Of Priam made, but answer harsh received.
'Fool! speak'st of ransom? Name it not to me.
For till my friend his miserable fate
Accomplish'd, I was somewhat giv'n to spare,
And num'rous; whom I seized alive, I sold;
But now, of all the Trojans whom the Gods
Deliver to me, none shall death escape,
'Specially of the house of Priam, none.
Die, therefore, even thou, my friend! What mean
Thy tears, unreasonably shed, and vain?
Died not Patroclus, braver far than thou?
And look on me--see'st not to what an height
My stature tow'rs, and what a bulk I boast?
A king begat me, and a Goddess bore.
What then! A death by violence awaits
Me also, and at morn, or eve, or noon
I perish, whensoe'er the destin'd spear
Shall reach me, or the arrow from the nerve.'
"He ceased, and where the suppliant kneel, he died.
Quitting the spear, with both hands spread abroad
He sat; but swift Achilles with his sword
'Twixt neck and key-bone smote him, and his blade
Of double edge sank all into the wound.
He prone extended on the champion lay,
Bedewing with his sable blood the glebe,
'Till, by the foot, Achilles cast him far
Into the stream, and as he floated down,
Thus in wing'd accents, glorying exclaim'd.
'Lie there, and feed the fishes, which shall lick
Thy blood secure. Thy mother ne'er shall place
Thee on thy bier, nor on thy body weep,
But swift Scamander on his giddy tide
Shall bear thee to the bosom of the sea.
There, many a fish shall through the crystal flood
Ascending to the rippled surface, find
Lycaon's pamper'd flesh delicious fare.
Die Trojans! till we reach your city, you
Fleeing, and slaughtering, I. This pleasant stream
Of dimpling silver, which ye worship oft
With victim bulls, and sate with living steeds
His rapid whirlpools, shall avail you nought,
But ye shall die, die terribly till all
Shall have requited me with just amends
For my Patroclus, and for other Greeks
Slain at the ships, while I declined the war.'
"He ended, at whose words still more incensed
Scamander means devised, thenceforth, to check
Achilles, and avert the doom of Troy.
Meantime the son of Peleus, his huge spear
Grasping, assail'd Asteropæus, son
Of Pelegon, on fire to take his life.
Fair Periboea, daughter eldest-born
Of Acessamenus, his father bore
To broad-stream'd Axius, who had clasp'd the nymph
In his embrace. On him Achilles sprang.
He, newly risen from the river, stood
Arm'd with two lances opposite, for him
Xanthus embolden'd, at the deaths incensed
Of many a youth whom, mercy none vouchsafed,
Achilles had in all his current slain.
And now, small distance interposed, they faced
Each other, when Achilles thus began.
'Who art and whence, who dar'st encounter me?
Hapless, the sires whose sons my force defy.'
"To whom the noble son of Pelegon,
Pelides, mighty chief. 'Why hast thou ask'd
My derivation? From the land I come
Of mellow-soil'd Pæonia, far remote,
Chief-leader of Pæonia's host spear-arm'd;
This day hath also the eleventh ris'n
Since I at Troy arriv'd. For my descent,
It is from Axius' river, wide-diffused,
From Axius, fairest stream that waters earth,
Sire of bold Pelegon, whom men report
My sire. Let this suffice. Now fight, Achilles!'
"So spake he threat'ning, and Achilles rais'd
Dauntless the Pelian ash. At once two spears
The hero bold, Asteropæus threw,
With both hands apt for battle. One his shield
Struck but pierced not, impeded by the gold,
Gift of a God; the other as it flew
Grazed his right elbow; sprang the sable blood;
But, overflying him, the spear in earth
Stood planted deep, still hung'ring for the prey.
Then, full at the Pæonian Peleus' son
Hurl'd forth his weapon with unsparing force,
But vain; he struck the sloping river-bank,
And mid-length deep stood plunged the ashen beam.
Then, with his faulchion drawn, Achilles flew
To smite him; he in vain, meantime, essay'd
To pluck the rooted spear forth from the bank;
Thrice with full force he shook the beam, and thrice,
Although reluctant, left it; at his fourth
Last effort, bending it, he sought to break
The ashen spear-beam of Æacides,
But perish'd by his keen-edg'd faulchion first;
For on the belly, at his navel's side,
He smote him; to the ground effused fell all
His bowels, Death's dim shadows veil'd his eyes,
Achilles ardent on his bosom fix'd
His foot, despoil'd him, and exulting cried.
'Lie there; though river-sprung thou find'st it hard
To cope with sons of Jove omnipotent.
Thou said'st, a mighty river is my sire--
But my descent from mightier Jove I boast;
My father, whom the myrmidons obey,
Is son of Æacus, and he, of Jove.
As Jove all streams excels that seek the sea,
So, Jove's descendants nobler are than theirs.
Behold a River at thy side--Let Him
Afford thee, if he can, some succour--No,
He may not fight against Saturnian Jove.
Therefore, not kingly Achelous,
Nor yet the strength of Ocean's vast profound,
Although from him all rivers and all seas,
All fountains, and all wells proceed, may boast
Comparison with Jove, but even He
Astonish'd trembles at his fiery bolt,
And his dread thunders rattling in the sky."
On opening the Odyssey, we present the reader with the interview of
Ulysses and his mother in the Shades, and the description of Tyro's
amour with Neptune.--Odyss. B. XI. p. 254.
"She said; I ardent wish'd to clasp the shade
Of my departed mother; thrice I sprang
Toward her, by desire impetuous urged,
And thrice she flitted from between my arms,
Light as a passing shadow or a dream.
Then, pierced by keener grief, in accents wing'd
With filial earnestness, I thus replied:--
'My mother, why elud'st thou my attempt
To clasp thee, that ev'n here, in Pluto's realm,
We might to full satiety indulge
Our grief, enfolded in each other's arms?
Hath Proserpine, alas! only dispatch'd
A shadow to me, to augment my woe?'
"Then, instant, thus the venerable form.
'Ah, son! thou most afflicted of mankind!
On thee, Jove's daughter, Proserpine, obtrudes
No airy semblance vain; but such the state
And nature is of mortals once deceased.
For they nor muscle have, nor flesh, nor bone;
All those, (the spirit from the body once
Divorced) the violence of fire consumes,
And, like a dream, the soul flies swift away.
But haste thou back to light, and, taught thyself
These sacred truths, hereafter teach thy spouse.'
"Thus mutual we conferr'd. Then, thither came,
Encouraged forth by royal Proserpine,
Shades female num'rous, all who consorts, erst,
Or daughters were of mighty chiefs renown'd.
About the sable blood frequent they swarm'd,
But I consid'ring sat, how I might each
Interrogate, and thus resolv'd. My sword
Forth drawing from beside my sturdy thigh,
Firm I prohibited the ghosts to drink
The blood together; they successive came;
Each told her own distress; I question'd all.
"There, first, the high-born Tyro I beheld;
She claim'd Salmoneus as her sire, and wife
Was once of Cretheus, son of Æolus,
Enamour'd of Enipeus, stream divine.
Loveliest of all that water earth, beside
His limpid current she was wont to stray,
When Ocean's God (Enipeus' form assumed)
Within the eddy-whirling river's mouth
Embraced her; there, while the o'er-arching flood,
Uplifted mountainous, conceal'd the God
And his fair human bride, her virgin zone
He loos'd, and o'er her eyes sweet sleep diffused.
His am'rous purpose satisfied, he grasp'd
Her hand, affectionate, and thus he said.
'Rejoice in this, my love, and when the year
Shall tend to consummation of its course,
Thou shalt produce illustrious twins, for love
Immortal never is unfruitful love.
Rear them with all a mother's care; meantime,
Hence to thy home. Be silent. Name it not,
For I am Neptune, shaker of the shores.'
"So saying, he plunged into the billowy deep.
She, pregnant grown, Pelias and Neleus bore,
Both valiant ministers of mighty Jove."
The visit of Hermes to Calypso and her abode, are thus
described.--Odyss. B. V. p. 110.
"He ended, nor the Argicide refused,
Messenger of the skies; his sandals fair,
Ambrosial, golden, to his feet he bound,
Which o'er the moist wave, rapid as the wind,
Bear him, and o'er th' illimitable earth,
Then took his rod, with which, at will, all eyes
He closes soft, or opes them wide again.
So arm'd, forth flew the valiant Argicide.
Alighting on Pieria, down he stoop'd
To ocean, and the billows lightly skimm'd
In form a sea-mew, such as in the bays
Tremendous of the barren deep her food
Seeking dips oft in brine her ample wing.
In such disguise, o'er many a wave he rode,
But reaching, now, that isle remote, forsook
The azure deep, and at the spacious grot
Where dwelt the amber-tressed nymph arrived,
Found her within. A fire on all the hearth
Blazed sprightly, and, afar-diffused, the scent
Of smooth split cedar and of cyprus-wood.
Odorous, burning, cheer'd the happy isle.
She, busied at the loom, and plying fast
Her golden shuttle, with melodious voice
Sat chaunting there; a grove on either side,
Alder and poplar, and the redolent branch
Wide-spread of cypress, skirted dark the cave.
There many a bird of broadest pinion built
Secure her nest, the owl, the kite, and daw
Long-tongued, frequenter of the sandy shores.
A garden-vine luxuriant on all sides
Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung
Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph
Their sinuous course pursuing side by side,
Stray'd all around, and ev'ry where appear'd
Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o'er
With violets; it was a scene to fill
A God from heav'n with wonder and delight.
Hermes, heav'n's messenger, admiring stood
That sight, and having all survey'd, at length
Enter'd the grotto; nor the lovely nymph
Him knew not soon as seen, for not unknown
Each to the other the immortals are,
How far soever sep'rate their abodes.
Yet found he not within the mighty chief
Ulysses; he sat weeping on the shore,
Forlorn, for there his custom was with groans
Of sad regret t' afflict his breaking heart,
Looking continual o'er the barren deep.
Then thus Calypso, nymph divine, the God
Question'd from her resplendent throne august."
With the subsequent passage of Ulysses' stratagem in the cave of
Polypheme, we shall dismiss the Odyssey, and add a few
observations.--Odyss. B. IX. p. 207.
"'Cyclops! thou hast my noble name inquired,
Which I will tell thee. Give me, in return,
The promised boon, some hospitable pledge.
My name is[25] Outis; Outis I am call'd,
At home, abroad, wherever I am known.'
"So I; to whom he, savage, thus replied:
'Outis, when I have eaten all his friends,
Shall be my last regale. Be that thy boon.'
"He spake, and, downward sway'd, fell resupine,
With his huge neck aslant. All conqu'ring sleep
Soon seized him. From his gullet gush'd the wine
With human morsels mingled, many a blast
Sonorous issuing from his glutted maw.
Then, thrusting far the spike of olive-wood
Into the embers glowing on the hearth,
I heated it, and cheer'd my friends the while,
Lest any should, through fear, shrink from his part.
But when that stake of olive-wood, though green,
Should soon have flamed, for it was glowing hot,
I bore it to his side. Then all my aids
Around me gather'd, and the Gods infused
Heroic fortitude into our hearts.
They, seizing the hot stake rasp'd to a point,
Bored his eye with it, and myself, advanced
To a superior stand, twirl'd it about.
As when a shipwright with his wimble bores
Tough oaken timber, placed on either side
Below, his fellow artists strain the thong
Alternate, and the restless iron spins;
So grasping hard the stake pointed with fire,
We twirl'd it in his eye; the bubbling blood
Boil'd round about the brand; his pupil sent
A scalding vapour forth that singed his brow,
And all his eye-roots crackled in the flame.
As when the smith an hatchet or large axe
Temp'ring with skill, plunges the hissing blade
Deep in cold water, (whence the strength of steel,)
So hiss'd his eye around the olive-wood.
The howling monster with his outcry fill'd
The hollow rock, and I, with all my aids,
Fled terrified. He, plucking forth the spike
From his burnt socket, mad with anguish, cast
The implement, all bloody, far away.
Then, bellowing, he sounded forth the name
Of ev'ry Cyclops dwelling in the caves
Around him, on the wind-swept mountain tops;
They, at his cry flocking from ev'ry part,
Circled his den, and of his ail enquired.
'What grievous hurt hath caused thee, Polypheme!
Thus yelling, to alarm the peaceful ear
Of Night, and break our slumbers? Fear'st thou lest
Some mortal man drive off thy flocks? or fear'st
Thyself to die by cunning or by force?'
"Them answer'd, then, Polypheme from his cave,
'Oh, friends! I die, and Outis gives the blow.'
"To whom with accents wing'd his friends without.
'If no[26] man harm thee, but thou art alone,
And sickness feel'st, it is the stroke of Jove,
And thou must bear it; yet invoke for aid
Thy father Neptune, sov'reign of the floods.'
"So saying, they went, and in my heart I laugh'd;
That by the fiction only of a name,
Slight stratagem! I had deceived them all."
If translation be chiefly written for those who cannot read the
original, it is, we apprehend, self-evident, that Polypheme's
charging _Outis_ with an attempt on his life, and the departure of
his associates in consequence of this information, must remain a
problem to those who do not understand the Greek. To them, _Outis_
is the name of somebody, and why that should pacify the giants who
came to assist the Cyclops, appears unsatisfactory, if not
inconceivable. Clarke, when he adduces the passage from the Acta
Eruditorum, which censures Gyphanius for having translated _Outis_,
_nemo_, would have done well if he had adduced other reasons in
support of his opinion (if indeed he coincided in opinion with that
passage) than grammatical futilities. The separation of ou-de can
be no reason why the brethren of Polypheme should depart; his
destruction remained a call equally urgent for their assistance,
whether it was carrying on by fraud or force. In Homer, whenever a
man is asked after his name, he replies, they call me so, or my
mother has given me such a name; and this is always in the
accusative. Ulysses, to deceive Polypheme, consults probability,
and the customary reply to a question after a name, and therefore
calls him _Outin_, not _Outina_, to escape the suspicion of the
Cyclops; but well surmised, or Homer at least for him, that his
enemy would pronounce his name in the nominative, if he should be
asked who was his destroyer. If the deception be puerile, it is to
be considered, that no sense can be obtained without it; and on
whom is it practised? on something worse than a solitary barbarian
not trained up in social craft; it is exerted on a monster of mixed
nature, unacquainted with other ideas than the immediate ones of
self-preservation, brutal force, and greedy appetite. The whole
fiction is indeed one of those which Longinus calls dreams, but the
dreams of Jupiter; and the improbabilities of the component parts
vanish in the pathos, and the restless anguish of curiosity which
overwhelms us in the conduct of the tale.[27]
That the translation of the word Krataus, in the celebrated passage
of Sisyphus, should have met with indulgence from those who insist
on the preservation of _Outis_, may not be matter of surprise,
because, as Mr. C. observes, 'it is now perhaps impossible to
ascertain with precision what Homer meant by the word krataus,
which he only uses here and in the next book, where it is the name
of Scylla's dam.' We give it up too, though not willingly, because
the ancients appear to have been as ignorant of the being so called
as ourselves; some of whom, by cutting the word into two, attempted
to make it rather an attribute of the stone itself, than the effect
of some external power: but from _him_, we are more surprised at
the observation on the word anaidês,' in the same passage, as
'also of very doubtful explication.' Is it not the constant
practice of Homer to diffuse energy by animating the inanimate? has
he forgotten the maddening lances, the greedy arrows, the roaring
shores, the groaning earth, the winged words, the cruel brass, and
a thousand other metaphors from life? and if these occurred not to
his memory, the observation of _Aristotle_ on the passage in
question, as quoted by Clarke, might have removed all doubts about
the true sense of the word anaidês, when applied to a rock.
Mr. Cowper, in his interpretation of many words and expressions of
dubious explication, has generally chosen that sense which seemed
most to contribute to the perspicuity of the passage: thus in
Iliad, iv. v. 306, seq. when Nestor instructs his troops before the
battle, he has, in our opinion, adopted the best and only sense,
though rejected by Clarke, with more subtilty than reason. Thus he
has substituted the word 'monster' for the epithet amaimaketos,
Iliad, xvi. 329, with sufficient propriety, whether that word be
expressive of enormity of dimension, or untameableness of
disposition; in both which senses it occurs in Pindar.[28] We might
enlarge on the terms amêtrochitônas; tropai Êelioio; orsothyrê, and a
variety of others equally disputed or obscure; but as they will be
sufficiently recognized by the scholar, whilst the unlearned reader
is enabled to pass smoothly over them, we shall just observe, that
the interpretation of the proverbial passage in Odyss. viii. v.
351,
Deilai toi deilôn ge kai engyai engyaasthai
'Lame suitor, lame security,'
is the happiest instance of the superiority of plain sense over
learning merely intricate.
When, in Odyss. iv. v. 73, Telemachus describes the mansion of
Menelaus, Mr. C., with all the translators, renders Êlektron
'amber,' contrary to the explanation of Pliny, who defines electrum
to be gold, containing a fifth part of silver, and quotes the
Homeric passage.[29] Amber ornaments, we believe, are not mentioned
by Homer in the singular. Thus, in Odyss. xviii. 294-5, the golden
necklace presented by Eurymachus, is called Êlektroisin eermenon,
inlaid with amber drops.
Homer, Odyss. xi. v. 579, seq., places two vultures by the sides of
Tityus, who entered his entrails, and tore his liver by turns, and
adds, to enhance the terror of the image,
ho d' ouk apamyneto chersi,
'he had not hands to rescue him;' entranced, no doubt, or chained
to the ground. This Mr. C. translates--
"----Two vultures on his liver prey'd,
Scooping his entrails; nor suffic'd his hands
To fray them thence."----
Why not, if he had a hand for each vulture, unless we suppose him
chained or entranced?
Odyss. xix. 389, Ulysses removes from the light of the hearth into
the shade, lest the nurse, who had already discovered a striking
resemblance in his shape, voice, and limbs, to those of her lost
master, by handling his thigh, and seeing all at once the scar on
it, should be convinced that he could be no other, and betray him.
This Mr. C. translates thus: p. 453.
"Ulysses (for beside the hearth he sat)
Turn'd quick _his face_ into the shade, alarm'd
Lest, handling him, she should at once
remark His scar, and all his stratagem unveil."
He who, unacquainted with the rest, should read these lines, would
either conclude that the nurse had not looked at the face before,
or that the scar was in the face. Minerva had taken care that
Ulysses should not be discovered by his countenance, making
identity vanish into mere resemblance; but as the scar in such a
place, without a miracle, could belong only to Ulysses, he
attempted to elude the farther guesses of the nurse, by having his
thigh washed in the dark.
Odyss. viii. 400, Euryalus, eager to appease Ulysses for the
affront offered to him, addressed Alcinous his chief--
Ton d' aut' Euryalos apameibeto, phônêsen te
Alkinoe kreioi.----
But Mr. C. turns Alcinous into his father;
"When thus Euryalus his _sire_ addressed."
The sons of Alcinous were Laodamus, Halius, and Clytoneus.
When Mr. C., Odyss. xi. v. 317, seq. tells us that Alcmena bore
Megara to Creon, he says surely what Homer has not said,[30] who
mentions Megara as the daughter of Creon, and one of the women
Ulysses _saw_, and not as the sister and wife of Hercules together.
But enough. Of similar observations, perhaps more might be added.
These at least will show the attention with which we have compared
copy and original. If, among the emendations of a future edition,
they be not passed over as cavils, or treated as nugatory, our
purpose will be fully answered. It would be difficult to determine
in which of the two poems Mr. C. has succeeded best. We however
incline to decide in favour of the Odyssey. The prevalent mixture
of social intercourse, domestic manners, and rural images, with the
scenes of terror and sublimity, as upon the whole it renders that
poem more pleasing, though not more interesting than the Iliad, and
what we would call a poem for all hours, appears to us to have been
more adapted to the mild tones of our translator, than the
uninterrupted sublimity and pathos of the Iliad. In parting from
both, we congratulate the author on the production, and the public
on the acquisition of so much excellence. We contemplate the whole
in its mass as an immense fabric reared for some noble purpose: on
too near an approach, not perhaps of equal beauty, with parts left
rough that might have been smoothed to neatness, and others only
neat that might have been polished into elegance; blemishes that
vanish at a proper distance: by uniform grandeur of style, the
whole strikes with awe and delight, attracts now the eyes of the
race who saw it rise, and, secure of duration from the firmness of
its base and the solidity of its materials, will command the
admiration of posterity.
CHAPTER VI.
Fuseli's proficiency in Italian History, Literature, and the Fine
Arts, exemplified in his Criticism on Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici.
The following review of Roscoe's Lorenzo de' Medici, will shew Fuseli's
critical knowledge of Italian history.
ROSCOE'S LORENZO DE MEDICI.
"The close of the fifteenth, (says Mr. R. Pref. p. i.) and the
beginning of the sixteenth century, comprehend one of those periods
of history which are entitled to our minutest study and enquiry.
Almost all the great events from which Europe derives its present
advantages are to be traced up to those times. The invention of the
art of printing, the discovery of the great Western Continent, the
schism from the Church of Rome, which ended in the reformation of
many of its abuses, and established the precedent of reform; the
degree of perfection attained in the fine arts, compose such an
illustrious assemblage of luminous points, as cannot fail of
attracting for ages the curiosity and admiration of mankind.
"A complete history of these times has long been a great
desideratum in literature; and whoever considers the magnitude of
the undertaking will not think it likely to be soon supplied.
Indeed, from the nature of the transactions that then took place,
they can only be exhibited in detail, and under separate and
particular views. That the author of the following pages has
frequently turned his eye towards this interesting period is true;
but he has felt himself rather dazzled than informed by the survey.
A mind of greater compass, and the possession of uninterrupted
leisure, would be requisite to comprehend, to select, and to
arrange the immense varieties of circumstances which a full
narrative of those times would involve, when almost every city of
Italy was a new Athens, and that favoured country could boast its
historians, its poets, its orators, and its artists, who may
contend with the great names of antiquity for the palm of mental
excellence: when Venice, Milan, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Ferrara,
and several other places, vied with each other, not in arms, but in
science and in genius, and the splendour of a court was estimated
by the number and talents of learned men, who illustrated it by
their presence, each of whose lives and productions would, in a
work of this nature, merit a full and separate discussion.
"From this full blaze of talents, the author has turned towards a
period when its first faint gleams afford a subject, if not more
interesting, at least more suitable to his powers; when, after a
night of unexpected darkness, Florence again saw the sun break
forth with a lustre more permanent, though perhaps not so bright.
The days of Dante, Boccaccio, and of Petrarch, were indeed past;
but under the auspices of the House of Medici, and particularly
through the ardour and example of Lorenzo, the empire of science
and taste was again restored."
Having thus, with great modesty, stated the motives for his choice
of subject, the author presents us with a rapid sketch of the
Medician family, the literary and political character of Lorenzo,
and his undeserved fate as statesman and writer in the succeeding
century: he then proceeds to a critical enumeration of the
narratives composed of his life, from the contemporary one of
Niccolo Valori to the recent volumes of Fabroni, the mass of whose
valuable documents, together with the communications of a learned
friend, admitted to the printed and manuscript treasure of the
Laurentian library, and the acquisition of a number of scarce
tracts, procured from the sales of the Crevenna and Pinelli books,
arranged and concentrated by indefatigable assiduity, he considers
as the basis on which he was enabled to erect his own system, and
to fill up the chasm that had hitherto separated from legitimate
history, the period elapsed between the last stage of decay and
final dissolution of the Byzantine empire by Mahommed II. and the
brilliant epoch that rose with the accession of Charles the Fifth
to the German throne.
The first chapter opens with Florence, its origin, its tempestuous
though not improsperous liberty during the political schism of its
citizens into the two factions of Ghibelines and Guelphs, or
Bianchi and Neri, subsiding at length under the levelling
preponderance of the Medicean family, whose annals our author
traces from the real or romantic date of Charlemagne to the
accession of Cosmo, emphatically decorated with the appellation of
_Pater Patriæ_, and the height of its commercial and political
influence.
'The authority,' observes our author, p. 13, 'which Cosmo and his
descendants exercised in Florence during the fifteenth century, was
of a very peculiar nature; and consisted rather in a tacit
influence on their part, and a voluntary acquiescence on that of
the people, than in any prescribed or definite compact between
them. The form of government was ostensibly a republic, and was
directed by a counsel of ten citizens, and a chief executive
officer, called the _Gonfaloniere_, or standard-bearer, who was
chosen every two months. Under this establishment, the citizens
imagined they enjoyed the full exercise of their liberties; but
such was the power of the Medici, that they generally either
assumed to themselves the first offices of the state, or nominated
such persons as they thought proper to those employments. In this,
however, they paid great respect to popular opinion. That
opposition of interests so generally apparent between the people
and their rulers, was, at this time, scarcely perceived at
Florence, where superior qualifications and industry were the
surest recommendations to public authority and favour. Convinced of
the benefits constantly received from this family, and satisfied
that they could, at any time, withdraw themselves from a connexion
that exacted no engagements, and required only a temporary
acquiescence, the Florentines considered the Medici as the fathers,
and not as the rulers of the republic. On the other hand, the
chiefs of this house, by appearing rather to decline than to court
the honours bestowed on them, and by a singular moderation of the
use of them when obtained, were careful to maintain the character
of simple citizens of Florence, and servants of the state. An
interchange of reciprocal good offices was the only tie by which
the Florentines and the Medici were bound; and, perhaps, the long
continuance of this connexion may be attributed to the very
circumstance, of its being in the power of either of the parties,
at any time, to have dissolved it.'
The temporary interruption of Cosmo's power by the successful
struggle of an opposite party, headed by families eclipsed in his
blaze, his exile, and his banishment to the Venetian state, tended
only, from the resignation and magnanimity of his conduct, to
rivet, at his recall, the voluntary chains of his
fellow-citizens;--and he continued the unrivalled arbiter of
Florence and it's dependencies, the primary restorer of Greek and
Latin literature, and the most enlightened patron of the arts, to
the advanced age of seventy-five, and the hour of his death,
gratified with the prospect of the continuation of family power,
from the character of his son Piero, and that of his two grandsons,
Lorenzo and Juliano. The ample and varied detail of this assemblage
of important subjects we leave, as preliminary, to the curiosity of
our readers, and hasten to the second chapter, and the appearance
of Lorenzo.
'Lorenzo de' Medici,' says, Mr. R., p. 69, 'was about sixteen years
of age when Cosmo died, and had at that time given striking
indications of extraordinary talents. From his earliest years he
had exhibited proofs of a retentive and vigorous mind, which was
cultivated not only by all the attention which his father's
infirmities would permit him to bestow, but by a frequent
intercourse with his venerable grandfather. He owed also great
obligations, in this respect, to his mother, Lucretia, who was one
of the most accomplished women of the age, and distinguished
herself not only as a patroness of learning, but by her own
writings. Of these some specimens yet remain, which are the more
entitled to approbation, as they were produced at a time when
poetry was at its lowest ebb in Italy. The disposition of Lorenzo,
which afterwards gave him a peculiar claim to the title of
_magnificent_, was apparent in his childhood. Having received as a
present a horse from Sicily, he sent the donor, in return, a gift
of much greater value, and on being reproved for his profuseness,
he remarked that there was nothing more glorious than to overcome
others in acts of generosity. Of his proficiency in classical
learning, and the different branches of that philosophy which was
then in repute, he has left indisputable proofs. Born to restore
the lustre of his native tongue, he had rendered himself
conspicuous by his poetical talents, before he arrived at manhood.
To these accomplishments he united a considerable share of strong,
natural penetration and good sense, which enabled him, amidst the
many difficulties that he was involved in, to act with a
promptitude and decision which surprised those who were witnesses
of his conduct; whilst the endowments which entitled him to
admiration and respect, were accompanied by others that
conciliated, in an eminent degree, the esteem and affections of his
fellow-citizens.
'In his person, Lorenzo was tall and athletic, and had more the
appearance of strength than of elegance. From his birth, he
laboured under some peculiar disadvantages--his sight was weak, his
voice harsh and unpleasing, and he was totally deprived of the
sense of smell. With all these defects his countenance was
dignified, and gave an idea of the magnanimity of his character;
and the effects of his eloquence were conspicuous on many important
occasions. In his youth, he was much addicted to active and
laborious exercises, to hawking, horsemanship, and country sports.
Though not born to support a military character, he gave sufficient
proofs of his courage, not only in public tournaments, which were
then not unfrequent in Italy, but also upon more trying occasions.
Such was the versatility of his talents, that it is difficult to
discover any department of business, or of amusement, of art, or of
science, to which they were not at some time applied; and in
whatever he undertook, he arrived at a proficiency which would seem
to have required the labour of a life much longer than that which
he was permitted to enjoy.
'The native energy and versatility of his character were
invigorated by a suitable education: to the notions of piety,
imbibed from Gentile d'Urbino, and perhaps from his mother, he
added the accomplishments of a scholar, under the tuition of
Landino, and received the elements of the Aristotelian and Platonic
philosophy from Argyropylus and Ficino; but that exquisite taste in
poetry, in music, and in every department of the fine arts, which
enabled him to contribute so powerfully towards their restoration,
was an endowment of nature, the want of which no education could
have supplied.'
Such were the qualifications with which Lorenzo entered on the
stage of public life, and which enabled him, with the political
experience he had acquired on his travels through the most powerful
states of Italy, and the connexions he had then formed, to defeat,
at his return, the conspiracy framed by Luca Pitti against his
father Piero, and probably to frustrate the war raised against
Florence by its exiles, without the loss of much blood or treasure.
Delivered by these successes from external and domestic strife, the
Medici were at leisure again to attend to their darling object, the
promotion of learning. Several literary characters are here
delineated; principally those of Cristoforo Landino, and Leo
Battista Alberti, the Crichton of Italy, of whose unlimited powers
the greatest was perhaps that, which he, if we believe Vasari,
possessed over his horse; and our author proceeds to the giostra,
or tournament, celebrated by Luca Pulci and Agnolo of Monte
Pulciano, in which Lorenzo and Juliano appear to have been the
principal actors, though the candidates were eighteen in number.
'The steed upon which Lorenzo made his first appearance,' says our
historian, p. 96, 'was presented to him by Ferdinand King of
Naples. That on which he relied in the combat, by Borso Marquis of
Ferrara. The Duke of Milan had furnished him with his suit of
armour. His motto was, _Le tems revient_; his device, the _fleurs
de lys_; the privilege of using the arms of France having shortly
before been conceded to the Medici by Louis XI., by a solemn act.
His first conflict was with Carlo Borromei; his next with Braccio
de' Medici, who attacked him with such strength and courage, that
if the stroke had taken place, Orlando himself, as the poet assures
us, could not have withstood the shock. Lorenzo took speedy
vengeance, but his spear breaking into a hundred pieces, his
adversary was preserved from total overthrow. He then assailed
Carlo de Forme, whose helmet he split, and whom he nearly unhorsed;
Lorenzo then changing his steed, made a violent attack upon
Benedetto Salutati, who had just couched his lance ready for the
combat.'
Some specimens of the two panegyrics, with the plan of that
composed by Politiano, are annexed, and translated with our
author's own felicity.
The philosophical amusements of the two brothers follow next, in a
pertinent descant on the _disputationes Camaldulenses_ of Landino;
and after these, Lorenzo is presented to us as a lover. The
materials are furnished by his own sonnets, and the comment he
composed on them, and, though the dead and the surviving beauties
he celebrates are left nameless, there is reason to suppose, that
they were Simonetta, the deceased mistress of his brother, and
Lucretia Donati.
'The sonnets of Lorenzo,' says Mr. R., p. 116, 'rise and fall
through every degree of the thermometer of love; he exults and he
despairs; he freezes and he burns; he sings of raptures too great
for mortal sense, and he applauds a severity of virtue that no
solicitations can move. From such contradictory testimony, what are
we to conclude? Lorenzo has himself presented us with the key that
unlocks this mystery. From the relation which he has before given,
we find that Lucretia was the mistress of the poet, and not of the
man. Lorenzo sought for an object to concentrate his ideas, to give
them strength, and effect, and he found in Lucretia a subject that
suited his purpose and deserved his praise. But having so far
realized his mistress, he has dressed and ornamented her according
to his own imagination. Every action of her person, every emotion
of her mind, is subject to his control. She smiles or she frowns;
she refuses or relents; she is absent or present; she intrudes upon
his solitude by day, or visits him in his nightly dreams, just as
his presiding fancy directs.
'In the midst of these delightful visions, Lorenzo was called upon
to attend to the dull realities of life. He had now attained his
twenty-first year, and his father conceived that it was time for
him to enter into the conjugal state. To this end, he had
negotiated a marriage between Lorenzo and Clarice, the daughter of
Giacopo Orsini, of the noble and powerful Roman family of that
name, which had so long contended for superiority with that of the
Colonna. Whether Lorenzo despaired of success in his youthful
passion, or whether he subdued his feelings at the voice of
paternal authority, is left to conjecture only. Certain, however,
it is, that in the month of December 1468, he was betrothed to a
person whom, it is probable, he had never seen, and the marriage
ceremony was performed on the 4th day of June, 1469.[31] That the
heart of Lorenzo had little share in this engagement, is marked by
a striking circumstance. In adverting to his marriage in his
Ricordi, he bluntly remarks, that he took this lady to wife; _or
rather_, says he, _she was given to me_, on the day
before-mentioned. Notwithstanding this apparent indifference, it
appears, from indisputable documents, that a real affection
subsisted between them; and there is reason to presume that Lorenzo
always treated her with particular respect and kindness. Their
nuptials were celebrated with great splendour. Two military
spectacles were exhibited, one of which represented a field battle
of horsemen, and the other the attack and storming of a fortified
citadel.'
Lorenzo's second journey to Milan, and the death of his father,
Piero, take up the remainder of this chapter.
The variety of the materials that compose the third chapter, which
opens with the political state of Italy at the time of Lorenzo's
succession to the direction of the republic, is too great, perhaps
the incidents too minute, and the transition from event to event
too rapid, to admit of extracts. The riches of the Medici, their
commercial concerns, and other sources of revenue--the character of
Giuliano de' Medici, that of Angelo Politiano--the league between
the Duke of Milan, the Venetians, and the Florentines--the
establishment of the academy of Pisa--an account of Lorenzo's Poem,
entitled _Altercatione_, with specimens and translations,
constitute the most prominent features of the chapter.
The fourth chapter, whether we consider the importance of the
events related, or the perspicuity and energy with which they are
developed and told, contains, in our opinion, the most interesting
period in the life of Lorenzo, the annals of Florence, and the
general history of that time. 'The conspiracy of the Pazzi,' says
our author, p. 176, was 'a transaction in which a pope, a cardinal,
an archbishop, and several other ecclesiastics, associated
themselves with a band of ruffians, to destroy two men who were an
honour to their age and country; and purposed to perpetrate their
crime at a season of hospitality, in the sanctuary of a Christian
church, and at the very moment of the elevation of the host, when
the audience bowed down before it, and the assassins were presumed
to be in the immediate presence of their God.'
Having traced the origin of the conspiracy to Rome, and the
ambition and inveterate enmity of Sixtus the Fourth, and his
nephew, Count Girolamo Riario, to Lorenzo, Mr. R. proceeds to their
Florentine accomplices, the family of the Pazzi, whom, though
allied by intermarriages to that of the Medici, envy, intolerance
of superiority, penury, and profligacy, had rendered their
irreconcilable enemies. The young Cardinal Riario our author
considers more as an instrument in the hands of his uncle Girolamo,
than as an accomplice in the scheme; and proceeds:
P. 180. 'This conspiracy, of which Sixtus and his nephew were the
real instigators, was first agitated at Rome, where the intercourse
between the Count Girolamo Riario and Francesco de' Pazzi, in
consequence of the office held by the latter, afforded them an
opportunity of communicating to each other their mutual jealousy of
the power of the Medici, and their desire of depriving them of
their influence in Florence; in which event it is highly probable
that the Pazzi were to have exercised the chief authority in the
city, under the patronage, if not under the avowed dominion, of the
papal see. The principal agent engaged in the undertaking was
Francesco Salviati, archbishop of Pisa, to which rank he had lately
been promoted by Sixtus, in opposition to the Medici, who had for
some time endeavoured to prevent him from exercising his episcopal
functions. If it be allowed that the unfavourable character given
of him by Politiano is exaggerated, it is generally agreed that his
qualities were the reverse of those which ought to have been the
recommendations to such high preferment. The other conspirators
were, Giacopo Salviati, brother of the archbishop; Giacopo Poggio,
one of the sons of the celebrated Poggio Bracciolini, and who, like
all the other sons of that eminent scholar, had obtained no small
share of literary reputation; Bernardo Bandini, a daring libertine,
rendered desperate by the consequences of his excesses; Giovan
Battista Montesicco, who had distinguished himself by his military
talents, as one of the _condottieri_ of the armies of the pope;
Antonio Maffei, a priest of Volterra; and Stephano da Bagnone, one
of the apostolic scribes, with several others of inferior note.
'In the arrangement of their plan, which appears to have been
concerted with great precaution and secrecy, the conspirators soon
discovered, that the dangers which they had to encounter were not
so likely to arise from the difficulty of the attempt, as from the
subsequent resentment of the Florentines, a great majority of whom
were strongly attached to the Medici. Hence it became necessary to
provide a military force, the assistance of which might be equally
requisite, whether the enterprise proved abortive or successful. By
the influence of the Pope, the King of Naples, who was then in
alliance with him, and on one of whose sons he had recently
bestowed a cardinal's hat, was also induced to countenance the
attempt.
'These preliminaries being adjusted, Girolamo wrote to his nephew,
Cardinal Riario, then at Pisa, ordering him to obey whatever
directions he might receive from the Archbishop. A body of two
thousand men were destined to approach by different routes towards
Florence, so as to be in readiness at the time appointed for
striking the blow.
'Shortly afterwards the Archbishop requested the presence of the
Cardinal at Florence, where he immediately repaired, and took up
his residence at a seat of the Pazzi, about a mile from the city.
It seems to have been the intention of the conspirators to have
effected their purpose at Fiesole, where Lorenzo then had his
country residence, to which they supposed he would invite the
Cardinal and his attendants. Nor were they deceived in this
conjecture, for Lorenzo prepared a magnificent entertainment on
this occasion; but the absence of Giuliano, on account of
indisposition, obliged the conspirators to postpone the attempt.
Disappointed in their hopes, another plan was now to be adopted;
and, on further deliberation, it was resolved, that the
assassination should take place on the succeeding Sunday, in the
Church of the Reparata, since called Santa Maria del Fiore, and
that the signal for execution should be the elevation of the host.
At the same moment, the Archbishop and others of the conspirators
were to seize upon the palace or residence of the magistrates,
whilst the office of Giacopo de Pazzi was to endeavour, by the cry
of liberty, to incite the citizens to revolt.
'The immediate assassination of Giuliano was committed to Francesco
de' Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini, and that of Lorenzo had been
entrusted to the sole hand of Montesicco. This office he had
willingly undertaken, whilst he understood it was to be executed in
a private dwelling, but he shrunk from the idea of polluting the
House of God with so heinous a crime. Two ecclesiastics were,
therefore, selected for the commission of a deed, from which the
soldier was deterred by conscientious motives. These were, Stefano
da Bagnone, the apostolic scribe, and Antonio Maffei.
'The young Cardinal having expressed a desire to attend divine
service in the church of the Reparata, on the ensuing Sunday, being
the 26th day of April, 1478, Lorenzo invited him and his suite to
his house in Florence. He accordingly came with a large retinue,
supporting the united characters of cardinal and apostolic legate,
and was received by Lorenzo with that splendour and hospitality
with which he was always accustomed to entertain men of high rank
and consequence. Giuliano did not appear, a circumstance that
alarmed the conspirators, whose arrangements would not admit of
longer delay. They soon, however, learnt that he intended to be
present at the church.--The service was already begun, and the
cardinal had taken his seat, when Francesco de' Pazzi and Bandini,
observing that Giuliano was not yet arrived, left the church and
went to his house, in order to insure and hasten his attendance.
Giuliano accompanied them, and as he walked between them, they
threw their arms round him with the familiarity of intimate
friends, but in fact to discover whether he had any armour under
his dress; possibly conjecturing from his long delay, that he had
suspected their purpose. At the same time, by their freedom and
jocularity, they endeavoured to obviate any apprehensions which he
might entertain from such a proceeding. The conspirators having
taken their stations near their intended victims, waited with
impatience for the appointed signal. The bell rang--the priest
raised the consecrated wafer--the people bowed before it,--and, at
the same instant, Bandini plunged a short dagger into the breast of
Giuliano.--On receiving the wound, he took a few hasty steps and
fell, when Francesco de' Pazzi rushed upon him with incredible
fury, and stabbed him in different parts of his body, continuing to
repeat his strokes even after he was apparently dead. Such was the
violence of his rage, that he wounded himself deeply in the thigh.
The priests who had undertaken the murder of Lorenzo were not
equally successful. An ill-directed blow from Maffei, which was
aimed at the throat, but took place behind the neck, rather roused
him to his defence than disabled him. He immediately threw off his
cloak, and holding it up as a shield in his left hand, with his
right he drew his sword and repelled his assailants. Perceiving
that their purpose was defeated, the two ecclesiastics, after
having wounded one of Lorenzo's attendants, who had interposed to
defend him, endeavoured to save themselves by flight. At the same
moment Bandini, with his dagger streaming with the blood of
Giuliano, rushed towards Lorenzo; but meeting in his way with
Francesco Nori, a person in the service of the Medici, and in whom
they placed great confidence, he stabbed him with a wound
instantaneously mortal. At the approach of Bandini, the friends of
Lorenzo encircled him and hurried him into the sacristy, where
Politiano and others closed the doors, which were of brass.
Apprehensions being entertained that the weapon which had wounded
him was poisoned, a young man attached to Lorenzo sucked the wound.
A general alarm and consternation took place in the church; and
such was the tumult which ensued, that it was at first believed by
the audience that the building was falling in; but no sooner was it
understood that Lorenzo was in danger, than several of the youth of
Florence formed themselves into a body, and receiving him into the
midst of them, conducted him to his house, making a circuitous turn
from the church, lest he should meet with the dead body of his
brother.'
Through the subsequent scenes of this atrocious drama as our limits
forbid to follow the author, and an abbreviated account would do
little justice to his copiousness or pathos, let it suffice to say,
that the immediate punishment inflicted on the conspirators, was
such as might be expected from the revenge of an infuriate people.
Even the Archbishop was hung from the windows of the palace,
without being suffered to divest himself from his prelatical robes;
nor ought it to be considered as a small aggravation of their
punishment, to have after death been gibbeted for lasting infamy,
by the pencil of such a villain as Andrea dal Castagno. Happy
Julian! happier Lorenzo, whom the contemporary genius of Politiano
has rescued from the equivocal memorial of Pollajuoli.
It is with regret, we must refer the reader to the work itself for
the consequences that attended the defeat of this execrable
attempt--the storm raised by the enraged Pontiff, who now launched
excommunication on the quondam treasurer of the Holy See, as a son
of iniquity and nursling of perdition;--the war which, at his
instigation, the court of Naples commenced against the Republic, on
their refusal to deliver up Lorenzo;--it's various success; with
the result of that bold expedient by which Lorenzo at once put an
end to the miseries of his country, and completely triumphed over
all his enemies, we mean his visit to Ferdinand himself! At that
moment his genius had attained the summit of his powers.
The fifth chapter treats of the studies of Lorenzo, and is executed
with a degree of _amore_ which developes to us the favourite
studies of his historian, though from the penetration displayed in
the management of all the other topics of his hero's character, it
would be unjust to apply to him the motto of '_tractant fabrilia
fabri_,' or as Johnson has since expressed it, on talking of the
political disputes of Milton with Salmasius and More, 'that let the
subject of dispute be the rights of princes and of nations, it
will, if treated by grammarians, end in grammatic squabbles.' The
author is perfectly in place and time: if we be to consider Lorenzo
as a poet, his right to that title was to be examined and
established, and the chapter became, with great propriety, part of
a treatise on poetry. After noticing the rise of Italian literature
in the fourteenth century, it's subsequent degradation, it's
revival in the fifteenth, and the rude attempts at restoring it, by
Burchiello, Matteo Franco, and the three Pulci, that honour is
conferred on Lorenzo: he is shown to have first, among his
contemporaries, discriminated the true object, and expressed the
real characteristics of poetry, in description, poetic comparison,
and personification of material objects, of passions and
affections; to have treated with success the prosopopoeia. The
sonnet, that favourite of Italy, is next discussed, and his claims
to it's honours compared with those of Dante and Petrarca; his
"Selve d'Amore," a poem in ottava rima; his new discovered poem of
"Ambra;" of the Caccia col Falcone, his moral pieces, his sacred
poems or orations, and Laude, or Lodi, are reviewed, and specimens
admirably translated, or, to speak with more propriety, excelled,
are annexed. We then proceed to his "Beoni," a piece of jocose
satire in terza rima on drunkenness, of which the fragment produced
and translated does at least as much honour to our author's vein of
humour, as to his hero's; and after expatiating on the expedition
with which he wrote, and many pertinent remarks on the
"Improvisatori" of Italy, its drama, opera, and carnival songs, the
chapter concludes with the opinion of the best contemporary
critics, on the poetic powers of Lorenzo.
As the mutual limits of poetry and painting are so frequently
confounded, it may not be improper to extract what our author says
on the objects and characteristics of poetry. Vol. 1. p. 255.
'The great end and object of poetry, and consequently, the proper
aim of the poet, is to communicate to us a clear and perfect idea
of his proposed subject. What the painter exhibits by variety of
colour, by light and shade, the poet expresses in appropriate
language. The former seizes only the external form, and that only
in a given attitude. The other surrounds his object, pierces it,
and discloses its most hidden qualities. With the former, it is
inert and motionless; with the latter, it lives and moves; it is
expanded or compressed; it glares upon the imagination, or vanishes
into air, and is as various as Nature herself.
'The simple description of natural objects is perhaps to a young
mind the most delightful species of poetry, and was probably the
first employment of the poet. It may be compared to melody in
music, which is relished even by the most uncultivated ear. In
this department Virgil is an exquisite master.[32] Still more
lively are the conceptions of Dante, still more precise the
language in which they are expressed. As we follow him, his wildest
excursions take the appearance of reality. Compared with his vivid
hues, how faint, how delicate, is the colouring of Petrarca! yet
the harmony of the tints almost compensate for their want of force.
With accurate descriptions of the face of Nature the works of
Lorenzo abound; and these are often heightened by those minute but
striking characteristics, which though open to all observers, the
eye of the poet can alone select. Thus the description of an
Italian winter, with which he opens his poem of _Ambra_[33], is
marked by several appropriate and striking images.
'The foliage of the olive appears of a dark green, but is nearly
white beneath.
"L'uliva in qualche dolce piaggia aprica
Secondo 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 picturesque than the
following, from the same poem.
"Stridendo in ciel, i gru veggonsi a lunge
L'aere stampar di varie e belle forme;
E l'ultima col collo steso aggiunge
Ov' è quella dinanzi alle vane orme."
"Marking the tracks of air, the clamorous cranes
Wheel 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 his _Selve d'amore_ is also drawn with
great truth and simplicity.
"Al dolce tempo il bon pastore informa
Lasciar 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 orma
Segue; ed alcun, che pur or ora nacque
L' amorevol pastore in braccio porta:
Il fido cane a tutti fa la scorta."
"Sweet Spring returns; the shepherd from the fold
Brings forth his flock, nor dreads the wintry cold;
Delighted once again their steps to lead
To the green hill, clear spring, and flow'ry mead.
True to their mother's track the sportive young
Trip 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 which the
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 following _time_, 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 is
_only then_ in 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; and _Ariosto_, 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, as _Constantinus Manasses_ to 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 hastening from 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
his _waving_ locks and the _nod_ of his brow, will it be denied
that _Ctesilas_ in his expiring warrior, from whose expression
might be collected how much remained of life, or _Aristides_ in 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.
SONETTO.
"Oimè, che belle lagrime fur quelle
Che 'l nembo di disio stillando mosse!
Quando il giusto dolor che'l cor percosse,
Salì poi su nell' amorose stelle!
Rigavon per la delicata pelle
Le 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 vies
With 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 of _Simmias_, 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 prosopopoeia.
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._
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 prosopopoeia, on which the
ancients established the ostensible fabric of their religion. What
were the divinities that filled their temples, but images of
things, personifications of 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 the _act_
by which his heroes were to fall, and the _punishment_ attendant on
that act, Milton has, as far as in him lay, destroyed the
_credibility_ of his poem? Homer found the _abstractions_, 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 introduced _Wisdom_ seizing
_Achilles_ by the hair, and _Beauty_ ravishing _Paris_ from the
combat, the Iliad, in what concerns the plan, would be little more
than the rival of the Pilgrim's Progress.
But if Homer _refused admittance to new-personified beings_ as
actors of his poem, has he contented himself entirely with
monosyllabic animation of the inanimate, with roaring shores,
remorseless stones, or maddening lances? The enormous image of
_Discord_ in the fourth, the picturesque prosopopoeia of
_Prayers_ and _Guilt_ in the ninth, and the luxuriant episode of
_Guilt_ again 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. The
_Liberty_ of Petrarch, and the _Jealousy_ and _Hope_ of Lorenzo de'
Medici, may with equal propriety adopt the names of _Health_,
_Suspicion_, and _Curiosity_; but the _Litæ_ of Homer are images
discriminated from all others, and will rank as models of true
prosopopoeia 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 and energy 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 formed against 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."
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
discovered to 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 their objects 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 having been 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 loquacious volumes 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
that _simplex duntaxat et unum_ with 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 loathsomeness be 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, alone would 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 a race 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 are few 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 peace and 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,
the respectability, 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 the nearest 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.
CHAPTER VII.
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.
On the 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 be considered 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
he did 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 of the 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 found in 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 regard to 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 an admirer 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 more than 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 upon
Fuseli: 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 the _balancier_ of 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!"
CHAPTER VIII.
Fuseli undertakes 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.
The Shakspeare 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 work which 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 Milton Gallery," 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.
In imitation of _so 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 for _exhibition_, 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 am
_certain_ of 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-year _certain_, 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 few pictures 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 tell _you_; 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 he had 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, thanked Sir Joshua for his candour, and hoped if he tried his
friends on _this_ occasion, 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 to form 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 although _laudatur et alget_ seems 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.