'The foliage of the olive appears of a dark green, but is nearly white beneath.
"L'uliva in qualche dolce piaggia apricaSecondo il vento par or verde or bianca.""On some sweet sunny slope the olive grows,Its hues still changing as the zephyr blows."
"L'uliva in qualche dolce piaggia apricaSecondo il vento par or verde or bianca."
"On some sweet sunny slope the olive grows,Its hues still changing as the zephyr blows."
'The flight of the cranes, though frequently noticed in poetry, was perhaps never described in language more picturesquethan the following, from the same poem.
"Stridendo in ciel, i gru veggonsi a lungeL'aere stampar di varie e belle forme;E l'ultima col collo steso aggiungeOv' è quella dinanzi alle vane orme.""Marking the tracks of air, the clamorous cranesWheel their due flight, in varied lines descried;And each with outstretched neck his rank maintains,In marshal'd order, through th' ethereal void."
"Stridendo in ciel, i gru veggonsi a lungeL'aere stampar di varie e belle forme;E l'ultima col collo steso aggiungeOv' è quella dinanzi alle vane orme."
"Marking the tracks of air, the clamorous cranesWheel their due flight, in varied lines descried;And each with outstretched neck his rank maintains,In marshal'd order, through th' ethereal void."
The following picture from hisSelve d'amoreis also drawn with great truth and simplicity.
"Al dolce tempo il bon pastore informaLasciar le mandre, ove nel verno giacque:E 'l lieto gregge, che ballando in torma,Torna all'alte montagne, alle fresche acque.L'agnel, trottando pur la materna ormaSegue; ed alcun, che pur or ora nacqueL' amorevol pastore in braccio porta:Il fido cane a tutti fa la scorta.""Sweet Spring returns; the shepherd from the foldBrings forth his flock, nor dreads the wintry cold;Delighted once again their steps to leadTo the green hill, clear spring, and flow'ry mead.True to their mother's track the sportive youngTrip light. The careful hind slow moves along,Pleased in his arms the new-dropt lamb to bear:His dog, a faithful guard, brings up the rear."
"Al dolce tempo il bon pastore informaLasciar le mandre, ove nel verno giacque:E 'l lieto gregge, che ballando in torma,Torna all'alte montagne, alle fresche acque.L'agnel, trottando pur la materna ormaSegue; ed alcun, che pur or ora nacqueL' amorevol pastore in braccio porta:Il fido cane a tutti fa la scorta."
"Sweet Spring returns; the shepherd from the foldBrings forth his flock, nor dreads the wintry cold;Delighted once again their steps to leadTo the green hill, clear spring, and flow'ry mead.True to their mother's track the sportive youngTrip light. The careful hind slow moves along,Pleased in his arms the new-dropt lamb to bear:His dog, a faithful guard, brings up the rear."
'In the same poem is a description of the golden age, in whichthe author seems to have exerted all his powers, in selecting such images as are supposed to have been peculiar to that happy state of life.'
Mr. R., with great propriety, places the essence of poetic diction,—not of poesy itself, for that consists in invention,—in representing its object in motion, to impress us with it's variety of action and attitudes; in short, in followingtime, avoiding a minute anatomy of motionless surfaces, to which words, it's vehicle, are totally inadequate. Surface can only be distinctly discriminated by line and colour. Hence it is evident that poetry cannot in this respect be either put in comparison with, or be elevated above painting; the province of their expression, and effect, must be for ever separate, though they perfectly coincide in their aim, which is to charm and convince the senses. Thus, when poetry attempts to describe an object, it must confine itself to one, or a very few words, in whatever merely relates to the shape or surface of that object, and it's more profuse description isonly thenin it's place, when that object begins to move. Such is the rule of Nature and of Homer, from which no ancient or modern poet has deviated with impunity; andAriosto, who has described the shape, figure, and colour of Alcina, in five stanzas, has laboured as much in vain to acquaint us with the ingredients of his witch-beauty, asConstantinus Manassesto give us a clear idea of Helen by his agglomeration of epithets, or as Haller of the Genziana, by a description of nineteen lines. The images which Mr. R. adduces from Lorenzo confirm this; they attain their effect merely by hasteningfrom the body of the object to it's motion. Not the most expressive words of the most expressive language ever given to man, arranged by Homer or Milton, or a power still superior to their's, could produce a sensation equal to that which is instantaneously received by one glance on the face of the Venus de' Medici, or in that of the Apollo in Belvedere; and if the spark, which Phidias caught from the Zeus of Homer, were shot by hiswavinglocks and thenodof his brow, will it be denied thatCtesilasin his expiring warrior, from whose expression might be collected how much remained of life, orAristidesin the wounded mother, who, in the pangs of death, struggled to remove her child from her palsied nipple, 'surrounded, pierced, and disclosed the most hidden qualities of their objects?'
From what Mr. R. with great acuteness remarks on poetic comparison, we have extracted the following sonnet of Lorenzo, with the translation, 'not only,' as he adds, 'as an instance of the illustration of one sensible object by another, but of the comparison of an abstract sentiment with a beautiful natural image.' P. 260.
"Oimè, che belle lagrime fur quelleChe 'l nembo di disio stillando mosse!Quando il giusto dolor che'l cor percosse,Salì poi su nell' amorose stelle!Rigavon per la delicata pelleLe bianche guancie dolcemente rosse,Come chiar rio faria, che'n prato fosse,Fier bianchi, e rossi, le lagrime belle;Lieto amor stava in l' amorosa pioggia,Com' uccel dopo il sol, bramate tanto,Lieto riceve rugiadose stille.Poi piangendo in quelli occhi ov'egli alloggia,Facea del bello e doloroso pianto,Visibilmente uscir dolce faville.""Ah! pearly drops, that pouring from those eyes,Spoke the dissolving cloud of soft desire!What time cold sorrow chill'd the genial fire,'Struck the fair urns, and bade the waters rise.'Soft down those cheeks, where native crimson viesWith ivory whiteness, see the crystals throng;As some clear river winds its stream along,Bathing the flowers of pale and purple dyes,Whilst Love rejoicing in the amorous shower,Stands like some bird, that, after sultry heats,Enjoys the drops, and shakes his glittering wings:Then grasps his bolt, and, conscious of his power,Midst those bright orbs assumes his wonted seat,And thro' the lucid shower his living lightning flings."
"Oimè, che belle lagrime fur quelleChe 'l nembo di disio stillando mosse!Quando il giusto dolor che'l cor percosse,Salì poi su nell' amorose stelle!Rigavon per la delicata pelleLe bianche guancie dolcemente rosse,Come chiar rio faria, che'n prato fosse,Fier bianchi, e rossi, le lagrime belle;Lieto amor stava in l' amorosa pioggia,Com' uccel dopo il sol, bramate tanto,Lieto riceve rugiadose stille.Poi piangendo in quelli occhi ov'egli alloggia,Facea del bello e doloroso pianto,Visibilmente uscir dolce faville."
"Ah! pearly drops, that pouring from those eyes,Spoke the dissolving cloud of soft desire!What time cold sorrow chill'd the genial fire,'Struck the fair urns, and bade the waters rise.'Soft down those cheeks, where native crimson viesWith ivory whiteness, see the crystals throng;As some clear river winds its stream along,Bathing the flowers of pale and purple dyes,Whilst Love rejoicing in the amorous shower,Stands like some bird, that, after sultry heats,Enjoys the drops, and shakes his glittering wings:Then grasps his bolt, and, conscious of his power,Midst those bright orbs assumes his wonted seat,And thro' the lucid shower his living lightning flings."
The wing, the harp, the hatchet, the altar ofSimmias, were the dregs of a degraded nation's worn-out taste; but it is matter of surprise, that a race celebrated for susceptibility of sentiment should have submitted to lisp their first accents, and continued to breathe their full raptures of love, in the trammels of a sonnet. If, as may reasonably be supposed, the first twister of a sonnet were a being of a versatile head and frozen heart, the beauties thronged into this little labyrinth, it's glowing words,and thoughts that burn, whether we consider the original, or it's more than equal translation, equally challenge our admiration and sympathy.
We must yet be allowed to make a few observations on what our author, perhaps with greater ingenuity than impartiality, pronounces on the comparative excellence of the ancients and moderns in the use of the prosopopœia.
P.266.—'If the moderns excel the ancients in any department of poetry, it is in that now under consideration. It must not indeed be supposed, that the ancients were insensible of the effects produced by this powerful charm, which, more peculiarly than any other, may be said
To give to airy nothing,A local habitation and a name.
To give to airy nothing,A local habitation and a name.
But it may safely be asserted, that they have availed themselves of this creative faculty much more sparingly, and with much less success, than their modern competitors. The attribution of sense to inert objects, is indeed common to both; but that still bolder exertion, which embodies abstract existence, and renders it susceptible of ocular representation, is almost exclusively the boast of the moderns.[34]
'If, however, we advert to the few authors who preceded Lorenzo de' Medici, we shall not trace in their writings many striking instances of those embodied pictures of ideal existence, which are so conspicuous in the works of Ariosto, Spenser, Milton, and subsequent writers of the higher class, who are either natives of Italy, or have formed their taste upon the poets of that nation.'
To enforce his premises, the author produces a variety of tableaux from the writings of his hero, and not without appearance of success, to show his superiority in this species of composition.
To invalidate the claim of the moderns, with their fragments of personification, it might, perhaps, be sufficient to call to the reader's mind that immense mass of prosopopœia, on which the ancients established the ostensible fabric of their religion. What were the divinities that filled their temples, but images of things, personificationsof the powers of nature? and were not these the auxiliaries of their poets? Discriminated by characteristics so appropriate and so decisive, that no observation of succeeding ages has been able to add any thing essential, or to subtract any thing as superfluous from their insignia. At this moment, the poet and the artist subsist on their sterling properties; and the greatest of the moderns could do no more than recompose from the birth of Minerva, the charms of Pandora, and the horrors of Scylla, the origin, the beauty, and the deformities of his Sin; and if, by the superhuman flight of his fancy, he snatched the attributes and shape of Death from a region yet unexplored by former wings, the being itself had not been unknown to the ancients; it carried off Alceste, and offered battle in it's gloom to Hercules. But will it be denied, that by personifying theactby which his heroes were to fall, and thepunishmentattendant on that act, Milton has, as far as in him lay, destroyed thecredibilityof his poem? Homer found theabstractions, which he mingled with the real actors of his poem, already personified; and to demand a belief in the existence of Minerva or Jupiter, subjected his reader to no greater exertion, than to believe in the existence of Achilles or Ulysses. Had credibility not been the great principle of Homer, had he introducedWisdomseizingAchillesby the hair, andBeautyravishingParisfrom the combat, the Iliad, in what concerns the plan, would be little more than the rival of the Pilgrim's Progress.
But if Homerrefused admittance to new-personified beingsas actors of his poem, has he contented himselfentirely with monosyllabic animation of the inanimate, with roaring shores, remorseless stones, or maddening lances? The enormous image ofDiscordin the fourth, the picturesque prosopopœia ofPrayersandGuiltin the ninth, and the luxuriant episode ofGuiltagain in the nineteenth book of the "Ilias," not only prove the contrary, but establish him beyond all competition, Milton perhaps excepted, as the first master of that poetic figure. TheLibertyof Petrarch, and theJealousyandHopeof Lorenzo de' Medici, may with equal propriety adopt the names ofHealth,Suspicion, andCuriosity; but theLitæof Homer are images discriminated from all others, and will rank as models of true prosopopœia without the assistance of Hesiod, Æschylus, or the love-embodying romance of Apuleius.
The Appendix to the first volume consists of forty-two pieces, and contains the political and literary documents of the history. Of these the papers relative to the conspiracy of the Pazzi, especially the commentarium of Poliziano, the brief of excommunication of Sixtus IV, the reply of the Florentine Synod, and the deposition of Giambattista de Montesicco before his execution, are the most interesting.
One great prerogative of the author is, no doubt, that happy distribution of matter, by which the grave and the more amusing parts of the subject alternately relieve each other. Having left his reader "con la bocca dolce," at the conclusion of the first volume, Mr. R. at the beginning of the second, exhibits the rival of Petrarch, if not as the founder, at least as the first who gave action andenergy to that conciliating system of politics, since denominated the balance of power, the darling maxim of modern statesmen.
'The situation of Italy,' says our author, p. 4, 'at this period, afforded an ample field for the exercise of political talents. The number of independent states of which it was composed, the inequality of their strength, the ambitious views of some, and the ever-active fears of others, kept the whole country in continual agitation and alarm. The vicinity of these states to each other, and the narrow bounds of their respective dominions, required a promptitude of decision, in cases of disagreement, unexampled in any subsequent period of modern history. Where the event of open war seemed doubtful, private treachery was without scruple resorted to; and where that failed of success, an appeal was again made to arms. The Pontifical See had itself set the example of a mode of conduct that burst asunder all the bonds of society, and operated as a convincing proof that nothing was thought unlawful which appeared to be expedient. To counterpoise all the jarring interests of these different governments, to restrain the powerful, to succour the weak, and to unite the whole in one firm body, so as to enable them on the one hand successfully to oppose the formidable power of the Turks, and on the other, to repel the incursions of the French and the Germans, both of whom were objects of terror to the less warlike inhabitants of Italy, were the important ends which Lorenzo proposed to accomplish. The effectual defence of the Florentine dominions against the encroachments of their more powerful neighbours,though perhaps his chief inducement for engaging in so extensive a project, appeared, in the execution of it, rather as a necessary part of his system than as the principal object which he had in view. In these transactions, we may trace the first decisive instance of that political arrangement, which was more fully developed and more widely extended in the succeeding century, and which has since been denominated the balance of power. Casual alliances, arising from consanguinity, from personal attachment, from vicinity, or from interest, had indeed frequently subsisted among the Italian States; but these were only partial and temporary engagements, and rather tended to divide the country into two or more powerful parties, than to counterpoise the interests of individual governments, so as to produce in the result the general tranquillity.'[35]
Before, however, Lorenzo could proceed to the execution of his beneficent system, he had to thank his stars for a second escape from a new conspiracy formedagainst his life, at the instigation of his old and inveterate enemies, the Riarii, by Battista Frescobaldi. This attempt, conducted with less prudence, had none of the atrocious consequences of the first, but ended in the immediate destruction of Frescobaldi and his Tuscan accomplices. Cursorily however, as it is related by our author, it appears to have made a deep impression on the mind of his hero, since he adopted, in consequence of it, a measure of safety which even the homicide Cesar had scorned, that of appearing in public guarded by a select band of armed friends.
The author now proceeds at length, and with equal perspicuity, impartiality, and diligence, to detail the progress of Lorenzo's measures to secure and establish the independence of Florence, and to compose the jarring interests of Italy. Popes, kings, petty princes, republics, appear in succession, poised, supported, checked, advised, reconciled, to cement his generous plan. Eloquence, military skill, caution, liberality, intrepidity, stamp him by turns the soul of his own, and the arbiter of the surrounding states, till at length the whole is composed and well poised,—Italy enjoys security and peace. Such is the general outline; a more minute detail, as it would exceed our limits, could in a meagre summary serve only to weary the reader: the materials vary, the contending parties are not equally important, the heroes sometimes relax; conquests give way to a leader's indisposition, and battles are fought which remind us of Virgil's winged squadrons;
"Hi motus animorum, atque hæc certamina tanta,Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt."
"Hi motus animorum, atque hæc certamina tanta,Pulveris exigui jactu compressa quiescunt."
Chap. VII. From politics, negotiations, and war, we follow our author to his academic shades, to the improvements in classic learning made under the fostering patronage of Lorenzo; to the importation of Greek literature by Emanuel Chrysoloras, Joannes Argyropylus, Demetrius Chalcondyles; to the introduction of printing, the progress of the Laurentian library, and the establishment of a Greek academy at Florence. We are made acquainted with Politiano; his merits as a civilian, critic, translator, controvertist, and poet: Giovanni Pico, Prince of Mirandola, next excites our wonder; and after him, Linacer Landino, and the two Verini might claim our attention, were they not eclipsed by the female efforts of Alessandra Scala, and Cassandra Fidelis.
'It might have been expected,' says our author, p. 55, after having premised some observations on the seemingly unattainable excellence of Dante, Petrarca, and Boccaccio, 'that the successful efforts of these authors to improve their native tongue, would have been more effectual than the weak, though laudable, attempts made by them to revive the study of the ancient languages; but it must be remembered, that they were all of them men of genius, and genius assimilates not with the character of the age. Homer and Shakspeare have no imitators, and are no models. The example of such talents is perhaps, upon the whole, unfavourable to the general progress of improvement; and the superlative abilities of a few, have more than once damped the ardour of a nation. But if the great Italian authors were inimitable in the productions of their native language, in their Latin writings they appeared in a subordinate character. Of the labours of the ancients, enough had been discoveredto mark the decided difference between their merits and those of their modern imitators; and the applauses bestowed upon the latter, were only in proportion to the degree in which they approached the models of ancient eloquence. This competition was, therefore, eagerly entered into; nor had the success of the first revivers of these studies deprived their followers of the hope of surpassing them. Even the early part of the fifteenth century produced scholars as much superior to Petrarca, and his coadjutors, as they were to the monkish compilers, and scholastic disputants, who immediately preceded them; and the labours of Leonardo Aretino, Gianozzo Manetti, Guarino Veronese, and Poggio Bracciolini, prepared the way for the still more correct and classical productions of Politiano, Sannazaro, Pontano, and Augurelli. The declining state of Italian literature, so far then from being inconsistent with, was rather a consequence of the proficiency made in other pursuits, which, whilst they were distinguished by a greater degree of celebrity, demanded a more continued attention, and an almost absolute devotion both of talents and of time.'
It would be injustice to suppose that, by this well turned and energetic passage, our author could mean to depreciate the benign influence of original genius, or to insinuate aught against the necessity of it's periodical appearance: his aim is to assign their proper place to the literati of the epoch he describes, to trace the probable motives of their pursuits, and to show, that by a judicious choice they supplied, in some degree, their want of innate power, and even of discernment in theirobjects of imitation. Who, better than our historian, knows, that, if Nature be inexhaustible in her resources and productions, and genius be merely a power, seizing and representing with clearness some of her features, the appearance of one man of genius can no more check the perceptions, than preclude the existence of another? He who takes Homer or Michael Angelo for his model, adopts him merely as his medium to see Nature more distinctly or on a grander scale; he imitates without copying, like Virgil and Pelegrino Tibaldi, for whom it will be difficult to find a name, if they be refused that of imitators of the Ionian and the Tuscan genius. If the supposed inaccessible excellence of Dante and his contemporaries dispirited the Italians of the fifteenth century from the cultivation of the higher Italian poetry, it proved not that they had exhausted Nature, but that they were no longer understood; and that they were not, almost every line of their pedantic commentators proves. Machiavelli, Ariosto, Tasso, appeared after them, with the same models before their eyes, and each produced works none would wish to exchange for all the laboured lucubrations of Tuscan Latinists: the fact is, it was easier to shine before a partial public formed by themselves, with glittering compilations of classic lines, almost always dishonoured by some clumsy or gothic addition of their own, than to emulate the pace of their great predecessors before the general eye.
The domestic character of Lorenzo, the wit, the husband, father, friend, appear in the eighth chapter. The author examines and acquits him of the charge of havingbeen addicted to licentious amours, and exhibits him, if not as a tender, at least as a civil husband: but "in no point of view," says he, "does the character of this extraordinary man appear more engaging than in his affection towards his children, in his care of their education, and in his solicitude for their welfare." He accordingly, on each of these particulars, enters into very interesting details: we are introduced to the characters of his sons, Piero and Giovanni, the first known as his successor, the second celebrated as supreme pontiff under the assumed name of Leo X. From his children, we pass on to Lorenzo's domestic concerns. His villas, Poggio Cajano, Careggi, Fiesole, and other domains, pass in review. The visits of Piero to Rome and Milan, his marriage with Alfonsina Orsini; the exaltation of Giovanni to the dignity of cardinal at the age of fourteen, his father's admirable admonitory letter to him on that occasion; the death of Madonna Clarice, Lorenzo's wife; his patronage of learned ecclesiastics; the assassination of G. Riario, and the tragic death of Galeotto Manfredi, Prince of Faenza, occupy the remainder.
If the subject of the ninth chapter, the progress of the plastic arts, under the patronage of the Medici, reflect a new lustre on the beneficent grandeur of that family, the judgment, perspicuity, elegance of taste, and 'amore,' with which it is treated by our author, reflect almost equal honour on himself. From the obscure dawn of Cimabue to the noonday splendour of M. Angelo, we are gradually led to form our ideas of art with a precision and distinctness, in vain looked for in the loquaciousvolumes and indiscriminate panegyrics of Vasari. Among so many beauties, the choice of selection is difficult; a short extract from one or two passages will inform the reader what he is to expect from the whole. After mentioning the successful efforts of Lorenzo, Ghiberti and Donatello, the author continues:
P. 189.—'Notwithstanding the exertions of these masters, which were regarded with astonishment by their contemporaries, and are yet entitled to attention and respect, it does not appear that they had raised their views to the true end of the profession. Their characters rarely excelled the daily prototypes of common life, and their forms, although at times sufficiently accurate, were mostly vulgar and heavy. In the pictures which remain of this period, the limbs are not marked with that precision which characterizes a well-informed artist. The hands and feet in particular appear soft, enervated, and delicate, without distinction of sex or character. Many practices yet remain that evince the imperfect state of the art. Ghirlandajo and Baldovinetti continued to introduce the portraits of their employers in historic composition, forgetful of thatsimplex duntaxat et unumwith which a just taste can never dispense. Cosimo Roselli, a painter of no inconsiderable reputation, attempted, by the assistance of gold and ultramarine, to give a factitious splendour to his performances. To every thing great and elevated, the art was yet a stranger; even the celebrated picture of Pollajuolo exhibits only a group of half-naked and vulgar wretches, discharging their arrows at a miserable fellow-creature,who by changing places with one of his murderers, might with equal propriety become a murderer himself.[36]Nor was it till the time of Michaelagnolo, that painting and sculpture rose to their true object, and instead of exciting the wonder, began to rouse the passions and interest the feelings of mankind.'
Though indignant at the doating tradition which still presumes to foist the bedlam trash of Titus Andronicus among Shakspeare's pieces; and certainly as little partial to the rubric of martyrologies as our author or Mr. Tenhove; we yet believe, that their observation receives it's force rather from the insensibility, perhaps brutality, of artists, than from the subject itself. Let horror and loathsomenessbe banished from the instruments of art, and the martyrdom of Stephen or Sebastian, Agnes or John, becomes as admissible as that of Marsyas or Palamedes, Virginia, or Regulus. It is the artist's fault if the right moment be missed. If you see only blood-tipt arrows, brain-dashed stones, excoriating knives, the artist, not the subject, is detestable; this furnished heroism, celestial resignation, the features of calm fortitude and beauty, helpless, but undismayed; the clown or brute alone, who handled it, pushed you down among the assassins from the hero's side. Humanity may avert our eyes with propriety from the murdered subjects of Pietro Testa, Joseph Ribera, sometimes even of Domenicho himself; but apathy, phlegm,[37]effeminacy, alonewould prefer an Andromeda, an Agave, or a Venus hanging over an expiring Adonis, to the "Madonna del Spasmo" of Raffaello, or M. Angelo's Crucifixion of St. Peter.
We next present the reader with the following passage on Michaelagnolo.
P. 208.—'The labours of the painter are necessarily transitory, for so are the materials that compose them. In a few years Michaelagnolo will be known like an ancient artist, only by his works in marble. Already it is difficult to determine whether his reputation be enhanced or diminished by the sombre representations of his pencil in the Pauline and Sixtine chapels, or by the few specimens of his cabinet pictures, now rarely to be met with, and exhibiting only a shadow of their original excellence. But the chief merit of this great man is not to be sought for in the remains of his pencil, nor even in his sculptures, but in the general improvement of the public taste which followed his astonishing productions. If his labours had perished with himself, the change which they effected in the opinions and the works of his contemporaries would still have entitled him to the first honours of the art. Those who from ignorance, or from envy, have endeavoured to depreciate his productions, have represented them as exceeding in their forms and attitudes the limits and the possibilities of nature, as arace of beings, the mere creatures of his own imagination; but such critics would do well to consider, whether the great reform to which we have alluded could have been effected by the most accurate representations of common life, and whether any thing short of that ideal excellence which he only knew to embody could have accomplished so important a purpose. The genius of Michaelagnolo was a leaven which was to operate on an immense and heterogeneous mass, the salt intended to give a relish to insipidity itself; it was therefore active, penetrating, energetic, so as not only effectually to resist the contagious effects of a depraved taste, but to communicate a portion of its spirit to all around.'
The comprehensive conception and energy of this admirable passage prove our author to have penetrated farther into the character of Michaelagnolo, and to have found far more accurate ideas of his real prerogative, than either of his favourite biographers.[38]
Before we dismiss this chapter, we state it as matter of surprise, that the accomplishments and gigantic powers of Lionardo da Vinci, a man nearly of Lorenzo's own age, appear to have shared in none of the favours which he showered on inferior artists.
Chap. X. We approach with regret the concluding period of this history, the last moments and death of Lorenzo. Our regret is increased by the limits prescribed to our review, as our author, if possible, rises here above the preceding chapters, in the accumulation of interesting circumstances, delineation of character, and pathetic scenery. The death of his hero involves that of the most conspicuous characters around him, of Politiano, Pico, Ermolao; the expulsion of his family, and the death of his unfortunate son soon follow; and with the reinstatement of the Medici, the extinction of the republic, after the unsuccessful struggles of Lorenzino de' Medici, and Philippo Strozzi, under the establishment of a tyranny, finishes the work. From so rich an aggregate of materials, we must content ourselves with a single extract, the character of Lorenzo and our author's review of his conduct as a statesman.
P. 239. 'In the height of his reputation, and at a premature period of life, thus died Lorenzo de' Medici; a man who may be selected from all the characters of ancient and modern history, as exhibiting the most remarkable instance of depth of penetration, versatility of talent, and comprehension of mind. Whether genius be a predominating impulse, directing the mind to some particular object, or whether it be an energy of intellect that arrives at excellence in any department in which it may be employed, it is certain that there arefew instances in which a successful exertion in any human pursuit has not occasioned a dereliction of many other objects, the attainment of which might have conferred immortality. If the powers of the mind are to bear down all obstacles that oppose their progress, it seems necessary that they should sweep along in some certain course, and in one collected mass. What then shall we think of that rich fountain, which, whilst it was poured out by so many different channels, flowed through each with a full and equal stream? To be absorbed in one pursuit, however important, is not the characteristic of the higher class of genius, which, piercing through the various combinations and relations of surrounding circumstances, sees all things in their just dimensions, and attributes to each its due. Of the various occupations in which Lorenzo engaged, there is not one in which he was not eminently successful; but he was most particularly distinguished in those which justly hold the first rank in human estimation. The facility with which he turned from subjects of the highest importance to those of amusement and levity, suggested to his countrymen the idea that he had two distinct souls combined in one body. Even his moral character seems to have partaken in some degree of the same diversity, and his devotional poems are as ardent as his lighter pieces are licentious. On all sides, he touched the extremes of human character, and the powers of his mind were only bounded by that impenetrable circle which prescribes the limits of human nature.
'As a statesman, Lorenzo de' Medici appears to peculiar advantage. Uniformly employed in securing the peaceand promoting the happiness of his country, by just regulations at home, and wise precautions abroad, and teaching to the surrounding governments those important lessons of political science, on which the civilization and tranquillity of nations have since been found to depend. Though possessed of undoubted talents for military exploits, and of sagacity to avail himself of the imbecility of neighbouring powers, he was superior to that avarice of dominion, which, without improving what is already acquired, blindly aims at more extensive possession. The wars in which he engaged were for security, not for territory; and the riches produced by the fertility of the soil, and the industry and ingenuity of the inhabitants of the Florentine republic, instead of being dissipated in imposing projects and ruinous expeditions, circulated in their natural channels, giving happiness to the individual, and respectability to the state. If he was not insensible to the charms of ambition, it was the ambition to deserve rather than to enjoy; and he was always cautious not to exact from the public favour more than it might be voluntarily willing to bestow. The approximating suppression of the liberties of Florence, under the influence of his descendants, may induce suspicions unfavourable to his patriotism; but it will be difficult, not to say impossible, to discover, either in his conduct or his precepts, any thing that ought to stigmatize him as an enemy to the freedom of his country. The authority which he exercised was the same as that which his ancestors had enjoyed, without injury to the republic, for nearly a century, and had descended to him as inseparable from the wealth, therespectability, and the powerful foreign connexions of his family. The superiority of his talents enabled him to avail himself of these advantages with irresistible effect; but history suggests not an instance in which they were devoted to any other purpose than that of promoting the honour and the independence of the Tuscan state. It is not by the continuance, but by the dereliction of the system that he had established, and to which he adhered to the close of his life, that the Florentine republic sunk under the degrading yoke of despotic power; and to his premature death we may unquestionably attribute, not only the destruction of the commonwealth, but all the calamities that Italy soon afterwards sustained.'
Though we admire the author's eloquence, and in a great measure subscribe to this character, some doubts may be entertained, whether Lorenzo had not to thank a premature death for having left his political character, if not unsuspected, at least unimpeached by direct proofs. Aggrandisement by enormous accumulation of wealth, and that obtained, by cautious but unremitting grasps at power, appears to have been the leading principle of the Medicean family: hence those sacrifices of private attachments and animosities; hence that ambition of connecting themselves by intermarriage with the most powerful families of the surrounding powers; hence the indecent, though successful attempt of raising a boy to the dignity of Cardinal, against the qualms of an else willing Pontiff; steps not easily accounted for from men who professed the honour of being considered as the first citizens of Florence, to be the height of their ambition.
But let us return for a moment to our historian, whose work we cannot dismiss without adding our feeble vote to the unbounded applause which it has obtained from the best part of the public. Mr. R., in our opinion, possesses a high rank among the historians of his country. Notwithstanding the modesty of the title, the life of Lorenzo de' Medici unites the general history of the times, and the political system of the most memorable country in Europe, with the characters of the most celebrated men, and the rise and progress of science and arts. The greatest praise of the historian and biographer, impartiality, might be called its most prominent feature, were it not excelled by the humanity of the writer, who touches with a hand often too gentle, those blemishes which he scorns to disguise. It is impossible to read any part of his performance without discovering that an ardent love for the true interests of society, and a fervid attachment to virtue and real liberty, have furnished his motives of choice, and every where directed his pen. The diligence and correctness of judgment by which the matter is selected and distributed, notwithstanding the scantiness, obscurity, or partiality of the documents that were to be consulted, are equalled only by the amenity with which he has varied his subjects, and the surprising extent of his information. Simplicity, perspicuity, and copiousness, are the leading features of his style, often sententious without being abrupt, and decided without an air of dogma; that it should have been sometimes verbose, sometimes lax or minute, is less to be wondered at, than that it should never be disgraced by affectation or pretence of elegance. If we be not always led by thenearest road, our path is always strewn with flowers; and, if it be the highest praise of writing to have made delight the effectual vehicle of instruction, our author has attained it.
The Appendix, of upwards of forty documents relative to the text, many highly interesting, is preceded by some original poems of Lorenzo, copied by Mr. Clarke, from the MSS. preserved in the Laurentian library, and now published for the first time.
Fuseli's Marriage.—His inducements to associate himself with the Royal Academy.—He translates Lavater's "Aphorisms on Man."—Remarks on his own "Aphorisms on Art."—Particulars of Fuseli's acquaintance with Mrs. Wollstonecraft.
Onthe 30th June, 1788, Fuseli married Miss Sophia Rawlins, of Bath Easton, near Bath, a young lady of reputable parentage and of personal attractions. She had been for some time on a visit to an aunt who resided in London. In Mrs. Fuseli he found an excellent wife, and with her he lived happily for thirty-five years. She now survives him. On his marriage he removed from St. Martin's lane, and took a house, No. 72, Queen Anne Street, East, now called Foley Street: where he painted most of the pictures which subsequently composed "The Milton Gallery."
This alteration in his condition effected, from prudential motives, some change in his mode of acting, if not of thinking. Hitherto, he had a distaste to all associated bodies for teaching the fine arts; and, in consequence, refused to belong to some foreign academies during his residence in Italy; nor would he attend to the repeated recommendations of his friends (particularly of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Mr. Alderman Boydell) to become a candidate for the Royal Academy. But being now a married man, and far from opulent, the consideration of the pension usually granted by the Royal Academy, under such circumstances, to the widows of their members, overcame his reluctance; and having put down his name, and forced himself to undergo the penance of solicitation, which the members of this as well as several other self-elective bodies expect from candidates as a right, he was elected an associate of the Royal Academy on the 3d November, 1788.
In the beginning of the year (1789), Fuseli published, in a small duodecimo volume, a translation of Lavater's "Aphorisms on Man;" which work, written in German, was dedicated to him by this early and esteemed friend. The dedication is dated October, 1787. When Fuseli gave this book in an English dress,it was with a promise, that a corresponding volume of "aphorisms on art," (not, indeed, by the same author,) "should appear in the course of the year." In conformity to this intention, one sheet was worked off and corrected by him; but an accidental fire having taken place in the premises of the printer, the whole impression was destroyed, and Fuseli could never bring himself to undergo the task of another revision. It is, however, so far fortunate, that the aphorisms now appear not only in a more concise, correct, and, in point of number, extended form, but they are also accompanied by many corollaries; for adding the latter, he gave to me this reason,—"that an aphorism may be discussed, but ought not to contain its own explication." These aphorisms, which are not entirely confined to art, but embrace also life and character, are certainly the master-work of Fuseli in literature: many of them, it is true, he has used by amplification in his lectures, and in the notes to "Pilkington's Dictionary of the Painters;" but what he himself wrote as an advertisement to Lavater's Aphorisms, may be fairly said of the work as a whole, that it "will be found to contain what gives their value to maxims,—verdicts of wisdom on the reports of experience. If some are truisms, let it beconsidered that Solomon and Hippocrates wrote truisms: if some are not new, they are recommended by an air of novelty."
In the autumn of 1790, Fuseli became acquainted with the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft. Several publications having gone so far as totally to misrepresent the nature of his intercourse with this highly-gifted lady, it becomes the duty of his biographer to give a plain statement of facts.
The talents of Mrs. Wollstonecraft[39]were first brought into notice by the Rev. John Hewlett, who, to forward her views in getting employment by writing on literary subjects, introduced her to Mr. Joseph Johnson, bookseller, in St. Paul's Church-yard. The house and purse of this liberal man were always open to authors who possessed talents, and who required pecuniary assistance; and such being the case with Mrs. Wollstonecraft, she was a frequent visitor at Mr. Johnson's: there Fuseli met her; but as he was not very ready to make new acquaintances, and was not only a shy man, but had rather a repulsive manner to those hedid not know, so it was some time before they became intimately acquainted.
The eyes of all Europe were at this time fixed upon the passing events in France. That spirit of liberty inherent in the Swiss, now burst forth in Fuseli, and he considered, as did his friend and countryman Lavater, that an opportunity was then offered to mankind to assert and secure their liberties, which no previous period in the history of the world had afforded. The same feelings animated the bosom of Mrs. Wollstonecraft: this was kept up, and indeed heightened by her then daily occupation, that of translating from the French the political pamphlets of the day, which at this time met with a ready and rapid sale; and in writing criticisms on them, as well as upon other subjects, for the Analytical Review.
Congruity of sentiments and feelings upon points which occupied the thoughts, and engrossed the conversation of persons in all ranks and stations of life, naturally brought about a closer intimacy between Fuseli and Mrs. Wollstonecraft, the consequences of which were not foreseen by the lady; for she little thought that the attachment on her part, which proceeded from it, would be the cause of her leaving this country, and thus becoming an eye-witness ofthe system of Gallic liberty which she attempted to uphold, emanating, as it did, from philosophers, being destroyed by murderers and madmen.
Mrs. Wollstonecraft had the strongest desire to be useful to her connexions and friends, and she began her career in life by sacrificing her feelings and comforts to what she fancied purity of conduct, and the benefit of others. It was a favourite consideration with her, that she "was designed to rise superior to her earthly habitation," and that she "always thought, with some degree of horror, of falling a sacrifice to a passion which may have a mixture of dross in it."[40]
Having a face and person which had some pretensions to beauty and comeliness, Mrs. Wollstonecraft had been frequently solicited to marry; but previously to her acquaintance with Mr. Fuseli, she had never known any man "possessed of those noble qualities, that grandeur of soul, that quickness of comprehension, and lively sympathy," which she fancied would be essential to her happiness, if she entered into the marriage state. These she foundin him; but there was a bar to all her hopes in this quarter; for he was already married to a woman whom he loved.
For some years before their acquaintance, with the view of usefulness which she had prescribed to herself, Mrs. Wollstonecraft "read no book for mere amusement, not even poetry, but studied those works only which are addressed to the understanding; she scarcely tasted animal food, or allowed herself the necessaries of life, that she might be able to pursue some romantic schemes of benevolence; seldom went to any amusements (being resident chiefly at Bath, and in the midst of pleasure), and her clothes were scarcely decent in her situation of life." The notions of privation which some of the revolutionists in France were now endeavouring to inculcate, rather encreased than diminished this tendency in Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and Fuseli found in her (what he most disliked in woman) a philosophical sloven: her usual dress being a habit of coarse cloth, such as is now worn by milk-women, black worsted stockings, and a beaver hat, with her hair hanging lank about her shoulders. These notions had their influence also in regard to the conveniences of life; for when the Prince Talleyrand was in this country, in a low condition with regardto his pecuniary affairs, and visited her, they drank their tea, and the little wine they took, indiscriminately from tea-cups.
Fuseli had a talent for conversation peculiar to himself, and his knowledge of the classics, of literature in general, and of the fine arts, was extensive, and his memory so retentive, that he seldom forgot what he had read or seen; these, aided by a great power and fluency of words, a poetical imagination and ready wit, enabled him at all times to put even a known subject in a new light. Talents such as these, Mrs. Wollstonecraft acknowledged she had never seen united in the same person; and they accordingly made a strong impression on her mind. "For," said she, "I always catch something from the rich torrent of his conversation, worth treasuring up in my memory, to exercise my understanding." She falsely reasoned with herself, and expressed to some of her intimate friends, that although Mrs. Fuseli had a right to the person of her husband, she, Mrs. Wollstonecraft, might claim, and, for congeniality of sentiments and talents, hold a place in his heart; for "she hoped," she said, "to unite herself to his mind." It was not to be supposed that this delusion could last long. From an admiration of his talents she became anadmirer of his person, and then, wishing to create similar feelings in Fuseli, moulded herself upon what she thought would be most agreeable to him. Change of manners, of dress, and of habitation were the consequences; for she now paid more than ordinary attention to her person, dressed fashionably, and introduced furniture somewhat elegant into commodious apartments, which she took for that purpose.
But these advances were not met with the affection which she had hoped to inspire in Fuseli,—for he admired her chiefly for her talents; and in the warmth of her disappointed feelings she constantly vented complaints of being neglected. These availed so little, that sometimes when Fuseli received letters from her, thinking they teemed only with the usual effusions of regard, and the same complaints of neglect, he would allow them to be some days unopened in his pocket.
The tumult which was raised in her mind by conflicting feelings, having love for the object, and yet the wish that her affection should be so regulated as to be strictly within the bounds which she had assigned to love, that of "strength of feeling unalloyed by passion," injured in a degree her health, and unfitted her for those literary pursuits which required a morethan ordinary exertion of the mind. For more than twelve months "she wrote nothing but criticisms for the Analytical Review," and even these, which required but little exertion of the talents which she possessed, would not have been written but for her daily necessities. Fuseli reasoned with her, but without any effect, upon the impropriety of indulging in a passion that took her out of common life. Her answer was, "If I thought my passion criminal, I would conquer it, or die in the attempt. For immodesty, in my eyes, is ugliness; my soul turns with disgust from pleasure tricked out in charms which shun the light of heaven."
At length Mrs. Wollstonecraft appears to have grown desperate, for she had the temerity to go to Mrs. Fuseli, and to tell her, that she wished to become an inmate in her family; and she added, as I am above deceit, it is right to say that this proposal "arises from the sincere affection which I have for your husband, for I find that I cannot live without the satisfaction of seeing and conversing with him daily." This frank avowal immediately opened the eyes of Mrs. Fuseli, who being alarmed by the declaration, not only refused her solicitation, but she instantly forbade her the house.No resource was now left for Mrs. Wollstonecraft, but to fly from the object which she regarded: her determination was instantly fixed; she wrote a letter to Fuseli, in which she begged pardon "for having disturbed the quiet tenour of his life," and on the 8th of December, 1792, left London for France.
Shortly after her arrival in Paris, she again wrote to Fuseli, gave him her opinion of the state of public feeling at that important period of the revolution, and implored him to write to her occasionally. As this letter was not answered, all communication on her part during her residence abroad ceased.
The cause of Mrs. Wollstonecraft's protracted stay in France;—for she intended, prior to her departure from England, to have remained there only six weeks,—and the attachment which she formed while in Paris, are foreign to this memoir; besides, if they were not, it would be unnecessary now to detail them, as they have been long before the public from the able pen of him who afterwards became her husband.[41]
After an absence of nearly two years and a half, Mrs. Wollstonecraft returned to London, (in April 1795,) and on her arrival called uponFuseli: the reception which she met with, it is presumed, was not very grateful to her feelings, for she shortly after wrote him the following letter.
"When I returned from France, I visited you, Sir, but finding myself after my late journey in a very different situation, I vainly imagined you would have called upon me. I simply tell you what I thought, yet I write not, at present, to comment on your conduct or expostulate. I have long ceased to expect kindness or affection from any human creature, and would fain tear from my heart its treacherous sympathies. I am alone. The injustice, without alluding to hopes blasted in the bud, which I have endured, wounding my bosom, have set my thoughts adrift into an ocean of painful conjectures. I ask impatiently what—and where is truth? I have been treated brutally; but I daily labour to remember that I still have the duty of a mother to fulfil.
"I have written more than I intended,—for I only meant to request you to return my letters: I wish to have them, and it must be the same to you. Adieu!"
"Mary."
"Monday Morning,—To Mr. Fuseli."
All communication ceased between the parties from this time until after Mrs. Wollstonecraft's marriage with Mr. Godwin. Fuseli noticed this occurrence in a letter to a friend, in the following terms: "You have not, perhaps, heard that the assertrix of female rights has given her hand to thebalancierof political justice."
Fuseli saw Mrs. Godwin but seldom; he dined only once at her table. Indeed, this lady did not live long to enjoy the happiness which she had pictured to herself, in being the wife of a man of genius and talents; for she died on the 10th September 1797, after having given birth to a female child,[42]who has proved herself, by works of the imagination, to be worthy of her parents. Fuseli could not but feel much regret on the occasion; but as "grief does not give utterance to words," so he barely noticed the catastrophe in the postscript of a letter to Mr. Roscoe, in these terms,—"Poor Mary!"
Fuseliundertakes the Illustration of Cowper's Edition of Milton.—First notion of the "Milton Gallery" hence suggested.—Letter to Mr. Roscoe from Fuseli and Mr. Johnson.—Curious circumstances attending Fuseli's Election as a Royal Academician.—Sir Joshua Reynolds's temporary secession connected with that event.—Fuseli's progress in the pictures for the "Milton Gallery."—Controversy between Fuseli and the Rev. Mr. Bromley.—Subjects painted for "Woodmason's Illustrations of Shakspeare."—Subscription towards the completion of the Milton Gallery.—Letter from Mr. Roscoe.—Fuseli contributes to "Seward's Anecdotes."—His Visit to Windsor with Opie and Bonnycastle.—Anecdotes connected with that Visit.—Letter from Mr. Roscoe.—Mr. Johnson's Imprisonment, and Fuseli's adherence to him.—Anecdote of Lord Erskine.—Exhibition of the "Milton Gallery," and List of the Works composing it, with incidental Comments, &c.—Letter to Fuseli from his brother Rodolph.—Letter from Fuseli to Mr. Locke.
TheShakspeare Gallery was now (in 1790) nearly completed, and hence Fuseli's commissions for this had ceased. The success which had attended Boydell, in his edition of Shakspeare's works, induced Mr. Johnson to issue proposals for publishing one of Milton, which should not only rival this, but, in point of letterpress, designs, and engravings, surpass any workwhich had previously appeared in England. Cowper had long meditated giving an edition of Milton's poetical works, with copious notes on his English poems, and translations into verse of those in Latin and Italian; and, indeed, he had made some progress in the undertaking. Johnson, who was his publisher, urged him to complete it; to which he assented, and Fuseli was engaged to paint thirty pictures, which were to be put into the hands of the ablest engravers of the time. Cowper proceeded with his part, and Fuseli laboured in putting upon canvass the sublime, the pathetic, and the playful scenes in Milton. That of "The Contest of Satan, Sin, and Death," was soon finished, and given to Sharpe to engrave. "Eve starting from seeing herself in the Water" was put into the hands of Bartolozzi. "Satan taking his flight from Chaos," and "Adam and Eve observed by Satan," were ready for the graver of Blake.
The serious mental indisposition of Cowper, which took place before he had completed his part of the work, and the opposition which Mr. Alderman Boydell offered to the progress of the scheme, thinking that it would affect the sale of his edition of Milton, made Mr. Johnson resolve to abandon it altogether. This undertaking of Fuseli's was, however, the foundation of a stupendous work by him, "The MiltonGallery," of which I shall have occasion hereafter to speak, and which he appears to have meditated in August 1790, while at Ramsgate in company with Mr. Johnson; shortly after he began to paint for Cowper's projected edition of Milton's poetical works, as will be shewn by the following letter written by him to Mr. Roscoe, and to which Johnson added a postscript.
"Ramsgate, 17th August, 1790.
"my dear sir,
"I did indeed receive your letter, but had not the pleasure of seeing Mr. Daulby. The first time he called upon me, I happened to be at dinner with some company, and as it never entered my head the stately figure which I observed dropping from the coach should be our friend, I ordered myself to be denied. The letter was left, but no time mentioned when he would call again, or any place assigned where I might find him. Johnson knew nothing of his abode. In about eight or ten days he called again, but I was at Woolwich: the next morning, I understand, he left town. You both will easily believe that I was extremely mortified, not to have had it in my power to enjoy an hour or two in his company; but I console myself with the thought, that he spent those hours with more satisfaction to himself.
"You may by this time have forgot the contents of your letter: it contains a comparison between your pursuits and mine; and no doubt I make the most advantageous figure on paper. I am on a road of glory; you are only crawling about from the white to the brown bed. I should, however, not be very uneasy if I could, without a total change of situation, obtain a little of that "elbow-room" for my mind, which it seems you get by moving from a large house to a smaller one. Notwithstanding the success of my election at the Academy, and of the pictures which I have painted for the Shakspeare Gallery, my situation continues to be extremely precarious. I have been and am contributing to make the public drop their gold into purses not my own; and though I am, and probably shall be, fully employed for some time to come, the scheme is hastening with rapidity towards its conclusion. "There are," says Mr. West, "but two ways of working successfully, that is, lastingly, in this country, for an artist,—the one is, to paint for the King; the other, to meditate a scheme of your own." The first he has monopolized; in the second he is not idle: witness the prints from English history, and the late advertisement of allegorical prints to be published from his designs by Bartolozzi. Inimitation ofso great a man, I am determined to lay, hatch, and crack an egg for myself too, if I can. What it shall be, I am not yet ready to tell with certainty; but the sum of it is, a series of pictures forexhibition, such as Boydell's and Macklin's. To obtain this, it will be necessary that I should have it in my power to work without commission or any kind of intermediate gain, for at least three years; in which time I amcertainof producing at least twenty pictures of different dimensions. The question is, what will enable me to live in the mean time? With less than three hundred a-yearcertain, I cannot do it. My idea is, to get a set of men (twenty, perhaps,—less if possible, but not more,) to subscribe towards it. Suppose twenty pounds each annually, to be repaid either by small pictures or drawings, or the profits of the exhibition, should it succeed, of which there can be no very great doubt.
"Such is, at present, the rude outline of my scheme: it is in this manner alone that I can exhibit that variety of picturesque ideas of which, I flatter myself, you have seen specimens amongst my productions on paper and canvass; and now, tell me your opinion with your usual openness. I am in earnest, yours truly,
"H. Fuseli."
"W. Roscoe, Esq."
"The fewpictures that have been painted for Boydell's scheme by our friend,—and he has little more to expect, from the numbers employed,—I need not say to you, are perfectly sufficient to justify the warmest expectations from the scheme he has projected; but they are trifling, when we consider what he is capable of were he perfectly at his ease for a few years, and at perfect liberty to choose his subjects. His plan has my hearty concurrence; and I have gone so far as to say, that I would be one of six, or even of three, to support him in it; but he prefers a larger number. You are the only one to whom it has been mentioned, and it should be spoken of with great delicacy, for it had better not be known until it is nearly ripe: think of it, and tell me your sentiments. It may be, and I am confident it is, unnecessary to tellyou; but as such things are common in your experience, I shall say, that this is not the effort of a man whose circumstances are involved, to save himself from sinking. Our friend, though not rich, is perfectly free from incumbrances. We shall be in town in a few days.
"Yours,"J. Johnson."
On the 10th of February, 1790, Fuseli was elected a Royal Academician. As his election was accompanied by a circumstance which caused a great sensation at that time, (I allude to the temporary secession of Sir Joshua Reynolds from the Royal Academy,) it will not be uninteresting to give Fuseli's account of the transaction, which I have heard him frequently relate.
The Earl of Aylesford, the intimate friend of Sir Joshua, had patronized M. Bonomi, an Italian by birth, a native of Rome, and by profession an architect; and, with the view of serving this gentleman, recommended him strongly to the protection of the President of the Royal Academy. Accordingly, in the early part of 1789, M. Bonomi became a candidate for the preliminary step, an Associate of the Academy, in opposition to Mr. Gilpin, well known as a landscape painter of merit, and who, for his amiable disposition and manners, was a man much respected and esteemed. Sir Joshua exerted his influence to secure success to M. Bonomi; but as the number of votes for the two candidates, on the ballot, were found to be equal, the President asserted his privilege of the casting-vote, which he gave in favour of the architect, avowing, at the same time, that hehad done so with the intention of his being elected an Academician when a vacancy should occur, and thus becoming eligible, according to the laws of the Academy, to occupy the chair of Professor of Perspective, which was then vacant; considering it, as he said, highly desirable that this should be filled according to those laws, by an Academician, and that, in his opinion, M. Bonomi was the person best qualified for the situation. On the death of Mr. Meyer,[43]which took place early in the year 1790, M. Bonomi was accordingly proposed to succeed him as a Royal Academician. Fuseli, who had always been treated with great kindness by Sir Joshua, called upon him to solicit his vote for himself. The President received him with politeness, acknowledged the claims which he had to the distinction of an Academician, from the great talents which he possessed, and which no man appreciated more than himself; but he said, "Were you my brother, I could not serve you on this occasion; for I think it not only expedient, but highly necessary for the good of the Academy, that M. Bonomi should be elected:" and he added, "on another vacancy, you shall have my support." Fuseli, in answer, thankedSir Joshua for his candour, and hoped if he tried his friends onthisoccasion, he would not be offended. To this the President said, "Certainly not."
Sir Joshua was active in taking measures to favour the views of M. Bonomi; and although he expected some opposition, from the spirit which was manifested on the former occasion, yet he was nevertheless very sanguine as to the ultimate success of this candidate. On the evening of the election, an expedient was resorted to, no doubt with the sanction of, but not acknowledged by, the President,—that of exhibiting on the table of the Academy some neatly executed drawings of M. Bonomi; which display had a contrary effect to what Sir Joshua expected. The friends of Fuseli protested against this, which they deemed an innovation, and urged with great propriety, that if drawings were to be shown, he should have the same chance as his competitor; stating at the same time, that his portfolio was as rich in these as any man's; "for the members," said they, "must be aware, that no modern artist excels Mr. Fuseli in design."
The sense of the meeting was taken; and after a warm debate, M. Bonomi's drawings were ordered to be removed.
As it was considered that Fuseli's claims had not been fairly met, those who were wavering in opinion before, now became fixed in his favour, and when the numbers were declared, there were twenty-one votes for, and only nine against him. This decision was evidently unexpected by Sir Joshua, who, on leaving the chair, shewed some degree of mortification; and on the 23d of February, 1790, thirteen days after the election had taken place, he wrote a letter to the Academicians, in which were these words: "I resign the Presidency of the Royal Academy, and also my seat as an Academician." It is unnecessary, in this place, to detail the means which the Academy took, and successfully, to recall him to the chair: suffice it to say, that, notwithstanding the chagrin which he experienced, in failing to carry the point for M. Bonomi, Sir Joshua was unaltered in his kindness to Fuseli, during the remainder of his life.
The employment which had been given to Fuseli by Mr. Alderman Boydell, for the Shakspeare Gallery, enabled him to save some money; he therefore proceeded with a degree of confidence in the great work which he had for some years meditated, and on which he was now actively employed,—the pictures which were toform the "Milton Gallery." In aid of these means, however, he expected to be able to maintain himself, during the execution of the work, by painting occasionally small pictures for the printsellers and booksellers, on whom the historical painters of this country have principally depended for support. But in this he was in a great measure disappointed, for his competitors in the art raised a report, that his time was so much occupied in a scheme of such magnitude from Milton, that he had no leisure for any other subject,—hence their usual commissions began to decline, and at length almost ceased.
Fuseli felt this disappointment of his hopes, and in a letter to Mr. Roscoe says, "I am convinced that of all the lies Nero told, that in which he asserts art was supported by all the earth, was the most atrocious; and althoughlaudatur et algetseems to be intended for my motto, and though despondence often invades my pillow, yet my head and hand still keep on steady in the prosecution of my great work. May the hope which carries me on, not prove delusive."
The monotony of painting from one author, however, was in a degree broken by the variety of subjects which Milton's poetical works afford,for he could at will turn "from grave to gay:" this transition, Fuseli often acknowledged, afforded him considerable relief and pleasure.
In the year 1793, the Rev. R. A. Bromley, rector of St. Mildred's in the Poultry, issued proposals for publishing by subscription, two large quarto volumes of "A Philosophical and Critical History of the Fine Arts, more especially Painting;" and at the instance of Mr. West, the Royal Academy subscribed for a copy. The first volume appeared early in 1794, and the author, after having discussed and criticised the works of Michael Angelo and Raphael, thus expresses himself:—"The dignity of moral instruction is degraded whenever the pencil is employed on frivolous, whimsical, and unmeaning subjects. On this head, it is to be feared, there ever will be too much cause for complaint, because there ever will be persons incapable of solidity, although very capable of executing this art with power: strength of understanding, and ability in art or science, are very different things; they are derived from different sources, and they are perfectly independent of each other. The one can no more be instrumental to the communication of the other, than either can communicate temper or disposition. The finest art in the world may therefore be combined withthe lightest and most superficial mind. Books are written of a light and fantastic nature by those who cannot write otherwise, and yet will write something. And so it is with painting; the mind of the artist can but give such subjects as are consecutaneous to its turn.—The Nightmare,Little Red Ridinghood,The Shepherd's Dream, or any dream that is not marked in authentic history as combined with the important dispensations of Providence, and many other pieces of a visionary and fanciful nature, are speculations of as exalted a stretch in the contemplation of such a mind, as the finest lessons as were ever drawn from religion, or morals, or useful history; and yet the painter who should employ his time on such subjects, would certainly amuse the intelligent no more than the man who should make those subjects the topics of a serious discourse. But what good has the world, or what honour has the art, at any time derived from such light and fantastical speculations? If it be right to follow Nature, there is nothing of her here,—all that is presented to us is a reverie of the brain. If it be allowable to cultivate fancy, that which has little or nothing of nature in its composition becomes ridiculous. A man may carry the flights of imagination even within the walks of thechastest art or science, till they become mere waking dreams, as wild as the conceits of a madman. The author of Observations onFresnoy de Artevery properly calls these persons, 'Libertines of painting:' as there are libertines of religion, who have no other law but the vehemence of their own inclinations, so these have no other model, he says, but a rodomontado genius, which shews us a wild or savage nature that is not of our acquaintance, but of a new creation.