Angelo Politian, an Italian, was one of the most polished writers of the
fifteenth century. Baillet has placed him amongst his celebrated
children; for he was a writer at twelve years of age. The Muses indeed
cherished him in his cradle, and the Graces hung round it their wreaths.
When he became professor of the Greek language, such were the charms of
his lectures, that Chalcondylas, a native of Greece, saw himself
abandoned by his pupils, who resorted to the delightful disquisitions of
the elegant Politian. Critics of various nations have acknowledged that
his poetical versions have frequently excelled the originals. This happy
genius was lodged in a most unhappy form; nor were his morals untainted:
it is only in his literary compositions that he appears perfect.
As a specimen of his Epistles, here is one, which serves as prefatory
and dedicatory. The letter is replete with literature, though void of
pedantry; a barren subject is embellished by its happy turns. Perhaps no
author has more playfully defended himself from the incertitude of
criticism and the fastidiousness of critics.