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ARIOSTO READING HIS VERSES TO ALESSANDRA STROZZI.]
_London, Published by H. Colburn, 1829._
THE LOVES OF THE POETS.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
THE ROMANCE OF BIOGRAPHY;
OR
MEMOIRS OF WOMEN LOVED AND CELEBRATED BY POETS,
FROM
THE DAYS OF THE TROUBADOURS TO THE PRESENT AGE;
A SERIES OF ANECDOTES INTENDED TO ILLUSTRATE THE INFLUENCE WHICH FEMALE
BEAUTY AND VIRTUE HAVE EXERCISED OVER THE CHARACTERS AND WRITINGS OF MEN
OF GENIUS.
BY MRS. JAMESON,
_Authoress of the Diary of an Ennuyee; Lives of Celebrated Female
Sovereigns; Female Characters of Shakspeare's Plays; Beauties of the
Court of Charles the Second, &c._
THIRD EDITION,
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY.
MDCCCXXXVII.
Enfin, relevons-nous sous le poids de l'existence; ne donnons pas a nos
injustes ennemis, a nos amis ingrats, le triomphe d'avoir abattu nos
facultes intellectuelles. Ils reduisent a chercher la celebrite ceux qui
se seraient contentes des affections: eh bien! il faut l'atteindre. Ces
essais ambitieux ne porteront point remede aux peines de l'ame; mais ils
honoreront la vie. La consacrer a l'espoir toujours trompe du bonheur,
c'est la rendre encore plus infortunee. Il vaut mieux reunir tous ses
efforts pour descendre avec quelque noblesse, avec quelque reputation,
la route qui conduit de la jeunesse a la mort.
MADAME DE STAEL.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
These little sketches (they can pretend to no higher title,) are
submitted to the public with a feeling of timidity almost painful.
They are absolutely without any other pretension than that of
exhibiting, in a small compass and under one point of view, many
anecdotes of biography and criticism, and many beautiful poetical
portraits, scattered through a variety of works, and all tending to
illustrate a subject in itself full of interest,--the influence which
the beauty and virtue of women have exercised over the characters and
writings of men of genius. But little praise or reputation attends the
mere compiler, but the pleasure of the task has compensated its
difficulty;--"song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy," these "flowers of
Paradise," whose growth is not of earth, were all around me; I had but
to gather them from the intermingling weeds and briars, and to bind them
into one sparkling wreath, consecrated to the glory of women and the
gallantry of men.
The design which unfolded itself before me, as these little sketches
extended gradually from a few memoranda into volumes, is not completed;
much has been omitted, much suppressed. If I have paused midway in my
task, it is not for want of materials, which offer themselves in almost
exhaustless profusion--nor from want of interest in the subject--the
most delightful in which the imagination ever revelled! but because I
desponded over my own power to do it justice. I know, I feel that it
required more extensive knowledge of languages, more matured judgment,
more critical power, more eloquence;--only Madame de Stael could have
fulfilled my conception of the style in which it ought to have been
treated. It was enthusiasm, not presumption, which induced me to attempt
it. I have touched on matters, on which there are a variety of tastes
and opinions, and lightly passed over questions on which there are
volumes of grave "historic doubts;" but I have ventured on no
discussion, still less on any decision. I have been satisfied merely to
quote my authorities; and where these exhibited many opposing facts and
opinions, it seemed to me that there was far more propriety and much
less egotism in simply expressing, in the first person, what I thought
and felt, than in asserting absolutely that a thing _is so_, or _is said
to be so_. Every one has a right to have an opinion, and deliver it with
modesty; but no one has a right to clothe such opinions in general
assertions, and in terms which seem to insinuate that they are or ought
to be universal. I know I am open to criticism and contradiction on a
thousand points; but I have adhered strictly to what appeared to me the
truth, and examined conscientiously all the sources of information that
were open to me.
The history of this little book, were it worth revealing, would be the
history, in miniature, of most human undertakings: it was begun with
enthusiasm; it has been interrupted by intervals of illness, idleness,
or more serious cares; it has been pursued through difficulties so
great, that they would perhaps excuse its many deficiencies; and now I
see its conclusion with a languor almost approaching to despair;--at
least with a feeling which, while it renders me doubly sensitive to
criticism, and apprehensive of failure, has rendered me almost
indifferent to success, and careless of praise.
I owe four beautiful translations from the Italian (which are noticed in
their proper places,) to the kindness of a living poet, whose justly
celebrated name, were I allowed to mention it, would be subject of pride
to myself, and double the value of this little book. I have no other
assistance of any kind to acknowledge.
* * * * *
Will it be thought unfeminine or obtrusive, if I add yet a few words?
I think it due to truth and to myself to seize this opportunity of
saying, that a little book published three years ago, and now perhaps
forgotten, was not written for publication, nor would ever have been
printed but for accidental circumstances.
That the title under which it appeared was not given by the writer, but
the publisher, who at the time knew nothing of the author.
And that several false dates, and unimportant circumstances and
characters were interpolated, to conceal, if possible, the real purport
and origin of the work. Thus the intention was not to create an
illusion, by giving to fiction the appearance of truth, but, in fact, to
give to truth the air of fiction. I was not _then_ prepared for all that
a woman must meet and endure, who once suffers herself to be betrayed
into authorship. She may repent at leisure, like a condemned spirit; but
she has passed that barrier from which there is no return.
C'est assez,--I will not add a word more, lest it should be said that I
have only disclaimed the title of the _Ennuyee_, to assume that of the
_Ennuyeuse_.
CONTENTS
OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Page
CHAPTER I.
A POET'S LOVE 1
CHAPTER II.
LOVES OF THE CLASSIC POETS 7
CHAPTER III.
THE LOVES OF THE TROUBADOURS 14
CHAPTER IV.
THE LOVES OF THE TROUBADOURS (continued) 34
CHAPTER V.
GUIDO CAVALCANTI AND MANDETTA.--CINO DA PISTOJA AND SELVAGGIA 55
CHAPTER VI.
LAURA 64
CHAPTER VII.
LAURA AND PETRARCH (continued) 85
CHAPTER VIII.
DANTE AND BEATRICE PORTINARI 105
CHAPTER IX.
DANTE AND BEATRICE (continued) 125
CHAPTER X.
CHAUCER AND PHILIPPA PICARD.--KING JAMES AND LADY JANE BEAUFORT 133
CHAPTER XI.
LORENZO DE' MEDICI AND LUCRETIA DONATI 161
CHAPTER XII.
THE FAIR GERALDINE 185
CHAPTER XIII.
ARIOSTO, GINEVRA, AND ALESSANDRA STROZZI 198
CHAPTER XIV.
SPENSER'S ROSALIND. SPENSER'S ELIZABETH 219
CHAPTER XV.
ON THE LOVE OF SHAKSPEARE 237
CHAPTER XVI.
SYDNEY'S STELLA (LADY RICH) 249
CHAPTER XVII.
COURT AND AGE OF ELIZABETH.
DRAYTON, DANIEL, DRUMMOND, MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, CLEMENT
MAROT AND DIANA DE POICTIER, RONSARD'S CASSANDRE,
RONSARD'S MARIE, RONSARD'S HELENE 263
CHAPTER XVIII.
LEONORA D'ESTE 288
CHAPTER XIX.
MILTON AND LEONORA BARONI 330
THE LOVES OF THE POETS.
CHAPTER I.
A POET'S LOVE.
Io ti cinsi de gloria, e fatta ho dea!--GUIDI.
Of all the heaven-bestowed privileges of the poet, the highest, the
dearest, the most enviable, is the power of immortalising the object of
his love; of dividing with her his amaranthine wreath of glory, and
repaying the inspiration caught from her eyes with a crown of
everlasting fame. It is not enough that in his imagination he has
deified her--that he has consecrated his faculties to her honour--that
he has burned his heart in incense upon the altar of her perfections:
the divinity thus decked out in richest and loveliest hues, he places on
high, and calls upon all ages and all nations to bow down before her,
and all ages and all nations obey! worshipping the beauty thus enshrined
in imperishable verse, when others, perhaps as fair, and not less
worthy, have gone down, unsung, "to dust and an endless darkness." How
many women who would otherwise have stolen through the shades of
domestic life, their charms, virtues, and affections buried with them,
have become objects of eternal interest and admiration, because their
memory is linked with the brightest monuments of human genius? While
many a high-born dame, who once moved, goddess-like, upon the earth, and
bestowed kingdoms with her hand, lives a mere name in some musty
chronicle. Though her love was sought by princes, though with her dower
she might have enriched an emperor,--what availed it?
"She had no poet--and she died!"
And how have women repaid this gift of immortality? O believe it, when
the garland was such as woman is proud to wear, she amply and deeply
rewarded him who placed it on her brow. If in return for being made
illustrious, she made her lover happy,--if for glory she gave a heart,
was it not a rich equivalent? and if not--if the lover was unsuccessful,
still the poet had his reward. Whence came the generous feelings, the
high imaginations, the glorious fancies, the heavenward inspirations,
which raised him above the herd of vulgar men--but from the ennobling
influence of her he loved? Through _her_, the world opened upon him with
a diviner beauty, and all nature became in his sight but a transcript of
the charms of his mistress. He saw her eyes in the stars of heaven, her
lips in the half-blown rose. The perfume of the opening flowers was but
her breath, that "wafted sweetness round about the world:" the lily was
"a sweet thief" that had stolen its purity from her breast. The violet
was dipped in the azure of her veins; the aurorean dews, "dropt from the
opening eyelids of the morn," were not so pure as her tears; the last
rose-tint of the dying day was not so bright or so delicate as her
cheek. Her's was the freshness and the bloom of the Spring; she consumed
him to languor as the Summer sun; she was kind as the bounteous Autumn,
or she froze him with her wintry disdain. There was nothing in the
wonders, the splendours, or the treasures of the created universe,--in
heaven or in earth,--in the seasons or their change, that did not borrow
from her some charm, some glory beyond its own. Was it not just that the
beauty she dispensed should be consecrated to her adornment, and that
the inspiration she bestowed should be repaid to her in fame?
For what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
But found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
_Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay!_
SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
The theory, then, which I wish to illustrate, as far as my limited
powers permit, is this: that where a woman has been exalted above the
rest of her sex by the talents of a lover, and consigned to enduring
fame and perpetuity of praise, the passion was real, and was merited;
that no deep or lasting interest was ever founded in fancy or in
fiction; that truth, in short, is the basis of all excellence in amatory
poetry, as in every thing else; for where truth is, there is good of
some sort, and where there is truth and good, there must be beauty,
there must be durability of fame. Truth is the golden chain which links
the terrestrial with the celestial, which sets the seal of heaven on the
things of this earth, and stamps them to immortality. Poets have risen
up and been the mere fashion of a day, and have set up idols which have
been the idols of a day: if the worship be out of date and the idols
cast down, it is because these adorers wanted sincerity of purpose and
feeling; their raptures were feigned; their incense was bought or
adulterate. In the brain or in the fancy, one beauty may eclipse
another--one coquette may drive out another, and tricked off in airy
verse, they float away unregarded like morning vapours, which the beam
of genius has tinged with a transient brightness: but let the heart once
be touched, and it is not only wakened but inspired; the lover kindled
into the poet, presents to her he loves, his cup of ambrosial praise:
she tastes--and the woman is transmuted into a divinity. When the
Grecian sculptor carved out his deities in marble, and left us wondrous
and god-like shapes, impersonations of ideal grace unapproachable by
modern skill, was it through mere mechanical superiority? No;--it was
the spirit of faith within which shadowed to his imagination what he
would represent. In the same manner, no woman has ever been truly,
lastingly deified in poetry, but in the spirit of truth and of love!