasure.

Delivered by these successes from external and domestic strife, the Medici were at leisure again to attend to their darling object, the promotion of learning. Several literary characters are here delineated; principally those of Cristoforo Landino, and Leo Battista Alberti, the Crichton of Italy, of whose unlimited powers the greatest was perhaps that, which he, if we believe Vasari, possessed over his horse; and our author proceeds to thegiostra, or tournament, celebrated by Luca Pulci and Agnolo of Monte Pulciano, in which Lorenzo and Juliano appear to have been the principal actors, though the candidates were eighteen in number.

'The steed upon which Lorenzo made his first appearance,' says our historian, p. 96, 'was presented to him by Ferdinand King of Naples. That on which he relied in the combat, by Borso Marquis of Ferrara. The Duke of Milan had furnished him with his suit of armour. His motto was,Le tems revient; his device, thefleurs de lys; the privilege of using the arms of France having shortly before been conceded to the Medici by Louis XI., by a solemn act. His first conflict was with Carlo Borromei; his next with Braccio de' Medici, who attacked him with such strength and courage, that if the stroke had taken place, Orlando himself, as the poet assures us, could not have withstood the shock. Lorenzo took speedy vengeance, but his spear breaking into a hundred pieces, his adversary was preserved from total overthrow. He then assailed Carlo de Forme, whose helmet he split, and whom he nearly unhorsed; Lorenzo then changing his steed, made a violent attack upon Benedetto Salutati, who had just couched his lance ready for the combat.'

Some specimens of the two panegyrics, with the plan of that composed by Politiano, are annexed, and translated with our author's own felicity.

The philosophical amusements of the two brothers follow next, in a pertinent descant on thedisputationes Camaldulensesof Landino; and after these, Lorenzo is presented to us as a lover. The materials are furnished by his own sonnets, and the comment he composed on them, and, though the dead and the surviving beauties he celebrates are left nameless, there is reason to suppose, that they were Simonetta, the deceased mistress of his brother, and Lucretia Donati.

'The sonnets of Lorenzo,' says Mr. R., p. 116, 'rise and fall through every degree of the thermometer of love; he exults and he despairs; he freezes and he burns; he sings of raptures too great for mortal sense, and he applaudsa severity of virtue that no solicitations can move. From such contradictory testimony, what are we to conclude? Lorenzo has himself presented us with the key that unlocks this mystery. From the relation which he has before given, we find that Lucretia was the mistress of the poet, and not of the man. Lorenzo sought for an object to concentrate his ideas, to give them strength, and effect, and he found in Lucretia a subject that suited his purpose and deserved his praise. But having so far realized his mistress, he has dressed and ornamented her according to his own imagination. Every action of her person, every emotion of her mind, is subject to his control. She smiles or she frowns; she refuses or relents; she is absent or present; she intrudes upon his solitude by day, or visits him in his nightly dreams, just as his presiding fancy directs.

'In the midst of these delightful visions, Lorenzo was called upon to attend to the dull realities of life. He had now attained his twenty-first year, and his father conceived that it was time for him to enter into the conjugal state. To this end, he had negotiated a marriage between Lorenzo and Clarice, the daughter of Giacopo Orsini, of the noble and powerful Roman family of that name, which had so long contended for superiority with that of the Colonna. Whether Lorenzo despaired of success in his youthful passion, or whether he subdued his feelings at the voice of paternal authority, is left to conjecture only. Certain, however, it is, that in the month of December 1468, he was betrothed to a person whom, it is probable, he had never seen, and the marriageceremony was performed on the 4th day of June, 1469.[31]That the heart of Lorenzo had little share in this engagement, is marked by a striking circumstance. In adverting to his marriage in his Ricordi, he bluntly remarks, that he took this lady to wife;or rather, says he,she was given to me, on the day before-mentioned. Notwithstanding this apparent indifference, it appears, from indisputable documents, that a real affection subsisted between them; and there is reason to presume that Lorenzo always treated her with particular respect and kindness. Their nuptials were celebrated with great splendour. Two military spectacles were exhibited, one of which represented a field battle of horsemen, and the other the attack and storming of a fortified citadel.'

Lorenzo's second journey to Milan, and the death of his father, Piero, take up the remainder of this chapter.

The variety of the materials that compose the third chapter, which opens with the political state of Italy at the time of Lorenzo's succession to the direction of the republic, is too great, perhaps the incidents too minute, and the transition from event to event too rapid, to admit of extracts. The riches of the Medici, their commercial concerns,and other sources of revenue—the character of Giuliano de' Medici, that of Angelo Politiano—the league between the Duke of Milan, the Venetians, and the Florentines—the establishment of the academy of Pisa—an account of Lorenzo's Poem, entitledAltercatione, with specimens and translations, constitute the most prominent features of the chapter.

The fourth chapter, whether we consider the importance of the events related, or the perspicuity and energy with which they are developed and told, contains, in our opinion, the most interesting period in the life of Lorenzo, the annals of Florence, and the general history of that time. 'The conspiracy of the Pazzi,' says our author, p. 176, was 'a transaction in which a pope, a cardinal, an archbishop, and several other ecclesiastics, associated themselves with a band of ruffians, to destroy two men who were an honour to their age and country; and purposed to perpetrate their crime at a season of hospitality, in the sanctuary of a Christian church, and at the very moment of the elevation of the host, when the audience bowed down before it, and the assassins were presumed to be in the immediate presence of their God.'

Having traced the origin of the conspiracy to Rome, and the ambition and inveterate enmity of Sixtus the Fourth, and his nephew, Count Girolamo Riario, to Lorenzo, Mr. R. proceeds to their Florentine accomplices, the family of the Pazzi, whom, though allied by intermarriages to that of the Medici, envy, intolerance of superiority, penury, and profligacy, had rendered their irreconcilable enemies. The young Cardinal Riario ourauthor considers more as an instrument in the hands of his uncle Girolamo, than as an accomplice in the scheme; and proceeds:

P. 180. 'This conspiracy, of which Sixtus and his nephew were the real instigators, was first agitated at Rome, where the intercourse between the Count Girolamo Riario and Francesco de' Pazzi, in consequence of the office held by the latter, afforded them an opportunity of communicating to each other their mutual jealousy of the power of the Medici, and their desire of depriving them of their influence in Florence; in which event it is highly probable that the Pazzi were to have exercised the chief authority in the city, under the patronage, if not under the avowed dominion, of the papal see. The principal agent engaged in the undertaking was Francesco Salviati, archbishop of Pisa, to which rank he had lately been promoted by Sixtus, in opposition to the Medici, who had for some time endeavoured to prevent him from exercising his episcopal functions. If it be allowed that the unfavourable character given of him by Politiano is exaggerated, it is generally agreed that his qualities were the reverse of those which ought to have been the recommendations to such high preferment. The other conspirators were, Giacopo Salviati, brother of the archbishop; Giacopo Poggio, one of the sons of the celebrated Poggio Bracciolini, and who, like all the other sons of that eminent scholar, had obtained no small share of literary reputation; Bernardo Bandini, a daring libertine, rendered desperate by the consequences of his excesses; Giovan Battista Montesicco, who had distinguished himself by his military talents, asone of thecondottieriof the armies of the pope; Antonio Maffei, a priest of Volterra; and Stephano da Bagnone, one of the apostolic scribes, with several others of inferior note.

'In the arrangement of their plan, which appears to have been concerted with great precaution and secrecy, the conspirators soon discovered, that the dangers which they had to encounter were not so likely to arise from the difficulty of the attempt, as from the subsequent resentment of the Florentines, a great majority of whom were strongly attached to the Medici. Hence it became necessary to provide a military force, the assistance of which might be equally requisite, whether the enterprise proved abortive or successful. By the influence of the Pope, the King of Naples, who was then in alliance with him, and on one of whose sons he had recently bestowed a cardinal's hat, was also induced to countenance the attempt.

'These preliminaries being adjusted, Girolamo wrote to his nephew, Cardinal Riario, then at Pisa, ordering him to obey whatever directions he might receive from the Archbishop. A body of two thousand men were destined to approach by different routes towards Florence, so as to be in readiness at the time appointed for striking the blow.

'Shortly afterwards the Archbishop requested the presence of the Cardinal at Florence, where he immediately repaired, and took up his residence at a seat of the Pazzi, about a mile from the city. It seems to have been the intention of the conspirators to have effected their purpose at Fiesole, where Lorenzo then had his countryresidence, to which they supposed he would invite the Cardinal and his attendants. Nor were they deceived in this conjecture, for Lorenzo prepared a magnificent entertainment on this occasion; but the absence of Giuliano, on account of indisposition, obliged the conspirators to postpone the attempt. Disappointed in their hopes, another plan was now to be adopted; and, on further deliberation, it was resolved, that the assassination should take place on the succeeding Sunday, in the Church of the Reparata, since called Santa Maria del Fiore, and that the signal for execution should be the elevation of the host. At the same moment, the Archbishop and others of the conspirators were to seize upon the palace or residence of the magistrates, whilst the office of Giacopo de Pazzi was to endeavour, by the cry of liberty, to incite the citizens to revolt.

'The immediate assassination of Giuliano was committed to Francesco de' Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini, and that of Lorenzo had been entrusted to the sole hand of Montesicco. This office he had willingly undertaken, whilst he understood it was to be executed in a private dwelling, but he shrunk from the idea of polluting the House of God with so heinous a crime. Two ecclesiastics were, therefore, selected for the commission of a deed, from which the soldier was deterred by conscientious motives. These were, Stefano da Bagnone, the apostolic scribe, and Antonio Maffei.

'The young Cardinal having expressed a desire to attend divine service in the church of the Reparata, on the ensuing Sunday, being the 26th day of April, 1478, Lorenzo invited him and his suite to his house in Florence.He accordingly came with a large retinue, supporting the united characters of cardinal and apostolic legate, and was received by Lorenzo with that splendour and hospitality with which he was always accustomed to entertain men of high rank and consequence. Giuliano did not appear, a circumstance that alarmed the conspirators, whose arrangements would not admit of longer delay. They soon, however, learnt that he intended to be present at the church.—The service was already begun, and the cardinal had taken his seat, when Francesco de' Pazzi and Bandini, observing that Giuliano was not yet arrived, left the church and went to his house, in order to insure and hasten his attendance. Giuliano accompanied them, and as he walked between them, they threw their arms round him with the familiarity of intimate friends, but in fact to discover whether he had any armour under his dress; possibly conjecturing from his long delay, that he had suspected their purpose. At the same time, by their freedom and jocularity, they endeavoured to obviate any apprehensions which he might entertain from such a proceeding. The conspirators having taken their stations near their intended victims, waited with impatience for the appointed signal. The bell rang—the priest raised the consecrated wafer—the people bowed before it,—and, at the same instant, Bandini plunged a short dagger into the breast of Giuliano.—On receiving the wound, he took a few hasty steps and fell, when Francesco de' Pazzi rushed upon him with incredible fury, and stabbed him in different parts of his body, continuing to repeat his strokes even after he was apparently dead. Such was the violence ofhis rage, that he wounded himself deeply in the thigh. The priests who had undertaken the murder of Lorenzo were not equally successful. An ill-directed blow from Maffei, which was aimed at the throat, but took place behind the neck, rather roused him to his defence than disabled him. He immediately threw off his cloak, and holding it up as a shield in his left hand, with his right he drew his sword and repelled his assailants. Perceiving that their purpose was defeated, the two ecclesiastics, after having wounded one of Lorenzo's attendants, who had interposed to defend him, endeavoured to save themselves by flight. At the same moment Bandini, with his dagger streaming with the blood of Giuliano, rushed towards Lorenzo; but meeting in his way with Francesco Nori, a person in the service of the Medici, and in whom they placed great confidence, he stabbed him with a wound instantaneously mortal. At the approach of Bandini, the friends of Lorenzo encircled him and hurried him into the sacristy, where Politiano and others closed the doors, which were of brass. Apprehensions being entertained that the weapon which had wounded him was poisoned, a young man attached to Lorenzo sucked the wound. A general alarm and consternation took place in the church; and such was the tumult which ensued, that it was at first believed by the audience that the building was falling in; but no sooner was it understood that Lorenzo was in danger, than several of the youth of Florence formed themselves into a body, and receiving him into the midst of them, conducted him to his house, making a circuitous turn from the church, lest he should meet with the dead body of his brother.'

Through the subsequent scenes of this atrocious drama as our limits forbid to follow the author, and an abbreviated account would do little justice to his copiousness or pathos, let it suffice to say, that the immediate punishment inflicted on the conspirators, was such as might be expected from the revenge of an infuriate people. Even the Archbishop was hung from the windows of the palace, without being suffered to divest himself from his prelatical robes; nor ought it to be considered as a small aggravation of their punishment, to have after death been gibbeted for lasting infamy, by the pencil of such a villain as Andrea dal Castagno. Happy Julian! happier Lorenzo, whom the contemporary genius of Politiano has rescued from the equivocal memorial of Pollajuoli.

It is with regret, we must refer the reader to the work itself for the consequences that attended the defeat of this execrable attempt—the storm raised by the enraged Pontiff, who now launched excommunication on the quondam treasurer of the Holy See, as a son of iniquity and nursling of perdition;—the war which, at his instigation, the court of Naples commenced against the Republic, on their refusal to deliver up Lorenzo;—it's various success; with the result of that bold expedient by which Lorenzo at once put an end to the miseries of his country, and completely triumphed over all his enemies, we mean his visit to Ferdinand himself! At that moment his genius had attained the summit of his powers.

The fifth chapter treats of the studies of Lorenzo, and is executed with a degree ofamorewhich developes tous the favourite studies of his historian, though from the penetration displayed in the management of all the other topics of his hero's character, it would be unjust to apply to him the motto of 'tractant fabrilia fabri,' or as Johnson has since expressed it, on talking of the political disputes of Milton with Salmasius and More, 'that let the subject of dispute be the rights of princes and of nations, it will, if treated by grammarians, end in grammatic squabbles.' The author is perfectly in place and time: if we be to consider Lorenzo as a poet, his right to that title was to be examined and established, and the chapter became, with great propriety, part of a treatise on poetry. After noticing the rise of Italian literature in the fourteenth century, it's subsequent degradation, it's revival in the fifteenth, and the rude attempts at restoring it, by Burchiello, Matteo Franco, and the three Pulci, that honour is conferred on Lorenzo: he is shown to have first, among his contemporaries, discriminated the true object, and expressed the real characteristics of poetry, in description, poetic comparison, and personification of material objects, of passions and affections; to have treated with success the prosopopœia. The sonnet, that favourite of Italy, is next discussed, and his claims to it's honours compared with those of Dante and Petrarca; his "Selve d'Amore," a poem in ottava rima; his new discovered poem of "Ambra;" of the Caccia col Falcone, his moral pieces, his sacred poems or orations, and Laude, or Lodi, are reviewed, and specimens admirably translated, or, to speak with more propriety, excelled, are annexed. We then proceed to his "Beoni,"a piece of jocose satire interza rimaon drunkenness, of which the fragment produced and translated does at least as much honour to our author's vein of humour, as to his hero's; and after expatiating on the expedition with which he wrote, and many pertinent remarks on the "Improvisatori" of Italy, its drama, opera, and carnival songs, the chapter concludes with the opinion of the best contemporary critics, on the poetic powers of Lorenzo.

As the mutual limits of poetry and painting are so frequently confounded, it may not be improper to extract what our author says on the objects and characteristics of poetry. Vol. 1. p. 255.

'The great end and object of poetry, and consequently, the proper aim of the poet, is to communicate to us a clear and perfect idea of his proposed subject. What the painter exhibits by variety of colour, by light and shade, the poet expresses in appropriate language. The former seizes only the external form, and that only in a given attitude. The other surrounds his object, pierces it, and discloses its most hidden qualities. With the former, it is inert and motionless; with the latter, it lives and moves; it is expanded or compressed; it glares upon the imagination, or vanishes into air, and is as various as Nature herself.

'The simple description of natural objects is perhaps to a young mind the most delightful species of poetry, and was probably the first employment of the poet. It may be compared to melody in music, which is relished even by the most uncultivated ear. In thisdepartment Virgil is an exquisite master.[32]Still more lively are the conceptions of Dante, still more precise the language in which they are expressed. As we follow him, his wildest excursions take the appearance of reality. Compared with his vivid hues, how faint, how delicate, is the colouring of Petrarca! yet the harmony of the tints almost compensate for their want of force. With accurate descriptions of the face of Nature the works of Lorenzo abound; and these are often heightened by those minute but striking characteristics, which though open to all observers, the eye of the poet can alone select. Thus the description of an Italian winter, with which he opens his poem ofAmbra[33], is marked by several appropriate and striking images.

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