James, and he published his works in one folio volume. His fame, both as
to poetry and learning, was now so fully established, that he was
invited to the University of Oxford by several members, and particularly
by Dr. Corbet, of Christ Church. That college was his residence during
his stay, and he was created Master of Arts in full convocation, in
July, 1619. In the following October, on the death of Daniel, he
received the appointment of Poet-laureat, after having discharged the
duties of the office for some time. At the latter end of this year he
travelled into Scotland on foot, to visit his correspondent, Drummond of
Hawthornden. Jonson had formed a design of writing on the history and
geography of Scotland, and had received some curious documents from
Drummond. The acquisition of additional materials appears to have been
the main object of his journey. In the freedom of social intercourse, he
expressed his sentiments strongly concerning the authors and poets of
his own time. Drummond committed the heads of their conversations to
writing, and has been severely censured on account of what he has left
us concerning his guest. He says that he was “a great lover and praiser
of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; chusing rather to lose
his friend than his jest; jealous of every word and action of those
about him, especially after drink, which was one of the elements in
which he lived; a dissembler of the parts which reigned in him; a
bragger of some good that he wanted; he thought nothing right, but what
either himself or some of his friends had said or done. He was
passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep;
vindictive, but if he was well answered, greatly chagrined; interpreting
the best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for either
religion, being versed in both; oppressed with fancy, which
over-mastered his reason, a general disease among the poets.” Drummond’s
letters exhibit Jonson in a much more favourable light; and this
inconsistency may, perhaps, be explained by supposing that they exhibit
the Scotch poet’s deliberate opinion of his guest, while the strictures
contained in his loose notes were probably penned in a moment of
irritation, to which he appears to have been subject. If, indeed, the
received notions of Jonson’s heat of temper had any foundation, we may
suppose him and his northern host to have been occasionally so far
advanced in disputation, that “testy Drummond could not speak for
fretting.” Jonson recorded his adventures on this journey in a poem,
which was accidentally burnt; a loss which he lamented in another poem
called “An Execration upon Vulcan.”
The laureateship obliged him annually to provide, besides other
entertainments of the court, the Christmas Masque: of these we have a
series in his works, from 1615 to 1625. In 1625, his comedy called The
Staple of News was exhibited. In 1627, The New Inn was performed at the
Blackfriars theatre, and deservedly hissed off the stage. Three of
Jonson’s plays underwent that fate. He was so much incensed against the
town, that in 1631 he published it with the following title: “The New
Inn, or the Light Heart, a comedy; as it was never acted, but most
negligently played, by some, the king’s servants, and more squeamishly
beheld and censured by others, the king’s subjects, 1629; and now at
last set at liberty to the readers.” To this he annexed an ode to
himself, threatening to leave the stage, which was sarcastically
parodied by Owen Feltham, a writer of note, and author of a book called
“Resolves.” Jonson’s mingled foibles and excellencies are pleasantly
touched by Sir John Suckling, in his “Session of the Poets.” An
improbable story is told by Cibber, and repeated by Smollet, that in
1629, Ben, being reduced to distress, and living in an obscure alley,
petitioned his Majesty to assist him in his poverty and sickness; but
that, on receiving ten pounds, he said to the messenger who brought the
donation, “His Majesty has sent me ten pounds, because I am poor and
live in an alley: go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley.” His
annual pension had been increased from a hundred marks to a hundred
pounds, with the welcome addition of a yearly tierce of Canary wine. He
received from the king a further present of one hundred pounds in that
very year, which he acknowledged in an epigram published in his works.
Could he, as he does in his “Epistle Mendicant,” have further solicited
the Lord Treasurer for relief in 1631, had he been guilty of such an
insult to royalty in 1629? There is reason to believe that he had
pensions from the city, and from several of the nobility and gentry;
particularly from Mr. Sutton, the founder of the Charter-house. Yet,
with all these helps, his finances were unredeemed from disorder.
In his distress, he came upon the stage again, in spite of his last
defeat. Two comedies without a date, “The Magnetic Lady,” and “The Tale
of a Tub,” belong to these latter compositions, which Dryden has called
his dotages; at all events, they are the dotages of Jonson. Alexander
Gill, a poetaster of the times, attacked him with brutal fury, on
account of his “Magnetic Lady.” Gill was a bad man as well as a bad
poet; and Jonson availed himself of his adversary’s weak points in a
short but cutting reply. His last masque was performed July 30, 1634,
and the only piece extant of later date is his “New Year’s Ode for
1635.” He died of palsy, August 6, 1637, in his sixty-third year, and
was buried in Westminster Abbey. His grave-stone only bears the quaint
inscription,—“O RARE BEN JONSON!”
In the beginning of 1638, elegies on his death were published, under the
title of “Jonsonius Virbius, or, the Memory of Ben Jonson Revived, by
the Friends of the Muses.” This collection contains poems by Lord
Falkland, Lord Buckhurst, Sir John Beaumont, Sir Thomas Hawkins, Mr.
Waller, Mayne, Cartwright, Waryng, the author of “Effigies Amoris,” and
other contributors of note. In 1640, the former volume of his works was
reprinted; with a second, containing the rest of his plays, masques, and
entertainments; Underwoods; English Grammar; his translation of Horace’s
Art of Poetry; and Discoveries. The latter is a prose work of various
and extensive learning, containing opinions on all subjects, worthy to
be weighed even at this distant period. In 1716, his works were
reprinted in six volumes octavo. Another edition appeared in 1756, under
the care of Mr. Whalley, of St. John’s, Oxford, with notes, and the
addition of a comedy not inserted in any former edition, called “The
Case is Altered.” But all former editions are superseded in value by
that of Mr. Gifford.
Jonson was married, and had children; particularly a son and a daughter,
both celebrated by him in epitaphs at their death; but none of his
children survived him.
As a dramatic writer, he is remarkable for judgment in the arrangement
of his plots; a happy choice of characters; and skill in maintaining
character throughout the piece. The manners of the most trifling persons
are always consistent. Dryden censures him for exhibiting _mechanic
humour_, “Where men were dull and conversation low.” This remark is so
far just, that Jonson chiefly aimed at mirth by the contrast and
collision of what Dryden terms _humour_. The reader, however, would do
the dramatist injustice, were he to apply the word humour to him in its
modern and confined sense. Jonson cultivated it according to a more
philosophical definition; as a technical term for characters swayed and
directed by some predominant passion, the display of which, under
various circumstances, formed the strength of the comedy. Among the
writers of that age, Jonson alone perhaps felt all the impropriety
arising from frequent and violent change of scene. Yet Jonson himself,
who disapproved of Shakspeare’s practice in that particular, was not
wholly free from it, as Dryden has remarked with some appearance of
triumph. Pope has touched on his genius in respect to dramatic poetry.
He says,—“That when Jonson got possession of the stage, he brought
critical learning into vogue; and this was not done without difficulty,
which appears from those frequent lessons, and indeed almost
declamations, which he was forced to prefix to his first plays, and put
into the mouths of his actors the grex, chorus, &c., to remove the
prejudices and reform the judgment of his hearers. Till then the English
authors had no thoughts of writing upon the model of the ancients; their
tragedies were only histories in dialogue, and their comedies followed
the thread of any novel as they found it, no less implicitly than if it
had been true history.” In fact, this author’s object was to found a
reputation on understanding, and submitting to the discipline of the
ancient stage; but his success fell short of his just expectations, and
he growls on every occasion against the rude taste of an age which
preferred to his laboured and well-concocted scenes, the more glowing,
wild, and irregular effusions of his unlearned contemporaries. Beyond
this there appears nothing to confirm the eagerly propagated opinion of
his pride and malignity, at least in the earlier part of his life. At
that time he contributed an encomium to almost every play or poem that
appeared, from Shakspeare down to the translator of Du Bartas. His
antagonist, Decker, seems to hint at a personal failing, seldom allied
to malignity, when, in the “Satiromastix,” Sir Vaughan says to Horace,
that is, Jonson, “I have some cousin-german at court shall beget you the
reversion of the master of the king’s revels, or else to be his _Lord of
Misrule_ now at Christmas.” We have already quoted Drummond to the
purport, that “drink was one of the elements in which he lived;” which
accounts but too well for the poverty of his latter days, in spite of
royal and noble munificence. In reference to this unfortunate
propensity, the following amusing story is told:—Camden had recommended
him to Sir Walter Raleigh, who trusted him with the care and education
of his eldest son Walter, a gay spark, who could not brook Ben’s
rigorous treatment; but perceiving one foible in his disposition, made
use of that to throw off the yoke of his government. This was an unlucky
habit Ben had contracted, through his love of jovial company, of being
overtaken with liquor, which Sir Walter did of all vices most abominate,
and hath most exclaimed against. One day, when Ben had taken a plentiful
dose, and was fallen into a sound sleep, young Raleigh got a great
basket, and a couple of men, who laid Ben in it, and then with a pole
carried him between their shoulders to Sir Walter, telling him their
young master had sent home his tutor.
[Illustration:
_Engraved by J. Posselwhite._
CANOVA.
_From a Picture by_
Sir Thomas Lawrence,
_in the possession of the Abate Canova at Rome_.
Under the Superintendance of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge.
_London, Published by Charles Knight, Ludgate Street, & Pall Mall
East._
]
[Illustration]
CANOVA.
About the middle of the last century the art of Sculpture, which had
been long on the decline, may be said to have reached the lowest point
to which it has sunk since the revival of the arts; for, although the
seventeenth century was the great æra of bad taste, the genius which was
often apparent in the mannered productions of that time, no longer
survived in those of the imitators who succeeded. The works of Bernini
in Italy, and of Puget in France, both men of extraordinary talent but
most mistaken principles, were still regarded as types of excellence.
Their fame still produced a host of followers, who, with perhaps the
single exception of Duquesnoy, called Fiammingo, naturally aimed at the
extravagances and peculiarities of their models; and the consequence
was, a constantly increasing deviation from nature, and a total
misconception of the style and limits of the art. The works which were
produced in Rome about the period alluded to, thus fluctuated between
manner and insipidity; till the art had relapsed into a state of such
lethargic mediocrity, that even sculptors of note, such as Cavaceppi,
Pacetti, and Albacini, were content to occupy themselves in restoring
and mending antique statues. But the germs of a better taste, and a more
rational imitation, were already expanding. If the mania for collecting
antique statues had the temporary effect of paralysing invention in the
artist, and diverting the means of patronage, a gradual appreciation of
the principles of ancient art was, nevertheless, the result; while the
illustration and description of museums, and the works of Winkelmann,
all tended to awaken the attention of the connoisseur to the amazing
difference between the ill-advised caprices of the Bernini school and
the sagacious simplicity of the ancients.
These circumstances concurred ultimately to work a change and an
improvement of taste among the artists themselves, and thus prepared a
better æra of sculpture. The partiality of the Italians may be excused,
when they attribute the reformation of the art to the single efforts of
Canova, although the designs of Flaxman, composed about the same time
that the Italian artist was beginning his career, exhibit a more decided
feeling for the long-lost purity of the antique, and a more thorough
comprehension of the style and language of sculpture, than we find in
the works of his continental contemporaries. But it is time to give a
more particular account of the subject of this memoir.
Antonio Canova was born A.D. 1757, at Possagno, a small town in the
province of Treviso. His father, Pietro Canova, was a stonemason and
builder; and the first occupation of the future sculptor taught him to
use the chisel with dexterity. At the age of fourteen, he was introduced
to the notice of Giovanni Faliero, a Venetian senator, who used annually
to pass the autumn near Possagno. By the kind assistance of this
nobleman, the young Canova was placed with one Torretti, a sculptor who
had studied in Venice, and who resided in a neighbouring town. On the
return of this artist to Venice, Canova accompanied him. A year
afterwards however Torretti died, and the young sculptor, unwilling to
continue with Ferrari, his master’s nephew and heir, established himself
in a _studio_ of his own. While with Ferrari, he produced his first
work, a pair of baskets of fruit and flowers, done for the noble
Faliero. They are still to be seen in the stair-case of the Farsetti
palace, in Venice, more generally known as the Albergo della Gran
Bretagna. The same patron next employed him on two statues of Orpheus
and Eurydice, preserved in the villa of Pradazzi, near Possagno. After
one or two other less important performances, he executed his Dædalus
and Icarus, for the Procurator Pisani. In all these works he aimed at a
close imitation of individual nature, and this was carried so far in the
Dædalus, that, when it was afterwards shown in Rome, the sculptor was
hardly believed when he asserted that it was not moulded from a living
model.
The imitation of the softness, surface, and accidents of skin was an
early excellence and a lasting peculiarity of Canova; and however he may
have been smitten with the antique statues in Rome, it is certain that,
while in Venice, where he remained till the age of twenty-two, he paid
little attention to the specimens of ancient art in the Farsetti
Gallery. It is probable that the prejudice against the antique, which
had prevailed ever since Bernini’s time, was hardly yet effaced in
Venice; and if Canova’s admiration of the ancients increased in Rome, it
was undoubtedly greatly owing to the opinion and examples of those among
whom he had the good fortune to be first thrown.
In 1779, Girolamo Zulian being appointed ambassador of the Republic at
Rome, Faliero recommended Canova to his notice. The young sculptor had
already determined to visit the metropolis of the arts, and soon
followed the ambassador thither. The course of study which he adopted,
founded on the comparison of nature with the best specimens of art,
showed that he was earnest to improve; and his new patron Zulian, who
had introduced him to the distinguished amateurs and artists residing in
Rome, recommended him to send for a cast of his Dædalus and Icarus, in
order to show them what he had done, and profit by their advice. He did
so, and the day on which that group was submitted to the judgment of the
connoisseurs was a memorable one for Canova. His work by no means
excited unqualified approbation. It was, indeed, so different from the
style which was then prevalent, that his judges remained silent, till
the generous Gavin Hamilton openly declared, that it was a simple
imitation of nature, which showed that the artist had nothing to
unlearn; at the same time reminding him, that although the greatest
artists had always begun thus, they had subsequently refined their taste
by comparison and selection, and their execution by an ampler and larger
treatment; all which, aiming at the grandest impressions of nature, but
by no means departing from nature, approaches what is called the divine
and ideal in art. This opinion, from so good a judge as Hamilton,
delighted Zulian, who asked “what was to be done with the young man?”
“Give him a block of marble,” said Hamilton, “and let him follow his own
feeling.” From this hour the fate of the young artist was decided:
Zulian furnished him with a _studio_ and materials, and he began his
career in Rome.
Canova always spoke with gratitude of Gavin Hamilton, and acknowledged
that he owed to him every sound principle of art. The vast knowledge of
the antique which the Scotch artist possessed, gave more than common
weight and value to his advice respecting its imitation. Canova’s first
work in Rome, was an Apollo crowning himself. The sculptor himself was
not satisfied with it, and felt all the difficulty of uniting a purer
and broader style with a sufficient attention to the details of nature.
His engagements soon after recalled him to Venice, to complete an
unfinished work, the statue of the Marquis Poleni, placed in the Prato
della Valle, at Padua. It was probably hurried, that he might get back
sooner to Rome.
On his return to Rome, he produced his celebrated group of Theseus
sitting on the slain Minotaur. The moment chosen was recommended by
Hamilton, who observed, that it was generally safer for young artists
not to aim at too much action in their subjects. In this composition
Canova endeavoured to infuse still more of the style of the antique, and
he succeeded so well, that the exhibition of it may be considered an
epoch in the art. Quatremère de Quincy (an eminent French sculptor)
spoke of it in these words in 1804:—“This group struck foreigners even
more than the Romans, who were still attached to their accustomed
manner. Nevertheless, Canova, from that time, was considered the
sculptor who was destined to restore good taste, and to reduce the art
to its grand principles.” The fame which this work gained for its author
has been allowed, on all hands, to have been justly awarded; and, after
the efforts of the artist to fix his style and define the mode of
imitation which he believed to be the best, it may be supposed that the
praises he received would have confirmed him in the principles he had
formed to himself, and encouraged him to carry them farther. None of his
Italian biographers, however, have taken sufficient notice of the fact,
that he never followed up the style which is observable in this group.
His subsequent works were undoubtedly more refined in execution and more
anatomically studied; but it is quite certain that he never approached
the breadth of the antique so much in any later works. Hence it would
appear that, in this effort, he was in some degree doing violence to his
real feelings; and having once established his reputation, he was more
likely afterwards to exercise his own unbiassed taste. It was, indeed,
some time before he was occupied on a subject which afforded a display
of the figure.
His next work was the monument of Ganganelli (Clement XIV.), placed in
the Church de’ Santi Apostoli at Rome; in this he was again fortunate.
Its originality and simplicity, for such was the character of the
design, compared with the extravagant compositions of preceding artists,
gave very general satisfaction; but the advocates of the taste of a
former age did not remain silent. Pompeo Battoni, the most celebrated
Italian painter of his day, having condescended to accompany Hamilton to
see the model of the monument while it was in the clay, observed, in
Canova’s hearing, that the young artist had talent, but that it was a
pity he had chosen a bad road, and that it would be better to retrace
his steps while there was time. Hamilton, in consoling Canova
afterwards, reminded him, that it was the style of Pietro da Cortona,
Carlo Maratti, and Bernini, which Battoni considered synonymous with
excellence; and it was the departure from this, in search of the purer
style of sculpture, which he called “the bad road.” The fastidious
Milizia, on the other hand, gave this work unqualified approbation.
The monument of Rezzonico (Clement XIII.), which was the next subject
the sculptor was invited to treat, was begun in 1787, and only placed in
St. Peter’s in 1795. While engaged on this, and the monument of
Ganganelli, other works of less extent were from time to time finished.
Among these were a group of Cupid and Psyche, a group of Venus and
Adonis, which, however, was not executed in marble, and a second
composition of Cupid and Psyche, the one in which Psyche is recumbent.
These were the works which first procured for their author, among his
Italian admirers, the reputation and title of the sculptor of the
Graces; and it was in these that a certain effeminacy of style—at least
what would be so called by less indulgent critics—seemed to supersede
the simplicity, and almost severity, which he had appeared to aim at in
the Theseus and Minotaur. To the same period belong most of the bassi
relievi of Canova. These were composed and executed when his imagination
was warmed by the study of the ancient poets; and although wrought in
the intervals of greater occupations, there can be no doubt that they
received his mature attention, and exhibited the free expression of his
own taste. Of all the works of the artist, these bassi relievi have,
perhaps, been most universally and deservedly condemned; but, defective
as they are, they are still purer in the forms and drapery than the
works of his predecessors.
The monument of Rezzonico completely established Canova’s reputation;
the expression and attitude of the kneeling Pope, and the novelty and
happy execution of the lions, excited the utmost admiration. The figure
of the Genius is again an instance of a total dereliction of the style
of the antique, for a soft and pulpy fleshiness without sufficient
characteristic marking; but even this was found to be new and agreeable,
and the drapery of the figure of Religion was almost the only part of
the work which was criticised. On revisiting Venice, after an illness
brought on by severe application, the Venetian government commissioned
him to execute a monument for the Procurator Angelo Emo, which was
afterwards placed in the arsenal. He returned to Rome to execute this
work; but first revisited his native village, where he was surprised,
and somewhat disconcerted, at finding a fête prepared for his welcome. A
deputation of the inhabitants lined the roads to receive him; the
streets were strewed with laurel; the bells of the campanile, and the
_mortaletti_, usually fired on festivals, saluted him as he entered; and
a band of music accompanied him to his mother’s house. The enthusiasm of
his countrymen went so far, that a statue was erected to him even in
early life, and placed in the Prato della Valle, at Padua.