returned to Ferrara. His abode there never was a happy one; for his
talents, celebrity, and the favour in which he was held, raised up
enemies, who showed their spleen in petty underminings and annoyances,
to which the poet’s susceptible temper lent a sting. He was attracted,
however, by the kindness of the Duke and the society of the beautiful
and accomplished Eleonora, the Duke’s sister, for whom the poet
ventured, it is said, to declare an affection, which, according to some
historians, did not remain unrequited. The portrait of Olinda, in the
beautiful episode which relates her history, is generally understood to
have been designed after this living model: while some have imagined
that Tasso himself is not less clearly pictured in the description of
her lover Sofronio. But about this time, whether from mental uneasiness,
or from constitutional causes, his conduct began to be marked by a
morbid irritability allied to madness. The Gerusalemme was
surreptitiously printed without having received the author’s last
corrections; and he entreated the Duke, and all his powerful friends, to
prevent such an abuse. Alfonso and the Pope himself endeavoured to
satisfy Tasso’s demands, but with little success. This circumstance, and
other partly real, partly imaginary troubles, augmented so much his
natural melancholy and apprehension, that he began to think that his
enemies not only persecuted and calumniated him, but accused him of
great crimes; he even imagined that they had the intention of denouncing
his works to the Holy Inquisition. Under this impression he presented
himself to the Inquisitor of Bologna; and having made a general
confession, submitted his works to the examination of that holy father,
and begged and obtained his absolution. His malady, for such we may
surely call it, was continually exasperated by the arts of his rivals;
and on one occasion, in the apartments of the Duchess of Urbino, he drew
his sword on one of her attendants. He was immediately arrested; and
subsequently sent to one of the Duke’s villas, where he was kindly
treated and supplied with medical advice. But his fancied injuries (for
in this case they do not seem to have been real) still pursued him; and
he fled, destitute of every thing, from Ferrara, and hastened to his
sister Cornelia, then living at Sorrento. Her care and tenderness very
much soothed his mind and improved his health; but, unfortunately, he
soon repented of his hasty flight, and returned to Ferrara, where his
former malady soon regained its power. Dissatisfied with all about him,
he again left that town; but, after having wandered for more than a
year, he returned to Alfonso, by whom he was received with indifference
and contempt. By nature sensitive, and much excited by his misfortunes,
Tasso began to pour forth bitter invectives against the Duke and his
court. Alfonso exercised a cruel revenge; for, instead of soothing the
unhappy poet, he shut him up as a lunatic in the Hospital of St. Anne.
This act merits our unqualified censure; for if Tasso had in truth any
tendency to madness, what so likely to render it incurable as to shut
him up in solitary confinement, in an unhealthy cell, deprived of his
favourite books, and of every amusement? Yet, strange to say,
notwithstanding his sufferings, mental and bodily, for more than seven
years in that abode of misery and despair, his powers remained unbroken,
his genius unimpaired; and even there he composed some pieces both in
prose and verse, which were triumphantly appealed to by his friends in
proof of his sanity. To this period we may probably refer the ‘Veglie,’
or ‘Watches’ of Tasso, the manuscript of which was discovered in the
Ambrosian Library at Milan, towards the end of the last century. They
are written in prose, and express the author’s melancholy thoughts in
elegant and poetic language. The Gerusalemme had now been published and
republished both in Italy and France, and Europe rang with its praises;
yet the author lay almost perishing in close confinement, sick, forlorn,
and destitute of every comfort.
In 1584, Camillo Pellegrini, a Capuan nobleman, and a great admirer of
Tasso’s genius, published a Dialogue on Epic Poetry, in which he placed
the Gerusalemme far above the Orlando Furioso. This testimony from a man
of literary distinction caused a great sensation among the friends and
admirers of Ariosto. Two Academicians of the Crusca, Salviati and De
Rossi, attacked the Gerusalemme in the name of the Academy, and assailed
Tasso and his father in a gross strain of abuse. From the mad-house
Tasso answered with great moderation; defended his father, his poem, and
himself from these groundless invectives; and thus gave to the world the
best proof of his soundness of mind, and of his manly philosophical
spirit.
At length, after being long importuned by the noblest minds of Italy,
Alphonso released him in 1586, at the earnest entreaty of Don Vincenzo
Gonzaga, son of the Duke of Mantua, at whose court the poet for a time
took up his abode. There, through the kindness and attentions of his
patron and friends, he improved so much in health and spirits, that he
resumed his literary labours, and completed his father’s poem,
Floridante, and his own tragedy, Torrismondo.
But, with advancing age, Tasso became still more restless and impatient
of dependence, and he conceived a desire to visit Naples, in the hope of
obtaining some part of the confiscated property of his parents.
Accordingly, having received permission from the Duke, he left Mantua,
and arrived in Naples at the end of March, 1588. About this time he made
several alterations in his Gerusalemme, corrected numerous faults, and
took away all the praises he had bestowed on the House of Este. Alfieri
used to say, that this amended Gerusalemme was the only one which he
could read with pleasure to himself, or with admiration for the author.
But as there appeared no hope that his claims would be soon adjusted, he
returned to Rome, in November, 1588. Ever harassed by a restless mind,
he quitted, one after another, the hospitable roofs which gave him
shelter; and at last, destitute of all resources, and afflicted with
illness, took refuge in the hospital of the Bergamaschi, with whose
founder he claimed relation by the father’s side: a singular fate for
one with whose praises Italy even then was ringing. But it should be
remembered, ere we break into invectives against the sordidness of the
age which suffered this degradation, that the waywardness of Tasso’s
temper rendered it hard to satisfy him as an inmate, or to befriend him
as a patron.
Restored to health, at the Grand Duke’s invitation, he went to Florence,
where both prince and people received him with every mark of admiration.
Those who saw him, as he passed along the streets, would exclaim, “See!
there is Tasso! That is the wonderful and unfortunate poet!”
It is useless minutely to trace his wanderings from Florence to Rome,
from Rome to Mantua, and back again to Rome and Naples. At the latter
place he dwelt in the palace of the Prince of Conca, where he composed
great part of the Gerusalemme Conquistata. But having apprehended, not
without reason, that the prince wished to possess himself of his
manuscripts, Torquato left the palace to reside with his friend Manso.
His health and spirits improved in his new abode; and besides proceeding
with the Conquistata, he commenced, at the request of Manso’s mother,
‘Le Sette Giornate del Mondo Creato,’ a sacred poem in blank verse,
founded on the Book of Genesis, which he completed in Rome a few days
before his death.
He visited Rome in 1593. A report that Marco di Sciarra, a notorious
bandit, infested the road, induced him to halt at Gaeta, where his
presence was celebrated by the citizens with great rejoicing. Sciarra
having heard that the great poet was detained by fear of him, sent a
message, purporting, that instead of injury, Tasso should receive every
protection at his hands. This offer was declined; yet Sciarra, in
testimony of respect, sent word, that for the poet’s sake he would
withdraw with all his band from that neighbourhood; and he did so.
This time, on his arrival at Rome, Tasso was received by the Cardinals
Cinzio and Pietro Aldobrandini, nephews of the Pope, not as a courtier,
but as a friend. At their palace he completed the Gerusalemme
Conquistata, and published it with a dedication to Cardinal Cinzio. This
work was preferred by its author to the Gerusalemme Liberata. It is
remarkable that Milton made a similar error in estimating his Paradise
Regained.
In March, 1594, Tasso returned to Naples in hope of benefiting his
rapidly declining health. The experiment appeared to answer; but
scarcely had he passed four months in his native country, when Cardinal
Cinzio requested him to hasten to Rome, having obtained for him from the
Pope the honour of a solemn coronation in the Capitol. In the following
November the poet arrived at Rome, and was received with general
applause. The Pope himself overwhelmed him with praises, and one day
said, “Torquato, I give you the laurel, that it may receive as much
honour from you as it has conferred upon them who have worn it before
you.” To give to this solemnity greater splendour, it was delayed till
April 25, 1595; but during the winter Tasso’s health became worse.
Feeling that his end was nigh, he begged to be removed to the convent of
St. Onofrio, where he was carried off by fever on the very day appointed
for his coronation. His corpse was interred the same evening in the
church of the monastery, according to his will; and his tomb was covered
with a plain stone, on which, ten years after, Manso, his friend and
admirer, caused this simple epitaph to be engraved,—HIC JACET TORQUATUS
TASSO.
Tasso was tall and well proportioned; his countenance very expressive,
but rather melancholy; his complexion of a dark brown, with lively eyes.
Our vignette is taken from a cast in wax, made after his death. He has
left many beautiful and remarkable pieces, both in verse and prose; but
his fame is based upon the Gerusalemme Liberata: the others are
comparatively little read. Among his countrymen, the comparative merits
of this great work, and of the Orlando Furioso, have, ever since the
days of Pellegrini, been a favourite subject of controversy. Some who
persist in asserting that Ariosto was the greater poet, do not refuse to
allow the superiority of the Gerusalemme as a poem; and of this opinion
was (at least latterly) Metastasio, who, in his youth, was so great an
admirer of the Orlando, that he would not even read the Gerusalemme. In
after-life, however, having perused it with much attention, he was so
enchanted by its beauties and regularity, that, being requested to give
his opinion on the comparative merits of the two, he wrote in these
words:—“If it ever came into the mind of Apollo to make me a great poet,
and were he to command me to declare frankly whether I should like to
choose for model the Orlando or the Gerusalemme, I would not hesitate to
answer, the Gerusalemme.”
The principal biographers of Tasso, among his own countrymen, are his
friend Manso, who wrote his Life in 1600, six years only after the
poet’s death; and the Abate Serassi, whose work was first published at
Rome in 1785, and again at Bergamo in 1790. Besides these is his Life,
in French, by the Abbé de Charnes (1690); and that by M. Suard, prefixed
to the translation of the Gerusalemme by Prince Lebrun (1803, two tom.
8vo.): while in English we have a Life of Tasso by Mr. Black (1810); and
a Memoir by the Rev. Mr. Stebbing (1833). The best complete edition of
Tasso’s works is that of Molini, in eight volumes 8vo., Florence,
1822–6.
[Illustration: [From a Cast taken after death.]]
[Illustration]
BEN JONSON.
The rapid growth and early maturity of the drama form a remarkable
portion of the literary history of Britain. Within forty years from the
appearance of the first rude attempts at English comedy, all the most
distinguished of our dramatists had graced the stage by their
performances. Among the worthies, he whom we familiarly call Ben Jonson
holds a prominent place. He was born in Westminster, June 11, 1574, and
placed, at a proper age, at Westminster School, where Camden then
presided. He made unusual progress in classical learning, until his
mother, who was left in narrow circumstances, married a bricklayer, and
removed her son from school, that he might work with his step-father in
Lincoln’s-Inn. In his vexation and anger at this domestic tyranny, he
enlisted as a private soldier, was sent abroad to join the English army
in the Netherlands, and distinguished himself against the Spaniards by a
gallant achievement. In an encounter with a single man of the enemy, he
slew his opponent, and carried off his spoils in the view of both
armies.
[Illustration:
_Engraved by E. Scriven._
BEN JONSON.
_From a Picture in the possession of M^r. Knight._
Under the Superintendance of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge.
_London, Published by Charles Knight, Ludgate Street, & Pall Mall
East._
]
On his return home, he resumed his former studies at St. John’s,
Cambridge; but thither the miseries of slender means followed him, and
he quitted the University after a short residence. He then turned his
thoughts to the stage. The encouragement afforded to dramatic talent
coincided with his taste and inclination; and the example of Shakspeare,
who had successfully adopted the same course under similar difficulties,
determined his choice. He was admitted into an obscure theatre, called
the Green Curtain, in the neighbourhood of Shoreditch and Clerkenwell;
but his salary there must have been insufficient for his support, and
his merits were too meagre to entitle him to a place in any respectable
company. While in this humble station, he fought a duel with one of the
players, in which he was wounded in the arm, but killed his antagonist,
who had been the challenger. During his imprisonment for this offence,
he was visited by a Popish priest, who profited by his depressed state
of mind to win him over to the Church of Rome, within the pale of which
he continued for twelve years. Thus did melancholy produce a change in
his religious condition; but his spirits returned with his release, and
he ventured to offer up his recovered liberty on the altar of matrimony.
Considering that he was only about twenty-four years of age when he rose
to reputation as a dramatic writer, his life had been unusually, but
painfully, eventful. He had made some attempts as a playwright from his
first entrance into the profession, but without success. His connexion
with Shakspeare has been variously related. It has been stated that when
Jonson was unknown to the world, he offered a play to the theatre, which
was rejected after a very careless perusal; but our great dramatist,
having accidentally cast his eye on it, thought well of the production,
and afterwards recommended the author and his writings to the public.
For this candour he is said to have been repaid by Jonson, when the
latter became a poet of note, with an envious disrespect. Farmer, of all
Shakspeare’s commentators, was most inclined to depart from these
traditions, and to think the belief in Jonson’s hostility to Shakspeare
absolutely groundless. This question, triumphantly, but with needless
acrimony, argued by Mr. Gifford, we regard as now determined in Jonson’s
favour. Without any imputation of ingratitude, the acknowledged superior
in learning might chequer his commendations with reproof; as he
undeniably did, partly from natural temper, and partly from a habit of
asserting his own preeminence, as having first taught rules to the
stage. He has been loosely, not to say falsely, accused of endeavouring
to depreciate The Tempest, by calling it a _foolery_, a term which
unquestionably cannot be applied to any work without such design. But he
called it, not a _foolery_, but a _drollery_. In present acceptation the
terms may be nearly equivalent; but in that age, the word conveyed no
censure. Dennis says, in one of his letters, that he went to see the
Siege of Namur, a _droll_. In after-times, the word implied a farcical
dialogue in a single scene. Where Jonson says, “if there be never a
servant-monster in the fair, who can help it?”—he is supposed to fling
at Caliban; but the satire was general. Creatures of various kinds,
taught a thousand antics, were the concomitants of puppet-shows. In the
Dumb Knight, by Lewis Machin, 1608, Prate, the orator, cautions his wife
thus:—“I would not have you to step into the suburbs, and acquaint
yourself either with _monsters_ or _motions_; but holding your way
strictly homeward, show yourself still to be a rare housewife.” It has
been alleged in the controversy, that Jonson seems to ridicule the
conduct of Twelfth Night in his Every Man out of his Humour, where he
makes Mitis say, “that the argument of the author’s comedy might have
been of some other nature, as of a duke to be in love with a countess,
and that countess to be in love with a duke’s son, and the son to love
the ladies’ waiting-maid; some such cross-wooing, with a clown to their
serving-men, better than to be thus near, and familiarly attired to the
time.” Unfortunately for Stevens’s application of this passage, Ben
Jonson could not have ridiculed Twelfth Night, which was produced at
least eight years after the play quoted. Among the commendatory poems
prefixed to the editions of Shakspeare, Jonson’s is not only the first
in date, but the most judicious, zealous, and affectionate. His personal
attachment is expressed on various occasions with more enthusiasm than
is apt to be felt by men of his temperament. We have no right to doubt
its sincerity.
We are told that, “having improved his fancy by keeping scholastic
company, he betook himself to writing plays.” The comedy entitled Every
Man in his Humour was his first successful piece. It was produced in
1598, on the stage with which Shakspeare was connected, and the generous
poet and proprietor sanctioned it by playing the part of Kno’well. This
was followed the next year by Every Man out of his Humour. After this
time he produced a play every year, for several years successively. In
1600 he paid his court to Queen Elizabeth, by complimenting her under
the allegorical character of the goddess Cynthia, in his Cynthia’s
Revels, which was acted that year by the choristers of the Queen’s
Chapel, In his next piece, The Poetaster, which was represented in 1601
by the same performers, he ridicules his rival Decker under the
character of Crispinus. Some reflections in it were also supposed to
allude to certain well-known lawyers and military men. A popular clamour
was raised against him; in vindication of himself, he replied in an
apologetical dialogue, which was once recited on the stage, and on the
publication of his works annexed to this play. But Decker was bent on
revenge, and resolved, if possible, to conquer Jonson at his own
weapons. He immediately wrote a play called Satiromastix, or the
Untrussing of the Humourous Poet, in which Jonson is introduced under
the character of Horace Junior. Jonson’s enemies industriously gave out
that he wrote with extreme labour, and was not less than a year about
every play. Had it been so, it was no disgrace: the best authors know by
experience, that what appears to be the most natural and easy writing is
frequently the result of study and close application. But the
insinuation was meant to convey, that Jonson had heavy parts, and little
imagination: a charge which applies only to two of his works, Sejanus
and Catiline. Jonson retorted upon Decker in the prologue to Volpone, or
The Fox. We are there told that this play, which is one of his best, was
finished in five weeks. He professes that, in all his poems, his aim has
been to mix profit with pleasure; and concludes with saying, that all
gall is drained from his ink, and “only a little salt remaineth.”
“Eastward Hoe” was the joint production of Ben Jonson, George Chapman,
and John Marston. What part each author had in it is not known; but the
consequences were near being very serious to them all. They were accused
of reflecting on the Scots, who crowded the court at that time to the
utter disgust of the English gentlemen; and, in perfect unison with the
arbitrary temper of the times, were all three not only committed to
prison, but in peril as to their ears and noses. On submission however
they received pardons. Jonson, on his releasement from prison, gave an
entertainment to his friends, among whom were Camden and Selden. His
mother seems now to have risen mightily in her ideas, and to have
affected the Roman matron, although the bricklayer’s wife would, in past
time, have bound her son to the hod and trowel. In the midst of the
entertainment she drank to him, and produced a paper of poison, which
she intended to have mixed with his liquor, having first taken a portion
of it herself, if the punishment of mutilation had not been remitted.
That mixture of poetry and spectacle, which, in our ancient literature,
is termed a masque, had been encouraged by Elizabeth, and became still
more fashionable during the reigns of James and Charles. The queens of
both monarchs, being foreigners, understood the English language but
imperfectly, so that the music, dancing, and decorations of a masque
were better adapted to their amusement than the more intellectual
entertainment of the regular drama. After Queen Elizabeth’s example,
they occasionally assisted in the representation, and probably were
still better pleased to be performers than spectators. Jonson was the
chief manufacturer of this article for the court; and a year seldom
passed without his furnishing more than one piece of this sort. They
were usually got up, as the phrase is, with the utmost splendour. In the
scenery, Jonson had Inigo Jones for an associate. As compositions, these
trifles rank little higher than shows and pageants; but they possessed a
property peculiarly acceptable at court—they abounded with incense and
servility. However crusty Jonson might be as a critical censor, he saw
plainly what food his royal master relished, and furnished the table
plentifully.
This occupation interrupted the periodical production of his regular
plays; but the interval had not been frivolously passed. In 1609, he
produced “Epicœne, or the Silent Woman.” This was generally esteemed to
be the most perfect pattern of a play hitherto brought out in England,
and might be selected as a proof that its author was a careful and
learned observer of the dramatic laws. We are assured that Jonson was
personally acquainted with a man quite as ridiculous as Morose is
represented to be. It may here be observed that the description of
humour, drawn from the knowledge and observation of particular persons,
was in the line of this author’s peculiar genius and talent. There is
more wit and fancy in the dialogue of this play than in any by the same
hand. Truewit is a scholar, with an alloy of pedantry; but he is the
best gentleman ever drawn by Jonson, whose strength, in general, was not
properly wit or sharpness of conceit, but the natural imitation of
various and contrasted follies. The Alchemist came out in 1610. Jonson
shows in it much learning relative to changes in the external appearance
of metals, and uses some of the very terms of art met with in Eastward
Hoe; which makes it probable that the passages in which they are
contained are from his pen. This piece was unusually free from personal
allusions; yet it was not popular at first. The partisans of inferior
writers were constantly let loose whenever Jonson brought out a new
play; but their censure was harmless, for he numbered among his friends
and admirers, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Donne, Camden, Selden, and
a host of worthies of every class. In 1613, he made the tour of France,
and was introduced to Cardinal Perron, who showed him his translation of
Virgil; but Perron not being his master and sovereign, but a foreign
cardinal, with his customary bluntness he told him it was a bad one.
About this time he and Inigo Jones quarrelled; and he ridiculed his
colleague of the Masques, under the character of Sir Lantern
Leatherhead, a Hobby-horse Seller. His next play was “The Devil is an
Ass,” 1616.