n 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES 
 IN ITALY 
 
THE ILDEFONSO GROUP 
 fr-Om: the museum at Madrid. 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES 
 IN ITALY 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS 
 
 AUTHOR OF RENAISSANCE IN ITALY STUDIES OF THE GREEK POETS ETC. 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1879 
 
 \,All rights reserved} 
 
These Studies and Sketches are reprinted in a great measure 
 from the '■Fortnightly Review^ and the ^ Cornhill Magazine.^ 
 In preparing them for the press I have been tmable^ owing to 
 my distance from all libraries of reference^ to give them the 
 final benefit of verif cation in 7ni7wr details. I trust that in 
 cases of discovered inaccuracy this admission may serve me 
 in stead of further apology. 
 
 Davos Platz: 
 
 January 1879. 
 

 TO 
 
 H. F. B. 
 
 iisassr^ 
 
 f(^ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Amalfi, P^stum, Capri ...... i 
 
 II. Thoughts in Italy about Christmas . . . . 28 
 
 III. Antinous 47 
 
 IV. Lucretius 91 
 
 V. Florence and the Medici 118 
 
 VI. The Debt of English to Italian Literature . . 173 
 
 VII. Popular Italian Poetry of the Renaissance . 190 
 
 VIII. The * Orfeo ' of Poliziano 226 
 
 IX. Canossa . 243 
 
 X. FoRNOvo 259 
 
 XI. Two Dramatists of the Last Century .• . . 278 
 
 XII. Crema and the Crucifix . . . . . . 292 
 
 XIII. Bergamo and Bartolommeo Colleoni . . . . .305 
 
 XIV. Como and II Medeghino 323 
 
 XV. Lombard Vignettes 339 
 
 XVI. Appendix : Blank Verse 377 
 
 Note on the 'Orfeo' . . . ^. . . . 429 
 
Errata. 
 
 Page 121, line 5, for 1233 read 1253. 
 ,, 122, „ 26, ,, 1283 ,, 1293. 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 AMALFI, P^STUM, CAPRI. 
 
 The road between Vietri and Amalfi is justly celebrated as one 
 of the most lovely pieces of coast scenery in Italy. Its only 
 rivals are the roads from Castellammare to Sorrento, from 
 Genoa to Sestri, and from Nice to Mentone. Each of these 
 has its own charm ; and yet their similarity is sufficient to invite 
 comparison : under the spell of each in turn, we are inclined to 
 say, This then, at all events, is the most beautiful. On first 
 quitting Vietri, Salerno is left low down upon the sea-shore, 
 nestling into a little comer of the bay which bears its name, 
 and backed up by gigantic mountains. With each onward step 
 these mountain-ranges expand in long aerial line, revealing 
 reaches of fantastic peaks, that stretch away beyond the plain 
 of Psestum, till they end at last in mist and sunbeams shim- 
 mering on the sea. On the left hand hangs the cliff above the 
 deep salt water, with here and there a fig-tree spreading fanlike 
 leaves against the blue beneath. On the right rises the hilNside, 
 clothed with myrtle, lentisk, cistus, and pale yellow coronilla — 
 a tangle as sweet with scent as it is gay with blossom. Over 
 the parapet that skirts the precipice lean heavy-foliaged locust- 
 trees, and the terraces in sunny nooks are set with lemon- 
 orchards. There are but few olives, and no pines. Meanwhile 
 each turn in the road brings some change of scene — now a 
 
 B 
 
2 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 village with its little beach of grey sand, lapped by clearest sea- 
 waves, where bare-legged fishermen mend their nets, and naked 
 boys bask like lizards in the sun — now towering bastions of 
 weird rock, broken into spires and pinnacles like those of Skye, 
 and coloured with'bright hues of red and orange — then a ravine, 
 where the thin thread of a mountain streamlet seems to hang 
 suspended upon ferny ledges in the limestone — or a precipice 
 defined in profile against sea and sky, with a lad, half dressed 
 in goat-skin, dangling his legs into vacuity and singing — or a 
 tract of cultivation, where the orange, apricot, and lemon-trees 
 nestle together upon terraces with intermingled pergolas of 
 vines. 
 
 Amalfi and Atrani lie close together in two of these ravines, 
 the mountains almost arching over them, and the sea washing 
 their very house-walls. Each has its crowning campanile ; but 
 that of Amalfi is the stranger of the two, like a Moorish tower 
 at the top, and coloured with green and yellow tiles that glitter 
 in the sunlight. The houses are all dazzling white, plastered 
 against the naked rock, rising on each other's shoulders to get 
 a glimpse of earth and heaven, jutting out on coigns of vantage 
 from the toppling cliff, and pierced with staircases as dark as 
 night at noonday. Some frequented lanes lead through the 
 basements of these houses ; and as the donkeys pick their way 
 from step to step in the twilight, bare-chested macaroni-makers 
 crowd forth like ants to see us strangers pass. A myriad of 
 swallows or a swarm of mason bees might build a town like 
 this. 
 
 It is not easy to imagine the time when Amalfi and Atrani 
 were one town, with docks and arsenals and harbourage for 
 their associated fleets, and when these little communities were 
 second in importance to no naval power of Christian Europe. 
 The Byzantine Empire lost its hold on Italy during the eighth 
 century ; and after this time the history of Calabria is mainly 
 concerned with the republics of Naples and Amalfi, their 
 
AMALFI, PALSTUM, CAPRI. 3 
 
 conflict with the Lombard dukes of Benevento, their opposition 
 to the Saracens, and their final subjugation by the Norman 
 conquerors of Sicily. Between the year 839 a.d., when Amalfi 
 freed itself from the control of Naples and the yoke of Benevento, 
 and the year 1131, when Roger of Hauteville incorporated the 
 republic in his kingdom of the Two Sicilies, this city was the 
 foremost naval and commercial port of Italy. The burghers 
 of Amalfi elected their own doge ; founded the Hospital of 
 Jerusalem, whence sprang the knightly order of S. John ; gave 
 their name to the richest quarter in Palermo ; and owned 
 trading establishments or factories in all the chief cities of the 
 Levant. Their gold coinage of /^r/ formed the standard of 
 currency before the Florentines had stamped the lily and S. 
 John upon the Tuscan florin. Their shipping regulations 
 supplied Europe with a code of maritime laws. Their scholars, 
 in the darkest depth of the dark ac^es, prized and conned a 
 famous copy of the Pandects of Justinian ; and their seamen 
 deserved the fame of having first used, if they did not actually 
 invent, the compass. 
 
 To modern visitors those glorious centuries of Amalfitan 
 power and independence cannot but seem fabulous ; so difficult 
 is it for us to imagine the conditions of society in Europe when 
 a tiny city, shut in between barren mountains and a tideless 
 sea, without a circumjacent territory, and with no resources but 
 piracy or trade, could develop maritime supremacy in the 
 Levant and produce the first fine flowers of liberty and 
 culture. 
 
 If the history of Amalfi's early splendour reads like a brilliant 
 legend, the story of its premature extinction has the interest of 
 a tragedy. The republic had grown and flourished on the 
 decay of the Greek Empire. When the hard-handed race of 
 Hauteville absorbed the heritage of Greeks and Lombards and 
 Saracens in Southern Italy, these adventurers succeeded in 
 annexing Amalfi. But it was not their interest to extinguish 
 
4 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the state. On the contrary, they relied for assistance upon the 
 navies and the armies of the little commonwealth. New powers 
 had meanwhile arisen in the North of Italy, who were jealous 
 of rivalry upon the open seas ; and when the Neapolitans 
 resisted King Roger in 1135, they called Pisa to their aid, and 
 sent her fleet to destroy Amalfi. The ships of Amalfi were on 
 guard with Roger's navy in the Bay of Naples. The armed 
 citize IS were, under Roger's orders, at Aversa. Meanwhile the 
 home of the republic lay defenceless on its mountain-girdled sea- 
 board. The Pisans sailed into the harbour, sacked the city, and 
 carried off the famous Pandects of Justinian as a trophy. Two 
 years later they returned, to complete the work of devastation. 
 Amalfi never recovered from the injuries and the humiliation 
 of these two attacks. It was ever thus that the Italians, like 
 the children of the dragon's teeth which Cadmus sowed, con- 
 sumed each other. Pisa cut the throat of her sister-port Amalfi, 
 and Genoa gave a mortal wound to Pisa, when the waters of 
 Meloria were dyed with blood in 1284. Venice fought a duel 
 to the death with Genoa in the succeeding century ; and what 
 Venice failed to accomplish was completed by Milan and the 
 lords of the Visconti dynasty, who crippled and enslaved the 
 haughty queen of the Ligurian Riviera. 
 
 The naval and commercial prosperity of Amalfi was thus 
 put an end to by the Pisans. in the twelfth century. But it was 
 not then that the town assumed its present aspect. What 
 surprises the student of history more than anything is the total 
 absence of fortifications, docks, arsenals, and breakwaters, 
 bearing witness to the ancient grandeur of a city which 
 numbered 50,000 inhabitants, and traded with Alexandria, 
 Syria, and the far East Nothing of the sort, with the exception 
 of a single solitary tower upon the Monte Aureo, is visible. 
 Nor will he fail to remember that Amalfi and Atrani, which are 
 r.ow divided by a jutting mountain buttress, were once joined 
 Ly a tract G>f sea-beach, where the galleys of the republic rested 
 
AMALFI, P^STUM, CAPRI. 5 
 
 after sweeping the Levant, and where the fishermen drew up 
 their boats upon the smooth grey sand. That also has dis- 
 appeared. The violence of man was not enough to reduce 
 Amalfi to its present state of insignificance. The forces of 
 nature aided — partly by the gradual subsidence of the land, 
 which caused the lower quarters of the city to be submerged, 
 and separated Amalfi from her twin-port by covering the beach 
 with water — partly by a fearful tempest, accompanied by earth- 
 quake, in 1343. Petrarch, then resident at Naples, witnessed 
 the destructive fury of this great convulsion, and the descrip- 
 tion he wrote of it soon after its occurrence is so graphic that 
 some notice may well be taken of it here. 
 
 His letter, addressed to the noble Roman, Giovanni 
 Colonna, begins with a promise to tell something of a storm 
 which deserved the tide of * poetic,' and in a degree so super- 
 lative that no epithet but ' Homeric ' would suffice to do it 
 justice. This exordium is singularly characteristic of Petrarch, 
 who never forgot that he was a literary man, and lost no 
 opportunity of dragging the great names of antiquity into his 
 rhetorical compositions. The catastrophe was hardly unex- 
 pected ; for it had been prophesied by an astrological bishop, 
 whom Petrarch does not name, that Naples would be over- 
 whelmed by a terrible disaster in December 1343- The 
 people were therefore in a state of wild anxiety, repenting of 
 their sins, planning a total change of life under the fear of 
 imminent death, and neglecting their ordinary occupations. 
 On the day of the predicted calamity women roamed in 
 trembling crowds through the streets, presshig their babies to 
 their breasts, and besieging the altars of the saints with prayers, 
 Petrarch, who shared the general disquietude, kept watching 
 the signs of the weather ; but nothing happened to warrant an 
 extraordinary panic. At sunset the sky was quieter than usual ; 
 and he could discern none of the symptoms of approaching 
 tempest, to which his familiarity with the mountains of Vaucluse 
 
6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 accustomed him. After dusk he stationed himself at a window 
 to observe the moon until she went down, before midnight, 
 obscured by clouds. Then he betook himself to bed ; but 
 scarcely had he fallen into his first sleep when a most horrible 
 noise aroused him. The whole house shook ; the night-light 
 on his table was extinguished ; and he was thrown with violence 
 from his couch. He was lodging in a convent ; and soon after 
 this first intimation of the tempest he heard the monks calling 
 to each other through tlie darkness. From cell to cell they 
 hurried, the ghastly gleams of lightning falling on their terror- 
 stricken faces. Headed by the Prior, and holding crosses and 
 relics of the saints in their hands, they now assembled in 
 Petrarch's chamber. Thence they proceeded in a body to the 
 chapel, where they spent the night in prayer and expectation of 
 impending ruin. It would be impossible, says the poet, to 
 relate the terrors of that hellish night — the deluges of rain, the 
 screaming of the wind, the earthquake, the thunder, the howling 
 of the sea, and the shrieks of agonising human beings. All these 
 horrors were prolonged, as though by some magician's spell, for 
 what seemed twice the duration of a natural night. It was so 
 dark that at last by conjecture rather than the testimony of their 
 senses they knew that day had broken. A hurried mass was 
 said. Then, as the noise in the town above them began to 
 diminish, and a confused clamour from the sea-shore continually 
 increased, their suspense became unendurable. They mounted 
 their horses, and descended to the port — to see and perish. A 
 fearful spectacle awaited them. The ships in the harbour had 
 broken their moorings, and were crashing helplessly together. 
 The strand was strewn with mutilated corpses. The break- 
 waters were submerged, and the sea seemed gaining momently 
 upon the solid land. A thousand watery mountains surged up 
 into the sky between the shore and Capri ; and these massive 
 billows were not black or purple, but hoary with a livid foam. 
 After describing some picturesque episodes— such as the 
 
AMALFI, PMSTUM, CAPRI. 7 
 
 gathering of the knights of Naples to watch the ruin of their 
 city, the procession of court ladies headed by the queen to 
 implore the intercession of Mary, and the wreck of a vessel 
 freighted with 400 convicts bound for Sicily — Petrarch con- 
 cludes with a fervent prayer that he may never have to tempt 
 the sea, of whose fury he had seen so awful an example. 
 
 The capital on this occasion escaped the ruin prophesied. 
 But Amalfi was inundated ; and what the waters then gained 
 has never been restored to man. This is why the once so 
 famous city ranks now upon a level with quiet Httle towns 
 whose names are hardly heard in history — with San Remo, or 
 Rapallo, or Chiavari — and yet it is still as full of life as a wasp's 
 nest, especially upon the molo, or raised piazza paved with 
 bricks, in front of the Albergo de' Cappuccini. The changes 
 of scene upon this tiny square are so frequent as to remind 
 one of a theatre. Looking down from the inn-balcony, between 
 the glazy green pots gay with scarlet amaryllis-bloom, we are 
 inclined to fancy that the whole has been prepared for our 
 amusement. In the morning the corn for the macaroni- flour, 
 after being washed, is spread out on the bricks to dry. In the 
 afternoon the fishermen bring their nets for the same purpose. 
 In the evening the city magnates promenade and whisper. 
 Dark-eyed women, with orange or crimson kerchiefs for head- 
 gear, cross and re- cross, bearing baskets on their shoulders. 
 Great lazy large-limbed fellows, girt with scarlet sashes and 
 finished off with dark blue nightcaps (for a contrast to their 
 saffron-coloured shirts, white breeches, and sunburnt calves) 
 slouch about or sleep face downwards on the parapets. On 
 either side of this same molo stretches a miniature beach of 
 sand and pebble, covered with nets, which the fishermen are 
 always mending, and where the big boats lade or unlade, 
 trimming for the sardine fishery, or driving in to shore with a 
 whirr of oars and a jabber of discordant voices. As the land- 
 wind freshens, you may watch them set off one by one, Hke 
 
8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pigeons taking flight, till the sea is flecked with twenty sail all 
 scudding in the same direction. The torrent runs beneath the 
 molo, and finds the sea beyond it ; so that here too are the 
 washerwomen, chattering like sparrows ; and everywhere the 
 naked boys, like brown sea-urchins, burrow in the clean warm 
 sand, or splash the shallow brine. If you like the fun, you 
 may get a score of them to dive together and scramble for 
 coppers in the deeper places, their lithe bodies gleaming wan 
 beneath the water in a maze of interlacing arms and legs. 
 
 Over the whole busy scene rise the grey hills, soaring into 
 blueness of air-distance, turreted here and there with ruined 
 castles, capped with particoloured campanili and white 
 convents, and tufted through their whole height with the 
 orange and the emerald of the great tree-spurge, and with the 
 live gold of the blossoming broom. It is difficult to say when 
 this picture is most beautiful — whether in the early morning, 
 when the boats are coming back from their night-toil upon the 
 sea, and along the headlands in the fresh light lie swathes of 
 fleecy mist, betokening a still, hot day — or at noontide, when 
 the houses on the hill stand, tinted pink and yellow, shadow- 
 less like gems, and the great caruba-trees above the tangles of 
 vines and figs are blots upon the steady glare— or at sunset, 
 when violet and rose, reflected from the eastern sky, make all 
 these terraces and peaks translucent with a wondrous glow. 
 The best of all, perhaps, is night, with a full moon hanging 
 high overhead. Who shall describe the silhouettes of boats 
 upon the shore or sleeping on the misty sea ? On the horizon 
 lies a dusky film of brownish golden haze, between the moon 
 and the glimmering water ; and here and there a lamp or 
 candle burns with a deep red. Then is the time to take a 
 boat and row upon the bay, or better, to swim out into the 
 waves and trouble the reflections from the steady stars. The 
 mountains, clear and calm, with light-irradiated chasms and 
 hard shadows cast upon the rock, soar up above a city built of 
 
AMALFI, F.^STUM, CAPRI. g 
 
 alabaster, or sea-foam, or summer clouds. The whole is 
 white and wonderful : no similes suggest an analogue for the 
 lustre, solid and transparent, of Amalfi nestling in moonlight 
 between the grey-blue sea and lucid hills. Stars stand on all 
 the peaks, and twinkle, or keep gliding, as the boat moves, 
 down the craggy sides. Stars are mirrored on the marble of 
 the sea, until one knows not whether the oar has struck sparks 
 from a star image or has scattered diamonds of phosphorescent 
 brine. 
 
 All this reads like a rhapsody ; but indeed it is difficult 
 not to be rhapsodical when a May night of Amalfi is in the 
 memory, with the echo of rich baritone voices chanting 
 Neapolitan songs to a mandoline. It is fashionable to com- 
 plain that these Italian airs are opera-tunes ; but this is only 
 another way of saying that the Italian opera is the genuine 
 outgrowth of national melody, and that Weber was not the 
 first, as some German critics have supposed, to string 
 together Volkslieder for the stage. Northerners, who have 
 never seen or felt the beauty of the South, talk sad nonsense 
 about the superiority of German over Italian music. It is true 
 that much Italian music is out of place in Northern Europe, 
 where we seem to need more travail of the intellect in art. 
 But the Italians are rightly satisfied with such facile melody 
 and such simple rhythms as harmonise with sea and sky and 
 boon earth sensuously beautiful. * Perche pensa ? Pensando 
 s'invecchia,' expresses the same habit of mind as another 
 celebrated saying, 'La musica e il lamento dell' amore o la 
 preghiera agli Dei.' Whatever may be the value of Italian 
 music, it is in concord with such a scene as Amalfi by moon- 
 light ; and he who does not appreciate this no less than some 
 more artificial combination of sights and sounds in Wagner's 
 theatre at Bayreuth, has scarcely learned the first lesson in the 
 lore of beauty. 
 
 There is enough and to spare for all tastes at Amalfi. The 
 
10 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Student of architecture may spend hours in the Cathedral, 
 pondering over its high- built western front, and wondering 
 whether there is more of Moorish or of Gothic in its delicate 
 arcades. The painter may transfer its campanile, glittering 
 like dragon's scales, to his canvas. The lover of the pic- 
 turesque will wander through its aisle at mass-time, watching 
 the sunlight play upon those upturned Southern faces with 
 their ardent eyes ; and happy is he who sees young men and 
 maidens on Whit-Sunday crowding round the chancel rails, to 
 catch the marigolds and gillyflowers scattered from baskets 
 which the priest has blessed. Is this a symbol of the Holy 
 Spirit's gifts, or is it some quaint relic of Pagan sparsmies ? 
 This question, with the memory of Pompeian graffiti in our 
 mind, may well suggest itself in Southern Italy, where old and 
 new faiths are so singularly blended. Then there is Ravello 
 on the hills above. The path winds upward between stone- 
 walls tufted with maidenhair ; and ever nearer grow the 
 mountains, and the sea-line soars into the sky. An English- 
 man has made his home here in a ruined Moorish villa, with 
 cool colonnaded cloisters and rose-embowerfed terraces, lend- 
 ing far prospect over rocky hills and olive-girdled villages to 
 Paestum's plain. The churches of Ravello have rare mosaics, 
 and bronze doors, and marble pulpit?, older perhaps than those 
 of Tuscany, which tempt the archaeologist to ask if Nicholas 
 the Pisan learned his secret here. But who cares to be a 
 sober antiquary at Amalfi ? Far pleasanter, is it to climb the 
 staircase to the Capuchins, and linger in those caverns of the 
 living rock, and pluck the lemons hanging by the mossy walls ; 
 or to row from cove to cove along the shore, watching the 
 fishes swimming in the deeps beneath, and the medusas 
 spreading their filmy bells ; to land upon smooth slabs of 
 rock, where corallines wave to and fro ; or to rest on samphire- 
 tufted ledges, when the shadows slant beneath the westering 
 sun. 
 
AMALFI, PyESTUM, CAPRI. II 
 
 There is no point in all this landscape which does not 
 make a picture. Painters might even complain that the pictures 
 are too easy and the poetry too facile, just as the musicians find 
 the melodies of this fair land too simple. No effect, carefully 
 sought and strenuously seized, could enhance the mere beauty 
 of Amalfi bathed in sunlight. You have only on some average 
 summer day to sit down and paint the scene. Little scope is 
 afforded for suggestions of far-away weird thouglits, or 
 for elaborately studied motives. Daubigny and Corot are as 
 alien here as Blake or Diirer. 
 
 What is wanted, and what no modern artist can successfully 
 recapture from the wasteful past, is the mylhopoeic sense — the 
 apprehension of primeval powers akin to man, growing into 
 shape and substance on the borderland between the world and 
 the keen human sympathies it stirs in us. Greek mythology 
 was the proper form of art for scenery like this. It gave the 
 final touch to all its beauties, and added to its sensuous charm 
 an inbreathed spiritual life. No exercise of the poetic faculty, 
 far less that metaphysical mood of the reflective consciousness 
 which ' leads from nature up to nature's God,' can now supply 
 this need. From sea and earth and sky, in those creative ages 
 when the world was young, there leaned to greet the men 
 whose fancy made them, forms imagined and yet real — human, 
 divine — the archetypes and everlasting patterns of man's deep- 
 est sense of what is wonderful in nature. Feeling them there, 
 for ever there, inalienable, ready to start forth and greet suc- 
 cessive generations — as the Hamadryad greeted Rhaicos from 
 his father's oak — those mythopoets called them by immortal 
 names. All their pent-up longings, all passions that consume, 
 all aspirations that inflame — the desire for the impossible, 
 which is disease, the day-dreams and visions of the night, 
 which are spontaneous poems — were thus transferred to nature, 
 And nature, responsive to the soul that loves her, gave them 
 back transfigured and translated into radiant beings of like sub- 
 
12 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Stance with mankind. It was thus, we feel, upon these south- 
 ern shores that the gods of Greece came into being. The 
 statues in the temples were the true fine flower of all this 
 beauty, the culmination of the poetry which it evoked in hearts 
 that feel and brains that think. 
 
 In Italy, far more than in any other part of Europe, the 
 life of the present is imposed upon the strata of successive past 
 lives. Greek, Latin, Moorish, and mediaeval civilisations have 
 arisen, flourished, and decayed on nearly the same soil ; and it 
 is common enough to find one city, which may have perished 
 twenty centuries ago, neighbour to another that enjoyed its 
 brief prosperity in the middle of our era. There is not, for 
 example, the least sign of either Greek or Roman at Amalfi. 
 Whatever may have been the glories of the republic in the 
 early middle ages, they had no relation to the classic past. Yet 
 a few miles ofl" along the bay rise the ancient Greek temples 
 of Psestum, from a desert — with no trace of any intervening 
 occupants. Poseidonia was founded in the sixth century be- 
 fore Christ, by colonists from Sybaris. Three centuries later 
 the Hellenic element in this settlement, which must already 
 have become a town of no little importance, was submerged 
 by a deluge of recurrent barbarism. Under the Roman rule 
 it changed its name to Paestum, and was prosperous. The 
 Saracens destroyed it in the ninth century of our era; and 
 Robert Guiscard carried some of the materials of its buildings 
 to adorn his new town of Salerno. Since then the ancient 
 site has been abandoned to malaria and solitude. The very 
 existence of Paestum was unknown, except to wandering herds- 
 men and fishers coasting near its ruined colonnades, until the 
 end of the last century. Yet, strange to relate, after all these 
 revolutions, and in the midst of this total desolation, the only 
 relics of the antique city are three Greek temples, those very 
 temples where the Hellenes, barbarised by their Lucanian neigh- 
 bours, met to mourn for their lost liberty. It is almost impossible 
 
AMALFI, P.'ESTUM, CAPRL 13 
 
 to trace more than the mere circuit of the walls of Poseidonia. 
 Its port, if port it had in Roman days, has disappeared. Its 
 theatre is only just discernible. Still not a column of the great 
 hypaethral temple, built by the Sybarite colonists two thousand 
 and five hundred years ago, to be a house for Zeus or for Posei- 
 don, has been injured. The accidents that erased far greater 
 cities, like Syracuse, from the surface of the earth — pil- 
 lage, earthquake, the fury of fanatics, the slow decay of perish- 
 able stone, or the lust of palace builders in the middle ages — 
 have spared those three houses of the gods, over whom, in 
 the days of Alexander, the funeral hymn was chanted by the 
 enslaved Hellenes. 
 
 ' We do the same,' said Aristoxcnus in his Convivial Mis- 
 cellanies, * as the men of Poseidonia, who dwell on the Tyr- 
 rhenian Gulf. It befell them, having been at first true Hellenes, 
 to be utterly barbarised, changing to Tyrrhenes or Romans, and 
 altering their language, together with their other customs. Yet 
 they still observe one Hellenic festival, when they meet together 
 and call to remembrance their old names and bygone institu- 
 tions ; and having lamented one to the other, and shed bitter 
 tears, they afterwards depart to their own homes. Even thus 
 a few of us also, now that our theatres have been barbarised, 
 and this art of music has gone to ruin and vulgarity, meet 
 together and remember what once music was.' ^ 
 
 This passage has a strange pathos, considering how it was 
 penned, and how it has come down to us, tossed by the dark 
 indifferent stream of time. Thi Aristoxenus, who wrote it, was 
 a pupil of the Peripatetic School, born at Tarentum, and there- 
 fore familiar with the vicissitudes of Magna Groecia. The study 
 of music was his chief preoccupation ; and he used this episode 
 in the agony of an enslaved Greek city, to point his own con- 
 servative disgust for innovations in an art of which we have no 
 
 ^ Athcnceus^ xiv. 632. 
 
'I4 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 knowledge left. The works of Aristoxenus have perished, and the 
 fragment I have quoted is imbedded in the gossip of Egyptian 
 Athenaeus. In this careless fashion has been opened for us, as 
 it were, a little window on a grief now buried in the oblivion of a 
 hundred generations. After reading his words one May morning, 
 beneath the pediment of Paestum's noblest ruin, I could not 
 refrain from thinking that if the spirits of those captive Hellenes 
 were to revisit their old habitations, they would change their 
 note of wailing into a thin ghostly paean, when they found that 
 Romans and Lucanians had passed away, that Christians and 
 Saracens had left alike no trace behind, while the houses of 
 their own avrrjXioi Oeol — dawn-facing deities — were still abiding 
 in the pride of immemorial strength. Who knows whether 
 buffalo-driver or bandit may not ere now have seen processions 
 of these Poseidonian phantoms, bearing laurels and chaunting 
 hymns on the spot where once they fell each on the other's 
 neck to weep? Gathering his cloak around him and cowering 
 closer to his fire of sticks, the night- watcher in those empty 
 colonnades may have mistaken the Hellenic outhnes of his 
 shadowy visitants for fevered dreams, and the melody of their 
 evanished music for the whistling of night winds or the cry of 
 owls. So abandoned is Paestum in its solitude that we know 
 not even what legends may have sprung up round those relics 
 of a mightier age. 
 
 The sliiine is ruined now ; and far away 
 
 To east and west stretch olive groves, whose shade 
 
 Even at the height of summer noon is grey. 
 
 Asphodels sprout upon the plinth decayed 
 
 Of these low columns, and the snake hath found 
 
 Her haunt 'neath altar-steps with weeds o'erlaid. 
 
 Yet this was once a hero's temple, crowned 
 With myrtle-boughs by lovers, and with palm 
 By wrestlers, resonant with sweetest sound 
 
 Of flute and fife in summer evening's calm, 
 
 And odorous with incense all the year, 
 
 With nard and spice, and galbanum and balm. 
 
AMALFI, F^STUM, CAPRI. 15 
 
 These lines sufficiently express the sense of desolation felt 
 at Passtum, except that the scenery is more solemn and mournful, 
 and the temples are too august to be the shrine of any simple 
 hero. There are no olives. The sea plunges on its sandy 
 shore within the space of half-a-mile to westward. Far and 
 wide on either hand stretch dreary fever-stricken marshes. The 
 plain is bounded to the north, and east, and south, with moun- 
 tains, purple, snow-peaked, serrated, and grandly broken like 
 the hills of Greece. Driving over this vast level where the 
 Silarus stagnates, the monotony of the landscape is broken now 
 and then by a group of buffaloes standing up to their dewlaps 
 in reeds, by peasants on horseback, with goads in their hands, 
 and muskets slung athwart their backs, or by patrols of Italian 
 soldiers crossing and re-crossing on the brigand-haunted roads. 
 Certain portions have been reclaimed from the swamp, and 
 here may be seen white oxen in herds of fifty grazing ; or gangs 
 of women at field-labour, with a man to oversee them, cracking 
 a long hunting-whip ; or the mares and foals of a famous stud- 
 farm browsing under spreading pines. There are no villages, 
 and the few farmhouses are so widely scattered as to make us 
 wonder where the herdsmen and field-workers, scanty as they 
 are, can possibly be lodged. 
 
 At last the three great temples come in sight. The rich 
 orange of the central building contrasts with the paler yellow of 
 its two companions, while the glowing colour of all three is 
 splendidly relieved against green vegetation and blue mountain- 
 flanks. Their material is travertine — a calcareous stone formed 
 by the deposit of petrifying waters, which contains fragments of 
 reeds, spiral shells, and other substances, embedded in the por- 
 ous limestone. In the flourishing period of old Poseidonia 
 these travertine columns were coated with stucco, worked to a 
 smooth surface, and brilliantly tinted to harmonise with the gay 
 costumes of a Greek festival. Even now this coating of fine 
 sand, mingled with slaked lime and water, can be seen in 
 
1 6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 patches on the huge blocks of the masonry. Thus treated, 
 the travertine lacked little of the radiance of marble, for it must 
 be remembered that the Greeks painted even the Pentelic cor- 
 nice of the Parthenon with red and blue. Nor can we doubt 
 that the general effect of brightness suited the glad and genial 
 conditions of Greek life. 
 
 All the surroundings are altered now, and the lover of the 
 picturesque may be truly thankful that the hand of time, by 
 stripping the buildings of this stucco, without impairing their 
 proportions, has substituted a new harmony of tone between 
 the native stone and the surrounding landscape, no less sym- 
 pathetic to the present solitude than the old symphony of 
 colours was to the animated circumstances of a populous Greek 
 city. In this way those critics who defend the polychrome 
 decorations of the classic architects, and those who contend 
 that they cannot imagine any alteration from the present toning 
 of Greek temples for the better, are both right. 
 
 In point of colour the Paestum ruins are very similar to 
 those of Girgenti ; but owing to their position on a level plain, 
 in front of a scarcely indented sea-shore, we lack the irregu- 
 larity which adds so much charm to the row of temples on 
 their broken cliff in the old town of Agrigentum. In like 
 manner the celebrated asymmetreia of the buildings of the 
 Athenian Acropolis, which causes so much variety of light and 
 shade upon the temple-fronts, and offers so many novel points 
 of view when they are seen in combination, seems to have 
 been due originally to the exigencies of the ground. At Paes- 
 tum, in planning out the city, there can have been no utilitarian 
 reasons for placing the temples at odd angles, either to each 
 other or the shore. Therefore we see them now almost exactly 
 in line and parallel, though at unequal distances. If some- 
 thing of picturesque effect is thus lost at Paestum through the 
 flatness of the ground, something of impressive grandeur on 
 the other hand is gained by the very regularity with which 
 
AMALFI, PALSTUM, CAPRI. 17 
 
 those phalanxes of massive Doric columns are drawn up to face 
 the sea. 
 
 Poseidonia, as the name betokens, was dedicated to the 
 god of the sea ; and the coins of the city are stamped with his 
 effigy bearing a trident, and with his sacred animal, the bull. 
 It has therefore been conjectured that the central of the 
 three temples — which was hypaethral and had two entrances, 
 east and west — belonged to Poseidon ; and there is something 
 fine in the notion of the god being thus able to pass to and fro 
 from his cella through those sunny peristyles, down to his 
 chariot, yoked with sea-horses, in the brine. Yet hypaethral 
 temples were generally consecrated to Zeus, and it is therefore 
 probable that the traditional name of this vast edifice is wrong. 
 The names of the two other temples, Tempio di Cerere and 
 Basilica., are wholly unsupported by any proof or probability. 
 The second is almost certainly founded on a mistake ; and if 
 we assign the largest of the three shrines to Zeus, one or other 
 of the lesser belonged most likely to Poseidon . 
 
 The style of the temples is severe and primitive. In general 
 effect their Doric architecture is far sterner than that adapted 
 by Ictinus to the Parthenon. The entablature seems somewhat 
 disproportioned to the columns and the pediment j and, owing 
 to this cause, there is a general effect of heaviness. The 
 columns, again, are thick-set ; nor is the effect of solidity re- 
 moved by their gradual narrowing from the base upwards. The 
 pillars of the Neptune are narrowed in a straight Hne ; those of 
 the Basilica and Ceres by a gentle curve. Study of these 
 buildings, so sublime in their massiveness, so noble in the 
 parsimony of their decoration, so dignified in their employment 
 of the simplest means for the attainment of an indestructible 
 effect of harmony, heightens our admiration for the Attic genius 
 which found in this grand manner of the elder Doric architects 
 resources as yet undeveloped \ creating, by slight and subtle 
 alterations of outline, proportion, and rhythm of parts, what 
 
 c 
 
1 8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 may fairly be classed as a style unique, because exemplified in 
 only one transcendent building. 
 
 It is difficult not to return again and again to the beauty of 
 polouring at Paestum. Lying basking in the sun upon a flat 
 slab of stone, and gazing eastward, we overlook a foreground 
 of dappled light and shadow, across which the lizards run — 
 quick streaks of living emerald — making the bunches of yellow 
 rue and little white serpyllum in the fissures of the masonry 
 nod as they hurry past. Then come two stationary columns, 
 built, it seems, of solid gold, where the sunbeams strike along 
 their russet surface. Between them lies the landscape, a 
 medley first of brakefern and asphodel and feathering acanthus 
 and blue spikes of bugloss ; then a white farm in the middle 
 distance, roofed with the reddest tiles and sheltered by a 
 velvety umbrella pine. Beyond and above the farm, a glimpse 
 of mountains purple almost to indigo with cloud shadows, and 
 flecked with snow. Still higher — but for this we have to raise 
 our head a little — the free heavens enclosed within the frame- 
 work of the tawny travertine, across which sail hawks and 
 flutter jackdaws, sharply cut against the solid sky. Down from 
 the architrave, to make the vignette perfect, hang tufts of 
 crimson snapdragons. Each opening in the peristyle gives a 
 fresh picture. 
 
 The temples are overgrown with snapdragons and mallows, 
 yellow asters and lilac gillyflowers, white allium and wild fig. 
 When a breeze passes, the whole of this many- coloured tapestry 
 waves gently to and fro. The fields around are flowery 
 enough ; but where are the roses ? I suppose no one who has 
 read his Virgil at school, crosses the plain from Salerno to 
 Paestum without those words of the ' Georgics ' ringing in his 
 ears : biferique rosaria PcBsti. They have that wr nderful 
 Virgilian charm which, by a touch, transforms mere daily sights 
 and sounds, and adds poetic mystery to common things. The 
 poets of ancient Rome seem to have felt the magic of this 
 
AMALFI, P^STUM, CAPRI. 19 
 
 phrase ; for Ovid has imitated the line in his ' Metamorphoses/ 
 tamely substituting tepidi for the suggestive biferi^ while again 
 in his ' Elegies ' he uses the same termination with odorati for his 
 epithet. Martial sings of Fcestance rosce and Fcestani gloria 
 runs. Even Ausonius, at the very end of Latin literature, 
 draws from the rosaries of Psestum a pretty picture of beauty 
 doomed to premature decline : 
 
 Vidi Psestano gaudere rosaria cultu 
 Exoriente novo roscida Lucifero. 
 
 ' I have watched the rose-beds that luxuriate on Paestum's well-tilled soil, 
 all dewy in the young Hght of the rising dawn-star.' 
 
 What a place indeed was this for a rose-garden, spreading far 
 and wide along the fertile plain, with its deep loam reclaimed 
 from swamps and irrigated by the passing of perpetual streams ! 
 But where are the roses now? As well ask, ou sont les netges 
 d'antan ? 
 
 We left Amalfi for Capri in the freshness of an early morn- 
 ing at the end of May. As we stepped into our six-oared boat 
 the sun rose above the horizon, flooding the sea with gold and 
 flashing on the terraces above Amalfi. High up along the 
 mountains hung pearly and empurpled mists, set like resting- 
 places between a world too beautiful and heaven too far for 
 mortal feet. Not a breath of any wind was stirring. The water 
 heaved with a scarcely perceptible swell, and the vapours 
 lifted gradually as the sun's rays grew in power. Here the 
 hills descend abruptly on the sea, ending in cliffs where light 
 reflected from the water dances. Huge caverns open in the 
 limestone ; on their edges hang stalactites like beards, and the 
 sea within sleeps dark as night. For some of these caves the 
 maidenhair fern makes a shadowy curtain ; and all of them 
 might be the home of Proteus, or of Calypso, by whose side 
 hei mortal lover passed his nights in vain home-sickness : 
 
 iv ffir4(Tffi yXcupvpoiffi trap' ovk idcXwv iOfXovay. 
 C 2 
 
20 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 This is a truly Odyssean journey. Soon the islands of the 
 Sirens come in sight, — bare bluffs of rock, shaped like galleys 
 taking flight for the broad sea. As we row past in this 
 ambrosial weather, the oarsmen keeping time and ploughing 
 furrows in the fruitless fields of Nereus, it is not difficult to 
 hear the siren voices — for earth and heaven and sea make 
 melodies far above mortal singing. The water round the 
 Galli — so the islands are now called, as antiquaries tell us, 
 from an ancient fortress named Guallo — is very deep, and 
 not a sign of habitation is to be seen upon them. In bygone 
 ages they were used as prisons ; and many doges of Amalfi 
 languished their lives away upon those shadeless stones, watch- 
 ing the sea around them blaze like a burnished shield at noon, 
 and the peaks of Capri deepen into purple when the west was 
 glowing after sunset with the rose and daffodil of Southern 
 twilight. 
 
 The end of the Sorrentine promontory, Point Campanella, 
 is absolutely barren — grey limestone, with the scantiest over- 
 growth of rosemary and myrtle. A more desolate spot can 
 hardly be imagined. But now the morning breeze springs up 
 behind ; sails are hoisted, and the boatmen ship their oars. 
 Under the albatross wings of our lateen sails we scud across 
 the freshening waves. The precipice of Capri soars against the 
 sky, and the Bay of Naples expands before us with those 
 sweeping curves and azure amplitude that all the poets of the 
 world have sung. Even thus the mariners of ancient Hellas 
 rounded this headland when the world was young. Rightly 
 they named yon rising ground, beneath Vesuvius, Posilippo — 
 rest from grief Even now, after all those centuries of toil, 
 though the mild mountain has been turned into a mouth of 
 murderous fire, though Roman emperors and Spanish despots 
 have done their worst to mar what nature made so perfect, we 
 may here lay down the burden of our cares, gaining tran- 
 quillity by no mysterious lustral rites, no penitential prayers or 
 
AMALFI, Py^STUM, CAPRI, 21 
 
 offerings of holocausts, but by the influence of beauty in the 
 earth and air, and by sympathy with a people unspoiled in 
 their healthful life of labour alternating with simple joy. 
 
 The last hour of the voyage was beguiled by stories of our 
 boatmen, some of whom had seen service on distant seas, 
 while others could tell of risks on shore and love adventures. 
 They showed us how the tunny-nets were set, and described the 
 sohtary life of the tunny-watchers, in their open boats, wait- 
 ing to spear the monsters of the deep entangled in the 
 chambers made for them beneath the waves. How much of 
 T^schylean imagery, I reflected, is drawn from this old fisher's 
 art — the toils of Clytemnestra and the tragedy of Psyttaleia 
 rising to my mind. One of the crew had his little son with 
 him, a child of six years old ; and when the boy was restless, 
 his father spoke of Barbarossa and Timberio {si^ to keep him 
 quiet ; for the memory of the Moorish pirate and the mighty 
 emperor is still alive here. The people of Capri are as familiar 
 with Tiberius as the Bretons with King Arthur ; and the hoof- 
 mark of illustrious crime is stamped upon the island. 
 
 Capri offers another example of the versatility of Southern 
 Italy. If Amalfi brings back to us the naval and commercial 
 prosperity of the early middle ages ; if Paestum remains a 
 monument of the oldest Hellenic civilisation \ Capri, at a few 
 miles' distance, is dedicated to the Roman emperor who 
 made it his favourite residence, when, life-weary with the 
 world and all its shows, he turned these many peaks and 
 slumbering caves into a summer palace for the nursing of his 
 brain-sick phantasy. Already, on landing, we are led to 
 remember that from this shore was loosed the galley bearing 
 that great letter — verbosa et grandts epistola — which undid 
 Sejanus and shook Rome. Riding to Ana-Capri and the 
 Salto di Tiberio, exploring the remains of his favourite twelve 
 villas, and gliding over the smooth waters paved with the white 
 marbles of his baths, we are for ever attended by the same 
 
22 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 forbidding spectre. Here, perchance, were the sedes aua- 
 naruni Hbidinum whereof Suetonius speaks; the Spintrian 
 medals, found in these recesses, still bear witness that the 
 biographer trusted no mere fables for the picture he has drawn. 
 Here, too, below the Villa Jovis, gazing 700 feet sheer down 
 into the waves, we tread the very parapet whence fell the 
 victims of that maniac lust for blood. 'After long and 
 exquisite torments,' says the Roman writer, ' he ordered con- 
 demned prisoners to be cast into the sea before his eyes ; 
 marines were stationed near to pound the fallen corpses with 
 poles and oars, lest haply breath should linger in their limbs.* 
 The Neapolitan Museum contains a little bas-relief represent- 
 ing Tiberius, with the well-known features of the Claudian 
 house, seated astride upon a donkey, with a girl before him. 
 A slave is leading the beast and its burden to a terminal statue 
 under an olive-tree. This curious relic, discovered some 
 while since at Capri, haunted my fancy as I climbed the olive- 
 planted slopes to his high villa on the Arx Tiberii. It is some 
 relief, amid so much that is tragic in the associations of this 
 place, to have the horrible Tiberius burlesqued and brought 
 into donkey-riding relation with the tourist of to-day. And 
 what an ironical revenge of time it is that his famous Salto 
 should be turned into a restaurant, where the girls dance 
 tarantella for a few coppers ; that a toothless hermit should 
 occupy a cell upon the very summit of his Villa Jovis ; 
 and that the Englishwoman's comfortable hotel should be 
 called Timberio by the natives ! A spiritualist might well 
 beheve that the emperor's ghost was forced to haunt the island, 
 and to expiate his old atrocities by gazing on these modern 
 vulgarisms. 
 
 Few problems suggested by history are more darkly 
 fascinating than the madness of despots ; and of this madness, 
 whether inherent in their blood or encouraged by the circum- 
 stance of absolute autocracy, the emperors of the Claudian and 
 
AMALFI, P^STUM, CAPRI. 23 
 
 Julian houses furnish the most memorable instance.^ It is 
 this that renders Tiberius ever present to our memory at Capri. 
 Nor will the student of Suetonius forget his even more memor- 
 able grand-nephew Caligula. The following passage is an 
 episode from the biography of that imperial maniac, whose 
 portrait in green basalt, with the strain of dire mental tension 
 on the forehead, is still so beautiful that we are able at this 
 distance of time to pity more than loathe him. * Above all, he 
 was tormented with nervous irritation^ by sleeplessness ; for he 
 enjoyed not more than three hours of nocturnal repose, nor 
 even these in pure untroubled rest, but agitated by phantasmata 
 of portentous augury ; as, for example, upon one occasion, 
 among other spectral visions, he fancied that he saw the sea, 
 under some definite impersonation, conversing with himself. 
 Hence it was, and from this incapacity of sleeping, and from 
 weariness of lying awake, that he had fallen into habits of 
 ranging all night long through the palace, sometimes throwing 
 himself on a couch, sometimes wandering along the vast 
 corridors, watching for the earliest dawn, and anxiously wishing 
 its approach.' Those corridors, or loggie, where Caligula 
 spent bis wakeful hours, opened perchance upon this Bay of 
 Naples, if not upon the sea-waves of his favourite Porto d'Anzio; 
 for we know that one of his great follies was a palace built 
 above the sea on piles at Baiae ; and where else could Felagus, 
 with his cold azure eyes and briny locks, have more appro- 
 priately terrified his sleep with prophecy conveyed in dreams ? 
 The very nature of this vision, selected for such special com- 
 ment by Suetonius as to show that it had troubled Caligula 
 profoundly, proves the fantastic nature of the man, and justifies 
 the hypothesis of insanity. 
 
 ' De Quincey, in his essay on The desars, has worked out this subject 
 with such artistic vividness that no more need be said. From his pages I 
 have quoted the paraphrastic version of Suetonius that follows. 
 
24 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 But it is time to shake off the burden of the past. Only 
 students, carrying superfluity of culture in their knapsacks, will 
 ponder over the imperial lunatics who made Capri and Baise 
 fashionable in the days of ancient Rome. Neither Tiberius 
 nor Caligula, nor yet Ferdinand of Aragon or Bomba for that 
 matter, has been able to leave trace of vice or scar of crime on 
 nature in this Eden. A row round the island, or a supper- 
 party in the loggia above the sea at sunset-time, is no less 
 charming now, in spite of Roman or Spanish memories, than 
 when the world was young. 
 
 Sea-mists are frequent in the early summer mornings, 
 swathing the cliffs of Capri in impenetrable wool and brooding 
 on the perfectly smooth water till the day-wind rises. Then 
 they disappear like magic, rolling in smoke-wreaths from the 
 surface of the sea, condensing into clouds and climbing the 
 hill-sides like Oceanides in quest of Prometheus, or taking 
 their station on the watch-towers of the world, as in the chorus 
 of the Nephelai. Such a morning may be chosen for the giro 
 of the island. The blue grotto loses nothing of its beauty, but 
 rather gains by contrast, when passing from dense fog you 
 find yourself transported to a world of wavering subaqueous 
 sheen. It is only through the opening of the very topmost 
 arch that a boat can glide into this cavern ; the arch itself 
 spreads downward through the water, so that all the light is 
 transmitted from beneath and coloured by the sea. The grotto 
 is domed in many chambers ; and the water is so clear that 
 you can see the bottom, silvery, with black-finned fishes 
 diapered upon the blue white sand. The flesh of a diver in 
 this water showed like the faces of children playing at snap- 
 dragon ; all around him the spray leapt up with living fire ; 
 and when the oars struck the surface, it was as though a phos- 
 phorescent sea had been smitten, and the drops ran from the 
 blades in blue pearls. I have only once seen anything (outside 
 the magic-world of a pantomime) to equal these effects of blue 
 
AMALFI, PyESTUM, CAPRI. 25 
 
 and silver ; and that was when I made my way into an ice- 
 cave in the Great Aletsch glacier— not an artificial gallery 
 such as they cut at Grindelwald, but a natural cavern, arched, 
 hollowed into fanciful recesses, and hung with stalactites of 
 pendent ice. The difference between the glacier-cavern and 
 the sea-grotto was that in the former all the light was trans- 
 mitted through transparent sides, so that the whole was one 
 uniform azure, except in rare places where little chinks opened 
 upwards to the air, and the light of day came glancing with a 
 roseate flush. In the latter the light sent from beneath through 
 the water played upon a roof of rock ; reflections intermingled 
 with translucence ; and a greater variety of light and shadow 
 compensated the lack of that strange sense of being shut 
 within a solid gem. 
 
 Numberless are the caves at Capri. The so-called green 
 grotto has the beauty of moss-agate in its liquid floor ; the red 
 grotto shows a warmer chord of colour ; and where there is no 
 other charm to notice, endless beauty may be found in the play 
 of sunlight upon roofs of limestone, tinted with yellow, orange, 
 and pale pink, mossed over, hung with fern, and catching tones 
 of blue or green from the still deeps beneath. 
 
 Sheets of water, wherever found, are the most subtle 
 heighteners of colour. To those who are familiar with Venetian 
 or Mantuan sunsets, who have seen the flocks of flamingoes 
 reflected on the lagoons of Tunis, or who have watched stormy 
 red flakes tossed from crest to crest of great Atlantic waves on 
 our own coasts, this need hardly be said. Yet I cannot leave 
 this beauty of the sea at Capri without touching on a melo- 
 drama of light and colour I once saw at Castellammare. It 
 was a festa-night, when the people sent up rockets and fire- 
 works, of every hue from the harbour-breakwater. The surf 
 rolled shoreward like a bath of molten metals, all confused of 
 blue, and red, and green, and gold — dying dolphin tints that 
 burned strangely beneath the purple skies and tranquil stars. 
 
26 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Boats at sea hung out their crimson cressets, flickering in long 
 lines on the bay ; and larger craft moved slowly with rows of 
 lamps defining their curves ; while the full moon shed over all 
 her * vitreous pour, just tinged with blue.' To some tastes this 
 mingling of natural and artificial effects would seem unworthy 
 of sober notice ; but I confess to having enjoyed it with 
 childish eagerness like music never to be forgotten. 
 
 After a day upon the water it is pleasant to rest at sunset 
 in the loggia above the sea. The Bay of Naples stretches far 
 and wide in front, beautiful by reason chiefly of the long fine 
 line descending from Vesuvius, dipping almost to a level and 
 then gliding up to join the highlands of the north. Now sun 
 and moon begin to mingle : waning and waxing splendours. 
 The cliff's above our heads are still blushing a deep flame- 
 colour, like the heart of some tea-rose \ when lo, the touch 
 of the huntress is laid upon those eastern pinnacles, and the 
 horizon glimmers with her rising. Was it on such a night that 
 Ferdinand of Aragon fled from his capital before the French, 
 with eyes turned ever to the land he loved, chanting, as ha 
 leaned from his galley's stern, that melancholy psalm — ' Except 
 the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain' — 
 and seeing Naples dwindle to a white blot on the purple 
 shore ? 
 
 Our journey takes the opposite direction. Farewell to 
 Capri, welcome to Sorrento ! The roads are sweet with scent 
 of acacia and orange flowers. When you walk in a garden at 
 night, the white specks beneath your feet are fallen petals of 
 lemon blossoms. Over the walls hang cataracts of roses, 
 honey-pale clusters of the Banksia rose, and pink bushes of 
 the China rose, growing as we never see them grow with us. 
 The grey rocks wave with gladiolus — feathers of crimson, set 
 amid tufts of rosemary, and myrtle, and tree-spurge. In the 
 clefts of the sandstone, and behind the orchard-walls, sleeps a 
 dark green night of foliage, in the midst of which gleam globed 
 
AMALFI, P^STUM, CAPRI. 27 
 
 oranges, and lemons dropping like great pearls of palest amber 
 dew. It is difficult to believe that the lemons have not grown 
 into length by their own weight, as though mere hanging on 
 the bough prevented them from being round — so waxen are 
 they. Overhead soar stone-pines — a roof of sombre green, a 
 lattice-work of strong red branches, through which the moon 
 peers wonderfully. One part of this marvellous piano is bare 
 rock tufted with keen-scented herbs, and sparsely grown with 
 locust-trees and olives. Another waves from sea to summit 
 with beech-copses and oak-woods, as verdant as the most 
 abundant English valley. Another region turns its hoary 
 raiment of olive-gardens to the sun and sea, or flourishes with 
 fig and vine. Everywhere, the houses of men are dazzling 
 white, perched on natural coigns of vantage, clustered on the 
 brink of brown cliffs, nestling under mountain eaves, or piled 
 up from the sea-beach in ascending tiers, until the broad knees 
 of the hills are reached, and great Pan, the genius of solitude 
 in nature, takes unto himself a region yet untenanted by man. 
 The occupations of the sea and land are blent together on this 
 shore ; and the people are both blithe and gentle. It is true 
 that their passions are upon the surface, and that the knife is 
 ready to their hand. But the combination of fierceness and 
 softness in them has an infinite charm when one has learned 
 by observation that their lives are laborious and frugal, and 
 that their honesty is hardly less than their vigour. Happy 
 indeed are they — so happy that, but for crimes accumulated 
 through successive generations by bad governors, and but for 
 superstitions cankering the soul within, they might deserve 
 what Shelley wrote of his imagined island in ' Epipsychidion.' 
 
28 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 What is the meaning of our English Christmas ? What makes 
 it seem so truly Northern, national, and homely, that we do not 
 like to keep the feast upon a foreign shore ? These questions 
 grew upon me as I stood one Advent afternoon beneath the 
 Dome of Florence. A priest was thundering from the pulpit 
 against French scepticism, and exalting the miracle of the 
 Incarnation. Through the whole dim church blazed altar 
 candles. Crowds of men and women knelt or sat about the 
 transepts, murmuring their prayers of preparation for the festival. 
 At the door, were pedlars, selling little books, in which were 
 printed the offices for Christmas-tide, with stories of S. Felix 
 and S. Catfierine, whose devotion to the infant Christ had 
 wrought them weal, and promises of the remission of four pur- 
 gatorial centuries to those who zealously observed the service of 
 the Church at this most holy time. I knew that the people of 
 Florence were preparing for Christmas in their own way. But 
 it was not our way. It happened that outside the church the 
 climate seemed as wintry as our own — snow-storms and ice, 
 and wind and chilling fog, suggesting Northern cold. But as 
 the palaces of Florence lacked our comfortable firesides, and 
 the greetings of friends lacked our hearty handshakes and loud 
 good wishes, so there seemed to be a want of the home feeling 
 in those Christmas services and customs. Again I asked myself, 
 'What do we mean by Christmas?' 
 
 The same thought pursued me as I drove to Rome : by 
 
THOUGHTS IN JTjiLY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 29 
 
 Siena, still and brown, uplifted, mid her russet hills and wilder- 
 ness of rolling plain ; by Chiusi, with its sepulchral city of a 
 dead and unknown people ; through the chestnut forests of the 
 Apennines ; by Orvieto's rock, Viterbo's fountains, and the oak- 
 grown solitudes of the Ciminian heights, from which one looks 
 across the broad lake of Bolsena and the Roman plain. Bril- 
 liant sunlight, Hke that of a day in late September, shone upon 
 the landscape, and I thought — Can this be Christmas ? Are 
 they bringing mistletoe and holly on the country carts into the 
 towns in far-off England ? Is it clear and frosty there, with 
 the tramp of heels upon the flag, or snowing silently, or foggy 
 with a round red sun and cries of warning at the corners of the 
 streets ? 
 
 I reached Rome on Christmas-eve, in time to hear mid- 
 night services in the Sistine Chapel and S. John Lateran, to 
 breathe the dust of decayed shrines, to wonder at doting 
 cardinals begrimed with snuff, and to resent the open-mouthed 
 bad taste of my countrymen who made a mockery of these 
 palsy-stricken ceremonies. Nine cardinals going to sleep, nine 
 train-bearers talking scandal, twenty huge, handsome Switzers 
 in the dress devised by Michael Angelo, some ushers, a choir 
 caged off by gilded railings, the insolence and eagerness of poly- 
 glot tourists, plenty of wax-candles dripping on people's heads, 
 and a continual nasal drone proceeding from the gilded cage, 
 out of which were caught at intervals these words, and these 
 only, — ' Saecula saeculorum, amen.' Such was the celebrated 
 Sistine service. The chapel blazed with light, and very strange 
 did Michael Angelo's Last Judgment, his Sibyls, and his Pro- 
 phets, appear upon the roof and wall above this motley and 
 unmeaning crowd. 
 
 Next morning I put on my dress-clothes and white tie, 
 and repaired, with groups of Englishmen similarly attired, and 
 of Engliswomen in black crape — the regulation costume — to 
 S. Peter's. It was a glorious and cloudless morning ; sun- 
 
30 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 beams streamed in columns from the southern windows, falling 
 on the vast space full of soldiers and a mingled mass of every 
 kind of people. Up the nave stood double files of the 
 Pontifical guard. Monks and nuns mixed with the Swiss 
 cuirassiers and halberds. Contadini crowded round the sacred 
 images, and especially round the toe of S. Peter. I saw many 
 mothers lift their swaddled babies up to kiss it. Valets of car- 
 dinals, with the invariable red umbrellas, hung about side 
 chapels and sacristies. Purple-mantled monsignori, like 
 emperor butterflies, floated down the aisles from sunlight into 
 shadow. Movement, colour, and the stir of expectation, made 
 the church alive. We showed our dress- clothes to the guard, 
 were admitted within their ranks, and solemnly walked up 
 toward the dome. There under its broad canopy stood the 
 altar, glittering with gold and candles. The choir was carpeted 
 and hung with scarlet. Two magnificent thrones rose ready 
 for the Pope : guards of honour, soldiers, attaches, and the 
 ehte of the residents and visitors in Rome, were scattered in 
 groups picturesquely varied by ecclesiastics of all orders and 
 degrees. At ten a stirring took place near the great west door. 
 It opened, and we saw the procession of the Pope and his 
 cardinals. Before him marched the singers and the blowers of 
 the silver trumpets, making the most liquid melody. Then 
 came his Cap of Maintenance, and three tiaras ; then a com- 
 pany of mitred priests ; next the cardinals in scarlet ; and last, 
 aloft beneath a canopy, upon the shoulders of men, and flanked 
 by the mystic fans, advanced the Pope himself, swaying to and 
 fro like a Lama, or an Aztec king. Still the trumpets blew 
 most silverly, and still the people knelt ; and as he came, we 
 knelt and had his blessing. Then he took his state and 
 received homage. After this the choir began to sing a mass 
 of Palestrina's, and the deacons robed the Pope. Marvellous 
 putting on and taking off of robes and tiaras and mitres ensued, 
 during which there was much bowing and praying and burning 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 31 
 
 of incense. At last, when he had reached the highest stage of 
 sacrificial sanctity, he proceeded to the altar, waited on by 
 cardinals and bishops. Having censed it carefully, he took a 
 higher throne and divested himself of part of his robes. Then 
 the mass went on in earnest, till the moment of consecration, 
 when it paused, the Pope descended from his throne, passed 
 down the choir, and reached the altar. Every one knelt ; the 
 shrill bell tinkled ; the silver trumpets blew ; the air became 
 sick and heavy with incense, so that sun and candle light 
 swooned in an atmosphere of odorous cloud-wreaths. The 
 whole church trembled, hearing the strange subtle music vibrate 
 in the dome, and seeing the Pope with his own hands lift 
 Christ's body from the altar and present it to the people. An 
 old parish priest, pilgrim from some valley of the Apennines, 
 who knelt beside me, cried and quivered with excess of adora- 
 tion. The great tombs around, the sculptured saints and 
 angels, the dome, the volumes of light and incense and un- 
 familiar melody, the hierarchy ministrant, the white and central 
 figure of the Pope, the multitude— made up an overpowering 
 scene. What followed was comparatively tedious. My mind 
 again went back to England, and I thought of Christmas 
 services beginning in all village churches and all cathedrals 
 throughout the land — their old familiar hymn, their anthem of 
 Handel, their trite and sleepy sermons. How different the 
 two feasts are — Christmas in Rome, Christmas in England — 
 Italy and the North — the spirit of Latin and the spirit of 
 Teutonic Christianity. 
 
 What, then, constitutes the essence of our Christmas as dif- 
 ferent from that of more Southern nations? In their origin 
 they are the same. The stable of Bethlehem, the star-led kings, 
 the shepherds, and the angels — all the beautiful story, in fact, 
 which S. Luke alone of the EvangeHsts has preserved for us — 
 are what the whole Christian world owes to the religious feeling 
 of the Hebrews. The first and second chapters of S. Luke 
 
32 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL V. 
 
 are most important in the history of Christian mythology and 
 art. They are far from containing the whole of what we mean 
 by Christmas ; but the religious poetry which gathers round 
 that season, must be sought upon their pages. Angels, ever 
 since the Exodus, played a first part in the visions of the 
 Hebrew prophets and in the lives of their heroes. We know 
 not what reminiscences of old Egyptian genii, what strange 
 shadows of the winged beasts of Persia, flitted through their 
 dreams. In the desert, or under the boundless sky of Babylon, 
 these shapes became no less distinct than the precise outlines 
 of Oriental scenery. They incarnated the vivid thoughts and 
 intense longings of the prophets, who gradually came to give 
 them human forms and titles. We hear of them by name, as 
 servants and attendants upon God, as guardians of nations, 
 and patrons of great men. To the Hebrew mind the whole 
 unseen world was full of spirits, active, strong, and swift of 
 flight, of various aspect, and with power of speech. It is hard 
 to imagine what the first Jewish disciples and the early Greek 
 and Roman converts thought of these great beings. To us, 
 the hierarchies of Dionysius, the services of the Church, the 
 poetry of Dante and Milton, and the forms of art, have made 
 them quite familiar. Northern nations have appropriated the 
 Angels, and invested them with attributes alien to their Oriental 
 origin. They fly through our pine-forests, and the gloom of 
 cloud or storm ; they ride upon our clanging bells, and gather 
 in swift squadrons among the arches of Gothic cathedrals ; 
 we see them making light in the cavernous depth of woods, 
 where sun or moon beams rarely pierce, and ministering to 
 the wounded or the weary ; they bear aloft the censers of the 
 mass ; they sing in the anthems of choristers, and live in 
 strains of poetry and music ; our churches bear their names ; 
 we call our children by their titles ; we love them as our 
 guardians, and the whole unseen world is made a home to 
 us by their imagined presence. All these things are the 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 33 
 
 growth of time and the work of races whose myth-making 
 imagination is more artistic than that of the Hebrews. Yet this 
 rich legacy of romance is bound up in the second chapter of 
 S. Luke ; and it is to him we must give thanks when at Christ- 
 mas-tide we read of the shepherds and the angels in English 
 words more beautiful than his own Greek. 
 
 The angels in the stable of Bethlehem, the kings who came 
 from the far East, and the adoring shepherds, are the gift of 
 Hebrew legend and of the Greek physician Luke to Christmas. 
 How these strange and splendid incidents affect modern fancy 
 remains for us to examine \ at present we must ask, What did 
 the Romans give to Christmas ? The customs of the Christian 
 religion, like everything that belongs to the modem world, 
 have nothing pure and simple in their nature. They are the 
 growth,of long ages, and of widely different systems, parts of 
 which have been fused into one living whole. In this respect 
 they resemble our language, our blood, our literature, and our 
 modes of thought and feeling. We find Christianity in one 
 sense wholly original ; in another sense composed of old 
 materials ; in both senses universal and cosmopolitan. The 
 Roman element in Christmas is a remarkable instance of this 
 acquisitive power of Christianity. The celebration of the 
 festival takes place at the same time as that of the Pagan Satur- 
 nalia ; and from the old customs of that holiday, Christmas 
 absorbed much that was consistent with the spirit of the 
 new^ religion. During the Saturnalia the world enjoyed, in 
 thought at least, a perfect freedom. Men who had gone to bed 
 as slaves, rose their own masters. From the ergastula and 
 dismal sunless cages they went forth to ramble in the streets 
 and fields. Liberty of speech was given them, and they might 
 satirise those vices of their lords to which, on other days, they 
 had to minister. Rome on this day, by a strange negation of 
 logic, which we might almost call a prompting of blind con- 
 science, negatived the philosophic dictum that barbarians were 
 
 D 
 
34 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 by law of nature slaves, and acknowledged the higher principle 
 of equality. The Saturnalia stood out from the whole year 
 as a protest in favour of universal brotherhood, and the 
 right that all men share alike to enjoy life after their own 
 fashion, within the bounds that nature has assigned them. We 
 do not know how far the Stoic school, which was so strong in 
 Rome, and had so many points of contact with the Christians, 
 may have connected its own theories of equality with this old 
 custom of the Saturnalia. But it is possible that the fellowship 
 of human beings, and the temporary abandonment of class 
 prerogatives, became a part of Christmas through the habit of 
 the Saturnalia. We are perhaps practising a Roman virtue to 
 this day when at Christmas-time our hand is liberal, and we 
 think it wrong that the poorest wretch should fail to feel the 
 pleasure of the day. 
 
 Of course Christianity inspired the freedom of the Saturnalia 
 Y^ith a higher meaning. The mystery of the Incarnation, or 
 the deification of human nature, put an end to slavery through 
 all the year, as well as on this single day. What had been a 
 kind of aimless licence became the most ennobling principle 
 by which men are exalted to a state of self-respect and mutual 
 reverence. Still in the Saturnalia was found, ready-made, an 
 easy symbol of unselfish enjoyment. It is, however, dangerous 
 to push speculations of this kind to the very verge of possibility. 
 
 The early Roman Christians probably kept Christmas with 
 no special ceremonies. Christ was as yet too close to them. 
 He had not become the glorious creature of their fancy, but 
 was partly an historic being, partly confused in their imagina- 
 tion with reminiscences of Pagan deities. As the Good 
 Shepherd, and as Orpheus, we find him painted in the Cata- 
 combs ; and those who thought of him as God, loved to dwell 
 upon his risen greatness more than on the idyll of his birth. 
 To them his entry upon earth seemed less a subject of rejoicing 
 than his opening of the heavens ; they suffered, and looked 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 35 
 
 forward to a future happiness ; they would not seem to make 
 this world permanent by sharing its gladness with the Heathens. 
 Theirs, in truth, was a religion of hope and patience, not of 
 triumphant recollection or of present joyfulness. 
 
 The Northern converts of the early Church added more to 
 the peculiar character of our Christmas. Who can tell what 
 Pagan rites were half sanctified by their association with that 
 season, or how much of our cheerfulness belonged to Heathen 
 orgies and the banquets of grim warlike gods? Certainly 
 nothing strikes one more in reading Scandinavian poetry, than 
 the strange mixture of Pagan and Christian sentiments which it 
 presents. For though the missionaries of the Church did all 
 they could to wean away the minds of men from their old 
 superstitions ; yet, wiser than their modern followers, they saw 
 that some things might remain untouched, and that even the 
 great outlines of the Christian faith might be adapted to the 
 habits of the people whom they studied to convert. Thus, on 
 the one hand, they destroyed the old temples one by one, and 
 called the idols by the name of devils, and strove to obliterate 
 the songs which sang great deeds of bloody gods and heroes ; 
 while, on the other, they taught the Northern sea-kings that 
 Jesus was a Prince surrounded by twelve dukes, who conquered 
 all the world. Besides, they left the days of the v.'eek to their 
 old patrons. It is certain that the imagination of the people 
 preserved more of heathendom than even such missionaries 
 could approve ; mixing up the deeds of the Christian saints with 
 old heroic legends ; seeing Balder's beauty in Christ and the 
 strength of Thor in Samson ; attributing magic to S. John ; 
 swearing, as of old, bloody oaths in God's name, over the 
 gilded boar's-head ; burning the yule-log, and cutting sacred 
 boughs to grace their new-built churches. 
 
 The songs of choirs and sound of holy bells, and superstitious 
 reverence for the mass, began to tell upon the people ; and 
 soon the echo of their old religion only swelled upon the ear at 
 
 D 2 
 
36 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 intervals, attaching itself to times of more than usual sanctity. 
 Christmas was one of these times, and the old faith threw 
 around its celebration a fantastic light. Many customs of the 
 genial Pagan Hfe remained; they seemed harmless when the 
 sense of joy was Christian. The Druid's mistletoe graced the 
 church porches of England and of France, and no blood lingered 
 on its berries. Christmas thus became a time of extraordinary 
 mystery. The people loved it as connecting their old Hfe with 
 the new religion, perhaps unconsciously, though every one 
 might feel that Christmas was no common Christian feast. On 
 its eve strange wonders happened : the thorn that sprang at 
 Glastonbury from the sacred crown which Joseph brought with 
 him from Palestine, when Avalon was still an island, blossomed 
 on that day. The Cornish miners seemed to hear the sound 
 of singing men arise from submerged churches by the shore, 
 and others said that bells, beneath the ground where villages 
 had been, chimed yearly on that eve. No evil thing had 
 power, as Marcellus in * Hamlet' tells us, and the bird of dawning 
 crowed the whole night through. One might multiply folk-lore 
 about the sanctity of Christmas, but enough has been said to 
 show that round it lingered long the legendary spirit of old 
 Paganism. It is not to Jews, or Greeks, or Romans only that 
 we owe our ancient Christmas fancies, but also to those half- 
 heathen ancestors who lovingly looked back to Odin's days, 
 and held the old while they embraced the new. 
 
 Let us imagine Christmas Day in a mediaeval town of 
 Northern England. The cathedral is only partly finished. Its 
 nave and transepts are the work of Norman architects, but 
 the choir has been destroyed in order to be rebuilt by more 
 graceful designers and more skilful hands. The old city is full 
 of craftsmen, assembled to complete the church. Some have 
 come as a religious duty, to work off their tale of sins by bodily 
 labour. Some are animated by a love of art — simple men, who 
 might have rivalled with the Greeks in ages of more cultivation. 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 37 
 
 Others, again, are well-known carvers, brought for hire from 
 distant towns and countries beyond the sea. But to-day, and 
 for some days past, the sound of hammer and chisel has been 
 silent in the choir. Monks have bustled about the nave, 
 dressing it up with holly-boughs and bushes of yew, and pre- 
 paring a stage for the sacred play they are going to exhibit on 
 the feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus Christi, and now 
 the market-place stands inches deep in snow, so that the 
 Miracles must be enacted beneath a roof instead of in the open 
 air. And what place so appropriate as the cathedral, where 
 poor people may have warmth and shelter while they see the 
 show? Besides, the gloomy old church, with its windows 
 darkened by the falling snow, lends itself to candlelight effects 
 that will enhance the splendour of the scene. Everything is 
 ready. The incense of morning mass yet lingers round the 
 altar. The voice of the friar who told the people from the 
 pulpit the story of Christ's birth, has hardly ceased to echo. 
 Time has just been given for a mid-day dinner, and for the 
 shepherds and farm lads to troop in from the country-side. 
 The monks are ready at the wooden stage to draw its curtain, 
 and all the nave is full of eager faces. There you may see the 
 smith and carpenter, the butcher's wife, the country priest, 
 and the grey cowled friar. Scores of workmen, whose home 
 the cathedral for the time is made, are also here, and you 
 may know the artists by their thoughtful foreheads and keen 
 eyes. That young monk carved Madonna and her Son above 
 the southern porch. Beside him stands the master mason, 
 whose strong arms have hewn gigantic images of prophets and 
 apostles for the pinnacles outside the choir; and the little 
 man with cunning eyes between the two is he who cuts such 
 quaint hobgoblins for the gargoyles. He has a vein of satire 
 in him, and his humour overflows into the stone. Many and 
 many a grim beast and hideous head has he hidden among 
 vine-leaves and trellis-work upon the porches. Those who 
 
38 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 know him well are loth to anger him, for fear their sons and sons' 
 sons should laugh at them for ever caricatured in solid stone. 
 
 Hark ! there sounds the bell. The curtain is drawn, 
 and the candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What 
 is this first scene ? We have God in Heaven, dressed like a 
 Pope with triple crown, and attended by his court of angels. 
 They sing and toss up censers till he lifts his hand and speaks. 
 In a long Latin speech he unfolds the order of creation 
 and his will concerning man. At the end of it up leaps an ugly 
 buffoon, in goatskin, with rams' horns upon his head. Some 
 children begin to cry ; but the older people laugh, for this is the 
 Devil, the clown and comic character, who talks their common 
 tongue, and has no reverence before the very throne of Heaven. 
 He asks leave to plague men, and receives it ; then, with many 
 a curious caper, he goes down to Hell, beneath the stage. 
 The angels sing and toss their censers as before, and the first 
 scene closes to a sound of organs. The next is more conven- 
 tional, in spite of some grotesque incidents. It represents the 
 Fall ; the monks hurry over it quickly, as a tedious but neces- 
 sary prelude to the birth of Christ. That is the true Christmas 
 part of the ceremony, and it is understood that the best actors 
 and most beautiful dresses are to be reserved for it. The 
 builders of the choir in particular are interested in the coming 
 scenes, since one of their number has been chosen, for his 
 handsome face and tenor voice, to sing the angel's part. He 
 is a young fellow of nineteen, but his beard is not yet groAvn, 
 and long hair hangs down upon his shoulders. A chorister of 
 the cathedral, his younger brother, will act the Virgin Mary. 
 At last the curtain is drawn. 
 
 We see a cottage-room, dimly lighted by a lamp, and Mary 
 spinning near her bedside. She sings a country air, and goes 
 on working, till a rustling noise is heard, more light is thrown 
 upon the stage, and a glorious creature, in white raiment, with 
 broad golden wings, appears. He bears a lily, and cries, — 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 39 
 
 * Ave Maria, Gratia Plena ! ' She does not answer, but stands 
 confused, with down-dropped eyes and timid mien. Gabriel 
 rises from the ground and comforts her, and sings aloud his 
 message of glad tidings. Then Mary gathers courage, and, 
 kneehng in her turn, thanks God ; and when the angel and his 
 radiance disappears, she sings the song of the Magnificat, clearly 
 and simply, in the darkened room. Very soft and silver sounds 
 this hymn through the great church. The women kneel, and 
 children are hushed as by a lullaby. But some of the hinds 
 and 'prentice-lads begin to think it rather dull. They are not 
 sorry when the next scene opens with a sheepfold and a little 
 camp-fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from the fold, and 
 five or six common fellows are sitting round the blazing wood. 
 One might fancy they had stepped straight from the church 
 floor to the stage, so natural do they look. Besides, they call 
 themselves by common names — Colin, and Tom Lie-a-bed, 
 and nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes in the 
 church when these shepherds stand up, and hold debate about 
 a stolen sheep. Tom Lie-a-bed has nothing to remark but 
 that he is very sleepy, and does not want to go in search of it 
 to-night ; Colm cuts jokes, and throws out shrewd suspicions 
 that Dick knows something of the matter ; but Dick is sly, 
 and keeps them off the scent, although a few of his asides 
 reveal to the audience that he is the real thief. While they are 
 thus talking, silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft music 
 from the church organ breathes, and they appear to fall asleep. 
 The stage is now quite dark, and for a few moments the 
 aisles echo only to the dying melody. When, behold, a ray of 
 light is seen, and splendour grows around the stage from hidden 
 candles, and in the glory Gabriel appears upon a higher plat- 
 form made to look like clouds. The shepherds wake in con- 
 fusion, striving to shelter their eyes from this unwonted brilliancy. 
 But Gabriel waves his lily, spreads his great gold wings, and 
 bids good cheer with clarion voice. The shepherds fall to 
 
40 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 worship, and suddenly round Gabriel there gathers a choir of 
 angels, and a song of ' Gloria in Excelsis ' to the sound of a 
 deep organ is heard far off. From distant aisles it swells, and 
 seems to come from heaven. Through a long resonant fugue 
 the glory flies, and as it ceases with complex conclusion, the 
 lights die out, the angels disappear, and Gabriel fades into the 
 darkness. Still the shepherds kneel, rustically chanting a 
 carol half in Latin, half in English, which begins ' In dulci 
 Jubilo.' The people know it well, and when the chorus rises 
 with ^ Ubi sunt gaudia ? ' its wild melody is caught by voices 
 up and down the nave. This scene makes deep impression 
 upon many hearts ; for the beauty of Gabriel is rare, and few 
 who see him. in his angels dress would know him for the lad 
 who daily carves his lilies and broad water flags about the 
 pillars of the choir. To that simple audience he interprets 
 Heaven, and little children will see him in their dreams. Dark 
 winter nights and awful forests will be trodden by his feet, 
 made musical by his melodious voice, and parted by the rustling 
 of his wings. The youth himself may return to-morrow to the 
 workman's blouse and chisel, but his memory lives in many 
 minds and may form a part of Christmas for the fancy of men 
 as yet unborn. 
 
 The next drawing of the curtain shows us the stable of 
 Bethlehem crowned by its star. There kneels Mary, and 
 Joseph leans upon his staff. The ox and ass are close at 
 hand, and Jesus lies in jewelled robes on straw within the 
 manger. To right and left bow tiie shepherds, worshipping in 
 dumb show, while voices from behind chant a solemn hymn. 
 In the midst of the melody is heard a flourish of trumpets, and 
 heralds step upon the stage, followed by the three crowned 
 kings. They have come from the far East, led by the star. 
 The song ceases, while drums and fifes and trumpets play a 
 stately march. The kings pass by, and do obeisance one by 
 one. Each gives soilie costly gift ; each doffs his crown and 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 41 
 
 leaves it at the Saviour's feet. Then they retire to a distance 
 and worship in silence like the shepherds. Again the angel's 
 song is heard, and while it dies away the curtain closes, and 
 the lights are put out. 
 
 The play is over, and evening has come. The people must 
 go from the warm church into the frozen snow, and crunch 
 their homeward way beneath the moon. But in their minds 
 they carry a sense of Hght and music and unearthly loveliness. 
 Not a scene of this day's pageant will be lost. It grows within 
 them and creates the poetry of Christmas. Nor must we forget 
 the sculptors who listen to the play. We spoke of them 
 minutely, because these mysteries sank deep into their souls 
 and found a way into their carvings on the cathedral walls. 
 The monk who made Madonna by the southern porch, will 
 remember Gabriel, and place him bending low in lordly saluta- 
 tion by her side. The painted glass of the chapter-house will 
 glow with fiery choirs of angels learned by heart that night. 
 And who does not know the mocking devils and quaint satyrs 
 that the humorous sculptor will carve among his fruits and 
 flowers ? Some of the misereres of the stalls still bear portraits 
 of the shepherd thief, and of the ox and ass who blinked so 
 blindly when the kings, by torchlight, brought their dazzling 
 gifts. Truly these old miracle-plays and the carved work of 
 cunning hands that they inspired, are worth to us more than all 
 the delicate creations of Italian pencils. Our homely Northern 
 churches still retain, for the child who reads their bosses and 
 their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry than we can find 
 in Fra Angelico's devoutness or the liveliness of Giotto. Not 
 that Southern artists have done nothing for our Christmas. 
 Cimabue's gigantic angels at Assisi, and the radiant seraphs of 
 Raphael or of Signorelli, were seen by Milton in his Italian 
 journey. He gazed in Romish churches on graceful Nativities, 
 into which Angelico and Credi threw their simple souls. How 
 much they tinged his fancy we cannot say. But what we know 
 
42 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 of heavenly hierarchies we later men have learned from Milton ; 
 and what he saw he spoke, and what he spoke in sounding 
 verse lives for us now and sways our reason, and controls our 
 fancy, and makes fine art of high theology. 
 
 Thus have I attempted rudely to recall a scene of 
 mediaeval Christmas. To understand the domestic habits of 
 that age is not so easy, though one can fancy how the barons 
 in their halls held Christmas, with the boar's head and the 
 jester and the great yule-log. On the dais sat lord and lady, 
 waited on by knight and squire and page ; but down the long 
 hall feasted yeomen and hinds and men-at-arms. Little 
 remains to us of those days, and we have outworn their jollity. 
 It is really from the Elizabethan poets that our sense of old- 
 fashioned festivity arises. They lived at the end of one age 
 and the beginning of another. Though born to inaugurate the 
 new era, they belonged by right of association and sympathy 
 to the period that was fleeting fast away. This enabled them 
 to represent the poetry of past and present. Old customs and 
 old states of feeling, when they are about to perish, pass into 
 the realm of art. For art is like a flower, which consummates 
 the plant and ends its growth, while it translates its nature into 
 loveliness. Thus Dante and Lorenzetti and Orcagna enshrined 
 mediaeval theology in works of imperishable beauty, and 
 Shakspere and his fellows made immortal the life and manners 
 that were decaying in their own time. Men do not reflect 
 upon their mode of living till they are passing from one state 
 to another, and the consciousness of art implies a beginning of 
 new things. Let one who wishes to appreciate the ideal of an 
 English Christmas read Shakspere's song, ' When icicles 
 hang bv the wall ; ' and if he knows some old grey grange, far 
 from the high-road, among pastures, with a river flowing near, 
 and cawing rooks in elm-trees by the garden-wall, let him 
 place Dick and Joan and Marian there. 
 
 We have heard so much of pensioners, and barons of beef, 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 43 
 
 and yule-logs, and bay, and rosemary, and holly boughs cut upon 
 the hill-side, and crab-apples bobbing in the wassail bowl, and 
 masques and mummers, and dancers on the rushes, that we need 
 not here describe a Christmas-eve in olden times. Indeed, this 
 last half of the nineteenth century is weary of the worn-out 
 theme. But one characteristic of the age of Elizabeth may be 
 mentioned : that is its love of music. Fugued melodies, sung 
 by voices without instruments, were much in vogue. We call 
 them madrigals, and their half-merry, half-melancholy music 
 yet recalls the time when England had her gift of art, when 
 she needed not to borrow of Marenzio and Palestrina, when 
 her Wilbyes and her Morlands and her Dowlands won the 
 praise of Shakspere and the court. We hear the echo of 
 those songs; and in some towns at Christmas or the New 
 Year old madrigals still sound in praise of Oriana and of 
 Phyllis and the country life. What are called ' waits ' are but a 
 poor travesty of those well-sung Elizabethan carols. We turn 
 in our beds half-pitying, half-angered by harsh voices that quaver 
 senseless ditties in the fog, or by tuneless fiddles playing popular 
 airs without propriety or interest. 
 
 It is a strange mixture of picturesquely blended elements 
 which the Elizabethan age presents. We see it afar off like the 
 meeting of a hundred streams that grow into a river. We are 
 sailing on the flood long after it has shrunk into a single tide, 
 and the banks are dull and tame, and the all-absorbing ocean 
 is before us. Yet sometimes we hear a murmur of the distant 
 fountains, and Christmas is a day on which for some the many 
 waters of the age of great Elizabeth sound clearest. 
 
 The age which followed, was not poetical. The Puritans 
 restrained festivity and art, and hated music. Yet from this 
 period stands out the hymn of Milton, written when he was a 
 youth, but bearing promise of his later muse. At one time, 
 as we read it, we seem to be looking on a picture by some 
 old Italian artist. But no picture can give Milton's music or 
 
44 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 make the *base of heaven's deep organ blow.' Here he 
 touches new associations, and reveals the realm of poetry which 
 it remains for later times to traverse. Milton felt the true 
 sentiment of Northern Christmas when he opened his poem 
 with the * winter wild,' in defiance of historical probability, and 
 what the French call local colouring. Nothing shows how 
 wholly we people of the North have appropriated Christmas, and 
 made it a creature of our own imagination, more than this 
 dwelhng on winds and snows and bitter frosts, so alien from 
 the fragrant nights of Palestine. But Milton's hymn is like a 
 symphony, embracing many thoughts and periods of varying 
 melody. The music of the seraphim brings to his mind the 
 age of gold, and that suggests the judgment and the redemp- 
 tion of the world. Satan's kingdom fails, the false gods go 
 forth, Apollo leaves his rocky throne, and all the dim Phceni- 
 cian and Egyptian deities, with those that classic fancy fabled, 
 troop away like ghosts into the darkness. What a swell of stormy 
 sound is in those lines ! It recalls the very voice of Pan, 
 which went abroad upon the waters when Christ died, and all 
 the utterances of God on earth, feigned in Delphian shrines, 
 or truly spoken on the sacred hills, were mute for ever. 
 
 After Milton came the age which, of all others, is tlie 
 prosiest in our history. We cannot find much novelty of 
 interest added to Christmas at this time. But there is one 
 piece of poetry that somehow or another seems to belong to 
 the reign of Anne and of the Georges — the poetry of bells. 
 Great civic corporations reigned in those days ; churchwardens 
 tyrannised and were rich ; and many a goodly chime of bells 
 they hung in our old church -steeples. Let us go into the 
 square room of the belfry, where the clock ticks all day, and 
 the long ropes hang dangling down, with fur upon their hemp 
 for ringers' hands above the socket set for ringers' feet. There 
 we may read long lists of gilded names, recording mountainous 
 bob-majors, rung a century ago, with special praise to him 
 
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS. 45 
 
 who pulled the tenor-bell, year after year, until he died, and 
 left it to his son. The art of bell-ringing is profound, and 
 requires a long apprenticeship. Even now, in some old cities, 
 the ringers form a guild and mystery. Suppose it to be 
 Christmas-eve in the year 1772. It is now a quarter before 
 twelve, and the sexton has unlocked the church-gates and 
 set the belfry door ajar. Candles are lighted in the room 
 above, and jugs of beer stand ready for the ringers. Up they 
 bustle one by one, and listen to the tickings of the clock that 
 tells the passing minutes. At last it gives a click ; and now 
 they throw off coat and waistcoat, strap their girdles tighter 
 round the waist, and each holds his rope in readiness. 
 Twelve o'clock strikes, and forth across the silent city go the 
 clamorous chimes. The steeple rocks and reels, and far 
 away the night is startled. Damp turbulent west winds, rush- 
 ing from the distant sea, and swirling up the inland valleys, 
 catch the sound, and toss it to and fro, and bear it by gusts 
 and snatches to watchers far away, upon bleak moorlands and 
 the brows of woody hills. Is there not something dim and 
 strange in the thought of these eight men meeting, in the heart 
 of a great city, in the narrow belfry -room, to stir a mighty 
 sound that shall announce to listening ears miles, miles away, 
 the birth of a new day, and tell to dancers, mourners, 
 students, sleepers, and perhaps to dying men, that Christ is 
 born? 
 
 Let this association suffice for the time. And of our own 
 Christmas so much has been said and sung by better voices, 
 that we may leave it to the feelings and the memories of those 
 who read the fireside tales of Dickens, and are happy in their 
 homes. The many elements which I have endeavoured to 
 recall, mix all of them in the Christmas of the present, partly, 
 no doubt, under the form of vague and obscure sentiment ; 
 partly as time-honoured reminiscences, partly as a portion of 
 our own life. But there is one phase of poetry which we 
 
46 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY, 
 
 enjoy more fully than any previous age. That is music. 
 Music is of all the arts the youngest, and of all can free herself 
 most readily from symbols. A fine piece of music moves 
 before us like a living passion, which needs no form or colour, 
 no interpreting associations, to convey its strong but indistinct 
 significance. Each man there finds his soul revealed to him, 
 and enabled to assume a cast of feeling in obedience to the 
 changeful sound. In this manner all our Christmas thoughts 
 and emotions have been gathered up for us by Handel in his 
 drama of the ' Messiah.' To Englishmen it is almost as well 
 known and necessary as the Bible. But only one who has 
 heard its pastoral episode performed year after year from 
 childhood in the hushed cathedral, where pendent lamps or 
 sconces make the gloom of aisle and choir and airy column 
 half intelligible, can invest this music with long associations of 
 accumulated awe. To his mind it brings a scene at midnight 
 of hills clear in the starlight of the East, with white flocks 
 scattered on the down. The breath of winds that come and 
 go, the bleating of the sheep, with now and then a tinkling 
 bell, and now and then the voice of an awakened shepherd, is 
 all that breaks the deep repose. Overhead shimmer the bright 
 stars, and low to west lies the moon, not pale and sickly (he 
 dreams) as in our North, but golden, full, and bathing distant 
 towers and tall aerial palms with floods of light. Such is a 
 child's vision, begotten by the music of the symphony ; and 
 when he wakes from trance at its low silver close, the dark 
 cathedral seems glowing with a thousand angel faces, and all 
 the air is tremulous with angel wings. Then follow the solitary 
 treble voice and the swift chorus. 
 
47 
 
 ANTING US, 
 
 Visitors to picture and sculpture galleries are haunted by the 
 forms of two handsome young men — Sebastian and Antinous. 
 Both were saints : the one of decadent Paganism, the other of 
 mythologising Christianity. According to the popular beliefs 
 to which they owed their canonisation, both suffered death in 
 the bloom of earliest manhood for the faith that burned in them. 
 There is, however, this difference between the two— that whereas 
 Sebastian is a shadowy creature of the pious fancy, Antinous 
 preserves a marked and unmistakable personality. All his 
 statues are distinguished by unchanging characteristics. The 
 pictures of Sebastian vary according to the ideal of adolescent 
 beauty conceived by each successive artist. In the frescoes of 
 Perugino and Luini he shines with the pale pure light of saint- 
 liness. On the canvas of Sodoma he reproduces the volup- 
 tuous charm of youthful Bacchus, with so much of anguish in 
 his martyred features as may serve to heighten his daemonic 
 fascination. On the richer panels of the Venetian masters he 
 glows with a flame of earthly passion aspiring heavenward. 
 Under Guido's hand he is a model of mere carnal comeliness. 
 And so forth through the whole range of the Italian painters. 
 We know Sebastian only by his arrows. The case is very dif- 
 ferent with Antinous. Depicted under diverse attributes — as 
 Hermes of the wrestling-ground, as Aristseus or Vertumnus, as 
 Dionysus, as Ganymede, as Herakles, or as a god of ancient 
 Egypt — his individuaUty is always prominent. No metamor- 
 
48 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 phosis of divinity can change the lineaments he wore on earth. 
 And this difference, so marked in the artistic presentation of 
 the two saints, is no less striking in their several histories. The 
 legend of Sebastian tells us nothing to be relied upon, except 
 that he was a Roman soldier converted to the Christian faith, 
 and martyred. In spite of the perplexity and mystery that in- 
 volve the death of Antinous in impenetrable gloom, he is a true 
 historic personage, no phantom of myth, but a man as real as 
 Hadrian, his master. 
 
 Antinous, as he appears in sculpture, is a young man of 
 eighteen or nineteen years, almost faultless in his form. His 
 beauty is not of a pure Greek type. Though perfectly propor- 
 tioned and developed by gymnastic exercises to the true athletic 
 fulness, his limbs are round and florid, suggesting the possibility 
 of early over-ripeness. The muscles are not trained to sinewy 
 firmness, but yielding and elastic ; the chest is broad and sin- 
 gularly swelling ; and the shoulders are placed so far back from 
 the thorax that the breasts project beyond them in a massive 
 arch. It has been asserted that one shoulder is slightly lower 
 than the other. Some of the busts seem to justify this state- 
 ment ; but the appearance is due probably to the different posi- 
 tion of the two arms, one of which, if carried out, would be 
 lifted and the other be depressed. The legs and arms are 
 modelled with exquisite grace of outline ; yet they do not show 
 that readiness for active service which is noticeable in the statues 
 of the Meleager, the Apoxyomenos, or the Belvedere Hermes. 
 The whole body combines Greek beauty of structure with 
 something of Oriental voluptuousness. The same fusion of 
 diverse elements may be traced in the head. It is not too large, 
 though more than usually broad, and is nobly set upon a mas- 
 sive throat, slightly inclined forwards, as though this posture 
 were habitual ; the hair lies thick in clusters, which only form 
 curls at the tips. The forehead is low and somewhat square ; 
 the eyebrows are level, of a peculiar shape, and very thick, con- 
 
ANTINOUS. 49 
 
 verging so closely as almost to meet above the deep -cut eyes. 
 The nose is straight, but blunter than is consistent with the 
 Greek ideal. Both cheeks and chin are delicately formed, but 
 fuller than a severe taste approves : one might trace in their 
 rounded contours either a survival of infantine innocence and 
 immaturity, or else the sign of rapidly approaching over-bloom. 
 The mouth is one of the loveliest ever carved ; but here again 
 the blending of the Greek and Oriental types is visible. The 
 lips, half parted, seem to pout ; and the distance between mouth 
 and nostrils is exceptionally short. The undefinable expression 
 of the lips, together with the weight of the brows and slumber- 
 ous half-closed eyes, gives a look of sulkiness or voluptuousness 
 to the whole face. This, I fancy, is the first impression which 
 the portraits of Antinous produce ; and Shelley has well con- 
 veyed it by placing the two following phrases, ' eager and im- 
 passioned tenderness ' and ' effeminate suUenness,' in close 
 juxtaposition.^ But, after longer familiarity with the whole 
 range of Antinous' portraits, and after study of his life, we are 
 brought to read the peculiar expression of his face and form 
 somewhat differently. A prevailing melancholy, sweetness of 
 temperament overshadowed by resignation, brooding reverie, 
 the innocence of youth touched and saddened by a calm 
 resolve or an accepted doom — such are the sentences we form 
 to give distinctness to a still vague and uncertain impression. 
 As we gaze, Virgil's lines upon the young Marcellus recur to 
 our mind : what seemed sullen, becomes mournful ; the un- 
 mistakable voluptuousness is transfigured in tranquillity. 
 
 After all is said and written, tHe statues of Antinous do not 
 render up their secret. Like some of the Egyptian gods with 
 whom he was associated, he remains for us a sphinx, secluded 
 in the shade of a ' mild mystery.' His soul, like the Harpo- 
 crates he personated, seems to hold one finger on closed lips, 
 
 ^ * Fragment, The Coliseum. 
 
 E 
 
50 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 in token of eternal silence. One thing, however, is certain. 
 We have before us no figment of the artistic imagination, but a 
 real youth of incomparable beauty, just as nature made him, with 
 all the inscrutableness of undeveloped character, with all the 
 pathos of a most untimely doom, with the almost imperceptible 
 imperfections that render choice reality more permanently charm- 
 ing than the ideal. It has been disputed whether the Antinous 
 statues are portraits or idealised works of inventive art ; and 
 it is usually conceded that the sculptors of Hadrian's age were 
 not able to produce a new ideal type. Critics, therefore, like 
 Helbig and Overbeck, arrive at the conclusion that Antinous 
 was one of nature's masterpieces, modelled in bronze, marble, 
 and granite with almost flawless technical dexterity. Without 
 attaching too much weight to this kind of criticism, it is well 
 to find the decisions of experts in harmony with the instincts 
 of simple observers. Antinous is as real as any man who ever 
 sat for his portrait to a modern sculptor. 
 
 But who was Antinous, and what is known of him ? He 
 was a native of Bithynium or Claudiopolis, a Greek town 
 claiming to have been a colony from Arcadia, which was 
 situated near the Sangarius, in the Roman province of Bithynia ; 
 therefore he may have had pure Hellenic blood in his veins, 
 or, what is more probable, his ancestry may have been hybrid 
 between the Greek immigrants and the native populations of 
 Asia Minor. Antinous was probably born in the first decade 
 of the second century of our era. About his youth and educa- 
 tion we know nothing. He first appears upon the scene of the 
 world's history as Hadrian's friend. Whether the Emperor 
 met with him during his travels in Asia Minor, whether he 
 found him among the students of the University at Athens, 
 or whether the boy had been sent to Rome in his childhood, 
 must remain matter of the merest conjecture. We do not even 
 know for certain whether Antinous was free or a slave. The 
 report that he was one of the Emperor's pages rests upon the 
 
ANTINOUS. 51 
 
 testimony of Hegesippus, quoted by a Christian Father, and 
 cannot therefore be altogether relied upon. It receives, how- 
 ever, some confirmation from the fact that Antinous is more 
 than once represented in the company of Hadrian and Trajan 
 in a page's hunting dress upon the bas-reliefs which adorn the 
 Arch of Constantine. The so-called Antinous-Castor of the Villa 
 Albani is probably of a similar character. Winckelmann, who 
 adopted the tradition as trustworthy, pointed out the similarity 
 between the portraits of Antinous and some lines in Phaedrus, 
 which describe a curly-haired airiensis. If Antinous took the 
 rank of atrieftsis in the imperial pcedagogium, his position would 
 have been, to say the least, respectable; for to these upper servants 
 was committed the charge of the atrium, where the Romans 
 kept their family archives, portraits, and works of art. Yet he 
 must have quitted this kind of service some time before his 
 death, since we find him in the company of Hadrian upon one 
 of those long journeys in which an atriensis would have had 
 no atrium to keep. By the time of Hadrian's visit to Egypt, 
 Antinous had certainly passed into the closest relationship with 
 his imperial master ; and what we know of the Emperor's in- 
 clination tovvards literary and philosophical society perhaps 
 justifies the belief that the youth he admitted to his friendship 
 had imbibed Greek culture, and had been initiated into those 
 cloudy metaphysics which amused the leisure of semi-Oriental 
 thinkers in the last age of decaying Paganism. 
 
 It was a moment in the history of the human mind when 
 East and West were blending their traditions to form the husk 
 of Christian creeds and the fantastic visions of Neoplatonism. 
 Rome herself had received with rapture the strange rites of 
 Nilotic and of Syrian superstition. Alexandria was the forge 
 of fanciful imaginations, the majority of which were destined to 
 pass like vapours and leave not a wrack behind, while a few 
 fastened with the force of dogma on the conscience of awaken- 
 ing Christendom. During Hadrian's reign it was still un- 
 
52 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 certain which among the many hybrid products of that motley 
 age would live and flourish ; and the Emperor, we know, 
 dreamed fondly of reviving the cults and restoring the splendour 
 of degenerate Hellas. At the same time he was not averse to 
 the more mystic rites of Egypt : in his villa at Tivoli he built 
 a Serapeum, and named one of its quarters Canopus. What 
 part Antinous may have taken in the projects of his friend and 
 master we know not ; yet, when we come to consider the 
 circumstances of his death, it may not be superfluous to have 
 thus touched upon the intellectual conditions of the world in 
 which he lived. The mixed blood of the boy. born and bred 
 in a Greek city near the classic ground of Dindymean rites, 
 and his beauty, blent of Hellenic and Eastern qualities, may 
 also not unprofitably be remembered. In such a youth, 
 nurtured between Greece and Asia, admitted to the friendship 
 of an emperor for whom Neo- Hellenism was a life's dream in 
 the midst of grave state-cares, influenced by the dark and 
 symbolical creeds of a dimly apprehended East, might there 
 not have lurked some spark of enthusiasm combining the 
 impulses of Atys and Aristogeiton, pathetic even in its ineffi- 
 ciency when judged by the light of modern knowledge, but 
 heroic at that moment in its boundless vista of great deeds to 
 be accomplished ? 
 
 After journeying through Greece, Asia Minor, Syria, Pales- 
 tine, and Arabia, Hadrian, attended by Antinous, came to Egypt. 
 He there restored the tomb of Pompey, near Pelusium, with 
 great magnificence, and shortly afterwards embarked from 
 Alexandria upon the Nile, proceeding on his journey through 
 Memphis into the Thebaid. When he had arrived near an 
 ancient city named Besa, on the right bank of the river, he lost 
 his friend. Antinous was drowned in the Nile. He had 
 thrown himself, it was believed, into the water ; seeking thus by 
 a voluntary death to substitute his own life for Hadrian's, and 
 to avert predicted perils from the Roman Empire. What these 
 
AN7IN0US. 53 
 
 perils were, and whether Hadrian was ill, or whether an oracle 
 had threatened him with approaching calamity, we do not know. 
 Even supposition is at fault, because the date of the event is 
 still uncertain ; some authorities placing Hadrian's Egyptian 
 journey in the year 122, and others in the year 130 a.d. Of 
 the two dates, the second seems the more probable. We are 
 left to surmise that, if the Emperor was in danger, the recent 
 disturbances which followed a new discovery of Apis, may have 
 exposed him to fanatical conspiracy. The same doubt affects 
 an ingenious conjecture that rumours which reached the Roman 
 court of a new rising in Judaea had disturbed the Emperor's 
 mind, and led to the belief that he was on the verge of a mys- 
 terious doom. He had pacified the Empire and established 
 its administration on a solid basis. Yet the revolt of the 
 indomitable Jews — more dreaded since the days of Titus than 
 any other perturbation of the imperial economy — would have 
 been enough, especially in Egypt, to engender general uneasi- 
 ness. However this may have been, the grief of the Emperor, 
 intensified either by gratitude or remorse, led to the immediate 
 canonisation of Antinous. The city where he died was re- 
 built, and named after him. His worship as a hero and as a god 
 spread far and wide throughout the provinces of the Mediterra- 
 nean. A new star, which appeared about the time of his 
 decease, was supposed to be his soul received into the company 
 of the immortals. Medals were struck m his honour, and 
 countless works of art were produced to make his memory 
 undying. Great cities wore wreaths of red lotos on his feast- 
 day in commemoration of the manner of his death. Public 
 games were celebrated in his honour at the city Antinoe, and 
 also in Arcadian Mantinea. This canonisation may probably 
 have taken place in the fourteenth year of Hadrian's reign, a.d. 
 130.^ Antinous continued to be worshipped until the reign of 
 Valentinian. 
 
 * Overbeck, Hausrath and Mommsen, following apparently the con- 
 
54 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Thus far I have told a simple story, as though the details of 
 the youth's last days were undisputed. Still we are as yet but 
 on the threshold of the subject. All that we have any right 
 to take for uncontested is that Antinous passed from this life 
 near the city of Besa, called thereafter Antinoopolis or Antinoe. 
 Whether he was drowned by accident, whether he drowned 
 himself in order to save Hadrian by vicarious suffering, or 
 whether Hadrian sacrificed him in order to extort the secrets 
 of fate from blood-propitiated deities, remains a question 
 buried in the deepest gloom. With a view to throwing such 
 light as is possible upon the matter, we must proceed to 
 summon in their order the most trustworthy authorities among 
 the ancients. 
 
 Dion Cassius takes precedence. In compiling his life of 
 Hadrian, he had beneath his eyes the Emperor's own ' Commen- 
 taries,' pubHshed under the name of the freedman Phlegon. 
 We therefore learn from him at least what the friend of Antinous 
 wished the world to know about his death ; and though this 
 does not go for much, since Hadrian is himself an accused 
 person in the suit before us, yet the whole Roman Empire 
 may be said to have accepted his account, and based on it a 
 pious cult that held its own through the next three centuries of 
 growing Christianity. Dion, in the abstract of his history 
 compiled by Xiphilinus, speaks then to this effect : ' In Egypt 
 he also built the city named after Antinous. Now Antinous 
 was a native of Bithynium, a city of Bithynia, which we also 
 
 elusions arrived at by Flemmer in his work on Hadrian's journeys, place it 
 in 130 A. D. This would leave an interval of only eight years between the 
 deaths of Antinous and Hadrian. It may here be observed that two 
 medals of Antinous, referred by Rasche with some hesitation to the Egyptian 
 series, bear the dates of the eighth and ninth years of Hadrian's reign. If 
 these coins are genuine, and if we accept Flemmer's conclusions, they must 
 have been struck in the lifetime of Antinous. Neither of them represents 
 Antinous with the insignia of deity : one gives the portrait of Hadrian 
 upon the reverse. 
 
ANTINOUS. 55 
 
 call Claudiopolis. He was Hadrian's favourite, and he died in 
 Egypt : whether by having fallen into the Nile, as Hadrian 
 writes, or by having been sacrificed, as the truth was. For 
 Hadrian, as I have said, was in general overmuch given to 
 superstitious subtleties, and practised all kinds of sorceries and 
 magic arts. At any rate he so honoured Antinous, whether 
 because of the love he felt for him, or because he died 
 voluntarily, since a willing victim was needed for his purpose, 
 that he founded a city in the place where he met this fate, and 
 called it after him, and dedicated statues, or rather images, of 
 him in, so to speak, the whole inhabited world. Lastly, he 
 affirmed that a certain star which he saw was the star of 
 Antinous, and listened with pleasure to the myths invented by 
 his companions about this star having really sprung from the 
 soul of his favourite, and having then for the first time appeared. 
 For which things he was laughed at.' 
 
 We may now hear what Spartian, in his ' Vita Hadriani,' has 
 to say : — ' He lost his favourite, Antinous, while sailing on the 
 Nile, and lamented him like a woman. About Antinous 
 reports vary, for some say that he devoted his life for Hadrian, 
 while others hint what his condition seems to prove, as well as 
 Hadrian's excessive inclination to luxury. Some Greeks, at the 
 instance of Hadrian, canonised him, asserting that oracles were 
 given by him, which Hadrian himself is supposed to have made up. ' 
 
 In the third place comes Aurelius Victor : — ' Others main- 
 tain that this sacrifice of Antinous was both pious and religious ; 
 for when Hadrian was wishing to prolong his fife, and the 
 magicians required a voluntary vicarious victim, they say that, 
 upon the refusal of all others, Antinous offered himself.' 
 
 These are the chief authorities. In estimating them we 
 must remember that, though Dion Cassius wrote less than a 
 century after the event narrated, he has come down to us. 
 merely in fragments and in the epitome of a Byzantine of the 
 twelfth century, when everything that could possibly be 
 
56 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 done to discredit the worship of Antinous, and to blacken the 
 memory of Hadrian, had been attempted by the Christian 
 Fathers. On the other hand, Spartianus and AureUus Victor 
 compiled their histories at too distant a date to be of first-rate 
 value. Taking the three reports together, we find that antiquity 
 differed about the details of Antinous's death. Hadrian himself 
 averred that his friend was drowned ; and it was surmised that 
 he had drowned himself in order to prolong his master's life. 
 The courtiers, however, who had scoffed at Hadrian's fondness 
 for his favourite, and had laughed to see his sorrow for his 
 death, somewhat illogically came to the conclusion that 
 Antinous had been immolated by the Emperor, either because 
 a victim was needed to prolong his life, or because some human 
 sacrifice was required in order to complete a dark mysterious 
 magic rite. Dion, writing not very long after the event, 
 believed that Antinous had been immolated for some such pur- 
 pose with his own consent. Spartian, who wrote at the distance 
 of more than a century, felt uncertain about the question of 
 self-devotion ; but AureUus Victor, following after the interval 
 of another century, unhesitatingly adopted Dion's view, 
 and gave it a fresh colour. This opinion he summarised in a 
 compact, authoritative form, upon which we may perhaps found 
 an assumption that the belief in Antinous, as a self-devoted 
 victim, had been gradually growing through two centuries. 
 
 There are therefore three hypotheses to be considered. 
 The first is that Antinous died an accidental death by drown- 
 ing ; the second is, that Antinous, in some way or another, 
 gave his life willingly for Hadrian's ; the third is, that Hadrian 
 ordered his immolation in the performance of magic rites. 
 
 For the first of the three hypotheses we have the authority 
 of Hadrian himself, as quoted by Dion. The simple words etc 
 TCiv NfiXoj/ kKTZEciov imply no more than accidental death ; and 
 yet, if the Emperor had believed the story of his favourite's 
 self-devotion^ it is reasonable to suppose that he would have re- 
 
ANTINOUS. S7 
 
 corded it in his 'Memoirs.' Accepting this view of the case, we 
 must refer the deification of Antinous wholly to Hadrian's 
 affection ; and the tales of his devotio may have been invented 
 partly to flatter the Emperor's grief, partly to explain its vio- 
 lence to the Roman world. This hypothesis seems, indeed, 
 by far the most natural of the three ; and if we could stiip thek 
 history of Antinous of its mysterious and mythic elements, it is 
 rational to believe that we should find his death a simple 
 accident. Yet our authorities prove that writers of history 
 among the ancients wavered between the two other theories of 
 (i.) Self-Devotion and (ii.) Immolation, with a bias toward the 
 latter. These, then, ha/e now to be considered with some 
 attention. Both, it may parenthetically be observed, relieve 
 Antinous from a moral stigma, since in either case a pure un- 
 tainted victim was required. 
 
 If we accept the former of the two remaining hypotheses, 
 we can understand how love and gratitude, together with 
 sorrow, led Hadrian to canonise Antinous. If we accept the 
 latter, Hadrian's sorrow itself becomes inexplicable ; and we 
 must attribute the foundation of Antinoe and the deification of 
 Antinous to remorse. It may be added, while balancing these 
 two solutions of the problem, that cynical sophists, like 
 Hadrian's Graeculi, were likely to have put the worst construc- 
 tion on the Emperor's passion, and to have invented the worst 
 stories concerning the favourite's death. To perpetuate these 
 calumnious reports was the real interest of the Christian apolo- 
 gists, who not unnaturally thought it scandalous that a hand- 
 some page should be deified. Thus, at first sight, the balance 
 of probability inclines toward the former of the two solutions, 
 while the second may be rejected as based upon court-gossip 
 and religious animosity. Attention may also again be called to 
 the fact that Hadrian ventured to publish an account of 
 Antinous quite inconsistent with what Dion chose to call the 
 truth, and that virtuous Emperors like the Antonines did not 
 
SS SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 interfere with a cult, which, had it been paid to the mere 
 victim of Hadrian's passion and his superstition, would have 
 been an infamy even in Rome, Moreover, that cult was not, 
 like the creations of the impious emperors, forgotten or de- 
 stroyed by public acclamation. It took root and flourished 
 apparently, as we shall see, because it satisfied some craving of 
 the popular religious sense, and because the people believed 
 that this man had died for his friend. It will not, however, do 
 to dismiss the two hypotheses so lightly. 
 
 The alternative of self-devotion presents itself under a 
 double aspect. Antinous may either have committed suicide 
 by drowning with the intention of prolonging the Emperor's 
 life, or he may have offered himself as a voluntary victim to 
 the magicians, who required a sacrifice for a similar purpose. 
 Spartian's brief phrase, aliis eum devotum pro Hadriano^ may 
 seem to point to the first form of self-devotion ; the testimony 
 of Aurelius Victor clearly supports the second : yet it does 
 not much matter which of the two explanations we adopt. 
 The point is whether Antinous gave his life willingly to save 
 the Emperor's, or whether he was murdered for the satisfaction 
 of some superstitious curiosity. It was absolutely necessary 
 that the vicarious victim should make a free and voluntary 
 oblation of himself That the notion of vicarious suffering 
 was familiar to the ancients is sufficiently attested by the 
 phrases avrlxpvxoij avravcpoi, and hostia succidanea. We find 
 traces of it in the legend of Alcestis, who died for Admetus, 
 and of Cheiron, who took the place of Prometheus in Hades. 
 Suetonius records that in the first days of Caligula's popularity, 
 when he was labouring under dangerous illness, many Romans 
 of both sexes vowed their lives for his recovery in temples of 
 the gods. That this superstition retained a strong hold on the 
 popular imagination in the time of Hadrian is proved by the 
 curious aflfirmation of Aristides, a contemporary of that Em- 
 peror. He says that once, when he was ill, a certain Philu- 
 
ANTINOUS, 59 
 
 mene offered her soul for his soul, her body for his body, and 
 that, upon his own recovery, she died. On the same testimony 
 it appears that her brother Hermeas had also died for Aristides. 
 This faith in the efficacy of substitution is persistent in the 
 human race. Not long ago a Christian lady was supposed to 
 have vowed her own life for the prolongation of that of Pope 
 Pius IX., and good Catholics incHned to the belief that the 
 sacrifice had been accepted. We shall see that in the first 
 centuries of Christendom the popular conviction that Antinous 
 had died for Hadrian brought him into inconvenient rivalry 
 with Christ, whose vicarious suffering was the cardinal point of 
 the new creed. 
 
 The alternative of immolation has next to be considered. 
 The question before us here is, Did Hadrian sacrifice Antinous 
 for the satisfaction of a superstitious curiosity, and in the per- 
 formance of magic rites ? Dion Cassius uses the word Ifpovpyn- 
 Oetg, and explains it by saying that Hadrian needed a voluntary 
 human victim for the accomplishment of an act of divination 
 in which he was engaged. Both Spartian and Dion speak 
 emphatically of the Emperor's proclivities to the black art ; 
 and all antiquity agreed about this trait in his character. 
 Ammianus Marcellinus spoke of him as '■ futiirorum sciscitationi 
 nimicR deditum.^ TertuUian described him as ^ ciiriositatum 
 omnium exploratorem.' To multiply such phrases would, how- 
 ever, be superfluous, for they are probably mere repetitions 
 from the text of Dion. That human victims were used by the 
 Romans of the Empire seems certain. Lampridius, in the 
 * Life of Heliogabalus,' records his habit of slaying handsome and 
 noble youths, in order that he might inspect their entrails. 
 Eusebius, in his ' Life of Maxentius,' asserts the same of that 
 Emperor. Quum inspiceret exta pueriiia, noyriov a-n-Xayxyn 
 jppi<\iu)v cupevrofiei'ov, are the words used by Lampridius and 
 Eusebius. Justin Martyr speaks of IwoTrTtvffeig Trai^ioy dha(p- 
 dupwr. Caracalla and Julian are credited with similar bloody 
 
6o SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 sacrifices. Indeed, it may be affirmed in general that tyrants 
 have ever been eager to foresee the future and to extort her 
 secrets from Fate, stopping short at no crime in the attempt 
 to quiet a corroding anxiety for their own safety. What we 
 read about ItaUan despots — Ezzelino da Romano, Sigismondo 
 Malatesta, FiHppo Maria Visconti, and Pier Luigi Famese — 
 throws Hght upon the practice of their Imperial predecessors ; 
 while the mysterious murder of the beautiful Astorre Manfredi 
 by the Borgias in Hadrian's Mausoleum has been referred by 
 modern critics of authority to the same unholy curiosity. That 
 Hadrian laboured under this moral disease, and that he deliber- 
 ately used the body of Antinous for extispiciiini^ is, 1 think, Dion's 
 opinion. But are we justified in reckoning Hadrian among 
 these tyrants ? That must depend upon our view of his 
 character. 
 
 Hadrian was a man in whom the most conflicting qualities 
 were blent. In his youth and through his whole life he was 
 passionately fond of hunting; hardy, simple in his habits, 
 marching bareheaded with his legions through German frost and 
 Nubian heat, sharing the food of his soldiers, and exercising 
 the most rigid military discipline. At the same time he has 
 aptly been described as ' the most sumptuous character of 
 antiquity.' He filled the cities of the Empire with showy 
 buildings, and passed his last years in a kind of classic Munich, 
 where he had constructed imitations of every celebrated monu- 
 ment in Europe. He was so far fond of nature that, anticipat- 
 ing the most recently developed of modern tastes, he ascended 
 Mount ^tna and the Mons Casius, in order to enjoy the 
 spectacle of sunrise. In his villa at Tivoli he indulged a trivial 
 fancy by christening one garden Tempe and another the 
 Elysian Fields ; and he had his name carved on the statue of 
 the vocal Memnon with no less gusto than a modern tourist : 
 audivi voces divinas. His memory was prodigious, his elo- 
 quence in the Latin language studied and yet forcible, his 
 
ANTINOUS. . 6i 
 
 knowledge of Greek literature and philosophy far from con- 
 temptible. He enjoyed the society of Sophists and distin- 
 guished rhetoricians, and so far affected authorship as to win 
 the unenviable title of Grceculus in his own lifetime : yet he 
 never neglected state affairs. Owing to his untiring energy 
 and vast capacity for business, he not only succeeded in re- 
 organising every department of the empire, social, political, 
 fiscal, military, and municipal ; but he also held in his own 
 hands the threads of all its complicated machinery. He was 
 strict in matters of routine, and appears to have been almost 
 a martinet among his legions : yet in social intercourse he 
 lived on terms of familiarity with inferiors, combining the graces 
 of elegant conversation with the bonhomie of boon companion- 
 ship, displaying a warm heart to his friends, and using magnifi- 
 cent generosity. He restored the domestic as well as the military 
 discipline of the Roman world ; and his code of laws lasted till 
 Justinian. Among many of his useful measures of reform he 
 issued decrees restricting the power of masters over their slaves, 
 and depriving them of their old capital jurisdiction. His 
 biographers find little to accuse him of beyond a singular 
 avidity for fame, addiction to magic arts and luxurious vices : 
 yet they adduce no proof of his having, at any rate before the 
 date of his final retirement to his Tiburtine villa, shared the 
 crimes of a Nero or a Commodus. On the whole, we must 
 recognise in Hadrian a nature of extraordinary energy, capacity 
 for administrative government, and mental versatility. A cer- 
 tain superficiality, vulgarity, and commonplaceness seems to 
 have been forced upon him by the circumstances of his age, no 
 less than by his special temperament. This quality of the 
 immitigable commonplace is clearly written on his many 
 portraits. Their chief interest consists in a fixed expression 
 of fatigue — as though the man were weary with much seeking 
 and with little finding. In all things^ he was somewhat of a 
 dilettante ; and the Nemesis of that sensibility to impressions 
 
62 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 which distinguishes the dilettante, came upon him ere he died. 
 He ended his days in an appalling and persistent paroxysm of 
 ennui, desiring the death which would not come to his relief. 
 
 The whole creative and expansive force of Hadrian's cen- 
 tury lay concealed in the despised Christian sect. Art was 
 expiring in a sunset blaze of gorgeous imitation, tasteless 
 grandeur, technical elaboration. Philosophy had become 
 sophistical or mystic ; its real life survived only in the phrase 
 * entbehren soUst du, sollst entbehren ' of the Stoics. Litera- 
 ture was repetitive and scholastic. Tacitus, Suetonius, Plutarch, 
 and Juvenal indeed were living \ but their works formed the 
 last great literary triumph of the age. Religion had degene- 
 rated under the twofold influences of scepticism and intrusive 
 foreign cults. It was, in truth, an age in which, for a sound 
 heart and manly intellect, there lay no proper choice except 
 between the stoicism of Marcus Aurelius and the Christianity 
 of the Catacombs. All else had passed into shams, unrealities, 
 and visions. Now Hadrian was neither stoical nor Christian, 
 though he so far coquetted with Christianity as to build temples 
 dedicated to no Pagan deity, which passed in after times for un- 
 finished churches. He was a GrcBculus. In that contemptuous 
 epithet, stripping it of its opprobrious significance, we find the 
 real key to his character. In a failing age he lived a restless- 
 minded, many-sided soldier-prince, whose inner hopes and 
 highest aspirations were for Hellas. Hellas, her art, her history, 
 her myths, her literature her lovers, her young heroes filled him 
 with enthusiasm. To rebuild her ruined cities, to restore her 
 deities, to revive her golden Hfe of blended poetry and science, 
 to reconstruct her spiritual empire as he had reorganised the 
 Roman world, was Hadrian's dream. It was indeed a dream ; 
 one which a far more creative genius than Hadrian's could not 
 have realised. 
 
 But now, returning to the two alternatives regarding his 
 friend's death : was this philo-Hellenic Emperor the man to have 
 
ANTINOUS. 63 
 
 immolated Antinous for extispichmi and then deified him ? 
 Probably not. The discord between this bloody act and subse- 
 quent hypocrisy upon the one hand, and Hadrian's Greek sym- 
 pathies upon the other, must be reckoned too strong for even such 
 a dipsychic character as his. There is nothing in either Spartian 
 or Dion to justify the opinion that he was naturally cruel or 
 fantastically deceitful. On the other hand, Hadrian's philo- 
 Hellenic, splendour-loving, somewhat tawdry, fame-desiring 
 nature was precisely of the sort to jump eagerly at the deifica- 
 tion of a favourite who had either died a natural death or 
 killed himself to save his master. Hadrian had loved Antinous 
 with a Greek passion in his lifetime. The Roman Emperor 
 was half a god. He remembered how Zeus had loved Gany- 
 mede, and raised him to Olympus; how Achilles had loved 
 Patroclus, and performed his funeral rites at Troy ; how the 
 demigod Alexander had loved Hephsestion, and lifted him 
 into a hero's seat on high. He, Hadrian, would do the like, 
 now that death had robbed him of his comrade. The Roman, 
 who surrounded himself at Tivoli with copies of Greek temples, 
 and who called his garden Tempe, played thus at being Zeus, 
 Achilles, Alexander; and the civilised world humoured his 
 whim. Though the Sophists scoffed at his real grief and 
 honourable tears, they consecrated his lost favourite, found 
 out a star for him, carved him in breathing brass, and told 
 tales about his sacred flower. Pancrates was entertained in 
 Alexandria at the pubHc cost for his fable of the lotos ; and the 
 lyrist Mesomedes received so liberal a pension for his hymn to 
 Antinous that Antoninus Pius found it needful to curtail it. 
 
 After weighing the authorities, considering the circum- 
 stances of the age, and estimating Hadrian's character, I am 
 thus led to reject the alternative of immolation. Spartian's 
 own words, qiiem muliebriter Jlevit, as well as the subsequent 
 acts of the Emperor and the acquiescence of the whole world 
 in the new deity, prove to my mind that in the suggestion of 
 
64 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 extispicium we have one of those covert calumnies which it is 
 impossible to set aside at this distance of time, and which 
 render the history of Roman Emperors and Popes almost 
 impracticable. 
 
 The case, then, stands before us thus. Antinous was 
 drowned in the Nile, near Besa, either by accident or by 
 voluntary suicide to save his master's life. Hadrian's love 
 for him had been unmeasured, so was his grief Both of 
 them were genuine ; but in the nature of the man there was 
 something artificial. He could not be content to love and 
 grieve alone ; he must needs enact the part of Alexander, and 
 realise, if only by a sort of makebelieve, a portion of his 
 Greek ideal. Antinous, the beautiful servant, was to take the 
 place of Ganymede, of Patroclus, of Hephaestion ; never mind 
 if Hadrian was a Roman and his friend a Bithynian, and if the 
 love between them, as between an emperor of fifty and a boy 
 of nineteen, had been less than heroic. The opportunity was 
 too fair to be missed ; the role too fascinating to be rejected. 
 The world, in spite of covert sneers, lent itself to the sham, and 
 Antinous became a god. 
 
 The uniformly contemptuous tone of antique authorities 
 almost obliges us to rank this deification of Antinous, together 
 with the Tiburtine villa and the dream of a Hellenic Renais- 
 sance, among the part-shams, part-enthusiasms of Hadrian^s 
 * sumptuous ' character. Spartian's account of the consecra- 
 tion, and his hint that Hadrian composed the oracles delivered 
 at his favourite's tomb ; Arrian's letter to the Emperor describ- 
 ing the island Leuke and flattering him by an adroit comparison 
 with Achilles ; the poem by Pancrates mentioned in the Deip- 
 nosophistce, which furnished the myth of a new lotos dedicated 
 to Antinous ; the invention of the star, and Hadrian's conversa- 
 tions with his courtiers on this subject — all converge to form 
 the belief that something of consciously unreal mingled with 
 this act of apotheosis by Imperial decree. Hadrian sought to 
 
ANTINOUS, 65 
 
 assuage his grief by paying his favourite illustrious honours 
 after death ; he also desired to give the memory of his own 
 love the most congenial and poetical environment, to feed 
 upon it in the daintiest places, and to deck it with the prettiest 
 flowers of fancy. He therefore canonised Antinous, and took 
 measures for disseminating his cult throughout the world, care- 
 less of the element of imposture which might seem to mingle 
 with the consecration of his true affection. Hadrian's super- 
 ficial taste was not offended by the gimcrack quality of the 
 new god ; and Antinous was saved from being a merely pinch- 
 beck saint by his own charming personality. 
 
 This will not, however, wholly satisfy the conditions of the 
 problem ; and we are obliged to ask ourselves whether there 
 was not something in the character of Antinous himself, some- 
 thing divinely inspired and irradiate with spiritual beauty, 
 apparent to his fellows and remembered after his mysterious 
 death, which justified his canonisation, and removed it from 
 the region of Imperial makebelieve. If this was not the case, 
 if Antinous died like a flower cropped from the seraglio garden 
 of the court-pages, how should the Emperor in the first place 
 have bewailed him with ' unhusbanded passion,' and the people 
 afterwards have received him as a god? May it not have 
 been that he was a youth of more than ordinary promise, 
 gifted with intellectual enthusiasms proportioned to his beauty 
 and endowed with something of Phcebean inspiration, who, 
 had he survived, might have even inaugurated a new age for 
 the world, or have emulated the heroism of Hypatia in a 
 hopeless cause? Was the link between him and Hadrian 
 formed less by the boy's beauty than by his marvellous 
 capacity for apprehending and his fitness for reahsing the 
 Emperor's Greek dreams ? Did the spirit of Neoplatonism find 
 in him congenial incarnation ? At any rate, was there not enough 
 in the then current beliefs about the future of the soul, as 
 abundantly set forth in Plutarch's writings, to justify a convic- 
 
 F 
 
66 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN. ITALY. 
 
 tion that after death he had already passed into the lunar sphere, 
 awaiting the final apotheosis of purged spirits in the sun ? These 
 questions may be asked — indeed, they must be asked — for, 
 without suggesting them, we leave the worship of Antinous an 
 almost inexplicable scandal, an almost unintelligible blot on 
 human nature. Unless we ask them, we must be content to 
 echo the coarse and violent diatribes of Clemens Alexan- 
 drinus against the vigils of the deified exoletus. But they 
 cannot be answered, for antiquity is altogether silent about 
 him ; only here and there, in the indignant utterance of a 
 Christian Father, stung to the quick by Pagan parallels between 
 Antinous and Christ, do we catch a perverted echo of the 
 popular emotion upon which his cult reposed, which recognised 
 his godhood or his vicarious self-sacrifice, and which paid 
 enduring tribute to the sublimity of his young life untimely 
 quenched. 
 
 The senatus consulium required for the apotheosis of an 
 Emperor was not, so far as we know, obtained in the case of 
 Antinous. Hadrian's determination to exalt his favourite 
 sufficed ; and this is perhaps one of the earliest instances of 
 those informal deifications which became common in the later 
 Roman period. Antinous was canonised according to Greek 
 ritual and by Greek priests : Grceci quidam volente Hadriano 
 eum consecraverunt How this was accomplished we know not ; 
 but forms of canonisation must have been in common usage, 
 seeing that emperors and members of the Imperial family 
 received the honour in due course. The star, which was 
 supposed to have appeared soon after his death, and which 
 represented his soul admitted to Olympus, was somewhere 
 near the constellation Aquila, according to Ptolemy, but not 
 part of it. I believe the letters r} .6 . l .k .\.oi Aquila now bear 
 the name of Antinous ; but this appropriation dates only from 
 the time of Tycho Brahe. It was also asserted that as a new 
 star had appeared in the skies, so a new flower had blossomed on 
 
ANTINOUS. 67 
 
 the earth, at the moment of his death. This was the lotos, of 
 a peculiar red colour, which the people of Lower Egypt used 
 to wear in wreaths upon his festival It received the name 
 Antinoeian ; and the Alexandrian sophist, Pancrates, seeking 
 to pay a double compliment to Hadrian and his favourite, 
 wrote a poem in which he pretended that this lily was stained 
 with the blood of a Libyan lion slain by the Emperor. As 
 Arrian compared his master to Achilles, so Pancrates flattered 
 him with allusions to Herakles. The lotos, it is well known, 
 was a sacred flower in Egypt. Both as a symbol of the all- 
 nourishing moisture of the earth and of the mystic marriage of 
 Lsis and Osiris, and also as an emblem of immortality, it 
 appeared on all the sacred places of the Egyptians, especially 
 on tombs and funeral utensils. To dignify Antinous with the 
 lotos emblem was to consecrate him ; to find a new species of 
 the revered blossom and to wear it in his honour, calling it by 
 his name, was to exalt him to the company of gods. Nothing, 
 as it seems, had been omitted that could secure for him the 
 patent of divinity. 
 
 He met his death near the city Besa, an ancient Egyptian 
 town upon the eastern bank of the Nile, almost opposite to 
 Hermopolis. Besa was the name of a local god, who gave 
 oracles and predicted future events. But of this Besa we know 
 next to nothing. Hadrian determined to rebuild the city, change 
 its name, and let his favourite take the place of the old deity. 
 Accordingly, he raised a splendid new town in the Greek style ; 
 furnished it with temples, agora_, hippodrome, gymnasium, and 
 baths ; filled it with Greek citizens ; gave it a Greek constitu- 
 tion, and named it Antinoe. This new town, whether called 
 Antinoe, Antinoopolis, Antinous, Antinoeia, or even Besan- 
 tinous (for its titles varied), continued long to flourish, and was 
 mentioned by Ammianus Marcellinus, together with Copton and 
 Hermopolis, as one of the three most distinguished cities of 
 the Thebaid. In the age of Julian these three cities were 
 
 F 2 
 
68 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 perhaps the only still thriving towns of Upper Egypt. It has 
 even been maintained on Ptolemy's authority that Antinoe was 
 the metropolis of a nome, called Antinoeitis ; but this is 
 doubtful, since inscriptions discovered among the ruins of the 
 town record no name of nomarch or strategus, while they prove 
 the government to have consisted of a Boul^ and a Prytaneus, 
 who was also the Eponymous Magistrate. Strabo reckons it, 
 together with Ptolemais and Alexandria, as governed after the 
 Greek municipal system. 
 
 In this city Antinous was worshipped as a god. Though a 
 Greek god, and the eponym of a Greek city, he inherited the 
 place and functions of an Egyptian deity, and was here 
 represented in the hieratic style of Ptolemaic sculpture. A 
 fine specimen of this statuary is preserved in the Vatican, 
 showing how the Neohellenic sculptors had succeeded in 
 maintaining the likeness of Antinous without sacrificing the 
 traditional manner of Egyptian piety. The sacred emblems of 
 Egyptian deities were added : we read, for instance, in one 
 passage, that his shrine contained a boat. This boat, like the 
 mystic egg of Eros or the cista of Dionysos, symbolised the 
 embryo of cosmic life. It was specially appropriated to Osiris, 
 and suggested collateral allusions doubtless to immortality and 
 the soul's journey in another world. Antinous had a college 
 of priests appointed to his service ; and oracles were delivered 
 from the cenotaph inside his temple. The people believed 
 him to be a genius of warning, gracious to his suppliants, but 
 terrible to evil-doers, combining the qualities of the avenging and 
 protective deities. Annual games were celebrated in Antinoe 
 on his festival, with chariot races and gymnastic contests ; 
 and the fashion of keeping his day seems, from Athenaeus's 
 testimony, to have spread through Egypt. An inscription 
 in Greek characters discovered at Rome upon the Campus 
 Martins entitles Antinous a colleague of the gods in Egypt — 
 ANTINOm SYNePONUI Ti2N EN AirYHTm GEilN. 
 
ANTING us. 69 
 
 The worship of Antinous spread rapidly through the Greek and 
 Asian provinces, especially among the cities which owed debts 
 of gratitude to Hadrian or expected from him future favours* 
 At Athens, for example, the Emperor, attended perhaps by 
 Antinous, had presided as Archon during his last royal progress, 
 had built a suburb called after his name, and raised a splendid 
 temple to Olympian Jove. The Athenians, therefore, founded 
 games and a priesthood in honour of the new divinity. Even 
 now, in the Dionysiac theatre, among the chairs above the 
 orchestra assigned to priests of elder deities and more august 
 tradition, may be found one bearing the name of Antinous — 
 IEPEa2 AN riNOOr. a marble tablet has also been discovered 
 inscribed with the names of agonothetai for the games celebrated 
 in honour of Antinous ; and a stele exists engraved with the 
 crown of these contests together with the crowns of Severus, 
 Commodus, and Antoninus. It appears that the games in honour 
 of Antinous took place both at Eleusis and at Athens ; and that 
 the agonothetai, as also the priest of the new god, were chosen 
 from the Ephebi. The Corinthians, the Argives, the Achaians, 
 and the Epirots, as we know from coins issued by the priests 
 of Antinous, adopted his cult ; ' but the region of Greece 
 proper where it flourished most was Arcadia, the mother state 
 of his Bithynian birthplace. Pausanias, who lived contem- 
 poraneously with Antinous, and might have seen him, though 
 he tells us that he had not chanced to meet the youth alive, 
 mentions the temple of Antinous at Mantinea as the newest in 
 that city. ' The Mantineans,' he says, ' reckon Antinous among 
 their gods.' He then describes the yearly festival and mysteries 
 connected with his cult, the quinquennial games established in 
 his honour, and his statues. The gymnasium had a cell dedi- 
 cated to Antinous, adorned with pictures and fair stone-work. 
 The new god was in the habit of Dionysus. 
 
 ' For example : 
 02TIAI02MAPKEAA020 IEPET2T0T ANTINOOT ANE0HKETOI2AXAIOi:S 
 
 and a similar inscription for Corinth. 
 
70 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 As was natural, his birthplace paid him special observance. 
 Coins dedicated by the province of Bithynia, as well as by the 
 town Bithynium, are common, with the epigraphs, ANTINOOT 
 H nATPIS and ANTINOON GEON H DATPIS. Among the 
 cities of Asia Minor and the vicinity the new cult seems to 
 have been widely spread. Adramyttene in Mysia, Alabanda, 
 Ancyra in Galatia, Chalcedon, Cuma in ^olis, Cyzicum in 
 Mysia, the Ciani, the Hadrian otheritae of Bithynia, Hierapolis 
 in Phrygia, Nicomedia, Philadelphia, Sardis, Smyrna, Tarsus, 
 the Tianians of Paphlagonia, and a town Rhessena in Meso- 
 potamia, all furnish their quota of medals. On the majority 
 of these medals he is entitled Heros, but on others he has the 
 higher title of god ; and he seems to have been associated in 
 each place with some deity of local fame. 
 
 Being essentially a Greek hero, or divinised man received 
 into the company of immortals and worshipped with the attri- 
 butes of god, his cult took firmer root among the Neohellenic 
 provinces of the Empire than in Italy. Yet there are signs 
 that even in Italy he found his votaries. Among these may 
 first be mentioned the comparative frequency of his name in 
 Roman inscriptions, which have no immediate reference to him, 
 but prove that parents gave it to their children. The discovery 
 of his statues in various cities of the Roman Campagna shows 
 that his cult was not confined to one or two localities. Naples 
 in particular, which remained in all essential points a Greek 
 city, seems to have received him with acclamation. A quarter 
 of the town was called after his name, and a phratria of priests 
 was founded in connection with his worship. The Neapolitans 
 owed much to the patronage of Hadrian, and they repaid him 
 after this fashion. At the beginning of the last century Raffaello 
 Fabretti discovered an inscription near the Porta S. Sebastiano 
 at Rome, which throws some light on the matter. It records 
 the name of a Roman knight, Sufenas, who had held the office 
 of Lupercus and had been a fellow of the Neapolitan phratria 
 
ANTINOUS. 71 
 
 of Kxi\movi%—fretriaco Neapoli Antinoiton et Eunostidon. 
 Eunostos was a hero worshipped at Tanagra in Boeotia, where 
 he had a sacred grove no female foot might enter; and the 
 wording of the inscription leaves it doubtful whether the FAmos- 
 tidae and Antinoitae of Naples were two separate colleges, or 
 whether the heroes were associated as the common patrons of 
 one brotherhood. 
 
 A valuable inscription discovered in 1816 near the Baths 
 at Lanuvium or Lavigna shows that Antinous was here as- 
 sociated with Diana as the saint of a benefit club. The rules 
 of the confraternity prescribe the payments and other contribu- 
 tions of its members, provide for their assembling on the feast 
 days of their patrons, fix certain fines, and regulate the cere- 
 monies and expenses of their funerals. This club seems to 
 have resembled modern burial societies, as known to us in 
 England ; or still more closely to have been formed upon the 
 same model as Italian confraternity of the Middle Ages. The 
 Lex, or table of regulations, was drawn up in the year 133 a.d. 
 It fixes the birthday of Antinous as v. k. Decembr., and alludes 
 to the temple of Antinous — Tetrastylo Anttnoi. Probably we 
 cannot build much on the birthday as a genuine date, for the 
 same table gives the birthday of Diana ; and what was wanted 
 was not accuracy in such matters, but a settled anniversary for 
 banquets and pious celebrations. When we come to consider 
 the divinity of Antinous, it will be of service to remember that 
 at Lanuvium, together with Diana of the nether world, he was 
 reckoned among the saints of sepulture. Could this thought 
 have penetrated the imagination of his worshippers : that since 
 Antinous had given his life for his friend, since he had faced 
 death and triumphed over it, winning immortality and god- 
 hood for himself by sacrifice, the souls of his votaries might be 
 committed to his charge and guidance on their journey through 
 the darkness of the tomb? Could we venture to infer thus 
 much from his selection by a confraternity existing for the 
 
72 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 purpose of securing decent burial or pious funeral rites, the 
 date of its formation, so soon after his death, would confirm 
 the hypothesis that he was known to have devoted his life for 
 Hadrian. 
 
 While speaking of Antinous as a divinised man, adscript to 
 the gods of Egypt, accepted as hero and as god in Hellas, 
 Italy, and Asia Minor, we have not yet considered the nature 
 of his deity. The question is not so simple as it seems at first 
 sight : and the next step to take, with a view to its solution, is 
 to consider the various forms under which he was adored — the 
 phases of his divinity. The coins already mentioned, and the 
 numerous works of glyptic art surviving in the galleries of 
 Europe, will help us to place ourselves at the same point of 
 view as the least enlightened of his antique votaries. Reasoning 
 upon these data by the light of classic texts, may afterwards 
 enable us to assign him his true place in the Pantheon of 
 decadent and uninventive Paganism. 
 
 In Egypt, as we have already seen, Antinous was wor- 
 shipped by the Neohellenes of Antinoopolis as their Epony- 
 mous Hero ; but he took the place of an elder native god, and 
 was represented in art according to the traditions of Egyptian 
 sculpture. The marble statue of the Vatican is devoid of 
 hieratic emblems. Antinous is attired with the Egyptian head- 
 dress and waistband : he holds a short truncheon firmly clasped 
 in each hand ; and by his side is a palm-stump, such as one 
 often finds in statues of the Greek Hermes. Two colossal 
 statues of red granite discovered in the ruins of Hadrian's villa, 
 at Tivoli, represent him in like manner with the usual Egyptian 
 head-dress. They seem to have been designed for pillars 
 supportmg the architrave of some huge portal ; and the wands 
 grasped firmly in both hands are supposed to be symbolical 
 of the genii called Dii Averrunci. Von Levezow, in his mono- 
 graph upon Antinous in art, catalogues five statues of a similar 
 description to the three already mentioned. From the indistinct 
 
A NT I NOUS. 73 
 
 character of all of them, it would appear that Antinous was 
 nowhere identified with any one of the great Egyptian deities, 
 but was treated as a Daemon powerful to punish and protect. 
 This designation corresponds to the contemptuous rebuke 
 addressed by Origen to Celsus, where he argues that the new 
 saint was only a malignant and vengeful spirit. His Egyptian 
 medals are few and of questionable genuineness : the majority 
 of them seem to be purely Hellenic ; but on one he bears a 
 crown like that of Isis, and on another a lotos wreath. The 
 dim records of his cult in Egypt, and the remnants of Graeco- 
 Egyptian art, thus mark him out as one of the Averruncan 
 deities, associated perhaps with Kneph or the Agathodasmon of 
 Hellenic mythology, or approximated to Anubis, the Egyptian 
 Hermes. Neither statues nor coins throw much light upon his 
 precise place among those gods of Nile whose throne he is said 
 to have ascended. Egyptian piety may not have been so 
 accommodating as that of Hellas. 
 
 With the Graeco-Roman world the case is different. We 
 obtain a clearer conception of the Antinous divinity, and 
 recognise him always under the mask of youthful gods already 
 honoured with fixed ritual. To worship even living men under 
 the names and attributes of well-known deities was no new 
 thing in Hellas. We may remember the Ithyphallic hymn with 
 which the Athenians welcomed Demetrius Poliorketes, the 
 marriage of Anthony as Dionysus to Athene, and the deifica- 
 tion of Mithridates as Bacchus. The Roman Emperors had 
 already been represented in art with the characteristics of gods 
 — Nero, for example, as Phoebus, and Hadrian as Mars. Such 
 compliments were freely paid to Antinous. On the Achaian 
 coins we find his portrait on the obverse, with different types of 
 Hermes on the reverse, varied in one case by the figure of a 
 ram, in another by the representation of a temple, in a third by 
 a nude hero grasping a spear. One Mysian medal, bearing 
 the epigraph ' Antinous lacchus,' represents him crowned with 
 
74 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 ivy, and exhibits Demeter on the reverse. A single specimen 
 from Ancyra, with the legend ' Antinous Heros,' depicts the 
 god Limus carrying a crescent moon upon his shoulder. The 
 Bithynian coins generally give youthful portraits of Antinous 
 upon the obverse, with the title of ' Herds ' or ' Theos ; ' while 
 the reverse is stamped with a pastoral figure, sometimes bearing 
 the talaria, sometimes accompanied by a feeding ox or a boar 
 or a star. This youth is supposed to be Philesius, the son of 
 Hermes. In one specimen of the Bithynian series the reverse 
 yields a head of Proserpine crowned with thorns. A coin of 
 Chalcedon ornaments the reverse with a griffin seated near a 
 naked figure. Another, from Corinth, bears the sun-god in a 
 chariot \ another, from Guma, presents an armed Pallas. Bulls, 
 with the crescent moon, occur in the Hadrianotheritan medals : 
 a crescent moon in that of Hierapolis : a ram and star, a female 
 head crowned with towers, a standing bull, and Harpocrates 
 placing one finger on his lips, in those of Nicomedia ; a horned 
 moon and star in that of Epirot Nicopolis. One Philadelphian 
 coin is distinguished by Antinous in a temple with four 
 columns ; another by an Aphrodite in her cella. The Sardian 
 coins give Zeus with the thunderbolt, or Phoebus with the lyre ; 
 those of Smyrna are stamped with a standing ox, a ram, and 
 the caduceus, a female panther and the thyrsus, or a hero re- 
 clining beneath a plane-tree ; those of Tarsus with the Diony- 
 sian cista, the Phoebean tripod, the river Cydnus, and the 
 epigraphs * Neos Puthios,' ' Neos lacchos ; ' those of the 
 Tianians with Antinous as Bacchus on a panther, or, in one 
 case, as Poseidon. 
 
 It would be unsafe to suppose that the emblems of the 
 reverse in each case had a necessary relation to Antinous, 
 whose portrait is almost invariably represented on the obverse. 
 They may refer, as in the case of the Tarsian river-god, to the 
 locality in which the medal was struck. Yet the frequent' 
 occurrence of the well-known type with the attributes and 
 
ANTINOUS. 75 
 
 sacred animals of various deities, and the epigraphs *Neos 
 Puthios ' or ' Neos lacchos,' justify us in assuming that he 
 was associated with divinities in vogue among the people who 
 accepted his cult — especially Apollo, Dionysus, and Hermes. 
 On more than one coin he is described as Antinous-Pan, 
 showing that his Arcadian compatriots of Peloponnese and 
 Bithynia paid him the compliment of placing him beside their 
 great local deity. In a Latin inscription discovered at Tibur, 
 he is connected with the sun-god of Noricia, Pannonia and 
 Illyria, who was worshipped under the title of Belenus : 
 
 Antinoo et Beleno par setas famaque par est ; 
 Cur non Antinous sit quoque qui Belenus ? 
 
 This couplet sufficiently explains the ground of his adscription 
 to the society of gods distinguished for their beauty. Both 
 Belenus and Antinous are young and beautiful : why, therefore, 
 should not Antinous be honoured equally with Belenus ? The 
 same reasoning would apply to all his impersonations. The 
 pious imagination or the aesthetic taste tricked out this favourite 
 of fortune in masquerade costumes, just as a wealthy lover 
 may amuse himself by dressing his mistress after the similitude 
 of famous beauties. The analogy of statues confirms this 
 assumption. A considerable majority represent him as 
 Dionysus Kisseus : in some of the best he is conceived as 
 Hermes of the Palaestra or a simple hero : in one he is pro- 
 bably Dionysus Antheus ; in another Vertumnus or Aristaeus ; 
 yet again he is the Agathos Daimon : while a fine specimen 
 preserved in England shows him as Ganymede raising a goblet 
 of wine : a little statue in the Louvre gives him the attributes 
 of youthful Herakles ; a bas-relief of somewhat doubtful 
 genuineness in the Villa Albani exhibits him with Romanised 
 features in the character perhaps of Castor. Again, I am not 
 sure whether the Endymion in the celebrated bas-relief of the 
 Capitol does not yield a portrait of Antinous. 
 
76 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IJV ITALY. 
 
 This rapid enumeration will suffice to show that Antincus 
 was universally conceived as a young deity in bloom, and that 
 preference was given to Phoebus and lacchus, the gods of 
 divination and enthusiasm, for his associates. In some cases 
 he appears to have been represented as a simple hero without 
 the attributes of any deity. Many of his busts, and the fine 
 nude statues of the Capitol and the Neapolitan Museum, 
 belong to this class, unless we recognise the two last as Antinous 
 under the form of a young Hercules, or of the gymnastic 
 Hermes. But when he comes before us with the title of 
 Puthios, or with the attributes of Dionysus, distinct reference is 
 probably intended in the one case to his oracular quality, in 
 the other to the enthusiasm which led to his death. Allusions 
 to Harpocrates, Lunus, Aristseus, Philesius, Vertumnus, Castor, 
 Herakles, Ganymedes, show how the divinising fancy played 
 around the beauty of his youth, and sought to connect him 
 with myths already honoured in the pious conscience. Lastly, 
 though it would be hazardous to strain this point, we find in 
 his chief impersonations a Chthonian character, a touch of the 
 mystery that is shrouded in the world beyond the grave. The 
 double nature of his Athenian cult may perhaps confirm this 
 view. But, over and above all these symbolic illustrations, one 
 artistic motive of immortal loveliness pervades and animates 
 the series. 
 
 It becomes at this point of some moment to determine 
 what was the relation of Antinous to the gods with whom he 
 blended, and whose attributes he shared. It seems tolerably 
 certain that he had no special legend which could be idealised 
 in art. The mythopoeic fancy invented no fable for him. His 
 cult was parasitic upon elder cults. He was the colleague of 
 greater well established deities, from whom he borrowed a pale 
 and evanescent lustre. Speaking accurately, he was a hero or 
 divinised mortal, on the same grade as Helen immortalised for 
 her beauty, as Achilles for his prowess, or as Herakles for his 
 
ANTINOUS. 77 
 
 great deeds. But having no poet like Homer to sing his 
 achievements, no myth fertile in emblems, he dwelt beneath 
 the shadow of superior powers, and crept into a place with 
 them. What was this place worth ? What was the meaning 
 attached by his votaries to the title crvvdpovoc or iraptlpoQ 
 Qioq ? According to the simple meaning of both epithets, he 
 occupied a seat together with or by the side of the genuine 
 Olympians. In this sense Pindar called Dionysus the irapelpoq 
 of Demeter, because the younger god had been admitted to her 
 worship on equal terms at Eleusis. In this sense Sophocles 
 spoke of Himeros as irapelpoQ of the eternal laws, and of 
 Justice as avroiKog with the Chthonian deities. In this sense 
 Euripides makes Helen IvvQaKoq with her brethren, the 
 Dioscuri. In this sense the three chief Archons at Athens 
 were said to have two izapelpoi apiece. In this sense, again, 
 Hephaestion was named a Qioq irapedpof, and Alexander in his 
 lifetime was voted a thirteenth in the company of the twelve 
 Olympians. The divinised emperors were irape^pot or trvi- 
 Opovoi ; nor did Virgil hesitate to flatter Augustus by question- 
 ing into which college of the immortals he would be adscript 
 after death — 
 
 Tuque adeo, quern mox quae sint habitura deorum 
 Concilia, incertum est. 
 
 Conscript deities of this heroic order were supposed to avert 
 evils from their votaries, to pursue offenders with calamity, to 
 inspire prophetic dreams, and to appear, as the phantom of 
 Achilles appeared to Apollonius of Tyana, and answer questions 
 put to them. They corresponded very closely and exactly to 
 the saints of mediaevalism, acting as patrons of cities, confrater- 
 nities, and persons, and interposing between the supreme 
 powers of heaven and their especial devotees. As a irapetpog 
 of this exalted quality, Antinous was the associate of Phoebus, 
 Bacchus, and Hermes among the Olympians, and a colleague 
 
78 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 with the gods of Nile. The principal difficulty of grasping his 
 true rank consists in the variety of his emblems and divine 
 disguises. 
 
 It must here be mentioned that the epithet irdnetpoQ had a 
 secondary and inferior signification. It was applied by later 
 authors to the demons or familiar spirits who attended upon 
 enchanters Hke Simon Magus or Apollonius ; and such sateUites 
 were believed to be supplied by the souls of innocent young 
 persons violently slain. Whether this secondary meaning of 
 the title indicates a degeneration of the other, and forms the 
 first step of the process whereby classic heroes were degraded 
 into the foul fiends of mediaeval fancy, or whether we find in it 
 a wholly new application of the word, is questionable. I am 
 inclined to believe that, while TrdpedpoQ deog in the one case 
 means an associate of the Olympian gods, iraptlpoc daljuiov in 
 the other means a fellow-agent and assessor of the wizard. In 
 other words, however they may afterwards have been con- 
 founded, the two uses of the same epithet were originally 
 distinct : so that not every Trdpe^pog Oedg, Achilles, or Hephses- 
 tion or Antinous, was supposed to haunt and serve a sorcerer, 
 but only some inferior spirit over whom his black art gave him 
 authority. The irdpe^pog deog was so called because he sat with 
 the great gods. The Ttdpelpog ^ai/diov was so called because he sat 
 beside the magician. At the same time there seems sufficient 
 evidence that the two meanings came to be confounded ; and 
 as the divinities of Hellas, with all their lustrous train, paled 
 before the growing splendour of Christ, they gradually fell 
 beneath the necromantic ferule of the witch. 
 
 Returning from this excursion, and determining that Anti- 
 nous was a hero or divinised mortal, adscript to the college of 
 the greater gods, and invested with many of their attributes, we 
 may next ask the question, why this artificial cult, due in the 
 first place to imperial passion and caprice, and. nourished by 
 the adulation of fawning provinces, was preserved from the 
 
ANTINOUS, 79 
 
 rapid dissolution to which the flimsy products of court-flattery 
 are subject. The mythopoetic faculty was extinct, or in its last 
 phase of decadent vitality. There was nothing in the life of 
 Antinous to create a legend or to stimulate the sense of awe ; 
 and yet this worship persisted long after the fear of Hadrian 
 had passed away, long after the benefits to be derived by 
 humouring a royal fancy had been exhausted, long after any- 
 thing could be gained by playing out the farce. It is clear, 
 from a passage in Clemens Alexandrinus, that the sacred nights 
 of Antinous were observed, at least a century after the date of 
 his deification, with an enthusiasm that roused the anger of the 
 Christian Father. Again, it is worthy of notice that, while 
 many of the noblest works of antiquity have perished, the statues 
 of Antinous have descended to us in fair preservation and in 
 very large numbers. From the contemptuous destruction which 
 erased the monuments of base men in the Roman Empire they 
 were safe ; and the state in which we have them shows how 
 little they had suflered from neglect The most rational con- 
 clusion seems to be that Antinous became in truth a popular 
 saint, and satisfied some new need in Paganism, for which 
 none of the elder and more respectable deities sufficed. The 
 novelty of his cult had, no doubt, something to do with the 
 fascination it exercised ; and something may be attributed to 
 the impulse art received from the introduction of so rare and 
 original a type of beauty into the exhausted cycle of mythical 
 subjects. The blending of Greek and Egyptian elements was 
 also attractive to an age remarkable for its eclecticism. But 
 after allowing for the many adventitious circumstances which 
 concurred to make Antinous the fashion, it is hardly unreason- 
 able to assume that the spirit of poetry in the youth's story, the 
 rumour of his self-devoted death, kept him alive in the memory 
 of the people. It is just that element of romance in the tale of 
 his last hours, that preservative association with the pathos of 
 self sacrifice, which forms the interest we still feel for him. 
 
8o SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 The deified Antinous was therefore for the Roman world a 
 charming but dimly felt and undeveloped personaUty, made 
 perfect by withdrawal into an unseen world of mystery. The 
 belief in the value of vicarious suffering attached itself to his 
 beautiful and melancholy form. His sorrow borrowed some- 
 thing of the universal world-pain, more pathetic than the hero- 
 pangs of Herakles, the anguish of Prometheus, or the passion of 
 lacchus-Zagreus, because more personal and less suggestive of 
 a cosmic mystery. The ancient cries of Ah Linus, Ah Adonis, 
 found in him an echo. For votaries ready to accept a new god 
 as simply as we accept a new poet, he was the final manifestation 
 of an old-world mystery, the rejuvenescence of a well-known 
 incarnation, the semi-Oriental realisation of a recurring Avatar. 
 And if we may venture on so bold a surmise, this last flower of 
 antique mythology had taken up into itself a portion of the 
 blood outpoured on Calvary. Planted in the conservatory of 
 semi-philosophical yearnings, faintly tinctured with the colours 
 of misapprehended Christianity, without inherent stamina, with- 
 out the powerful nutrition which the earfier heroic fables had 
 derived from the spiritual vigour of a truly mytliopoeic age, 
 the cult of Antinous subsisted as an echo, a reflection, the last 
 serious eflbrt of deifying but no longer potent Paganism, the 
 last reverberation of its oracles, an aesthetic rather than a reli- 
 gious product, viewed even in its origin with sarcasm by the 
 educated, and yet sufficiently attractive to enthral the minds of 
 simple votaries, and to survive the circumstances of its first 
 creation. It may be remembered that the century which wit- 
 nessed the canonisation of Antinous, produced the myth of 
 Cupid and Psyche — or, if this be too sweeping an assertion, 
 gave it final form, and handed it, in its suggestive beauty, to 
 the modern world. Thus at one and the same moment the 
 dying spirit of Hellas seized upon those doctrines of self-devo- 
 tion and immortality which, through the triumph of Christian 
 teaching, were gaining novel and incalculable value for the 
 
ANTINOUS. 8 1 
 
 world. According to its own laws of inspiration, it stamped 
 both legends of Love victorious over Death, with beautiful form 
 in myth and poem and statuary. 
 
 That we are not altogether unjustified in drawing this con- 
 clusion may be gathered from the attitude assumed by the 
 Christian apologists toward Antinous. There is more than the 
 mere hatred of a Pagan hero, more than the bare indignation at 
 a public scandal, in their acrimony. Accepting the calumnious 
 insinuations of Dion Cassius, these gladiators of the new faith 
 found a terrible rhetorical weapon ready to their hands in the 
 canonisation of a court favourite. Prudentius, Clemens Alexan- 
 drinus, Tertullian, Eusebius, Justin Martyr, Athanasius, Tatian 
 — all inveigh, in nearly the same terms, against the Emperor's 
 Ganymede, exalted to the skies, and worshipped with base fear 
 and adulation by abject slaves. But in Origen, arguing with 
 Celsus, we find a somewhat different keynote struck. Celsus, 
 it appears, had told the story of Antinous, and had compared 
 his cult with that of Christ. Origen replies justly, that there 
 was nothing in common between the lives of Antinous and of 
 Christ, and that his supposed divinity is a fiction. We can 
 discern in this response an echo of the faith which endeared 
 Antinous to his Pagan votaries. Antinous was hated by the 
 Christians as a rival ; insignificant, it is true, and unworthy, but 
 still of suflficient force to be regarded and persecuted. If Anti- 
 nous had been utterly contemptible, if he had not gained some 
 firm hold upon the piety of Graeco-Roman Paganism, Celsus 
 could hardly have ventured to rest an argument upon his worship, 
 nor would Origen have chosen to traverse that argument with 
 solid reasoning, instead of passing it by in rhetorical silence. 
 Nothing is more difficult than to understand the conditions of 
 that age or to sympathise with its dominant passions. Educated 
 as we have been in the traditions of the finally triumphant 
 Christian faith, warmed through and through as we are by its 
 summer glow and autumn splendour, believing as we do in the 
 
 G 
 
82 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 adequacy of its spirit to satisfy the cravings of the human heart, 
 how can we comprehend a moment in its growth when the 
 divinised Antinous was not merely an object offensive to the 
 moral sense, but also a parody dangerous to the pure form of 
 Christ ? 
 
 It remains to say somewhat of Antinous as he appears in 
 art His place in classic sculpture corresponds to his position 
 in antique mythology. The Antinous statues and coins are 
 reflections of earlier artistic masterpieces, executed with 
 admirable skill, but lacking original faculty for idealisation in 
 the artists. Yet there is so much personal attraction in his 
 type, his statues are so manifestly faithful portraits, and we find 
 so great a charm of novelty in his delicately perfect individua- 
 lity, that the life-romance which they reveal, as through a veil 
 of mystery, has force enough to make them rank among the 
 valuable heirlooms of antiquity. We could almost believe that, 
 while so many gods and heroes of Greece have perished, 
 Antinous has been preserved in all his forms and phases for 
 his own most lovely sake ; as though, according to Ghiberti's 
 exquisite suggestion, gentle souls in the first centuries of 
 Christianity had spared this blameless youth, and hidden him 
 away with tender hands, in quiet places, from the fury of 
 iconoclasts. Nor is it impossible that the great vogue of his 
 worship was due among the Pagan laity to this same fascination 
 of pure beauty. Could a more graceful temple of the body 
 have been fashioned, after the Platonic theory^, for the habita- 
 tion of a guileless, god inspired, enthusiastic soul? The per- 
 sonality of Antinous, combined with the suggestion of his self- 
 devoted death, made him triumphant in art as in the affections 
 of the pious. 
 
 It would be an interesting task to compose a catalogue 
 raisonne of Antinous statues and bas-reliefs, and to discuss the 
 question of their mythological references. This is, however, not 
 the place for such an inquiry. And yet I cannot quit Antinous 
 
ANTING us. 83 
 
 without some retrospect upon the most important of his por- 
 traits. Among the simple busts, by far the finest, to my think- 
 ing, are the colossal head of the Louvre, and the ivy-crowned 
 bronze at Naples. The latter is not only flawless in its execu- 
 tion, but is animated with a pensive beauty of expression. 
 The former, though praised by Winckelmann, as among the 
 two or three most precious masterpieces of antique art, must 
 be criticised for a certain vacancy and lifelessness. Of the 
 heroic statues, the two noblest are those of the Capitol and 
 Naples. The identity of the Capitoline Antinous has only 
 once, I think, been seriously questioned ; and yet it may be 
 reckoned more than doubtful. The head is almost certainly 
 not his. How it came to be placed upon a body presenting so 
 much resemblance to the type of Antinous I do not know. 
 Careful comparison of the torso and the arms with an indubit- 
 able portrait, will even raise the question whether this fine 
 statue is not a Hermes or a hero of an earlier age. Its atti- 
 tude suggests Narcissus or Adonis ; and under either of these 
 forms Antinous may properly have been idealised. The 
 Neapolitan marble, on the contrary, yields the actual Antinous 
 in all the exuberant fulness of his beauty. Head, body, pose, 
 alike bring him vividly before us, forming an undoubtedly 
 authentic portrait. The same personality, idealised, it is true, 
 but rather suffering than gaining by the process, is powerfully 
 impressed upon the colossal Dionysus of the Vatican. What 
 distinguishes this great work is the inbreathed spirit of divinity, 
 more overpowering here than in any other of the extant avl^n- 
 iu'Ttq Kcu dyaXixuTa. The bas-i:elief of the Villa Albani, re- 
 stored to suit the conception of a Vertumnus, has even more 
 of florid beauty ; but whether the restoration was wisely made, 
 may be doubted. It is curious to compare this celebrated 
 masterpiece of technical dexterity with another bas-relief in the 
 Villa Albani, representing Antinous as Castor. He is standing, 
 half clothed with the chlamys, by a horse. His hair is close- 
 
 G 2 
 
84 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 cropped, after the Roman fashion, cut straight above the fore- 
 head, but crowned with a fillet of lotos-buds. The whole face 
 has a somewhat stern and frowning Roman look of resolution, 
 contrasting with the mild benignity of the Bacchus statues, and 
 the almost sulky voluptuousness of the busts. In the Lateran 
 Museum Antinous appears as a god of flowers, holding in his 
 lap a multitude of blossoms, and wearing on his head a wreath. 
 The conception of this statue provokes comparison with the 
 Flora of the Neapolitan Museum. I should like to recognise 
 in it a Dionysus Antheus, rather than one of the more prosy 
 Roman gods of horticulture. Not unworthy to rank with 
 these first-rate portraits of Antinous is a Ganymede, engraved 
 by the Dilettante Society, which represents him standing alert, 
 in one hand holding the wine-jug and in the other lifting a cup 
 aloft. It will be seen from even this brief enumeration of a 
 few among the statues of Antinous, how many and how various 
 they are. One, however, remains still to be discussed, which, 
 so far as concerns the story of Antinous, is by far the most in- 
 teresting of all. As a work of art, to judge by photographs, it 
 is inferior to others in execution and design. Yet could we 
 but understand its meaning clearly, the mystery of Antinous 
 would be solved : the key to the whole matter probably lies 
 here ; but, alas ! we know not how to use it. I speak of the 
 Ildefonso Group at Madrid.^ 
 
 On one pedestal there are three figures in white marble. 
 To the extreme right of the spectator stands a little female 
 statue of a goddess, in archaistic style, crowned with the 
 calathos, and holding a sphere, probably of pomegranate fruit, 
 to her breast. To the left of this image are two young men, 
 three times the height of the goddess, quite naked, standing 
 one on each side of a low altar. Both are crowned with a 
 wreath of leaves and berries— laurel or myrtle. The youth to 
 the right, next the image, holds a torch in either hand : with 
 ' See Frontispiece. 
 
ANTINOUS. 85 
 
 the right he turns the flaming point downwards, till it lies upon 
 the altar ; with the left he lifts the other torch aloft, and rests 
 it on his shoulder. He has a beautiful Graeco-Roman face, 
 touched with sadness or ineffable reflection. The second 
 youth leans against his comrade, resting his left arm across the 
 other's back, and this hand is lightly placed upon the shoulder, 
 close to the Hfted torch. His right arm is bent, and so placed 
 that the hand just cuts the line of the pelvis a little above the 
 hip. The weight of his body is thrown principally upon the 
 right leg ; the left foot is drawn back, away from the altar. It 
 is the attitude of the Apollo Sauroctonos. His beautiful face, 
 bent downward, is intently gazing with a calm, collected, serious, 
 and yet sad cast of earnest meditation. His eyes seem fixed 
 on something beyond him and beneath him — as it were on an 
 inscrutable abyss ; and in this direction also looks his com- 
 panion. The face is unmistakably the face of Antinous ; yet 
 the figure, and especially the legs, are not characteristic. They 
 seem modelled after the conventional type of the Greek 
 Ephebus. Parts of the two torches and the lower half of the 
 right arm of Antinous are restorations. 
 
 Such is the Ildefonso marble ; and it maybe said that its execu- 
 tion is hard and rough — the arms of both figures are carelessly 
 designed \ the hands and fingers are especially angular, elon- 
 gated, and ill-formed. But there is a noble feeling in the whole 
 group, notwithstanding. F. Tieck, the sculptor and brother of 
 the poet, was the first to suggest that we have here Antinous, 
 the Genius of Hadrian, and Persephone.^ He also thought 
 that the self-immolation of Antinous was indicated by the 
 loving, leaning attitude of the younger man, and by his melan- 
 choly look of resolution. The same view, in all substantial 
 points, is taken by Friedrichs, author of a work on Grseco- 
 
 ' See the article on Antinous, by Victor Rydberg, in the Svensk Tid- 
 skrift fir Litteratiir, Politik, och Ekononii. 1 875. Stockholm. Also Karl 
 Botticher, Konigliches Museuju, Erkldrendes Verzeichniss. Berlin, 1871. 
 
86 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Roman sculpture. But Friedrichs, while admitting the iden- 
 tity of the younger figure with Antinous, and recognising 
 Persephone in the archaic image, is not prepared to accept the 
 elder as the Genius of Hadrian ; and it must be confessed that 
 this face does not bear any resemblance to the portraits of the 
 Emperor. According to his interpretation, the Daemon is 
 kindling the fire upon the sacrificial altar with the depressed 
 torch ; and the second or lifted torch must be supposed to 
 have been needed for the performance of some obscure rite of 
 immolation. What Friedrichs fails to elucidate is the trustful 
 attitude of Antinous, who could scarcely have been conceived 
 as thus affectionately reclining on the shoulder of a merely 
 sacrificial daemon; nor is there anything upon the altar to 
 kindle. It must, however, be conceded that the imperfection 
 of the marble at this point leaves the restoration of the altar 
 and the torch upon it doubtful. 
 
 Charles Botticher started a new solution of the principal 
 problem. According to him, it was executed in the life- 
 time of Antinous ; and it represents not a sacrifice of death, 
 but a sacrifice of fidelity on the part of the two friends, 
 Hadrian and Antinous, who have met together before Perse- 
 phone to ratify a vow of love till death. He suggests that 
 the wreaths are of stephanotis, that large-leaved myrtle, 
 which was sacred to the Chthonian goddesses after the 
 liberation of Semele from Hades by her son Dionysus. With 
 reference to such ceremonies between Greek comrades, Botti- 
 cher cites a vase upon which Theseus and Peirithous are 
 sacrificing in the temple of Persephone ; and he assumes that 
 there may have existed Athenian groups in marble representing 
 similar vows of friendship, from which Hadrian had this marble 
 copied. He believes that the Genius of Hadrian is kindling 
 one torch at the sacred fire, which he will reach to Antinrus, 
 while he holds the other in readiness to kindle for himself. 
 This explanation is both ingenious and beautiful. It has also 
 
ANT I NOUS, 87 
 
 the great merit of explaining the action of the right arm of 
 Antinous. Yet it is hardly satisfactory. It throws no light 
 upon the melancholy and solemnity of both figures, which 
 irresistibly suggest a funereal rather than a joyous rite. An- 
 tinous is not even looking at the altar, and the meditative 
 curves of his beautiful reclining form indicate anything rather 
 than the spirited alacrity with which a friend would respond to 
 his comrade's call at such a moment Besides, why should 
 not the Hkeness of Hadrian have been preserved as well as 
 that of Antinous, if the group commemorated an act of their 
 joint will ? On the other hand, we must admit that the altar 
 itself is not dressed for a funereal sacrifice. 
 
 It has been pointed out that in the British Museum there 
 exists a bas-relief of Homer's apotheosis where we notice a 
 figure holding two torches. Is it, then, possible that the 
 Ildefonso marble may express, not the sacrifice, but the 
 apotheosis of Antinous, and that the Genius who holds the 
 two torches is conferring on him immortahty? The lifted 
 torch would symbolise his new life, and the depressed torch 
 would stand for the life he had devoted. According to this 
 explanation, the sorrowful expression of Antinous must indi- 
 cate the agony of death through which he passed into the 
 company of the undying. Against this interpretation is the 
 fact that we have no precise authority for the symbolism of the 
 torches, except only the common inversion of the life-brand by 
 the Genius of Death. 
 
 Yet another solution may be suggested. Assuming that we 
 have before us a sacrificial ceremony, and that the group was 
 executed after the self-devotion of Antinous had passed into 
 the popular belief, we may regard the elder youth as either the 
 Genius of the Emperor, separate in spirit from Hadrian himself 
 and presiding over his destinies, who accepts the offer of 
 Antinous with solemn calmness suited to so great a gift ; or 
 else as the Genius of the Roman people, witnessing the same 
 
88 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 act in the same majestic spirit. This view finds some support 
 in the abstract ideaUty of the torch-bearer, who is clearly no 
 historical personage as Antinous himself is, but rather a power 
 controlHng his fate. The interpretation of the two torches 
 remains very difficult. In the torch flung down upon the flame- 
 less and barren altar we might recognise a symbol of Hadrian's 
 life upon the point of extinction, but not yet extinguished ; and 
 in the torch lifted aloft we might find a metaphor of life 
 resuscitated and exalted. Nor is it perhaps without significance 
 that the arm of the self-immolating youth meets the upraised 
 torch, as though to touch the life which he will purchase with 
 his death. There is, however, the objection stated above to 
 this bold use of symbolism. 
 
 In support of any explanation which ascribes this group to 
 a period later than the canonisation of Antinous, it may be 
 repeated that the execution is inferior to that of almost all the 
 other statues of the hero. Is it possible, then, that it belongs 
 to a subsequent date, when art was further on the wane, but 
 when the self-devotion of Antinous had become a dogma of his 
 cuh? 
 
 After all is said, the Ildefonso marble, like the legend of 
 Antinous, remains a mystery. Only hypotheses, more or less 
 ingenious, more or less suited to our sympathies, varying 
 between Casaubon's coarse vilification and Rydberg's roseate 
 vision, are left us. 
 
 As a last note on the subject of Antinous let me refer to 
 Raphael's statue of Jonah in the Chigi Chapel of S. Maria del 
 Popolo at Rome. Raphael, who handled the myth of Cupid 
 and Psyche so magnificently in the Villa Farnesina of his 
 patron Agostino Chigi, dedicated a statue of Antinous — the 
 only statue he ever executed in marble — under the title of a 
 Hebrew prophet in a Christian sanctuary. The fact is no less 
 significant than strange. During the early centuries of 
 Christianity, as is amply proved by the sarcophagi in the 
 
A NT/NO us, 89 
 
 Lateran Museum, Jonah symbolised self-sacrifice and immor- 
 tality. He was a type of Christ, an emblem of the Christian's 
 hope beyond the grave. During those same centuries Antinous 
 represented the same ideas, however inadequately, however 
 dimly, for the unlettered laity of Paganism. It could scarcely 
 have been by accident, or by mere admiration for the features 
 of Antinous, that Raphael, in his marble, blent the Christian 
 and the Pagan traditions. To unify and to transcend the 
 double views of Christianity and Paganism in a work of pure 
 art was Raphael's instinctive, if not his conscious, aim. Nor is 
 there a more striking instance of this purpose than the youth- 
 ful Jonah with the head of Hadrian's favourite. Lionardo's 
 Dionysus- John-the- Baptist seems but a careless />// d'espritcom- 
 pared with this profound and studied symbol of renascent 
 humanism. Thus to regard the Jonah- Antinous of the Cappella 
 Chigi as a type of immortality and self-devotion, fusing 
 Christian and Graeco-Roman symbolism in one work of 
 modern art, h the most natural interpretation; but it would 
 not be impossible to trace in it a metaphor of the resurgent 
 Pagan spirit also — as though, leaving Jonah and his Biblical 
 associations in the background, the artist had determined 
 that from the mouth of the monstrous grave should issue not a 
 bearded prophet, but the victorious youth who had captivated 
 with his beauty and his heroism the sunset age of the classic world. 
 At any rate, whatever may have been Raphael's intention, the 
 legend of Antinous, that last creation of antique mythology, 
 shines upon us in this marble, just as the tale of Hero and 
 Leander, that last blossom of antique literature, flowers afresh 
 in the verses of our Marlowe. It would appear as though the 
 Renaissance poets, hastening to meet the classic world with 
 arms of welcome, had embraced its latest saints, as nearest to 
 them, in the rapture of their first enthusiasm. 
 
 Over all these questions, over all that concerns Antinous, 
 there rests a cloud of darkness and impenetrable doubt. To 
 
90 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pierce that cloud is now impossible. The utmost we can do 
 is to indulge our fancy in dreams of greater or less probability, 
 and to mark out clearly the limitations of the subject. It is 
 indeed something to have shown that the stigma of slavery 
 and disgrace attaching to his name has no solid historical 
 justification, and something to have suggested plausible reasons 
 for conjecturing that his worship had a genuine spiritual basis. 
 Yet the sincere critic, at the end of the whole inquiry, will 
 confess that he has only cast a plummet into the unfathomable 
 sea of ignorance. What remains, immortal, indestructible, 
 victorious, is Antinous in art. Against the gloomy back- 
 ground of doubt, calumny, contention, terrible surmise, his 
 statues are illuminated with the dying glory of the classic 
 genius — even as the towers and domes of a marble city shine 
 forth from the purple banks of a thunder-cloud in sunset light. 
 Here and here only does reality emerge from the chaos of con- 
 flicting phantoms. Front to front with them, it is allowed us 
 to forget all else but the beauty of one who died young 
 because the gods loved him. But when we question those 
 wonderful mute features and beg them for their secret, they 
 return no answer. There is not even a smile upon the parted 
 lips. So profound is the mystery, so insoluble the enigma, 
 that from its most importunate interrogation we derive nothing 
 but an attitude of deeper reverence. This in itself, however, is 
 worth the pains of study. ^ 
 
 ^ I must here express my indebtedness to my friend H. F. Brown for a 
 large portion of the materials used by me in this essay on Antinous, which 
 I had no means at Davos Platz of accumulating for myself, and which he 
 unearthed from the libraries of Florence in the course of his own work, and 
 generously placed at my disposal. 
 
9' 
 
 LUCRETIUS, 
 
 In seeking to distinguish the Roman from the Greek genius 
 we can find no surer guide than Virgil's famous lines in the 
 Sixth ^neid. Virgil lived to combine the traditions of both 
 races in a work of profoundly meditated art, and to their points 
 of divergence he was sensitive as none but a poet bent upon 
 resolving them could be. The real greatness of the Romans 
 consisted in their capacity for government, law, practical 
 administration. What they willed, they carried into effect 
 with an iron indifference to everything but the object in view. 
 What they acquired, they held with the firm grasp of force, 
 and by the might of organised authority. Their architecture, 
 in so far as it was original, subserved purposes of public utility. 
 Philosophy with them ceased to be speculative, and applied 
 itself to the ethics of conduct. Their religious conceptions — 
 in so far as these were not adopted together with general culture 
 from the Greeks, or together with sensual mysticism from the 
 East — were practical abstractions. The Latin ideal was to give 
 form to the state by legislation, and to mould the citizen by moral 
 discipline. The Greek ideal was contained in the poetry of 
 Homer, the sculpture of Pheidias, the heroism of Harmodius, 
 the philosophy of Socrates. Hellas was held together by no 
 system, but by the Delphic oracle and the Olympian games. 
 The Greeks depended upon culture, as the Romans upon 
 law. The national character determined by culture, and that 
 determined by discipline, eventually broke down : but the 
 
92 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 ruin in either case was different. The Greek became servile, 
 indolent, and sHppery ; the Roman became arrogant, blood- 
 thirsty, tyrannous, and brutal. The Greeks in their best days 
 attained to aio^ppoavir], their regulative virtue, by a kind of 
 instinct ; and even in their worst debasement they never 
 exhibited the extravagance of lust and cruelty and pompous 
 prodigality displayed by Rome. The Romans, deficient in the 
 asstlietic instinct, whether applied to morals or to art, were 
 temperate upon compulsion ; and when the strain of law relaxed, 
 they gave themselves unchecked to profligacy. The bad 
 taste of the Romans made them aspire to the huge and 
 monstrous. Nero's whim to cut through the isthmus, Cahgula's 
 villa built upon the sea at Baiae, the acres covered by imperial 
 palaces in Rome, are as Latin as the small scale of the Par- 
 thenon is Greek. Athens annihilates our notions of mere 
 magnitude by the predominance of harmony and beauty, to 
 which size is irrelevant. Rome dilates them to the full : it is 
 the colossal greatness, the mechanical pride, of her monuments 
 that win our admiration. By comparing the Dionysian theatre 
 at Athens, during a representation of the Antigone^ with the 
 Flavian amphitheatre at Rome, while the gladiators sang their 
 Ave Ccesar ! we gain at once a measure for the differences 
 between Greek and Latin taste. In spiritual matters, again, 
 Rome, as distinguished from Hellas, was omnivorous. The 
 cosmopolitan receptivity of Roman sympathies, absorbing Egypt 
 and the Orient wholesale, is as characteristic as the exclusivenes^ 
 of the Greeks, their sensitive anxiety about the )]9of. We feel 
 that it was in a Roman rather than a Greek atmosphere, where 
 no middle term of art existed like a neutral ground between the 
 moral law and sin, where no delicate intellectual sensibilities 
 interfered with the assimilation of new creeds, that Christianity 
 was destined to strike root and flourish. 
 
 These remarks, familiar to students, form a proper prelude 
 to the criticism of Lucretius : for in Lucretius the Roman 
 
LUCRETIUS. 93 
 
 character found its most perfect literary incarnation. He is at 
 all points a true Roman, gifted with the strength, the conquer- 
 ing temper, the uncompromising haughtiness, and the large 
 scale of his race. Holding, as it were, the thought of Greece 
 in fee, he administers the Epicurean philosophy as though it 
 were a province, marshalling his arguments like legionaries, 
 and spanning the chasms of speculative insecurity with the 
 masonry of hypotheses. As the arches of the Pont du Gard, 
 suspended in their power amid that solitude, produce an over- 
 mastering feeling of awe ; so the huge fabric of the I.ucretian 
 system, hung across the void of Nihilism, inspires a sense of 
 terror, not so much on its own account as for the Roman 
 sternness of the mind that made it. * Le retentissement de 
 mes pas dans ces immenses voutes me faisait croire entendre 
 la forte voix de ceux qui les avait baties. Te me perdais com me 
 un insecte dans cette immensitd' This is what Rousseau wrote 
 about the aqueduct of Nismes. This is what we feel in pacing 
 the corridors of the Lucretian poem. Sometimes it seems like 
 walking through resounding caves of night and death, where 
 unseen cataracts keep plunging down uncertain depths, and 
 winds * thwarted and forlorn ' swell from an unknown distance, 
 and rush by, and wail themselves to silence in the unexplored 
 beyond. At another time the impression left upon the memory 
 is different. We have been following a Roman road from the 
 gate of the Eternal City, through field and vineyard, by lake and 
 river-bed, across the broad intolerable plain and the barren tops 
 of Alps, down into forests where wild beasts and barbarian 
 tribes wander, along the marge of Rhine or Elbe, and over 
 frozen fens, in one perpetual straight line, until the sea is 
 reached and the road ends because it can go no further. All 
 the while, the iron wheel-rims of our chariot have jarred upon 
 imperishable paved work ; there has been no stop nor stay ; 
 the visions of things beautiful and strange and tedious have 
 flown past ; at the climax we look forth across a waste of waves 
 
94 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 and tumbling wilderness of surf and foam, where the storm 
 sweeps and hurrying mists drive eastward close above our 
 heads. The want of any respite, breathing-space, or intermis- 
 sion in the poem, helps to force this image of a Roman journey 
 on our mind. From the first line to the last there is no 
 turning-point, no pause of thought, scarcely a comma, and the 
 whole breaks off : 
 
 rixantes potius quam corpora desererentur : 
 
 as though a scythe-sweep from the arm of Death had cut the 
 thread of singing short. 
 
 Is, then, this poem truly song ? Indeed it is. The brazen 
 voice of Rome becomes tunable ; a majestic rhythm sustains 
 the progress of the singer, who, like Milton's Satan, — 
 
 O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, 
 With head, hands, wings or feet, pursues his way, 
 And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies. 
 
 It is only because, being so much a Roman, he insists on 
 moving ever onward with unwavering march, that Lucretius is 
 often wearisome and rough. He is too disdainful to care to 
 mould the whole stuff of his poem to one quality. He is too 
 truth-loving to condescend to rhetoric. The scoriae, the grit, 
 the dross, the quartz, the gold, the jewels of his thought are 
 hurried onward in one mighty lava-flood, that has the force to 
 bear them all with equal ease — not altogether unlike that hurl- 
 ing torrent of the world painted by Tintoretto in his picture of 
 the Last Day, which carries on its breast cities and forests and 
 men with all their works, to plunge them in a bottomless abyss. 
 Poems of the perfect Hellenic type may be compared 
 to bronze statues, in the material of which many divers metals 
 have been fused. Silver and tin and copper and lead and gold 
 are there : each substance adds a quality to the mass ; yet the 
 whole is bronze. The furnace of the poet's will has so melted 
 and mingled all these ores, that they have run together and 
 
LUCRETIUS. 95 
 
 filled the mould of his imagination. It is thus that Virgil 
 chose to work. He made it his glory to realise artistic 
 harmony, and to preserve a Greek balance in his style. 
 Not so Lucretius. In him the Roman spirit, disdainful, un- 
 compromising, and forceful, had full sway. We can fancy him 
 accosting the Greek masters of the lyre upon Parnassus, defer- 
 ring to none, conceding nought, and meeting their arguments 
 with proud indifference : 
 
 tu regere imperio populos Rotnane memento. 
 
 The Roman poet, swaying the people of his thoughts, will 
 stoop to no persuasion, adopt no middle course. It is not his 
 business to please, but to command ; he will not wait upon the 
 Kfitpoc, or court opportunity ; Greeks may surprise the Muses 
 in relenting moods, and seek out ' mollia tempora fandi ; ' all 
 times and seasons must serve him ; the terrible, the discordant, 
 the sublime, and the magnificent shall drag his thundering car- 
 wheels, as he lists, along the road of thought. 
 
 At the very outset of the poem we feel ourselves within the 
 grasp of the Roman imagination. It is no Aphrodite, risen 
 from the waves and white as the sea-foam, that he invokes : — 
 
 Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas, 
 alma Venus. 
 
 This Venus is the mother of the brood of Rome, and at the 
 
 same time an abstraction as wide as the universe. See her in 
 
 the arms of Mavors : — 
 
 qui saepe tuum se 
 reicit aeterno devictus volnere amoris, 
 atque ita suspiciens tereti cervice reposta 
 pascit amore avidos inhians in te, dea, visus, 
 eque tuo pendet resupini spiritus ore. 
 hunc tu, diva, tuo recubantem corpore sancto 
 circumfusa super, suavis ex ore loquelas 
 funde petens placidam Romanis, incluta, pacem. 
 
 In the whole Lucretian treatment of love there is nothing really 
 
96 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Greek. We do not hear of Eros, either as the mystic mania of 
 Plato, or as the winged boy of Meleager. Love in Lucretius is 
 something deeper, larger, and more elemental than the Greeks 
 conceived ; a fierce and overmastering force, a natural impulse 
 which men share in common with the world of things.^ Both 
 the pleasures and the pains of love are conceived on a gigantic 
 scale, and described with an irony that has the growl of a roused 
 lion mingled with its laughter : 
 
 ulcus enim vivescit et inveterascit alendo 
 inque dies gliscit furor atque aerumna gravescit. 
 
 The acts of love and the insanities of passion are viewed 
 from no standpoint of sentiment or soft emotion, but always in 
 relation to philosophical ideas, or as the manifestation of some- 
 thing terrible in human life. Yet they lose nothing thereby in 
 the voluptuous impression left upon the fancy : — 
 
 sic in amore Venus simulacris ludit amantis, 
 nee satiate queunt spectando corpore coram 
 nee manibus quicquam teneris abradere membris 
 possunt errantes incerti corpore toto. 
 denique cum membris conlatis flore fruuntur 
 aetatis, iam cum praesagit gaudia corpus 
 atque in eost Venus ut muliebria eonserat arva, 
 adfigunt avide corpus iunguntque salivas 
 oris et inspirant pressantes dentibus ora, 
 nequiquam, quoniam nil inde abradere possunt 
 nee penetrare et abire in corpus corpore toto. 
 
 The master- word in this passage is nequiquam. * To desire 
 the impossible,' says the Greek proverb, ' is a disease of the 
 soul.' Lucretius, who treats of physical desire as a torment, 
 asserts the impossibiUty of its perfect satisfaction. There is 
 
 * A fragment preserved from the Danaides of ^schylus has the thought 
 of Aphrodite as the mistress of love in earth and sky and sea and cloud ; 
 and this idea finds a philosophical expression in Empedocles. But the 
 tone of these Greek poets is as different from that of Lucretius as a Greek 
 Hera is from a Roman Juno. 
 
LUCRETIUS. 97 
 
 something almost tragic in these sighs and pantings and 
 pleasure-throes, and incomplete fruitions of souls pent up within 
 their frames of flesh. We seem to see a race of men and 
 women such as have never lived, except perhaps in Rome or 
 in the thought of Michael Angelo,' meeting in leonine embrace- 
 ments that yield pain, whereof the climax is, at best, relief from 
 rage and respite for a moment from consuming fire. There is 
 a life daemonic rather than human in those mighty limbs ; and 
 the passion that bends them on the marriage bed has in it the 
 stress of storms, the rampings and the roarings of leopards at 
 play. Or, take again this single line : 
 
 et Venus in silvis iungebat corpora amantum. 
 
 What a picture of primeval breadth and vastness ! The vice 
 egrillard of Voltaire, the coarse animalism of Rabelais, even 
 the large comic sexuality of Aristophanes, are in another region : 
 for the forest is the world, and the bodies of the lovers are 
 things natural and unashamed, and Venus is the tyrannous 
 instinct that controls the blood in spring. Only a Roman poet 
 could have conceived of passion so mightily and so imperson- 
 ally, expanding its sensuality to suit the scale of Titanic 
 existences, and purging from it both sentiment and spirituality 
 as well as all that makes it mean. 
 
 In like manner, the Lucretian conception of Ennui is wholly 
 Roman : — 
 
 Si possent homines, proinde ac sentire videntur 
 pondus inesse animo quod se gravitate fatiget, 
 e quibus id fiat causis quoque noscere et unde 
 tanta mali tamquam moles in pectore constet, 
 haut ita vitam agerent, ut nunc plerumque videmus 
 quid sibi quisque velit nescire et quaerere semper 
 commutare locum quasi onus deponere possit. 
 exit saepe foras magnis ex aedibus ille, 
 
 ' See, for instance, his meeting of Ixion with the phantom of Juno, or 
 his design for Leda and the Swan. 
 
 H 
 
98 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 esse domi quern pertaesumst, subitoque revertit, 
 quippe foris nilo melius qui sentiat esse, 
 currit agens mannos ad villain praecipitanter, 
 auxilium tectis quasi ferre ardentibus instans ; 
 oscitat extemplo, tetigit cum limina villae, 
 aut abit in somnum gravis atque oblivia quaerit, 
 aut etiam properans urbem petit atque revisit, 
 hoc se quisque modo fugit (at quem scilicet, ut fit, 
 effugere haut potis est, ingratis haeret) et odit 
 propterea, morbi quia causam non tenet aeger ; 
 quam bene si videat, iam rebus quisque relictis 
 naturam primum studeat cognoscere rerum, 
 temporis aeterni quoniam, non unius horae, 
 ambigitur status, in quo sit mortalibus omnis 
 aetas, post mortem quae restat cumque manenda. 
 
 Virgil would not have written these lines. A Greek poet could 
 not have conceived them : unless we imagine to ourselves what 
 ^schylus or Pindar, oppressed by long illness, and forgetful of 
 the gods, might possibly have felt. In its sense of spiritual 
 vacancy, when the world and all its uses have become flat, 
 stale, unprofitable, and the sentient soul oscillates like a pendu- 
 lum between weariful extremes, seeking repose in restless move- 
 ment, and hurling the ruins of a life into the gulf of its exhausted 
 cravings, we perceive already the symptoms of that unnamed 
 malady which was the plague of imperial Rome. The tyrants 
 and the suicides of the Empire expand before our eyes a pageant 
 of their lassitude, relieved in vain by festivals of blood and 
 orgies of unutterable lust. It is not that ennui was a specially 
 Roman disease. Under certain conditions it is sure to afflict 
 all overtaxed civilisation ; and for the modern world no one 
 has expressed its nature better than the slight and feminine 
 De Musset.^ Indeed, the Latin language has no one phrase 
 denoting Ennui ; — Hvor and fastidinm, and even tcedium vttce, 
 meaning something more specific and less all-pervasive as a 
 moral agency. This in itself is significant, since it shows the 
 
 ' See the prelude to Les Confessions dun Enfant du Steele and Les 
 Nuits. 
 
LUCRETIUS. 99 
 
 unconsciousness of the race at large, and renders the intuition 
 of Lucretius all the more remarkable. But in Rome there 
 were the conditions favourable to its development — imperfect 
 culture, vehement passions unabsorbed by commerce or by 
 political life, the habituation to extravagant excitement in war 
 and in the circus, and the fermentation of an age foredestined to 
 give birth to new religious creeds. When the infinite but ill- 
 assured power of the Empire was conferred on semi-madmen, 
 Ennui in Rome assumed colossal proportions. Its victims 
 sought for palHatives in cruelty and crime elsewhere unknown, 
 except perhaps in Oriental courts. Lucretius, in the last days 
 of the Republic, had discovered its deep significance for human 
 nature. To all the pictures of Tacitus it forms a solemn tragic 
 background, enhancing, as it were, by spiritual gloom the car- 
 nival of passions which gleam so brilliantly upon his canvas. 
 In the person of Caligula, Ennui sat supreme upon the throne 
 of the terraqueous globe. The insane desires and the fantastic 
 deeds of the autocrat wlio wished one head for humanity that 
 he might cut it off", sufficiently reveal the extent to which his 
 spirit had been gangrened by this ulcer. There is a simple 
 paragraph in Suetonius which lifts the veil from his imperial 
 unrest more ruthlessly than any legend : — " Incitabatur insom- 
 niis maxime ; neque enim plus tribus horis nocturnis quiescebat, 
 ac ne his quidem placida quiete, at pavida miris rerum imagini- 
 bus .... ideoque magna parte noctis, vigiliae cubandiqiie 
 tsedio, nunc toro residens, nunc per longissimas porticus vagus, 
 invocare identidem at que expectare lucem consueverat.' This 
 is the very picture of Ennui that has become mortal disease. 
 Nor was Nero different. ' Neron,' says Victor Hugo, ' cherche 
 tout simplement une distraction. Poete, comedien, chanteur, 
 cocher, epuisant la fe'rocite pour trouver la volupte, essayant le 
 changement de sexe, e'poux de I'eunuque Sporus et epouse de 
 I'esclave Pythagore, et se promenant dans les rues de Rome 
 entre sa femme et son mari ; ayant de^x plaisirs : voirle peuple 
 
loo SKETCHES AND STUDIES IJSr ITALY. 
 
 se Jeter sur les pieces d'or, les diamants et les perles, et voir les 
 lions se jeter sur le peuple ; incendiaire par curiosite et parricide 
 par de'soeuvrement.' Nor need we stop at Nero. Over Vitellius 
 at his banquets, over Hadrian in his Tiburtine villa calling in 
 vain on Death, over Commodus in the arena, and Heliogabalus 
 among the rose-leaves, the same livid shadow of imperial Ennui 
 hangs. We can even see it looming behind the noble form of 
 Marcus Aurelius, who, amid the ruins of empire and the revolu- 
 tions of belief, penned in his tent among the Quadi those maxims 
 of endurance which were powerles»s to regenerate the world. 
 
 Roman again, in the true sense of the word, is the Lucretian 
 philosophy of Conscience. Christianity has claimed the cele- 
 brated imprecation of Persius upon tyrants for her own, as 
 though to her alone belonged the secret of the soul-tormenting 
 sense of guilt. Yet it is certain that we owe to the Romans 
 that conception of sin bearing its own fruit of torment which 
 the Latin Fathers — Augustine and Tertullian — imposed with 
 such terrific force upon the mediaeval consciousness. There is 
 no need to conclude that Persius was a Christian because he 
 
 wrote — 
 
 Magne pater divum, ssevos punire tyrannos, etc., 
 
 when we know that he had before his eyes that passage in the 
 third book of the ' De Rerum Natura ' (978-1023) which reduces 
 the myths of Tityos and Sisyphus and Cerberus and the Furies 
 to facts of the human soul : — 
 
 sed metus in vita poenarum pro male factis 
 
 est insignibus insignis, scelerisque luella, 
 
 career et horribilis de saxo jactu' deorsum, 
 
 verbera camifices robur pix lammina taedae ; 
 
 quae tamen etsi absunt, at mens sibi conscia facti 
 
 praemetuens adhibet stimulos terretque flagelHs 
 
 nee videt interea qui terminus esse malorum 
 
 possit nee quae sit poenarum denique finis 
 
 atque eadem metuit magis haec ne in morte gravescant. 
 
 The Greeks, by personifying those secret terrors, had removed 
 
LUCRETIUS. 101 
 
 them into a region of existences separate from man. They 
 became dread goddesses, who might to some extent be pro- 
 pitiated by exorcisms or expiatory rites. This was in strict 
 accordance with the mythopoeic and artistic quality of the 
 Greek intellect. The stern and somewhat prosaic rectitude of 
 the Roman broke through such figments of the fancy, and ex- 
 posed the sore places of the soul itself. The theory of the 
 Conscience, moreover, is part of the Lucretian polemic against 
 false notions of the gods and the pernicious belief in hell. 
 
 Positivism and Realism were qualities of Roman as distin- 
 guished from Greek culture. There was no self-delusion in 
 Lucretius— no attempt, however unconscious, to compromise 
 unpalatable truth, or to invest philosophy with the charm of 
 myth. A hundred illustrations might be chosen to prove his 
 method of setting forth thought with unadorned simplicity. 
 These, however, are familiar to any one who has but opened 
 the *De Rerum Natura.' It is more profitable to trace this 
 Roman ruggedness in the poet's treatment of the subject 
 which more than any other seems to have preoccupied his 
 intellect and fascinated his imagination — that is Death. His 
 poem has been called by a great critic the 'poem of Death.' 
 Shakspeare's line — 
 
 And Death once dead, there's no more dying then, 
 
 might be written as a motto on the title-page of the book, 
 which is full of passages like this : — 
 
 scire licet nobis nil esse in morte timendum 
 nee miserum fieri qui non est posse neque hilum 
 differre anne ullo fiierit iam tempore natus, 
 mortalem vitam mors cum immortalis ademit.' 
 
 His whole mind was steeped in the thought of death ; and 
 though he can hardly be said to have written ' the words that 
 shall make death exhilarating,' he devoted his genius, in all 
 its energy, to removing from before men the terror of the doom 
 
I02 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 that waits for all. Sometimes, in his attempt at consolation, 
 he adduces images which, like the Delphian knife, are double- 
 handled, and cut both ways : — 
 
 hinc indignatur se mortalem esse creatum 
 nee videt in vera nullum fore morte alium se 
 qui possit vivus sibi se lugere peremptum 
 stansque iacentem se lacerari urive dolere. 
 
 This suggests, by way of contrast, Blake's picture of the soul 
 that has just left the body and laments her separation. As 
 we read, we are inclined to lay the book down, and wonder 
 whether the argument is, after all, conclusive. May not the 
 spirit, when she has quitted her old house, be forced to weep 
 and wring her hands, and stretch vain shadowy arms to the 
 limbs that were so dear ? No one has felt more profoundly 
 than Lucretius the pathos of the dead. The intensity with 
 which he realised what we must lose in dying and what we 
 leave behind of grief to those who loved us, reaches a climax 
 of restrained passion in this well-known paragraph : — 
 
 * iam iam non domus accipiet te laeta, neque uxor 
 optima nee dulces occurrent oscula nati 
 praeripere et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent, 
 non poteris factis florentibus esse, tuisque 
 praesidium. misero misere ' aiunt * omnia ademit 
 una dies infesta tibi tot praemia vitae.' 
 illud in his rebus non addunt ' nee tibi earum 
 iam desiderium rerum super insidet una,' 
 quod bene si videant animo dictisque sequantur, 
 dissoluant animi magno se angore metuque. i 
 
 ' tu quidem ut es leto sopitus, sic eris aevi 
 quod superest cunctis privatu' doloribus aegris. 
 at nos horrifico cinefactum te prope busto 
 insatiabiliter deflevimus, aeternumque 
 nulla dies nobis maerorem e pectore demet.' 
 
 Images, again, of almost mediaeval grotesqueness, rise in 
 his mind when he contemplates the universality of Death. 
 Simonides had dared to say : ' One horrible Charybdis waits 
 
LUCRETIUS. 103 
 
 for all' That was as near a discord as a Greek could venture 
 on. Lucretius describes the open gate and ' huge wide-gaping 
 maw ' which must devour heaven, earth, and sea, and all that 
 they contain : — 
 
 haut igitur leti praeclusa est ianua caelo 
 nee soli terraeque neque altis aequoris undis, 
 sed patet immani et vasto respectat hiatu. 
 
 The ever-during battle of life and death haunts his imagina- 
 tion. Sometimes he sets it forth in philosophical array of 
 argument. Sometimes he touches on the theme with elegiac 
 
 pity :— 
 
 miscetur funere vagor 
 quern pueri tollunt visentis luminis oras ; 
 nee nox ulla diem neque noctem aurora secutast 
 quae non audierit mixtos vagitibus aegris 
 ploratus mortis eomites et funeris atri. 
 
 Then again he returns, with obstinate persistence, to de- 
 scribe how the dread of death, fortified by false religion, hangs 
 like a pall over humanity, and how the whole world is a ceme- 
 tery overshadowed by cypresses. The most sustained, perhaps, 
 of these passages is at the beginning of the third book (lines 
 31 to 93). The most profoundly melancholy is the descrip- 
 tion of the new-born child (v. 221) : — 
 
 quare mors immatura vagatur? 
 tum porro puer, ut saevis proiectus ab undis 
 navita nudus humi iacet, infans, indigus omni 
 vitali auxilio, eum primum in luminis oras 
 nixibus ex alvo matris natura profudit, 
 vagituque locum lugubri complet, ut aecumst 
 eui tantum in vita restet transire malorum. 
 
 Disease and old age, as akin to Death, touch his imagina- 
 tion with the same force. He rarely alludes to either without 
 some lines as terrible as these (iii. 472, 453) : — 
 
 nam dolor ac morbus leti fabricator uterquest. 
 claudicat ingenium, delirat lingua, labat mens. 
 
104 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Another kindred subject affects him with an equal pathos. 
 He sees the rising and decay of nations, age following after 
 age, like waves hurrying to dissolve upon a barren shore, and 
 writes (ii. 75) : — 
 
 sic rerum summa novatur 
 semper, et inter se mortales mutua vivunt, 
 augescunt aliae gentes, aliae minuuntur, 
 inque brevi spatio mutantur saecla animantum 
 et quasi cursores vitai lampada tradunt. 
 
 Although the theme is really the procession of Hfe through 
 countless generations, it obtains a tone of sadness from the 
 sense of intervenient decay and change. No Greek had the 
 heart thus to dilate his imagination with the very element of 
 death. What the Greeks commemorated when they spoke of 
 Death was the loss of the lyre and the hymeneal chaunt, and 
 the passage across dim waves to a sunless land. Nor indeed 
 does Lucretius, like the modern poet of Democracy, ascend 
 into the regions of ecstatic trance : — 
 
 Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, 
 Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. 
 
 He keeps his reason cool, and sternly contemplates the thought 
 of the annihilation which awaits all perishable combinations of 
 eternal things. Like Milton, Lucretius delights in giving the 
 life of his imagination to abstractions. Time, with his retinue 
 of ages, sweeps before his vision, and he broods in fancy over 
 the illimitable ocean of the universe. The fascination of the 
 infinite is the quaUty which, more than any other, separates 
 Lucretius as a Roman poet from the Greeks. 
 
 Another distinctive feature of his poetry Lucretius in- 
 herited as part of his birthright. This is the sense of Roman 
 greatness. It pervades the poem, and may be felt in every 
 part ; although to Athens, and the Greek sages, Democritus, 
 Empedocles, Anaxagoras, Heraclitus, and Epicurus, as the 
 fountain-heads of soul-delivering culture, he reserves his most 
 
LUCRETIUS. 105 
 
 magnificent periods of panegyric. Yet when he would fain 
 persuade his readers that the fear of death is nugatory, and 
 that the future will be to them even as the past, it is the shock 
 of Rome with Carthage that he dwells upon as the critical 
 event of the world's history (iii. 830) : — 
 
 Nil igitur mors est ad nos neque pertinet hilum, 
 quandoquidem natura animi mortalis habetur. 
 et velut anteaclo nil tempore sensimus aegri, 
 ad confligendum venientibus undique Poenis, 
 omnia cum belli trepido concussa tumultu 
 horrida contremuere sub altis aetheris oris, 
 in dtibioque fiiere utrorum ad regna cadendum 
 omnibus httmanis essei terraque mariqtiCy 
 sic: 
 
 The lines in italics could have been written by none but a 
 Roman conscious that the conflict with Carthage had decided 
 the absolute empire of the habitable world. In like manner 
 the description of a military review (ii. 323) is Roman : so, 
 too, is that of the amphitheatre (iv. 75) : — 
 
 et volgo faciunt id lutea russaque vela 
 et ferrugina, cum magnis intenta theatris 
 per malos volgata trabesque trementia flutant. 
 namque ibi consessum caveai supter et omnem 
 scaenai speciem, patrum coetumque decorum 
 inficiunt coguntque suo fluitare colore. 
 
 The imagination of Lucretius, however, was habitually less 
 affected by the particular than by the universal. He loved to 
 dwell upon the large and general aspects of things — on the 
 procession of the seasons, for example, rather than upon the 
 landscape of the Campagna in spring or autumn. Therefore 
 it is only occasionally and by accident that we find in his 
 verse touches peculiarly characteristic of the manners of his 
 country. Therefore, again, it has happened that modern 
 critics have detected a lack of patriotic interest in this most 
 Roman of all Latin poets. Also may it here be remembered, 
 
lo6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 that the single line which sums up all the history of Rome in 
 one soul-shaking hexameter, is not Lucretian but Virgilian. 
 
 Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem. 
 
 The custode of the Baths of Titus, when he lifts his torch 
 to explore those ruined arches, throws the wan light upon one 
 place where a Roman hand has scratched that verse in gigantic 
 letters on the cement. The colossal genius of Rome seems 
 speaking to us, an oracle no lapse of time can render dumb. 
 
 But Lucretius is not only the poet par excellence of Rome. 
 He will always rank also among the first philosophical poets of 
 the world : and here we find a second standpoint for inquiry. 
 The question how far it is practicable to express philosophy in 
 verse, and to combine the accuracy of scientific language with 
 the charm of rhythm and the ornaments of the fancy, is one 
 which belongs rather to modern than to ancient criticism. In 
 the progress of culture there has been an ever-growing separa- 
 tion between the several spheres of intellectual activity, Wi at 
 Livy said about the Roman Empire is true now of knowledge ; 
 7nagnitudine laborat sua : so that the labour of specialising and 
 distinguishing has for many centuries been all- important. Not 
 only do we disbelieve in the desirability of smearing honey 
 upon the lip of the medicine-glass through which the draught 
 of erudition has to be administered ; but we know for certain 
 that it is only at the meeting-points between science and emo- 
 tion that the philosophic poet finds a proper sphere. What- 
 ever subject-matter can be permeated or penetrated with strong 
 human feeling is fit for verse. Then the rhythms and the 
 forms of poetry to which high passions naturally move, become 
 spontaneous. The emotion is paramount, and the knowledge 
 conveyed is valuable as supplying fuel to the fire of feeling. 
 There are, were, and always will be high imaginative points of 
 vantage commanding the broad fields of knowledge, upon 
 
LUCRETIUS. 107 
 
 which the poet may take his station to survey the world and all 
 that it contains. But it has long ceased to be his function to 
 set forth, in any kind of metre, systems of speculative thought 
 or purely scientific truths. This was not the case in the old 
 world. There was a period in the development of the intellect 
 when the abstractions of logic appeared like intuitions, and 
 guesses about the structure of the universe still wore the garb 
 of fancy. When physics and metaphysics were scarcely dis- 
 tinguished from mythology, it was natural to address the 
 Muses at the outset of a treatise of ontology, and to cadence a 
 theory of elemental substances in hexameter verse. Thus the 
 philosophical poems of Xenophanes, Parmenides, and Empe- 
 docles belonged essentially to a transitional stage of human 
 culture. 
 
 There is a second species of poetrj'^ to which the name of 
 philosophical may be given, though it better deserves that of 
 mystical. Pantheism occupies a middle place between a 
 scientific theory of the universe and a form of religious enthu- 
 siasm. It supplies an element in which the poetic faculty can 
 move with freedom : for its conclusions, in so far as they 
 pretend to philosophy, are large and general, and the emotions 
 which it excites are co-extensive with the world. Therefore, 
 Pantheistic mysticism, from the Bhagavadgita of the far East, 
 through the Persian Soofis, down to the poets of our own 
 century, Goethe, and wShelley, and Wordsworth, and Whitman, 
 and many more whom it would be tedious to enumerate, has 
 generated a whole tribe of philosophic singers. 
 
 Yet a third class may be mentioned. Here we have to deal 
 with what are called didactic poems. These, like the metaphy- 
 sical epic, began to flourish in early Greece at the moment 
 when exact thought was dividing itself laboriously from myths 
 and fancies. Hesiod with his poem on the life of man leads 
 the way ; and the writers of moral sentences in elegiac verse, 
 among whom Solon and Theognis occupy the first place, 
 
io8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 follow. Latin literature contributes highly artificial specimens 
 of this kind in the ' Georgics ' of Virgil, the stoical diatribes of 
 Persius, and the ' Ars Poetica ' of Horace. Didactic verse had 
 a special charm for the genius of the Latin race. The name of 
 such poems in the Italian literature of the Renaissance is legion. 
 The French delighted in the same style under the same in- 
 fluences ; nor can we fail to attribute the ' Essay on Man ' and 
 the ' Essay on Criticism ' of our own Pope to a similar revival 
 in England of Latin forms of art. The taste for didactic verse 
 has declined. Yet in its stead another sort of philosophical 
 poetry has grown up in this century, which, for the want of a 
 better term, may be called psychological. It deserves this 
 title, inasmuch as the motive-interest of the art in question is 
 less the passion or the action of humanity than the analysis of 
 the same. The ' Faust ' of Goethe, the ' Prelude ' and * Excur- 
 sion ' of Wordsworth, Browning's ' Sordello ' and Mrs. Brown- 
 ing's ' Aurora Leigh,' together with the ' Musings ' of Coleridge 
 and the ' In Memoriam ' of Tennyson, may be roughly reckoned 
 in this class. It will be noticed that nothing has been said 
 about professedly religious poetry, much of which attaches 
 itself to mysticism, while some, like the 'Divine Comedy' of 
 Dante, is philosophic in the truest sense of the word. 
 
 Where, then, are we to place Lucretius ? He was a Roman, 
 imbued with the didactic predilections of the Latin race ; and 
 the didactic quaUty of the ' De Rerum Natura' is unmistakable. 
 Yet it would be uncritical to place this poem in the class which 
 derives from Hesiod. It belongs really to the succession of 
 Xenophanes, Parmenides, and Empedocles. As such it was 
 an anachronism. The specific moment in the development of 
 thought at which the Parmenidean Epic was natural has been 
 already described. The Romans of the age of Lucretius had 
 advanced far beyond it. The idealistic metaphysics of the 
 Socratic school, the positive ethics of the Stoics, and the pro- 
 found materialism of Epicurus, had accustomed the mind to 
 
LUCRETIUS. 109 
 
 habits of exact and subtle thinking, prolonged from generation 
 to generation upon the same lines of speculative inquiry. 
 Philosophy expressed in verse was out of date. Moreover, the 
 very myths had been rationalised: Euhemerus had even been 
 translated into Latin by Ennius, and his prosaic explanations 
 of Greek legend had found acceptance with the essentially 
 positive Roman intellect. Lucretius himself, it may be said 
 in passing, thought it worth while to offer a philosophical 
 explanation of the Greek mythology. The Cybele of the poets 
 is shown in one of his sublimest passages (ii. 600-645) to be 
 Earth. To call the sea Neptune, corn Ceres, and wine Bacchus, 
 seems to him a simple folly (ii. 652-657). We have already 
 seen how he reduces the fiends and spectres of the Greek 
 Hades to facts of moral subjectivity (iii. 978-1023). In 
 another place he attacks the worship of Phoebus and the stars 
 (v. no) ; in yet another he upsets the belief in the Centaurs> 
 Scylla, and Chimaera (v. 877-924) with a gravity which is 
 almost comic. Such arguments formed a necessary element in 
 his polemic against foul religion (foeda religio — turpis religio) ; 
 to deliver men from which (i. 62-112), by estabUshing firmly 
 in their minds the conviction that the gods exist far away from 
 this world in unconcerned tranquillity (ii. 646), and by sub- 
 stituting the notion of Nature for that of deity (ii. 1090), was 
 the object of his scientific demonstration. 
 
 Lucretius, therefore, had outgrown mythology, was hostile 
 to religion, and burned with unsurpassable enthusiasm to in- 
 doctrinate his Roman readers with the weighty conclusions of 
 systematised materialism. Yet he chose the vehicle of hexa- 
 meter verse, and trammelled his genius with limitations which 
 Empedocles, four hundred years before, must have found 
 almost intolerable. It needed the most ardent intellectual 
 passion and the loftiest inspiration to sustain on his far flight a 
 poet who had forged a hoplite's panoply for singing robes. 
 Both passion and inspiration Avere granted to Lucretius in full 
 
no SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 measure. And just as there was something contradictory 
 between the scientific subject-matter and the poetical form of 
 his masterpiece, so the very sources of his poetic strength were 
 such as are usually supposed to depress the soul. His passion 
 was for death, annihilation, godlessness. It was not the 
 eloquence, but the force of logic, in Epicurus that roused his 
 entliusiasm : — 
 
 ergo vivida vis animi pervicit et extra 
 processit longe flammantia moenia mundi. 
 
 No other poet who ever lived in any age, or any shore, drew 
 inspiration from founts more passionless and more impersonal. 
 
 The ^ De Rerum Natura ' is therefore an attempt, unique 
 in its kind, to combine philosophical exposition and poetry in 
 an age when the requirements of the former had already out- 
 grown the resources of the latter. Throughout the poem we 
 trace a discord between the matter and the form. The frost 
 of reason and the fire of fancy war in deadly conflict ; for the 
 Lucretian system destroyed nearly everything with which the 
 classical imagination loved to play. It was only in some high 
 ethereal region, before the majestic thought of Death or the 
 new Myth of Nature, that the two faculties of the poet's genius 
 met for mutual support. Only at rare intervals did he allow 
 himself to make artistic use of mere mythology, as in the cele- 
 brated exordium of the first book, or the description of the 
 Seasons in the fifth book (737-745). For the most part reason 
 and fancy worked separately : after long passages of scientific 
 explanation, Lucretius indulged his readers with those pictures 
 of unparalleled sublimity and grace which are the charm of 
 the whole poem ; or dropping the phraseology of atoms, void, 
 motion, chance, he spoke at times of Nature as endowed with 
 reason and a will (v. 186, 811, 846). 
 
 It would be beyond the scope of this essay to discuss the 
 particular form given by Lucretius to the Democritean philo- 
 
LUCRETIUS. Ill 
 
 sophy. He believed the universe to be composed of atoms, 
 infinite in number^ and variable, to a finite extent, in form, 
 which drift slantingly through an infinite void. Their combina- 
 tions under the conditions of what we call space and time are 
 transitory, while they remain themselves imperishable. Con- 
 sequently, as the soul itself is corporeally constituted, and as 
 thought and sensation depend on mere material idola, men 
 may divest themselves of any fear of the hereafter. There is 
 no such thing as providence, nor do the gods concern them- 
 selves with the kaleidoscopic medley of atoms in transient 
 combination which we call our world. The latter were points 
 of supreme interest to Lucretius. He seems to have cared 
 for the cosmology of Epicurus chiefly as it touched humanity 
 through ethics and religion. To impartial observers, the 
 identity or the divergence of the forms assumed by scientific 
 hypothesis at different periods of the world's history is not a 
 matter of much importance. Yet a peculiar interest has of 
 late been given to the Lucretian materialism by the fact that 
 physical speculation has returned to what is substantially the 
 same ground. The most modern theories of evolution and of 
 molecular structure may be stated in language which, allowing 
 for the progress made by exact thought during the last twenty 
 centuries, is singularly like that of Lucretius. The Roman 
 poet knew fewer facts than are familiar to our men of science, 
 and was far less able to analyse one puzzle into a whole group 
 of unexplained phenomena. He had besides but a feeble grasp 
 upon those discoveries which subserve the arts of life and 
 practical utility. But as regards absolute knowledge — knowledge, 
 that is to say, of what the universe really is, and of how it 
 became what it seems to us to be — Lucretius stood at the same 
 point of ignorance as we, after the labours of Darwin and of 
 Spencer, of Helmholtz and of Huxley, still do. Ontological 
 speculation is as barren now as then, and the problems of 
 existence still remain insoluble. The chief difference indeed 
 
112 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 between him and modern investigators is that they have been 
 lessoned by the experience of the last two thousand years to 
 know better the depths of human ignorance, and the direc- 
 tions in which it is possible to sound them. 
 
 It may not be uninteresting to collect a few passages in 
 which the Roman poet has expressed in his hexameters the 
 lines of thought adopted by our most advanced theorists. 
 Here is the general conception of Nature, working by her own 
 laws toward the achievement of that result which we apprehend 
 through the medium of the senses (ii. 1090). 
 
 Quae bene cognita si teneas, natura videtur 
 libera continue dominis privata superbis 
 ipsa sua per se sponte omnia dis agere expers. 
 
 Here again is a demonstration of the absurdity of supposing 
 that the world was made for the use of men (v. 156) : — 
 
 dicere porro hominum causa voluisse parare 
 praeclaram mundi naturam proptereaque 
 adlaudabile opus divom laudare decere 
 aeternumque putare atque inmortale futurum 
 nee fas esse, deum quod sit ratione vetusta 
 gentibus humanis fundatum perpetuo aevo, 
 sollicitare suis uUa vi ex sedibus umquam 
 nee verbis vexare et ab imo evertere summa, 
 cetera de genere hoc adfingere et addere, Memmi, 
 desiperest. 
 
 A like cogent rhetoric is directed against the arguments of 
 
 teleology (iv. 823) : — 
 
 Illud in his rebus vitium vementer avessis 
 effugere, errorem vitareque praemetuenter, 
 lumina ne facias oculorum clara creata, 
 prospicere ut possemus, et ut proferre queamus 
 proceros passus, ideo fastigia posse 
 surarum ac feminum pedibus fundata plicari, 
 bracchia turn porro validis ex apta lacertis 
 esse manusque datas utraque ex parte ministras, 
 ut facere ad vitam possemus quae foret usus. 
 cetera de genere hoc inter quaecumque pretantur 
 omnia perversa praepostera sunt ratione, 
 
LUCRETIUS. 113 
 
 nil ideo quoniam natumst in corpore ut uti 
 possemus, sed quod natumst id procreat usum. 
 nee fuit ante videre oculorum lumina nata 
 nee dietis orare prius quam lingua creatast, 
 sed potius longe linguae praeeessit origo 
 sermonem multoque creatae sunt prius aures 
 quam sonus est auditus, et omnia denique membra 
 ante fuere, ut opinor, eorum quam foi'et usus, 
 haud igitur potuere utendi crescere causa. 
 
 The ultimate dissolution and the gradual decay of the ter- 
 restrial globe is set forth in the following luminous passage 
 (ii. 1148):— 
 
 Sie igitur magni quoque circum moenia mundi 
 
 expugnata dabunt labem putrisque ruinas. 
 
 iamque adeo fracta est aetas efFetaque tellus 
 
 vix animalia parva ereat quae cuncta ereavit 
 
 saecla deditque ferarum ingentia corpora partu. ' 
 
 The same mind which recognised these probabilities knew 
 also that our globe is not single, but that it forms one among 
 an infinity of sister orbs (ii. 1084) : — 
 
 quapropter caelum simili ratione fatendumst 
 terramque et solem lunam mare, cetera quae sunt, 
 non esse unica, sed numero magis innumerali.'^ 
 
 When Lucretius takes upon himself to describe the process 
 of becoming which made the world what it now is, he seems to 
 incline to a theory not at all dissimilar to that of unassisted 
 •evolution (v. 419) : — 
 
 nam certe neque consilio primordia rerum 
 ordine se suo quaeque sagaci mente locarunt 
 nee quos quaeque darent motus pepigere profecto, 
 sed quia multa modis multis primordia rerum 
 ex infinito iam tempore percita plagis 
 ponderibusque suis consuerunt concita ferri 
 
 ' Compare book v. 306-317 on the evidences of decay continually at 
 work in the fabric of the world. 
 
 ^ The same truth is insisted on with even greater force of language in 
 
 Vi. 649-652, ; 
 
 1 
 
114 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 omnimodisque coire atque omnia pertemptare, 
 quaecumque inter se possent congressa creare, 
 propterea fit uti magnum volgata per aevom 
 omne genus coetus et motus experiundo 
 tandem conveniant ea quae convecta repente 
 magTiarum rerum fiunt exordia saepe, 
 terrai maris et caeli generisque auimantum. 
 
 Entering into the details of the process, he describes the 
 many ill -formed, amorphous beginnings of organised life upon 
 the globe, which came to nothing, * since nature set a ban 
 upon their increase' (v. 837-848) ; and then proceeds to ex- 
 plain how, in the struggle for existence, the stronger prevailed 
 over the weaker (v. 855-863). What is really interesting in 
 this exposition is that Lucretius ascribes to nature the voHtion 
 (' convertebat ibi natura foramina terrae ; ' ' quoniam natura abs- 
 terruit auctum ') which has recently been attributed by material- 
 istic speculators to the same maternal power. 
 
 To press these points, and to neglect the gap which sepa- 
 rates Lucretius from thinkers fortified by the discoveries of 
 modern chemistry, astronomy, physiology, and so forth, would 
 be childish. All we can do is to point to the fact that the cir- 
 cumambient atmosphere of human ignorance, with reference to 
 the main matters of speculation, remains undissipated. The 
 mass of experience acquired since the age of Lucretius is enor- 
 mous, and is infinitely valuable ; while our power of tabulating, 
 methodising, and extending the sphere of experimental know- 
 ledge seems to be unlimited. Only ontological deductions, 
 whether negative or affirmative, remain pretty much where 
 they were then. 
 
 The fame of Lucretius, however, rests not on this founda- 
 tion of hypothesis. In his poetry lies the secret of a charm 
 which he will continue to exercise as long as humanity chooses 
 to read Latin verse. No poet has created a vvorld of larger 
 and nobler images, designed with the sprezzatura of indifference 
 to mere gracefulness, but all the more fascinating because of 
 
LUCRETIUS. 
 
 "5 
 
 the artist's negligence. There is something monumental in the 
 effect produced by his large -sounding single epithets and 
 simple names. We are at home with the daemonic hfe of 
 nature when he chooses to bring Pan and his following before 
 our eyes (iv. 580). Or, again, the Seasons pass like figures on 
 some frieze of Mantegna, to which, by divine accident, has 
 been added the glow of Titian's colouring ^ (v. 737) : — 
 
 it ver et Venus, €t veris praenuntius ante 
 pennatus graditur zephyrus, vestigia propter 
 Flora quibus mater praespargens ante vial 
 cuncta coloribus egregiis et odoribus opplet. 
 inde loci sequitur calor aridus et comes una 
 pulverulenta Ceres et etesia flabra aquilonum. 
 inde autumnus adit, graditur simul Euhius Euan, 
 inde aliae tempestates ventique secuntur, 
 altitonans Volturnus et auster fulmine pollens, 
 tandem bruma nives adfert pigrumque rigorem, 
 prodit hiemps, sequitur crepitans banc dentibus algor. 
 
 With what a noble style too are the holidays of the primeval 
 pastoral folk described (v. 13 79- 1404). It is no mere celebra- 
 tion of the beir eta deW oro : but we see the woodland glades, 
 and hear the songs of shepherds, and feel the hush of summer 
 among rustling forest trees, while at the same time all is far 
 away, in a better, simpler, larger age. The sympathy of 
 Lucretius for every form of country life was very noticeable. 
 It belonged to that which was most deeply and sincerely 
 poetic in the Latin genius, whence Virgil drew his sweetest 
 strain of melancholy, and Horace his most unaffected pictures, 
 and Catullus the tenderness of his best lines on Sirmio. No 
 Roman surpassed the pathos with which Lucretius described 
 the separation of a cow from her calf (ii. 352-365). The same 
 note indeed was touched by Viigil in his lines upon the forlorn 
 
 * The elaborate illustration of the first four lines of this passage, painted 
 by Botticelli (in the Florence Academy of Fine Arts), proves Botticelli's 
 incapacity or unwillingness to deal with the subject in the spirit of the 
 original. It is graceful and ' subtle ' enough, but not Lucretian. 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES UST ITALY. 
 
 nightingale, and in the peroration to the third * Georgic/ But 
 the style of Virgil is more studied, the feeling more artistically 
 elaborated. It would be difficult to parallel such Lucretian 
 passages in Greek poetry. The Greeks lacked an undefinable 
 something of rusticity which dignified the Latin race. This 
 quality was not altogether different from what we call homeli- 
 ness. Looking at the busts of Romans, and noticing their 
 resemblance to English country gentlemen, I have sometimes 
 wondered whether the Latin genius, just in those points where it 
 differed from the Greek, was not approximated to the English. 
 All subjects needing a large style, brief and rapid, but at 
 the same time luminous with imagination, were sure of the 
 right treatment from Lucretius. This is shown by his enume- 
 ration of the celestial signs (v. 1188) : — 
 
 in caeloque deum sedes et templa locarunt, 
 per caelum volvi quia nox et luna videtur, 
 luna dies et nox et noctis signa severa 
 noctivagaeque faces caeli flammaeque volantes, 
 nubila sol imbres nix venti fulmina grando 
 et rapidi fremitus et murmura magna minarum. 
 
 Again, he never failed to rise to an occasion which required 
 the display of fervid eloquence. The Roman eloquence, 
 which in its energetic volubility was the chief force of Juvenal, 
 added a tidal strength and stress of storm to the quick gather- 
 ing thoughts of the greater poet. The exordia to the first and 
 second books, the analysis of Love in the fourth, the praises of 
 Epicurus in the third and fifth, the praises of Empedocles and 
 Ennius in the first, the elaborate passage on the progress of 
 civilisation in the fifth, and the description of the plague at 
 Athens which closes the sixth, are noble instances of the sub- 
 limest poetry sustained and hurried onward hy the volume of 
 impassioned improvisation. It is difficult to imagine that 
 Lucretius wrote slowly. The strange word vodferan, which 
 he uses so often, and which the Romans of the Augustan age 
 
LUCRETIUS. 117 
 
 almost dropped from their poetic vocabulary, seems exactly 
 made to suit his utterance. Yet at times he tempers the full 
 torrent of resonant utterance with divine tranquillity, and 
 leaves upon our mind that sense of powerful aloofness from his 
 subject, which only belongs to the mightiest poets in their most 
 majestic moments. One instance of this rare felicity of style 
 shall end the list of our quotations (v. 1194) : — 
 
 O genus infelix humanum, talia divis 
 
 cum tribuit facta atque iras adiunxit acerbas 1 
 
 quantos turn gemitus ipsi sibi, quantaque nobis 
 
 volnera, quas lacrimas peperere minoribu' nostris ! 
 
 nee pietas ullast velatum saepe videri 
 
 vertier ad lapidem atque omnis accedere ad aras 
 
 nee procumbere humi prostratum et pandere palmas 
 
 ante deum delubra nee aras sanguine multo 
 
 spargere quadrupedum nee votis nectere vota, 
 
 sed mage pacata posse omnia mente tueri, 
 
 nam cum suspicimus magni caelestia mundi 
 
 templa, super stellisque micantibus aethera fixum, 
 
 et venit in mentem solis lunaeque viarum, 
 
 tunc aliis oppressa malis in pectora cura 
 
 ilia quoque expergefactum caput erigere infit, 
 
 ne quae forte deum nobis inmensa potestas 
 
 sit, vario motu quae Candida sidera verset, 
 
 temptat enim dubiam mentem rationis egestas, 
 
 ecquaenam fuerit mundi genitalis origo, 
 
 et simul ecquae sit finis, quoad moenia mundi 
 
 solliciti motus hunc possint ferre laborem, 
 
 an divinitus aeterna donata salute 
 
 perpetuo possint aevi labentia tractu 
 
 immensi validas aevi contemnere viris. 
 
 It would be impossible to adduce from any other poet a pas- 
 sage in which the deepest doubts and darkest terrors and most 
 vexing questions that beset the soul, are touched with an elo- 
 quence more stately and a pathos more sublime. Without 
 losing the sense of humanity, we are carried off into the infinite. 
 Such poetry is as imperishable as the subject of which it treats. 
 
i« SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 FLORENCE AND THE * MEDICI, 
 
 Di Firenze in prima si divisono intra loro i nobili, dipoi i nobili e il 
 popolo, e in ultimo il popolo e la plebe ; e molte volte occorse che una di 
 queste parti rimasa superiore, si divise in due. — Machiavelli. 
 
 I. 
 
 Florence, like all Italian cities^ owed her independence to the 
 duel of the Papacy and Empire. The transference of the 
 imperial authority beyond the Alps, had enabled the burghs of 
 Lombardy and Tuscany to establish a form of self-government. 
 This government was based upon the old municipal organisa- 
 tion of duumvirs and decemvins. It was, in fact, nothing more 
 or less than a survival from the ancient Roman system. The 
 proof of this was, that while vindicating their rights as towns, 
 the free cities nevir questioned the validity of the imperial 
 title. Even after the peace of Constance in 1183, when 
 Frederick Barbarossa acknowledged their autonomy, they 
 received within their walls a supreme magistrate, with power of 
 life and death and ultimate appeal in all decisive questions, 
 whose title of Potesta indicated that he represented the im- 
 perial power — Potestas. It was not by the assertion of any 
 right, so much as by the growth of custom, and by the weak- 
 ness of the Emperors, that in course of time each city became 
 a sovereign State. The theoretical supremacy of the Empire 
 prevented any other authority from taking the first place in 
 Italy. On the other hand, the practical inefficiency of the 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDIC L 119- 
 
 Emperors to play their part encouraged the establishment of 
 numerous minor powers amenable to no controlling discipline. 
 The free cities derived their strength from industry, and 
 had nothing in common with the nobles of the surrounding 
 country. Broadly speaking, the population of the towns 
 included what remained in Italy of the old Roman people. 
 This Roman stock was nowhere stronger than in Florence and 
 Venice — Florence defended from barbarian incursions by her 
 mountains and marshes, Venice by the isolation of her lagoons. 
 The nobles, on the contrary, were mostly of foreign origin — 
 Germans, Franks, and Lombards, who had established them- 
 selves as feudal lords in castles apart from the cities. The 
 force which the burghs acquired as industrial communities was 
 soon turned against these nobles. The larger cities, like Milan 
 and Florence, began to make war upon the lords of castles, 
 and to absorb into their own territory the small towns and 
 villages around them. Thus in the social economy of the 
 Italians there were two antagonistic elements ready to range 
 themselves beneath any banners that should give the form of 
 legitimate warfare to their mutual hostility. It was the policy 
 of the Church in the twelfth century to support the cause of 
 the cities, using them as a weapon against the Empire, and 
 stimulating the growing ambition of the burghers. In this way 
 Italy came to be divided into the two world-famous factions 
 known as Guelf and Ghibelline. The struggle between Guelf 
 and Ghibelhne was the struggle of the Papacy for the depression 
 of the Empire, the struggle of the great burghs face to face 
 with feudalism, the struggle of the old Italic stock enclosed in 
 cities with the foreign nobles established in fortresses. When 
 the Church had finally triumphed by the extirpation of. the 
 House of Hohenstaufen, this conflict of Guelf and Ghibelline 
 was really ended. Until the reign of Charles V. no Emperor 
 interfered to any purpose in Italian affairs. At the same time 
 the Popes ceased to wield a formidable power. Having won 
 
I20 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the battle by calling in the French, they suffered the con- 
 sequences of this policy by losing their hold on Italy during 
 the long period of their exile at Avignon. The ItaHans, left 
 without either Pope or Emperor, were free to pursue their 
 course of internal development, and to prosecute their quarrels 
 among themselves. But though the names of Guelf and Ghi- 
 belline lost their old significance after the year 1266 (the date 
 of King Manfred's death), these two factions had so divided 
 Italy that they continued to play a prominent part in her annals. 
 Guelf still meant constitutional autonomy, meant the burgher 
 as against the noble, meant industry as opposed to feudal lord- 
 ship. Ghibelline meant the rule of the few over the many, 
 meant tyranny, meant the interest of the noble as against the 
 merchant and the citizen. These broad distinctions must be 
 borne in mind, if we seek to understand how it was that a city 
 like Florence continued to be governed by parties, the 
 European force of which had passed away. 
 
 II. 
 
 Florence first rose into importance during the papacy of 
 Innocent III. Up to this date she had been a town of second- 
 rate distinction even in Tuscany. Pisa was more powerful by 
 arms and commerce. Lucca was the old seat of the dukes and 
 marquises of Tuscany. But between the years 1200 and 1250 
 Florence assumed the place she was to hold thenceforward, by 
 heading the league of Tuscan cities formed to support the 
 Guelf party against the Ghibellines. Formally adopting the 
 Guelf cause, the Florentines made themselves the champions 
 of municipal liberty in Central Italy ; and while they declared- 
 war against the Ghibelline cities, they endeavoured to stamp 
 out the very name of noble in their State. It is not needful to 
 describe the varying fortunes of the Guelfs and Ghibellines, the 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 121 
 
 burghers and the nobles, during the thirteenth and the first 
 half of the fourteenth centuries. Suffice it to say that through 
 all the vicissitudes of that stormy period the name Guelf 
 became more and more associated with republican freedom in 
 Florence. At last, after the final triumph of that party in 1233, 
 the Guelfs remained victors in the city. Associating the glory 
 of their independence with Guelf principles, the citizens of 
 Florence perpetuated within their State a faction that, in its 
 turn, was destined to prove perilous to hberty. 
 
 When it became clear that the republic was to rule itself 
 henceforth untrammelled by imperial interference, the people 
 divided themselves into six districts, and chose for each district 
 two Ancients, who administered the government in concert with 
 the Potest^ and the Captain of the People. The Ancients were 
 a relic of the old Roman municipal organisation. The Potestk, 
 who was invariably a noble foreigner selected by the people, 
 represented the extinct imperial right, and exercised the power 
 of life and death within the city. The Captain of the People, 
 who was also a foreigner, headed the burghers in their military 
 capacity, for at that period the troops were levied from the 
 citizens themselves in twenty companies. The body of the 
 citizens, or the popolo, were ultimately sovereigns in the State. 
 Assembled under the banners of their several companies, they 
 formed a parlamento for delegating their own power to each 
 successive government. Their representatives, again, arranged 
 in two councils, called the Council of the People and the 
 Council of the Commune, under the presidency of the Captain 
 of the People and the Potestk, ratified the measures which had 
 previously been proposed and carried by the executive authority 
 or Signoria. Under this simple State system the Florentines 
 placed themselves at the head of the Tuscan League, fought 
 the battles of the Church, asserted their sovereignty by issuing 
 the golden florin of the republic, and flourished until 1266. 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 III. 
 
 In that year an important change was effected in the Con- 
 stitution. The whole population of Florence consisted, on the 
 one hand, of nobles or Grandi, as they were called in Tuscany, 
 and on the other hand of working people. The latter, divided 
 into traders and handicraftsmen, were distributed in guilds called 
 Arti j and at that time there were seven Greater and five Lesser 
 Arti, the most influential of all being the Guild of the Wool 
 Merchants. These guilds had their halls for meeting, their 
 colleges of chief officers, their heads, called ConsoH or Priors, 
 and their flags. In 1266 it was decided that the administration 
 of the commonwealth should be placed simply and wholly in 
 the hands of the Arti, and the Priors of these industrial com- 
 panies became the lords or Signory of Florence. No inhabitant 
 of the city who had not enrolled himself as a craftsman in one 
 of the guilds could exercise any function of burghership. To 
 be scioperato^ or without industry, was to be without power, 
 without rank or place of honour in the State. The revolution 
 which placed the Arts at the head of the republic had the 
 practical effect of excluding the Grandi altogether trom the 
 government. Violent efforts were made by these noble families, 
 potent through their territorial possessions and foreign connec- 
 tions, and trained from boyhood in the use of arms, to recover 
 the place from which the new laws thrust them : but their 
 menacing attitude, instead of intimidating the burghers, roused 
 their anger and drove them to the passing of still more strin- 
 gent laws. In 1283, after the Ghibellines had been defeated 
 in the great battle of Campaldino, a series of severe enactments, 
 . called the Ordinances of Justice, were decreed against the un- 
 ruly Grandi. All civic rights were taken from them ; the severest 
 penalties were attached to their slightest infringement of muni- 
 cipal law ; their titles to land were limited ; the privilege of 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 123 
 
 living within the city walls was allowed them only under galling 
 restrictions ; and, last not least, a supreme magistrate, named 
 the Gonfalonier of Justice, was created for the special purpose 
 of watching them and carrying out the penal code against them. 
 Henceforward Florence was governed exclusively by merchants 
 and artisans. The Grandi hastened to enrol themselves in the 
 guilds, exchanging their former titles and dignities for the solid 
 privilege of burghership. The exact parallel to this industrial 
 constitution for a commonwealth, carrying on wars with 
 emperors and princes, holding haughty captains in its pay, and 
 dictating laws to subject cities, cannot, I think, be elsewhere 
 found in history. It is as unique as the Florence of Dante and 
 Giotto is unique. While the people was guarding itself thus 
 stringently against the Grandi, a separate body was created for 
 the special purpose of extirpating the Ghibellines. A jjerma- 
 nent committee of vigilance, called the College or the Captains 
 of the Guelf Party, was established. It was their function to 
 administer the forfeited possessions of Ghibelline rebels, to 
 hunt out suspected citizens, to prosecute them for GhibeUinism, 
 to judge them, and to punish them as traitors to the common- 
 wealth. This body, like a little State within the State, proved 
 formidable to the republic itself through the unlimited and un- 
 defined sway it exercised over burghers whom it chose to tax 
 with treason. In course of time it became the oligarchical 
 element within the Florentine democracy, and threatened to 
 change the free constitution of the city into a government con- 
 ducted by a few powerful families. 
 
 There is no need to dwell in detail on the internal difficulties 
 of Florence during the first half of the fourteenth century. Two 
 main circumstances, however, require to be briefly noticed. 
 These are (i.) the contest of the Blacks and Whites, so famous 
 through the part played in it by Dante ; and (ii.) the tyranny 
 of the Duke of Athens, Walter de Brienne. The feuds of the 
 Blacks and Whites broke up the city into factions, and produced 
 
124 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 such anarchy that at last it was found necessary to place the 
 repubHc under the protection of foreign potentates. Charles 
 of Valois was first chosen, and after him the Duke of Athens, 
 who took up his residence in the city. Entrusted with dictatorial 
 authority, he used his power to form a military despotism. 
 Though his reign of violence lasted rather less than a year, it 
 bore important fruits ; for the tyrant, seeking to support him- 
 self upon the favour of the common people, gave political power 
 to the Lesser Arts at the expense of the Greater, and confused 
 the old State-system by enlarging the democracy. The net 
 result of these events for Florence was, first, that the city became 
 habituated to rancorous party-strife, involving exiles and pro- 
 scriptions ; and, secondly, that it lost its primitive social hierarchy 
 of classes. 
 
 IV. 
 
 After the Guelfs had conquered the Ghibellines, and the 
 people had absorbed the Grandi in their guilds, the next chapter 
 in the troubled history of Florence was the division of the 
 Popolo against itself. Civil strife now declared itself as a con- 
 flict between labour and capital. The members of the Lesser 
 Arts, craftsmen who plied trades subordinate to those of the 
 Greater Arts, rose up against their social and pohtical superiors, 
 demanding a larger share in the government, a more equal dis- 
 tribution of profits, higher wages, and privileges that should 
 place them on an absolute equality with the wealthy merchants. 
 It was in the year 1378 that the proletariate broke out into 
 rebellion. Previous events had prepared the way for this revolt. 
 First of all, the repubHc had been democratised through the 
 destruction of the Grandi and through the popular policy pur- 
 sued to gain his own ends by the Duke of Athens. Secondly, 
 society had been shaken to its very foundation by the great 
 plague of 1348. Both Boccaccio and Matteo Villani draw 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 125 
 
 lively pictures of the relaxed morality and loss of order conse- 
 quent upon this terrible disaster ; nor had thirty years sufficed 
 to restore their relative position to grades and ranks confounded 
 by an overwhelming calamity. We may therefore reckon the 
 great plague of 1348 among the causes which produced the 
 anarchy of 1378. Rising in a mass to claim their privileges, 
 the artisans ejected the Signory from the Public Palace, 
 and for awhile Florence was at the mercy of the mob. It is 
 worthy of notice that the Medici, whose name is scarcely known 
 before this epoch, now came for one moment to the front. 
 Salvestro de' Medici was Gonfalonier of Justice at the time 
 when the tumult first broke out. He followed the faction of the 
 handicraftsmen, and became the hero of the day. I cannot 
 discover that he did more than extend a sort of passive protec- 
 tion to their cause. Yet there is no doubt that the attachment 
 of the working classes to the house of Medici dates from this 
 period. The rebellion of 1378 is known in Florentine history 
 as the Tumult of the Ciompi. The name Ciompi strictly means 
 the Wool-Carders. One set of operatives in the city, and that 
 the largest, gave its title to the whole body of the labourers. 
 For some months these craftsmen governed the republic, 
 appointing their own Signory and passing laws in their own 
 interest ; but, as is usual, the proletariate found itself incapable 
 of sustained government. The ambition and discontent of the 
 Ciompi foamed themselves away, and industrious working men 
 began to see that trade was languishing and credit on the wane. 
 By their own act at last they restored the government to the 
 Priors of the Greater Arti. Still the movement had not been 
 without grave consequences. It completed the levelling of 
 classes, which had been steadily advancing from the first in 
 Florence. After the Ciompi riot there was no longer not only 
 any distinction between noble and burgher, but the distinction 
 between greater and lesser guilds was practically swept away. 
 The classes, parties, and degrees in the republic were so broken 
 
126 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 up, ground down, and mingled, that thenceforth the true source 
 of power in the State was wealth combined with personal ability. 
 In other words, the proper political conditions had been formed 
 for unscrupulous adventurers. Florence had become a demo- 
 cracy without social organisation, which might fall a prey to 
 oligarchs or despots. What remained of deeply-rooted feuds 
 or factions — animosities against the Grandi, hatred for the 
 Ghibellines, jealousy of labour and capital — offered so many 
 points of leverage for stirring the passions of the people and 
 for covering personal ambition with a cloak of public zeal. 
 The time was come for the Albizzi to attempt an oligarchy, and 
 for the Medici to begin the enslavement of the State. 
 
 The Constitution of Florence offered many points of weak- 
 ness to the attacks of such intriguers. In the first place it was 
 in its origin not a political but an industrial organisation — a 
 simple group of guilds invested with the sovereign authority. 
 Its two most powerful engines, the Gonfalonier of Justice and 
 the Guelf College, had been formed, not with a view to the 
 preservation of the government, but with the purpose of quelling 
 the nobles and excluding a detested faction. It had no per- 
 manent head, like the Doge of Venice ; no fixed senate like the 
 Venetian Grand Council ; its chief magistrates, the Signory, 
 were elected for short periods of two months, and their mode 
 of election was open to the gravest criticism. Supposed to be 
 chosen by lot, they were really selected from lists drawn up by 
 the factions in power from time to time. These factions con- 
 trived to exclude the names of all but their adherents from the 
 bags, or borse^ in which the burghers eligible for election had to 
 be inscribed. Furthermore, it was not possible for this shifting 
 Signory to conduct affairs requiring sustained effort and secret 
 deliberation ; therefore recourse was being continually had to 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 127 
 
 dictatorial Commissions. The people, summoned in parlia- 
 ment upon the Great Square, were asked to confer plenipoten- 
 tiary authority upon a committee called BaHa^ who proceeded 
 to do what they chose in the State, and who retained power 
 after the emergency for which they were created passed away. 
 The same instability in the supreme magistracy led to the 
 appointment of special commissioners for war, and special 
 councils, or Praiiche, for the management of each department. 
 Such supplementary commissions not only proved the weakness 
 of the central authority, but they were always liable to be made 
 the instruments of party warfare. The Guelf College was 
 another and a different source of danger to the State. Not 
 acting under the control of the Signory, but using its own 
 initiative, this powerful body could proscribe and punish burghers 
 on the mere suspicion of GhibelUnism. Though the Ghibelline 
 faction had become an empty name, the Guelf College excluded 
 from the franchise all and every whom they chose on any 
 pretext to admonish. Under this mild phrase, to admonish, was 
 concealed a cruel exercise of tyranny — it meant to warn a man 
 that he was suspected of treason, and that he had better relin- 
 quish the exercise of his burghership. By free use of this 
 engine of Admonition, the Guelf College rendered their enemies 
 voiceless in the State, and were able to pack the Signory and 
 the councils with their own creatures. Another important 
 defect in the Florentine Constitution was the method of imposing 
 taxes. This was done by no regular system. The party in 
 power made what estimate it chose of a man's capacity to bear 
 taxation, and called upon him for extraordinary loans. In this 
 way citizens were frequently driven into bankruptcy and exile ; 
 and since to be a debtor to the State deprived a burgher of his 
 civic rights, severe taxation was one of the best ways of silencing 
 and neutralising a dissentient. 
 
 I have enumerated these several causes of weakness in the 
 Florentine State-system, partly because they show how irregu- 
 
I2S SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 larly the Constitution had been formed by the patching and 
 extension of a simple industrial machine to suit the needs of a 
 great commonwealth ; partly because it was through these 
 defects that the democracy merged gradually into a despotism. 
 The art of the Medici consisted in a scientific comprehension 
 of these very imperfections, a methodic use of them for their 
 own purposes, and a steady opposition to any attempts made 
 to substitute a stricter system. The Florentines had determined 
 to be an industrial community, governing themselves on the co- 
 operative principle, dividing profits, sharing losses, and exposing 
 their magistrates to rigid scrutiny. All this in theory was ex- 
 cellent. Had they remained an unambitious and peaceful 
 commonwealth, engaged in the wool and silk trade, it might 
 have answered. Modern Europe might have admired the model 
 of a communistic and commercial democracy. But when they 
 engaged in aggressive wars, and sought to enslave sister-cities 
 like Pisa and Lucca, it was soon found that their simple trading 
 constitution would not serve. They had to piece it out' with sub- 
 ordinate machinery, cumbrous, difficult to manage, ill-adapted 
 to the original structure. Each limb of this subordinate ma- 
 chinery, moreover, was a point d'appui for insidious and self- 
 seeking party leaders. 
 
 Florence, in the middle of the fourteenth century, was a 
 vast beehive of industry. Distinctions of rank among burghers, 
 qualified to vote and hold office, were theoretically unknown. 
 Highly educated men, of more than princely wealth, spent 
 their time in shops and counting-houses, and trained their 
 sons to follow trades. Military service at this period was 
 abandoned by the citizens ; they preferred to pay mercenary 
 troops for the conduct of their wars. Nor was there, as in 
 Venice, any outlet for their energies upon the seas. Florence 
 had no navy, no great port — she only kept a small fleet for the 
 protection of her commerce. Thus the vigour of the common- 
 wealth was concentrated on itself ; while the influence of the 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 129 
 
 citizens, through their affiUated trading-houses, correspondents, 
 and agents, extended like a network over Europe. In a com- 
 munity of this kind it was natural that wealth — rank and titles 
 being absent — should alone confer distinction. Accordingly 
 we find that out of the very bosom of the people a new pluto- 
 cratic aristocracy begins to rise. The Grandi are no more ; 
 but certain families achieve distinction by their riches, their 
 numbers, their high spirit, and their ancient place of honour in 
 the State. These nobles of the purse obtained the name of 
 Popolani Nobili ; and it was they who now began to play at 
 high stakes for the supreme power. In all the subsequent 
 vicissitudes of Florence every change takes place by intrigue 
 and by clever manipulation of the political machine. Recourse 
 is rarely had to violence of any kind, and the leaders of revolu- 
 tions are men of the yard-measure, never of the sword. The 
 despotism to which the republic eventually succumbed was no 
 less commercial than the democracy had been. Florence in 
 the days of her slavery remained a Popolo. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The opening of the second half of the fourteenth century 
 had been signalised by the feuds of two great houses, both 
 risen from the people. These were the Albizzi and the Ricci. 
 At this epoch there had been a formal closing of the lists of 
 burghers ; — henceforth no new families who might settle in the 
 city could claim the franchise, vote in the assemblies, or hold 
 magistracies. The Guelf College used their old engine of 
 admonition to persecute novi homines^ whom they dreaded 
 as opponents. At the head of this formidable organisation the 
 Albizzi placed themselves, and worked it with such skill that 
 they succeeded in driving the Ricci out of all participation in 
 the government. Tlie tumult of the Ciompi formed but an 
 
I30 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 episode in their career toward oligarchy ; indeed, that revolu- 
 tion only rendered the political material of the Florentine 
 republic more plastic in the hands of intriguers, by removing 
 the last vestiges of class distinctions and by confusing the old 
 parties of the State. 
 
 When the Florentines in 1387 engaged in their long duel 
 with Gian Galeazzo Visconti. the difficulty of conducting this 
 war without some permanent central authority still further 
 confirmed the power of the rising oligarchs. The Albizzi 
 became daily more autocratic, until in 1393 their chief, Maso 
 degli Albizzi, a man of strong will and prudent policy, was 
 chosen Gonfalonier of Justice. Assuming the sway of a 
 dictator he revised the list of burghers capable of holding 
 office, struck out the private opponents of his house, and ex- 
 cluded all names but those of powerful families who were well 
 affected towards an aristocratic government. The great house 
 of the Alberti were exiled in a body, declared rebels, and 
 deprived of their possessions, for no reason except that they 
 seemed dangerous to the Albizzi. It was in vain that the 
 people murmured against these arbitrary acts. The new 
 rulers were omnipotent in the Signory, which they packed with 
 their own men, in the great guilds, and in the Guelf College. 
 All the machinery invented by the industrial community for 
 its self-management and self-defence was controlled and mani- 
 pulated by a close body of aristocrats, with the Albizzi at their 
 head. It seemed as though P'lorence, without any visible 
 alteration in her forms of government, was rapidly becoming 
 an oligarchy even less open than the Venetian republic. Mean- 
 while the affairs of the State were most flourishing. The 
 strong-handed masters of the city not only held the Duke of 
 Milan in check, and prevented him from turning Italy into a 
 kingdom ; they furthermore acquired the cities of Pisa, Livorno, 
 Arezzo, Montepulciano, and Cortona, for Florence, making her 
 the mistress of all Tuscany, with the exception of Siena, Lucca, 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDIC L 131 
 
 and Volterra. Maso degli Albizzi was the ruling spirit of the 
 commonwealth, spending the enormous sum of 11,500,000 
 golden florins on war, raising sumptuous edifices, protecting 
 the arts, and acting in general like a powerful and irresponsible 
 prince. 
 
 In spite of public prosperity there were signs, however, 
 that this rule of a few families could not last. Their government 
 was only maintained by continual revision of the lists of 
 burghers, by elimination of the disaffected, and by unremitting 
 personal industry. They introduced no new machinery into 
 the Constitution whereby the people might be deprived of its 
 titular sovereignty, or their own dictatorship might be continued 
 with a semblance of legality. Again, they neglected to win 
 over the new nobles {iiobili popolani) in a body to their cause ; 
 and thus they were surrounded by rivals ready to spring upon 
 them when a false step should be made. The Albizzi oligarchy 
 was a masterpiece of art, without any force to sustain it but 
 the craft and energy of its constructors. It had not grown up, 
 like the Venetian oligarchy, by the gradual assimilation to itself 
 of all the vigour in the State. It was bound, sooner or later, to 
 yield to the renascent impulse of democracy inherent in Floren- 
 tine institutions. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Maso degli Albizzi died in 141 7. He was succeeded in 
 the government by his old friend, Niccolo da Uzzano, a man 
 of great eloquence and wisdom, whose single word swayed the 
 councils of the people as he listed. Together with him acted 
 Maso's son, Rinaldo, a youth of even more brilliant talents 
 than his father, frank, noble, and high-spirited, but far less 
 cautious. 
 
 The oligarchy, which these two men undertook to manage, 
 had accumulated against itself the discontent of overtaxed, 
 
 K 2 
 
1-32 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 disfranchised, jealous burghers. The times, too, were bad. 
 Pursuing the policy of Maso, the Albizzi engaged the city 
 in a tedious and unsuccessful war with Filippo Maria 
 Visconti, which cost 350,000 golden florins, and brought no 
 credit. In order to meet extraordinary expenses they raised 
 new public loans, thereby depreciating the value of the old 
 Florentine funds. What was worse, they imposed forced 
 subsidies with grievous inequality upon the burghers, passing 
 over their friends and adherents, and burdening their opponents 
 with more than could be borne. This imprudent financial 
 policy began the ruin of the Albizzi. It caused a clamour in 
 the city for a new system of more just taxation, which was too 
 powerful to be resisted. The voice of the people made itself 
 loudly heard ; and with the people on this occasion sided 
 Giovanni de' Medici. This was in 1427. 
 
 It is here that the Medici appear upon that memorable 
 scene where in the future they are to play the first part. 
 Giovanni de' Medici did not belong to the same branch of his 
 family as the Salvestro who favoured the people at the time of 
 the Ciompi Tumult. But he adopted the same popular policy. 
 To his sons Cosimo and Lorenzo he bequeathed on his death- 
 bed the rule that they should invariably adhere to the cause of 
 the multitude, found their influence on that, and avoid the 
 arts of factious and ambitious leaders. In his own life he had 
 pursued this course of conduct, acquiring a reputation for civic 
 moderation and impartiality that endeared him to the people 
 and stood his children in good stead. Early in his youth 
 Giovanni found himself almost destitute by reason of the im- 
 posts charged upon him by the oligarchs. He possessed, 
 however, the genius for money-making to a rare degree, and 
 passed his manhood as a banker, amassing the largest fortune 
 of any private citizen in Italy. In his old age he devoted 
 himself to the organisation of his colossal trading business, and 
 abstained, as far as possible, from political intrigues. Men 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICL 133 
 
 observed that they rarely met him in the Public Palace or on 
 the Great Square. 
 
 Cosimo de' Medici was thirty years old when his father 
 Giovanni died, in 1429. During his youth he had devoted all 
 his time and energy to business, mastering the complicated 
 affairs of Giovanni's banking-house, and travelling far and wide 
 through Europe to extend its connections. This education 
 made him a consummate financier ; and those who knew him 
 best were convinced that his ambition was set on great things. 
 However quietly he might begin, it was clear that he intended 
 to match himself, as a leader of the plebeians, against the Albizzi, 
 The foundations he prepared for future action were equally 
 characteristic of the man, of Florence, and of the age. Com- 
 manding the enormous capital of the Medicean bank he con- 
 trived, at any sacrifice of temporary convenience, to lend 
 money to the State for war expenses, engrossing in his own 
 hands a large portion of the public debt of Florence. At the 
 same time his agencies in various European capitals enabled 
 him to keep his own wealth floating far beyond the reach of 
 foes within the city. A few years of this system ended in so 
 complete a confusion between Cosimo's trade and the finances 
 of Florence that the bankruptcy of the Medici, however 
 caused, would have compromised the credit of the State and 
 the fortunes of the fund-holders. Cosimo, in a word, made 
 himself necessary to Florence by the wise use of his riches. 
 Furthermore, he kept his eye upon the list of burghers, lending 
 money to needy citizens, putting good things in the way of 
 struggling traders, building up the fortunes of men who were 
 disposed to favour his party in the State, ruining his opponents 
 by the legitimate process of commercial competition, and, 
 when occasion offered, introducing new voters into the Floren- 
 tine Council by paying off the debts of those who were dis- 
 qualified by poverty from using the franchise. While his 
 capital was continually increasing he lived frugally, and em- 
 
134 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 ployed his wealth solely for the consolidation of his political in- 
 fluence. By these arts Cosimo became formidable to the 
 oligarchs and beloved by the people. His supporters were 
 numerous, and held together by the bonds of immediate neces- 
 sity or personal cupidity. The plebeians and the merchants 
 were all on his side. The Grandi and the Ammoniti, excluded 
 from the State by the practices of the Albizzi, had more to 
 hope from the Medicean party than from the few families who 
 still contrived to hold the reins of government. It was clear 
 that a conflict to the death must soon commence between the 
 oligarchy and this new faction. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 At last, in 1433, war was declared. The first blow was 
 struck by Rinaldo degli Albizzi, who put himself in the 
 wrong by attacking a citizen indispensable to the people at 
 large, and guilty of no unconstitutional act. On Sep- 
 tember 7th of that year, a year decisive for the future destinies 
 of Florence, he summoned Cosimo to the Public Palace, 
 which he had previously occupied with troops at his command. 
 There he declared him a rebel to the State, and had him im- 
 prisoned in a little square room in the central tower. The 
 tocsin was sounded ; the people were assembled in parliament 
 upon the piazza. The Albizzi held the main streets with 
 armed men, and forced the Florentines to place plenipoten- 
 tiary power for the administration of the commonwealth at 
 this crisis in the hands of a Balia, or committee selected by 
 themselves. It was always thus that acts of high tyranny were 
 effected in Florence. A show of legality was secured by gain- 
 ing the compulsory sanction of the people, driven by soldiery 
 into the public square, and hastily ordered to recognise the 
 authority of their oppressors. 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 135 
 
 The bill of indictment against the Medici accused them of 
 sedition in the year 1378, that is in the year of the Ciompi 
 Tumult, and of treasonable practice during the whole course 
 of the Albizzi administration. It also strove to fix upon them 
 the odium of the unsuccessful war against the town of Lucca. 
 As soon as the Albizzi had unmasked their batteries, Lorenzo 
 de' Medici managed to escape from the city, and took with 
 him his brother Cosimo's children to Venice. Cosimo re- 
 mained shut up within the little room called Barberia in 
 Arnolfo's tower. From that high eagle's nest the sight can 
 range Valdarno far and wide. Florence with her towers and 
 domes lies below ; and the blue peaks of Carrara close a pro- 
 spect westward than which, with its villa- jewelled slopes and 
 fertile gardens, there is nought more beautiful upon the face 
 of earth. The prisoner can have paid but little heed to this 
 fair landscape. He heard the frequent ringing of the great 
 bell that called the Florentines to council, the tramp of armed 
 men on the piazza, the coming and going of the burghers in 
 the palace halls beneath. On all sides lurked anxiety and fear 
 of death. Each mouthful he tasted might be poisoned. For 
 many days he partook of only bread and water, till his gaoler 
 restored his confidence by sharing all his meals. In this peril 
 he abode twenty-four days. The Albizzi, in concert with the 
 Balia they had formed, were consulting what they might ven- 
 ture to do with him. Some voted for his execution. Others 
 feared the popular favour, and thought that if they killed 
 Cosimo this act would ruin their own power. The nobler 
 natures among them determined to proceed by constitutional 
 measures. At last, upon September 29th, it was settled that 
 Cosimo should be exiled to Padua for ten years. The Medici 
 were declared Grandi, by way of excluding them from political 
 rights. But their property remained untouched ; and on 
 October 3rd, Cosimo was released. 
 
 On the same day Cosimo took his departure. His journey 
 
136 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 northward resembled a triumphant progress. He left Florence 
 a simple burgher ; he entered Venice a powerful prince. 
 Though the Albizzi seemed to have gained the day, they had 
 really cut away the ground beneath their feet. They com- 
 mitted the fatal mistake of doing both too much and too Uttle 
 — too much because they declared war against an innocent 
 man, and roused the sympathies of the whole people in his 
 behalf; too little, because they had not the nerve to complete 
 their act by killing him outright and extirpating his party. 
 Machiavelli, in one of his profoundest and most cynical 
 critiques, remarks that few men know how to be thoroughly 
 bad with honour to themselves. Their will is evil ; but the 
 grain of good in them — some fear of public opinion, some re- 
 pugnance to committing a signal crime — paralyses their arm at 
 the moment when it ought to have been raised to strike. He 
 instances Gian Paolo Baglioni's omission to murder Julius H., 
 when that Pope placed himself within his clutches at Perugia. 
 He might also have instanced Rinaldo degli Albizzi's refusal to 
 push things to extremities by murdering Cosimo. It was the 
 combination of despotic violence in the exile of Cosimo with 
 constitutional moderation in the preservation of his life, that 
 betrayed the weakness of the oligarchs and restored confidence 
 to the Medicean party. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In the course of the year 1434 this party began to hold up 
 its head. Powerful as the Albizzi were, they only retained the 
 government by artifice ; and now they had done a deed which 
 put at nought their former arts and intrigues. A Signory 
 favourable to the Medici came into office, and on September 
 26, 1434, Rinaldo in his turn was summoned to the palace and 
 declared a rebel. He strove to raise the forces of his party, 
 and entered the piazza at the head of eight hundred men. 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 137 
 
 The menacing attitude of the people, however, made resistance 
 perilous. Rinaldo disbanded his troops, and placed himself 
 under the protection of Pope Eugenius IV., who was then 
 resident in Florence. This act of submission proved that 
 Rinaldo had not the courage or the cruelty to try the chance 
 of civil war. Whatever his motives may have been, he lost 
 his hold upon the State beyond recovery. On September 29th, 
 a new parliament was summoned ; on October 2nd, Cosimo was 
 recalled from exile and the Albizzi were banished. The in- 
 tercession of the Pope procured for them nothing but the 
 liberty to leave Florence unmolested. Rinaldo turned his 
 back upon the city he had governed, never to set foot in it 
 again. On October 6th, Cosimo, having passed through Padua, 
 Ferrara, and Modena like a conqueror, re-entered the town 
 amid the plaudits of the people, and took up his dwelling as 
 an honoured guest in the Palace of the Republic. The subse- 
 quent history of Florence is the history of his family. In after 
 years the Medici loved to remember this return of Cosimo. 
 His triumphal reception was painted in fresco on the walls of 
 their villa at Cajano under the transparent allegory of Cicero's 
 entrance into Rome. 
 
 By their brief exile the Medici had gained the credit of 
 injured innocence, the fame of martyrdom in the popular cause. 
 Their foes had struck the first blow, and in striking at them 
 had seemed to aim against the liberties of the republic. The 
 mere failure of their adversaries to hold the power they had 
 acquired, handed over this power to the Medici ; and the 
 reprisals which the Medici began to take had the show of 
 justice, not of personal hatred, or of petty vengeance. Cosimo 
 was a true Florentine. He disliked violence, because he knew 
 that blood spilt cries for blood. His passions, too, were cool 
 
138 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 and temperate. No gust of anger, no intoxication of success, 
 destroyed his balance. His one object, the consoUdation of 
 power for his family on the basis of popular favour, was kept 
 steadily in view ; and he would do nothing that might com- 
 promise that end. Yet he was neither generous nor merciful. 
 We therefore find that from the first moment of his return to 
 Florence he instituted a system of pitiless and unforgiving 
 persecution against his old opponents. The Albizzi were 
 banished, root and branch, with all their followers, consigned 
 to lonely and often to unwholesome stations through the length 
 and breadth of Italy. If they broke the bonds assigned them, 
 they were forthwith declared traitors and their property was 
 confiscated. After a long series of years, by merely keeping in 
 force the first sentence pronounced upon them, Cosimo had 
 the cruel satisfaction of seeing the whole of that proud oli- 
 garchy die out by slow degrees in the insufferable tedium of 
 solitude and exile. Even the high-souled Palla degli Strozzi, 
 who had striven to remain neutral, and whose wealth and 
 talents were devoted to the revival of classical studies, was 
 proscribed because to Cosimo he seemed too powerful. Sepa- 
 rated from his children, he died in banishment at Padua. In 
 this way the return of the Medici involved the loss to Florence 
 of some noble citizens, who might perchance have checked the 
 Medicean tyranny if they had stayed to guide the State. The 
 plebeians, raised to wealth and influence by Cosimo before his 
 exile, now took the lead in the republic. He used these men 
 as cat's-paws, rarely putting himself forward or allowing his 
 own name to appear, but pulling the wires of government in 
 privacy by means of intermediate agents. The Medicean 
 party was called at first Puccini from a certain Puccio, whose 
 name was better known in caucus or committee than that of his 
 real master. 
 
 To rule through these creatures of his own making 
 taxed all the ingenuity of Cosimo ; but his profound and 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 139 
 
 subtle intellect was suited to the task, and he found un- 
 limited pleasure in the exercise of his consummate craft. We 
 have already seen to what extent he used his riches for the 
 acquisition of political influence. Now that he had come to 
 power, he continued the same method, packing the Signory 
 and the Councils with men whom he could hold by debt be- 
 tween his thumb and finger. His command of the public 
 moneys enabled him to wink at peculation in State offices ; it 
 was part of his system to bind magistrates and secretaries to 
 his interest by their consciousness of guilt condoned but not 
 forgotten. Not a few, moreover, owed their living to the ap- 
 pointments he procured for them. While he thus controlled 
 the wheel-work of the commonwealth by means of organised 
 corruption, he borrowed the arts of his old enemies to oppress 
 dissentient citizens. If a man took an independent line in 
 voting, and refused allegiance to the Medicean party, he was 
 marked out for persecution. No violence was used ; but he 
 found himself hampered in his commerce — money, plentiful for 
 others, became scarce for him ; his competitors in trade were 
 subsidised to undersell him. And while the avenues of 
 industry were closed, his fortune was taxed above its value, 
 until he had to sell at a loss in order to discharge his public 
 obligations. In the first twenty years of the Medicean rule, 
 seventy families had to pay 4,875,000 golden florins of extra- 
 ordinary imposts, fixed by arbitrary assessment. 
 
 The more patriotic members of his party looked with dread 
 and loathing on this system of corruption and exclusion. To 
 their remonstrances Cosimo replied in four memorable sayings : 
 ' Better the State spoiled than the State not ours.' * Govern- 
 ments cannot be carried on with paternosters.' 'An ell of 
 scarlet makes a burgher.' ' I aim at finite ends.' These 
 maxims represent the whole man, — first, in his egotism, eager 
 to gain Florence for his family, at any risk of her ruin ; secondly, 
 in his cynical acceptance of base means to selfish ends ; thirdly 
 
I40 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 in his bourgeois belief that money makes a man, and fine 
 clothes suffice for a citizen ; fourthly, in his worldly ambition 
 bent on positive success. It was, in fact, his policy to reduce 
 Florence to the condition of a rotten borough : nor did this 
 policy fail. One notable sign of the influence he exercised was 
 the change which now came over the foreign relations of the 
 republic. Up to the date of his dictatorship Florence had 
 uniformly fought the battle of freedom in Italy. It was the 
 chief merit of the Albizzi oligarchy that they continued the 
 traditions of the mediaeval State, and by their vigorous action 
 checked the growth of the Visconti. Though they engrossed 
 the government they never forgot that they were first of all 
 things Florentines, and only in the second place men who 
 owed their power and influence to office. In a word, ihey 
 acted like patriotic Tories, like republican patricians. There- 
 fore they would not ally themselves with tyrants or countenance 
 the enslavement of free cities by armed despots. Their sub- 
 jugation of the Tuscan burghs to Florence was itself part of a 
 grand republican policy. Cosimo changed all this. When 
 the Visconti dynasty ended by the death of Filippo Maria in 
 1447, there was a chance of restoring the mdependence of 
 Lombardy. Milan in effect declared herself a republic, and 
 by the aid of Florence she might at this moment have main- 
 tained her liberty. Cosimo, however, entered into treaty with 
 Francesco Sforza, supplied him with money, guaranteed him 
 against Florentine interference, and saw with satisfaction how 
 he reduced the duchy to his military tyranny. The Medici 
 were conscious that they, selfishly, had most to gain by sup- 
 porting despots who in time of need might help them to con- 
 firm their own authority. With the same end in view, when 
 the legitimate line of the Bentivogli was extinguished, Cosimo 
 hunted out a bastard pretender of that family, presented him 
 to the chiefs of the Bentivogli faction, and had him placed 
 upon the seat of his supposed ancestors at Bologna. This 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 141 
 
 young man, a certain Santi da Cascese, presumed to be the son 
 of Ercole de' Bentivogli, was an artisan in a wool factory when 
 Cosimo set eyes upon him. At first Santi refused the dan- 
 gerous honour of governing a proud repubUc ; but the intrigues 
 of Cosimo prevailed, and the obscure craftsman ended his 
 days a powerful prince. 
 
 By the arts I have attempted to describe, Cosimo in the 
 course of his long life absorbed the forces of the republic into 
 himself. While he shunned the external signs of despotic 
 power he made himself the master of the State. His com- 
 plexion was of a pale olive ; his stature short ; abstemious 
 and simple in his habits, aflfable in conversation, sparing of 
 speech, he knew how to combine that burgher-like civility for 
 which the Romans praised Augustus, with the reality of a des- 
 potism all the more difficult to combat because it seemed no- 
 where and was everywhere. When he died, at the age of 
 seventy-five, in 1464, the people whom he had enslaved, but 
 whom he had neither injured nor insulted, honoured him with 
 the title of Pater Patrice. This was inscribed upon his tomb 
 in S. Lorenzo. He left to posterity the fame of a great and 
 generous patron,^ the infamy of a cynical, self-seeking, bour- 
 geois tyrant. Such combinations of contradictory qualities 
 were common enough at the time of the Renaissance. Did 
 not Machiavelli spend his days in tavern-brawls and low 
 amours, his nights among the mighty spirits of the dead, with 
 whom, when he had changed his country suit of homespun for 
 the habit of the court, he found himself an honoured equal ? 
 
 ^ For an estimate of Cosimo's services to art and literature, his collection 
 of libraries, his great buildings, his generosity to scholars, and his promotion 
 of Greek studies, I may refer to ray Renaissaitce in Italy: 'The Revival 
 of Learning,' chap. iv. 
 
142 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 XL 
 
 Cosimo had shown consummate skill by governing Florence 
 through a party created and raised to influence by himself. 
 The jealousy of these adherents formed the chief difficulty with 
 which his son Piero had to contend. Unless the Medici could 
 manage to kick down the ladder whereby they had risen, they 
 ran the risk of losing all. As on a former occasion, so now 
 they profited by the mistakes of their antagonists. Three 
 chief men of their own party, Diotisalvi Neroni, Agnolo Ac- 
 ciaiuoli, and Luca Pitti, determined to shake off the yoke of 
 their masters, and to repay the Medici for what they owed by 
 leading them to ruin. Niccolo Soderini, a patriot, indignant 
 at the slow enslavement of his country, joined them. At first 
 they strove to undermine the credit of the Medici with the 
 Florentines by inducing Piero to call in the moneys placed at 
 interest by his father in the hands of private citizens. This act 
 was unpopular -, but it did not suffice to move a revolution. 
 To proceed by constitutional measures against the Medici was 
 judged impolitic. Therefore the conspirators decided to take, 
 if possible, Piero's life. The plot failed, chiefly owing to the 
 coolness and the cunning of the young Lorenzo, Piero's eldest 
 son. Public sympathy was strongly excited against the ag- 
 gressors. Neroni, Acciaiuoli, and Soderini were exiled. Pitti 
 was allowed to stay, dishonoured, powerless, and penniless, in 
 Florence. Meanwhile, the failure of their foes had only served 
 to strengthen the position of the Medici. The ladder had 
 saved them the trouble of kicking it down. 
 
 The congratulations addressed on this occasion to Piero 
 and Lorenzo by the ruling powers of Italy show that the 
 Medici were already regarded as princes outside Florence. 
 Lorenzo and Giuliano, the two sons of Piero, travelled abroad 
 to the courts of Milan and Ferrara with the style and state of 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 143 
 
 more than simple citizens. At home they occupied the first 
 place on all occasions of public ceremony, receiving royal 
 visitors on terms of equality, and performing the hospitalities 
 of the republic like men who had been bom to represent its dig- 
 nities. Lorenzo's marriage to Clarice Orsini, of the noble 
 Roman house, was another sign that the Medici were advanc- 
 ing on the way toward despotism. Cosimo had avoided 
 foreign alliances for his children. His descendants now 
 judged themselves firmly planted enough to risk the odium of 
 a princely match for the sake of the support outside the city 
 they might win. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Piero de' Medici died in December 1469. His son 
 Lorenzo was then barely twenty- two years of age. The chiefs 
 of the Medicean party, all-powerful in the State, held a council, 
 in which they resolved to place him in the same position as 
 his father and grandfather. This resolve seems to have been 
 formed after mature deliberation, on the ground that the exist- 
 ing conditions of Italian politics rendered it impossible to con- 
 duct the government without a presidential head. Florence, 
 though still a democracy, required a permanent chief to treat 
 on an equality with the princes of the leading cities. Here we 
 may note the prudence of Cosimo's foreign policy. When he 
 helped to establish despots in Milan and Bologna he was 
 rendering the presidency of his own family in Florence necessary. 
 
 Lorenzo, having received this invitation, called attention 
 to his youth and inexperience. Yet he did not refuse it ; and, 
 after a graceful display of diffidence, he accepted the charge, 
 entering thus upon that famous political career, in the course 
 of which he not only established and maintained a balance of 
 power in Italy, with Florence for the central city, but also con- 
 
144 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 trived to remodel the government of the repubHc in the interest 
 of his own family and to strengthen the Medici by relations 
 with the Papal See. 
 
 The extraordinary versatility of this man's intellectual and 
 social gifts, his participation in all the literary and philosophical 
 interests of his century, his large and liberal patronage of art, and 
 the gaiety with which he joined the people of Florence in their 
 pastimes — Mayday games and Carnival festivities — strength- 
 ened his hold upon the city in an age devoted to culture and 
 refined pleasure. Whatever was most brilliant in the spirit of 
 the Italian Renaissance seemed to be incarnate in Lorenzo. 
 Not merely as a patron and a dilettante, but as a poet and a 
 critic, a philosopher and scholar, he proved himself adequate 
 to the varied intellectual ambitions of his country. Penetrated 
 with the passion for erudition which distinguished Florence in 
 the fifteenth century, famiHar with her painters and her sculp- 
 tors, deeply read in the works of her great poets, he conceived 
 the ideal of infusing the spirit of antique civility into modern 
 life, and of effecting for society what the artists were performing 
 in their own sphere. To preserve the native character of the 
 Florentine genius, while he added the grace of classic form, 
 was the aim to which his tastes and instincts led him. At the 
 same time, while he made himself the master of Floren- 
 tine revels and the Augustus of Renaissance literature, he 
 took care that beneath his carnival masks and ball-dress 
 should be concealed the chains which he was forging for the 
 republic. 
 
 What he lacked, with so much mental brilliancy, was moral 
 greatness. The age he lived in was an age of selfish despots, 
 treacherous generals, godless priests. It was an age of intel- 
 lectual vigour and artistic creativeness ; but it was also an age of 
 mean ambition, sordid policy, and vitiated principles. Lorenzo 
 remained true in all respects to the genius of this age : true to 
 its enthusiasm for antique culture, true to its passion for art, 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 145 
 
 tnie to its refined love of pleasure ; but true also to its petty- 
 political intrigues, to its cynical selfishness, to its lack of heroism. 
 For Florence he looked no higher and saw no further than 
 Cosimo had done. If culture was his pastime, the enslavement 
 of the city by bribery and corruption was the hard work of his 
 manhood. As is the case with much Renaissance art, his life 
 was worth more for its decorative detail than for its constructive 
 design. In richness, versatility, variety, and exquisiteness of 
 execution, it left little to be desired ; yet, viewed at a distance, 
 and as a whole, it does not inspire us with a sense of architec- 
 tonic majesty. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Lorenzo's chief difficulties arose from the necessity under 
 which, like Cosimo, he laboured of governing the city through 
 its old institutions by means of a party. To keep the members 
 of this party in good temper, and to gain their approval for the 
 alterations he effected in the State-machinery of Florence, was 
 the problem of his life. The successful solution of this problem 
 was easier now, after two generations of the Medicean 
 ascendency, than it had been at first. Meanwhile the people 
 were maintained in good humour by public shows, ease, plenty, 
 and a general laxity of discipline. The splendour of Lorenzo's 
 foreign alliances and the consideration he received from all 
 the Courts of Italy contributed in no small measure to his 
 popularity and security at home. By using his authority over 
 Florence to inspire respect abroad, and by using his foreign 
 credit to impose upon the burghers, Lorenzo displayed the 
 tact of a true Italian diplomatist. His genius for statecraft, as 
 then understood, was indeed of a rare order, equally adapted to 
 the conduct of a complicated foreign policy and to the control 
 of a suspicious and variable Commonwealth. In one point 
 alone he was inferior to his grandfather. He neglected,. 
 
146 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 commerce, and allowed his banking business to fall into dis- 
 order so hopeless that in course of time he ceased to be solvent. 
 Meanwhile his personal expenses, both as a prince in his own 
 palace, and as the representative of majesty in Florence, con- 
 tinually increased. The bankruptcy of the Medici, it had long 
 been foreseen, would involve the public finances in serious 
 confusion. And now, in order to retrieve his fortunes, Lorenzo 
 was not only obliged to repudiate his debts to the exchequer, 
 but had also to gain complete disposal of the State-purse. It 
 was this necessity that drove him to effect the constitutional 
 revolution of 1480, by which he substituted a Privy Council of 
 seventy members for the old Councils of the State, absorbing 
 the chief functions of the commonwealth into this single body, 
 whom he practically nominated at pleasure. The same want 
 of money led to the great scandal of his reign — the plundering 
 of the Monte delle Doti, or State Insurance- Office Fund for 
 securing dowers to the children of its creditors. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 While tracing the salient points of Lorenzo de' Medici's 
 administration I have omitted to mention the important events 
 which followed shortly after his accession to power in 1469. 
 What happened between that date and 1480 was not only 
 decisive for the future fortunes of the Casa Medici, but it was 
 also eminently characteristic of the perils and the difficulties 
 which beset Italian despots. The year 147 1 was signalised by 
 a visit by the Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza of Milan, and his 
 wife Bona of Savoy, to the Medici in Florence. They came 
 attended by their whole Court — body-guards on horse and 
 foot, ushers, pages, falconers, grooms, kennel-varlets, and 
 huntsmen. Omitting the mere baggage service, their train 
 counted two thousand horses. To mention this incident would 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 147 
 
 be superfluous, had not so acute an observer as Machiavelli 
 marked it out as a turning-point in Florentine history. Now, 
 for the first time, the democratic commonwealth saw its streets 
 filled with a mob of courtiers. Masques, balls, and tourna- 
 ments succeeded each other with magnificent variety ; and all 
 the arts of Florence were pressed into the service of these 
 festivals. Machiavelli says that the burghers lost the last 
 remnant of their old austerity of manners, and became, like the 
 degenerate Romans, ready to obey the masters who provided 
 them with brilliant spectacles. They gazed with admiration on 
 the pomp of Italian princes, their dissolute and godless living, 
 their luxury and prodigal expenditure ; and when the Medici 
 affected similar habits in the next generation, the people had 
 no courage to resist the invasion of their pleasant vices. 
 
 In the same year, 147 1, Volterra was reconquered for the 
 Florentines by Frederick of Urbino. The honours of this 
 victory, disgraced by a brutal sack of the conquered city, in 
 violation of its articles of capitulation, were reserved for 
 Lorenzo, who returned in triumph to Florence. More than 
 ever he assumed the prince, and in his person undertook to 
 represent the State. 
 
 In the same year, 147 1, Francesco della Rovere was raised to 
 the papacy with the memorable name of Sixtus IV. Sixtus 
 was a man of violent temper and fierce passions, restless and 
 impatiently ambitious, bent on the aggrandisement of the 
 beautiful and wanton youths, his nephews. Of these the most 
 aspiring was Girolamo Riario, for whom Sixtus bought the 
 town of Imola from Taddeo Manfredi, in order that he might 
 possess the title of count and the nucleus of a tyranny in the 
 Romagna. This purchase thwarted the plans of Lorenzo, who 
 wished to secure the same advantages for Florence. Smarting 
 with the sense of disappointment, he forbade the Roman 
 banker, Francesco Pazzi, to guarantee the purchase-money. 
 By this act Lorenzo made two mortal foes— the Pope and 
 
148 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Francesco Pazzi. Francesco was a thin, pale, atrabilious 
 fanatic, all nerve and passion, with a monomanaic intensity of 
 purpose, and a will inflamed and guided by imagination — a 
 man formed by nature for conspiracy, such a man, in fact, 
 as Shakspere drew in Cassius. Maddened by Lorenzo's 
 prohibition, he conceived the notion of overthrowing the 
 Medici in Florence by a violent blow. Girolamo Riario 
 entered into his views. So did Francesco Salviati, Archbishop 
 of Pisa, who had private reasons for hostility. These men 
 found no difficulty in winning over Sixtus to their plot ; nor is 
 it possible to purge the Pope of participation in what followed. 
 I need not describe by what means Francesco drew the other 
 members of his family into the scheme, and how he secured 
 the assistance of armed cutthroats. Suffice it to say that the 
 chief conspirators, with the exception of the Count Girolamo, 
 betook themselves to Florence, and there, after the failure of 
 other attempts, decided to murder Lorenzo and his brother 
 Giuliano in the cathedral on Sunday, the 26th of April, 1478. 
 The moment when the priest at the high altar finished the 
 mass, was fixed for the assassination. Everything was ready. 
 The conspirators, by Judas kisses and embracements, had 
 discovered that the youngmen woreno protective armour under 
 their silken doublets. Pacing the aisle behind the choir, they 
 feared no treason. And now the lives of both might easily 
 have been secured, if at the last moment the courage of the 
 hired assassins had not failed them. Murder, they said, was 
 well enough ; but they could not bring themselves to stab 
 men before the newly consecrated body of Christ. In this 
 extremity a priest was found, who, "being accustomed to 
 churches," had no scruples. He and another reprobate were 
 told off to Lorenzo. Francesco de' Pazzi himself undertook 
 Giuliano. The moment for attack arrived. Francesco plunged 
 his dagger* into the heart of Giuliano. Then, not satisfied with 
 this death-blow, he struck again, and in his heat of passion 
 
FLORENCE AND THE ME DICE 149 
 
 wounded his own thigh. Lorenzo. escaped with a flesh-wouad 
 from the poniard of the priest, arid rushed into the sacristy^ 
 where his friend Poliziano shut and held the brazen door. 
 The plot had failed ; for Giuliano, of the two brothers, was the 
 one whom the conspirators would the more willingly have 
 spared. The whole church was in an uproar. The city rose 
 in tumult. Rage and horror took possession of the people. 
 They flew to the Palazzo Pubblico and to the houses of the 
 Pazzi, hunted the conspirators from place to place, hung the 
 archbishop by the neck from the palace windows, and, as they 
 found fresh victims for their fury, strung them one by one in a 
 ghastly row at his side above the Square. About one hundred 
 in all were killed. None who had joined in the plot escaped ; 
 for Lorenzo had long arms, and one man, who fled to Con- 
 stantinople, was delivered over to his agents by the Sultan. 
 Out of the whole Pazzi family only Guglielmo, the husband 
 of Bianca de' Medici, was spared. When the tumult was over, 
 Andrea del Castagno painted the portraits of the traitors head- 
 downwards upon the walls of the Bargello Palace, in order that 
 all men might know what fate awaited the foes of the Medici 
 and of the State of Florence.* Meanwhile a bastard son of 
 Giuliano's was received into the Medicean household, to 
 perpetuate his lineage. This child, named Giulio, was destined 
 to be famous in the annals of Italy and Florence under the 
 title of Pope Clement VI L 
 
 XV. 
 
 As is usual when such plots miss their mark, the passions 
 excited redounded to the profit of the injured party. The 
 commonwealth felt that the blow struck at Lorenzo had been 
 
 * Giottino had painted the Duke of Athens, in like manner, on the 
 same walls. 
 
ISO SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 aimed at their majesty. Sixtus, on the other hand, could not 
 contain his rage at the faihire of so ably planned a coup de 
 main. Ignoring that he had sanctioned the treason, that a 
 priest had put his hand to the dagger, that the impious deed 
 had been attempted in a church before the very Sacrament of 
 Christ, whose vicar on earth he was, the Pope now excom- 
 municated the Republic. The reason he alleged was, that 
 the Florentines had dared to hang an archbishop. 
 
 Thus began a war to the death between Sixtus and Florence. 
 The Pope inflamed the whole of Italy, and carried on a ruinous 
 campaign in Tuscany. It seemed as though the republic 
 might lose her subject cities, always ready to revolt when 
 danger threatened the sovereign State. Lorenzo's position 
 became critical. Sixtus made no secret of the hatred he bore 
 jiim personally, declaring that he fought less with Florence 
 than with the Medici. To support the odium of this long war 
 and this heavy interdict alone, was more than he could do. His 
 allies forsook him. Naples was enlisted on the Pope's side. 
 Milan and the other States of Lombardy were occupied with 
 their own affairs, and held aloof. In this extremity he saw that 
 nothing but a bold step could save him. The league formed 
 by Sixtus must be broken up at any risk, and, if possible, by 
 his own ability. On the 6th of December, 1479, Lorenzo left 
 Florence, unarmed and unattended, took ship at Leghorn, and 
 proceeded to the court of the enemy, King Ferdinand, at 
 Naples. Ferdinand was a cruel and treacherous sovereign, 
 who had murdered his guest, Jacopo Piccinino, at a banquet 
 given in his honour. But Ferdinand was the son of Alfonso, 
 who, by address and eloquence, had gained a kingdom from 
 his foe and jailor, Filippo Maria Visconti. Lorenzo calculated 
 that he too, following Alfonso's policy, might prove to Ferdinand 
 how httle there was to gain from an alliance with Rome, how 
 much Naples and Florence, firmly united together for offence 
 and defence, might effect in Italy. 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 151 
 
 Only a student of those perilous times can appreciate the 
 courage and the genius, the audacity combined with diplomatic 
 penetration, displayed by Lorenzo at this crisis. He calmly 
 walked into the lion's den, trusting he could tame the lion and 
 teach it, and all in a few days. Nor did his expectation fail. 
 Though Lorenzo was rather ugly than handsome, with a dark 
 skin, heavy brows, powerful jaws, and nose sharp in the bridge 
 and broad at the nostrils, without grace of carriage or melody 
 of voice, he possessed what makes up for personal defects — 
 the winning charm of eloquence in conversation, a subtle wit, 
 profound knowledge of men, and tact aUied to sympathy, 
 which placed him always at the centre of the situation. Fer- 
 dinand received him kindly. The Neapolitan nobles admired 
 his courage and were fascinated by his social talents. On 
 March i, 1480, he left Naples again, having won over the 
 King by his arguments. When he reached Florence he was 
 able to declare that he brought home a treaty of peace and 
 alliance signed by the most powerful foe of the republic. The 
 success of this bold enterprise endeared Lorenzo more than 
 ever to his countrymen. In the same year they concluded a 
 treaty with Sixtus, who was forced against his will to lay down 
 arms by the capture of Otranto and the extreme peril of 
 Turkish invasion. After the year 1480 Lorenzo remained 
 sole master in Florence, the arbiter and peacemaker of the 
 rest of Italy. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The conjuration of the Pazzi was only one in a long series 
 of similar conspiracies. Italian despots gained their power by 
 violence and wielded it with craft. Violence and craft were 
 therefore used against them. When the study of the classics 
 had penetrated the nation with antique ideas of heroism, tyran- 
 nicide became a virtue. Princes were murdered with frightful 
 
152 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 frequency. Thus Gian Maria Visconti was put to death at 
 Milan in 141 2 ; Galeazzo Maria Sforza in 1484 ; the Chiarelli 
 of Fabriano were massacred in 1435 \ ^^ BagUoni of Perugia 
 in 1500 ; Girolamo Gentile planned the assassination of Gale- 
 azzo Sforza at Genoa in 1476 ; Niccolo d'Este conspired 
 against his uncle Ercole in 1476 \ Stefano Porcari attempted 
 the hfe of Nicholas V. at Rome in 1453 ; Lodovico Sforza 
 narrowly escaped a violent death in 1453. I might multiply 
 these instances beyond satiety. As it is, I have selected but a 
 few examples falling, all but one, within the second half of the 
 fifteenth century. Nearly all these attempts upon the lives of 
 princes were made in church during the celebration of sacred 
 offices. There was no superfluity of naughtiness, no wilful 
 sacrilege, in this choice of an occasion. It only testified to the 
 continual suspicion and guarded watchfulness maintained by 
 tyrants. To strike at them except in church was almost impos- 
 sible. Meanwhile the fate of the tyrannicides was uniform. 
 Successful or not, they perished. Yet so grievous was the 
 pressure of Italian despotism, so glorious was the ideal of 
 Greek and Roman heroism, so passionate the temper of the 
 people, that to kill a prince at any cost to self appeared the 
 crown of manliness. This bloodshed exercised a delirious fas- 
 cination : pure and base, personal and patriotic motives com- 
 bined to add intensity of fixed and fiery purpose to the mur- 
 derous impulse. Those then who, like the Medici, aspired to 
 tyranny and sought to found a dynasty of princes, entered the 
 arena against a host of unknown and unseen gladiators. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 On his death-bed, in 1492, Lorenzo lay between two men — 
 Angelo Poliziano and Girolamo Savonarola. Poliziano incar- 
 nated the genial, radiant, godless spirit of fifteenth-century 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI, 153 
 
 humanism. Savonarola represented the conscience of Italy, 
 self-convicted, amid all her greatness, of crimes that called for 
 punishment It is said that when Lorenzo asked the monk 
 for absolution, Savonarola bade him first restore freedom to 
 Florence. Lorenzo turned his face to the wall and was silent. 
 How indeed could he make this city in a moment free, after 
 sixty years of slow and systematic corruption ? Savonarola left 
 him, and he died unshriven. This legend is doubtful, though 
 it rests on excellent if somewhat partial authority. It has, at 
 any rate, the value of a mythus, since it epitomises the attitude 
 assumed by the great preacher to the prince. Florence en- 
 slaved, the soul of Lorenzo cannot lay its burden down, but 
 must go with all its sins upon it to the throne of God. 
 
 The year 1492 was a memorable year for Italy. In this 
 year Lorenzo's death removed the keystone of the arch that had 
 sustained the fabric of Italian federation. In this year 
 Roderigo Borgia was elected Pope. In this year Columbus 
 discovered America ; Vasco de Gama soon after opened a new 
 way to the Indies, and thus the commerce of the world passed 
 from Italy to other nations. In this year the conquest of 
 Granada gave unity to the Spanish nation. In this year 
 France, through the life-long craft of Louis XL, was for the 
 first time united under a young hot-headed sovereign. On 
 every side of the political horizon storms threatened. It was 
 clear that a new chapter of European history had been opened. 
 Then Savonarola raised his voice, and cried that the crimes of 
 Italy, the abominations of the Church, would speedily be 
 punished. Events led rapidly to the fulfilment of this prophecy. 
 Lorenzo's successor, Piero de' Medici, was a vain, irresolute, 
 and hasty princeling, fond of display, proud of his skill in 
 fencing and football-playing, with too much of the Orsini 
 blood in his hot veins, with too httle of the Medicean craft in 
 his weak head. The Italian despots felt they could not trust 
 Piero, and this want of confidence was probably the first 
 
154 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 motive that impelled Lodovico Sforza to call Charles VIII. 
 into Italy in 1494. 
 
 It will not be necessary to dwell upon this invasion of the 
 French, except in so far as it affected Florence. Charles 
 passed rapidly through Lombardy, engaged his army in the 
 passes of the Apennines, and debouched upon the coast 
 where the Magra divided Tuscany from Liguria. Here the 
 fortresses of Sarzana and Pietra Santa, between the marble 
 bulwark of Carrara and the Tuscan sea, stopped his further 
 progress. The keys were held by the Florentines. To force 
 these strong positions and to pass beyond them seemed impos- 
 sible. It might have been impossible if Piero de' Medici had 
 possessed a firmer will. As it was, he rode off to the French 
 camp, delivered up the forts to Charles, bound the King by no 
 engagements, and returned not otherwise than proud of his 
 folly to Florence. A terrible reception awaited him. The 
 Florentines, in their fury, had risen and sacked the Medicean 
 palace. It was as much as Piero, with his brothers, could do 
 to escape beyond the hills to Venice. The despotism of the 
 Medici, so carefully built up, so artfully sustained and strength- 
 ened, was overthrown in a single day. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Before considering what happened in Florence after the 
 expulsion of the Medici, it will be well to pause a moment and 
 review the state in which Lorenzo had left his family. Piero, 
 his eldest son, recognised as chief of the republic after his 
 father's death, was married to Alfonsina Orsini, and was in his 
 twenty-second year. Giovanni, his second son, a youth of 
 seventeen, had just been made cardinal. This honour, of vast 
 importance for the Casa Medici in the future, he owed to his 
 sister Maddalena's marriage to Franceschetto Cybo, son of 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 155 
 
 Innocent VIII. The third of Lorenzo's sons, named Giuliano, 
 was a boy of thirteen. Giulio, the bastard son of the elder 
 Giuliano, was fourteen. These four princes formed the effi- 
 cient strength of the Medici, the hope of the house ; and for 
 each of them, with the exception of Piero, who died in exile, 
 and of whom no more notice need be taken, a briUiant destiny 
 was still in store. In the year 1495, however, they now wan- 
 dered, homeless and helpless, through the cities of Italy, each 
 of which was shaken to its foundations by the French invasion. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Florence, left without the Medici, deprived of Pisa and 
 other subject cities by the passage of the French army, with no 
 leader but the monk Savonarola, now sought to reconstitute 
 her liberties. During the domination of the Albizzi and the 
 Medici the old order of the commonwealth had been com- 
 pletely broken up. The Arti had* lost their primitive impor- 
 tance. The distinctions between the Grandi and the Popolani 
 had practically passed away. In a democracy that has sub- 
 mitted to a lengthened course of tyranny, such extinction of its 
 old life is inevitable. Yet the passion for liberty was still 
 powerful ; and the busy brains of the Florentines were stored 
 with experience gained from their previous vicissitudes, from 
 the study of antique history, and from the observation of exist- 
 ing constitutions in the towns of Italy. They now determined 
 to reorganise the State upon the model of the Venetian re- 
 public. The Signory was to remain, with its old institution of 
 Priors, Gonfalonier, and College, elected for brief periods. 
 These magistrates were to take the initiative in debate, to pro- 
 pose measures, and to consider plans of action. The real 
 power of the State, for voting supplies and ratifying the measures 
 of the Signory, was vested in a senate of one thousand members, 
 
156 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 called the Grand Council, from whom a smaller body of forty, 
 acting as intermediates between the Council and the Signory, 
 were elected. It is said that the plan of this constitution 
 originated with Savonarola; nor is there any doubt that he 
 used all his influence in the pulpit of the Duomo to render it 
 acceptable to the people. Whoever may have been responsible 
 for its formation, the new government was carried in 1495, ^^^ 
 a large hall for the assembly of the Grand Council was opened 
 in the Public Palace. 
 
 Savonarola, meanwhile, had become the ruling spirit of 
 Florence. He gained his great power as a preacher : he used 
 it like a monk. The motive principle of his action was the 
 passion for reform. To bring the Church back to its pristine 
 state of purity, without altering its doctrine or suggesting any 
 new form of creed ; to purge Italy of ungodly customs ; to 
 overthrow the tyrants who encouraged evil living, and to place 
 the power of the State in the hands of sober citizens : these 
 were his objects. Though he set himself in bold opposition to 
 the reigning Pope, he had no desire to destroy the spiritual 
 supremacy of S. Peter's see. Though he burned with an en- 
 thusiastic zeal for liberty, and displayed rare genius for ad- 
 ministration, he had no ambition to rule Florence like a 
 dictator. Savonarola was neither a reformer in the northern 
 sense of the word, nor yet a political demagogue. His sole 
 wish was to see purity of manners and freedom of self-govern- 
 ment re-established. With this end in view he bade the 
 Florentines elect Christ as their supreme chief ; and they did 
 so. For the same end he abstained from appearing in the 
 State Councils, and left the Constitution to work by its own 
 laws. His personal influence he reserved for the pulpit ; and 
 here he was omnipotent. The people believed in him as a 
 prophet. They turned to him as the man who knew what he 
 wanted — as the voice of liberty, the soul of the new regime, the 
 genius who could breathe into the commonwealth a breath of 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDIC L 157 
 
 fresh vitality. When, therefore, Savonarola preached a reform 
 of manners, he was at once obeyed. Strict laws were passed 
 enforcing sobriety, condemning trades of pleasure, reducing 
 the gay customs of Florence to puritanical austerity. 
 
 Great stress has been laid upon this reaction of the monk- 
 led populace against the vices of the past. Yet the historian 
 is bound to pronounce that the reform effected by Savonarola 
 was rather picturesque than vital. Like all violent revivals of 
 pietism, it produced a no less violent reaction. The parties 
 within the city who resented the interference of a preaching 
 friar, joined with the Pope in Rome, who hated a contumacious 
 schismatic in Savonarola. Assailed by these two forces at the 
 same moment, and driven upon perilous ground by his own 
 febrile enthusiasm, Savonarola succumbed. He was imprisoned, 
 tortured, and burned upon the public square in 1498. 
 
 What Savonarola really achieved for Florence was not a 
 permanent reform of morality, but a resuscitation of the spirit 
 of freedom. His followers, called in contempt I Ftagnofii, or 
 the Weepers, formed the pith of the commonwealth in future ; 
 and the memory of their martyr served as a common bond of 
 sympathy to unite them in times of trial. It was a necessary 
 consequence of the peculiar part he played that the city was 
 henceforth divided into factions representing mutually antago- 
 nistic principles. These factions were not created by Savona- 
 rola ; but his extraordinary influence accentuated, as it were, 
 the humours that lay dormant in the State. Families favourable 
 to the Medici took the name of Palleschi. Men who chafed 
 against puritanical reform, and who were eager for any govern- 
 ment that should secure them their old licence, were known as 
 Compagnacci. Meanwhile the oligarchs, who disliked a demo- 
 cratic Constitution, and thought it possible to found an aristo- 
 cracy without the intervention of the Medici, came to be known 
 as Gli Ottimati. Florence held within itself, from this epoch 
 forward to the final extinction of liberty, four great parties : the 
 
158 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Piagno7ii^ passionate for political freedom and austerity of 
 life ; the Palleschi, favourable to the Medicean cause, and 
 regretful of Lorenzo's pleasant rule ; the Compagjiacd, in- 
 tolerant of the reformed repubHc, neither hostile nor loyal 
 to the Medici, but desirous of personal licence ; the Ottimatt^ 
 astute and selfish, watching their own advantage, ever-mindful 
 to form a narrow government of privileged families, disinclined 
 to the Medici, except when they thought the Medici might be 
 employed as instruments in their intrigues. 
 
 XX. 
 
 During the short period of Savonarola's ascendenc}^, 
 Florence was in form at least a Theocracy, without any titular 
 head but Christ ; and as long as the enthusiasm inspired by 
 the monk lasted, as long as his personal influence endured, the 
 Constitution of tlie Grand Council worked well. After his 
 death it was found that the machinery was too cumbrous. 
 While adopting the Venetian form of government, the Floren- 
 tines had omitted one essential element — the Doge. By 
 referring measures of immediate necessity to the Grand Council, 
 the republic lost precious time. Dangerous publicity, more- 
 over, was incurred ; and so large a body often came to no firm 
 resolution. There was no permanent authority in the State ; 
 no security that what had been deliberated would be carried 
 out with energy ; no titular chief, who could transact affairs 
 with foreign potentates and their ambassadors. Accordingly, 
 in 1502, it was decreed that the Gonfalonier should hold office 
 for life — should be in fact a Doge. To this important post of 
 permanent president Piero Soderini was appointed ; and in his 
 hands were placed the chief affairs of the republic. 
 
 At this point Florence, after all her vicissitudes, had won 
 her way to something really similar to the Venetian Constitu- 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 159 
 
 tion. Yet the similarity existed more in form than in fact. 
 The government of burghers in a Grand Council, with a Senate 
 of forty, and a Gonfalonier for life, had not grown up gradually 
 and absorbed into itself the vital forces of the commonwealth. 
 It was a creation of inventive intelligence, not of national 
 development, in Florence. It had against it the jealousy of 
 the Ottimati, who felt themselves overshadowed by the Gon- 
 falonier ; the hatred of the Palleschi, who yearned for the 
 Medici; the discontent of the working -classes, who thought 
 the presence of a Court in Florence would improve trade ; 
 last, but not least, the disaffection of the Compagnacci, who 
 felt they could not flourish to their heart's content in a free 
 commonwealth. Moreover, though the name of liberty was on 
 every lip, though the Florentines talked, wrote, and speculated 
 more about constitutional independence than they had ever 
 done, the true energy of free institutions had passed from the 
 city. The corrupt government of Cosimo and Lorenzo bore its 
 natural fruit now. Egotistic ambition and avarice supplanted 
 patriotism and industry. It is necessary to comprehend these 
 circumstances, in order that the next revolution may be clearly 
 understood. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 During the ten years which elapsed between 1502 and 1512, 
 Piero Soderini administered Florence with an outward show of 
 great prosperity. He regained Pisa, and maintained an 
 honourable foreign policy in the midst of the wars stirred up 
 by the League of Cambray. Meanwhile the young princes of 
 the house of Medici had grown to manhood in exile. The 
 Cardinal Giovanni was thirty-seven in 15 12. His brother 
 Giuhano was thirty-three. Both of these men were better fitted 
 than their brother Piero to fight the battles of the family. 
 Giovanni, in particular, had inherited no small portion of the 
 
i6o SKETCHES AN'D STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Medicean craft. During the troubled reign of Julius II. he 
 kept very quiet, cementing his connections with powerful men 
 in Rome, but making no effort to regain his hold on Florence. 
 Now the moment for striking a decisive blow had come. After 
 the battle of Ravenna in 15 12, the French were driven out of 
 Italy, and the Sforzas returned to Milan ; the Spanish troops, 
 under the Viceroy Cardona, remained masters of the country. 
 Following the camp of these Spaniards, Giovanni de' Medici 
 entered Tuscany in August, and caused the restoration of the 
 Medici to be announced in Florence. The people, assembled 
 by Soderini, resolved to resist to the uttermost. No foreign 
 army should force them to receive the masters whom they had 
 expelled. Yet their courage failed on August 29th, when news 
 reached them of the capture and the sack of Prato. Prato is a 
 sunny little city a few miles distant from the walls of Florence, 
 famous for the beauty of its women, the richness of its gardens, 
 and the grace of its buildings. Into this gem of cities the 
 savage soldiery of Spain marched in the bright autumnal 
 weather, and turned the paradise into a hell. It is even now 
 impossible to read of what they did in Prato without shudder- 
 ing.* Cruelty and lust, sordid greed for gold, and cold delight 
 in bloodshed, could go no further. Giovanni de' Medici, by 
 nature mild and voluptuous, averse to violence of all kinds, 
 had to smile approval, while the Spanish Viceroy knocked thus 
 with mailed hand for him at the door of Florence. The Floren- 
 tines were paralysed with terror. They deposed Soderini and 
 received the Medici. Giovanni and Giuliano entered their 
 devastated palace in the Via Larga, abolished the Grand 
 Council, and dealt with the republic as they listed. 
 
 ^ See Archivio Storico, 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. i6i 
 
 xxri. 
 
 There was no longer any medium in Florence possible 
 between either tyranny or some such government as the Medici 
 had now destroyed. The State was too rotten to recover even 
 the modified despotism of Lorenzo's days. Each transformation 
 had impaired some portion of its framework, broken down 
 some of its traditions, and sowed new seeds of egotism in 
 citizens who saw all things round them change but self-advan- , 
 tage. Therefore Giovanni and Giuliano felt themselves secure 
 in flattering the popular vanity by an empty parade of the 
 old institutions. They restored the Signory and the Gonfalo- 
 nier, elected for intervals of two months by officers appointed 
 for this purpose by the Medici. Florence had the show of a 
 free government. But the Medici managed all things ; and 
 soldiers, commanded by their creature, Paolo Vettori, held the 
 Palace and the Public Square. The tyranny thus established 
 was less secure, inasmuch as it openly rested upon violence, 
 than Lorenzo's power had been ; nor were there signs wanting 
 that the burghers could ill brook their servitude. The con- 
 spiracy of Pietro Paolo Boscoli and Agostino Capponi proved 
 that the Medicean brothers ran daily risk of life. Indeed, it is 
 not likely that they would have succeeded in maintaining their 
 authority — for they were poor and ill-supported by friends 
 outside the city — except for one most lucky circumstance : 
 that was the election of Giovanni de' Medici to the Papac>^ 
 in 1513. 
 
 The creation of Leo X. spread satisfaction throughout Italy. 
 Politicians trusted that he would display some portion of his 
 father's ability, and restore peace to the nation. Men of arts 
 and letters expected everything from a Medicean Pope, who 
 had already acquired the reputation of polite culture and open- 
 handed generosity. They at any rate were not deceived. 
 
i62 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Leo's first words on taking his place in the Vatican were 
 addressed to his brother Giuliano : * Let us enjoy the Papacy, 
 now that God has given it to us ; ' and his notion of enjoyment 
 was to surround himself with court-poets, jesters, and musicians, 
 to adorn his Roman palaces with frescoes, to collect statues 
 and inscriptions, to listen to Latin speeches, and to pass judg- 
 ment upon scholarly compositions. Any one and every one 
 who gave him sensual or intellectual pleasure, found his purse 
 always open. He lived in the utmost magnificence, and made 
 Rome the Paris of the Renaissance for brilliance, immorality, 
 and self-indulgent ease. The politicians had less reason to be 
 satisfied. Instead of uniting the Italians and keeping the great 
 powers of Europe in check, Leo carried on a series of disastrous 
 petty wars, chiefly with the purpose of establishing the Medici 
 as princes. He squandered the revenues of the Church, and 
 left enormous debts behind him — an exchequer ruined and a 
 foreign policy so confused that peace for Italy could only be 
 obtained by servitude. 
 
 Florence shared in the general rejoicing which greeted Leo's 
 accession to the Papacy. He was the first Florentine citizen 
 who had received the tiara, and the popular vanity was flattered 
 by this honour to the Republic. Political theorists, meanwhile, 
 began to speculate what greatness Florence, in combination 
 with Rome, might rise to. The Pope was young ; he ruled a 
 large territory, reduced to order by his warlike predecessors. 
 It seemed as though the Republic, swayed by him, might make 
 herself the first city in Italy, and restore the glories of her 
 Guelf ascendency upon the platform of Renaissance statecraft. 
 Inhere was now no overt opposition to the Medici in Florence. 
 How to govern the city from Rome, and how to advance the 
 fortunes of his brother Giuliano and his nephew Lorenzo 
 (Piero's son, a young man of twenty-one), occupied the Pope's 
 most serious attention. For Lorenzo Leo obtained the Duchy 
 of Urbino and the hand of a French princess. GiuHano was 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 163 
 
 named Gonfalonier of the Church. He also received the 
 French title of Duke of Nemours and the hand of Filiberta, 
 Princess of Savoy. Leo entertained a further project of 
 acquiring the crown of Southern Italy for his brother, and thus 
 of uniting Rome, Florence, and Naples under the headship of 
 his house. Nor were the Medicean interests neglected in the 
 Church. Giulio, the Pope's bastard cousin, was made cardinal. 
 He remained in Rome, acting as vice chancellor and doing the 
 hard work of the Papal Government for the pleasure-loving 
 pontiff. 
 
 To Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, the titular head of the family, 
 was committed the government of Florence. During their 
 exile, wandering from court to court in Italy, the Medici had 
 forgotten what it was to be burghers, and had acquired the 
 manners of princes. Leo alone retained enough of caution to 
 warn his nephew that the Florentines must still be treated as 
 free people. He confirmed the constitution of the Signory 
 and the Privy Council of seventy established by his father, 
 bidding Lorenzo, while he ruled this sham republic, to avoid 
 the outer signs of tyranny. The young duke at first behaved 
 with moderation, but he could not cast aside his habits of a 
 great lord. Florence now for the first time saw a regular court 
 established in her midst, with a prince, who, though he bore a 
 foreign title, was in fact her master. The joyous days of 
 Lorenzo the Magnificent returned. Masquerades and triumphs 
 filled the public squares. Two clubs of pleasure, called the 
 Diamond and the Branch — badges adopted by the Medici to 
 signify their firmness in disaster and their power of self- 
 recovery — were formed to lead the revels. The best sculptors 
 and painters devoted their genius to the invention of costumes 
 and cars. The city affected to believe that the age of gold had 
 come again. 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Fortune had been very favourable to the Medici. They had 
 returned as princes to Florence. Giovanni was Pope. Giu- 
 liano was Gonfalonier of the Church. Giulio was Cardinal and 
 Archbishop of Florence. Lorenzo ruled the city like a sovereign. 
 But this prosperity was no less brief than it was brilliant. A 
 few years sufficed to sweep off all the chiefs of the great house. 
 Giuliano died in 15 16, leaving only a bastard son Ippolito. 
 Lorenzo died in 15 19, leaving a bastard son Alessandro, 
 and a daughter, six days old, who lived to be the Queen of 
 France. Leo died in 152 1. There remained now no legiti- 
 mate male descendants from the stock of Cosimo. The 
 honours and pretensions of the Medici devolved upon three 
 bastards— on the Cardinal Giulio, and the two boys, Ales- 
 sandro and Ippolito, Of these, Alessandro was a mulatto, his 
 mother having been a Moorish slave in the Palace of Urbino ; 
 and whether his father was Giulio, or Giuliano, or a base groom, 
 was not known for certain. To such extremities were the 
 Medici reduced. In order to keep their house alive, they were 
 obliged to adopt this foundling. It is true that the younger 
 branch of the family, descended from Lorenzo, the brother of 
 Cosimo, still flourished. At this epoch it was represented by 
 Giovanni, the great general known as the Invincible, whose 
 bust so strikingly resembles that of Napoleon. But between 
 this line of the Medici and the elder branch there had never 
 been true cordiality. The Cardinal mistrusted Giovanni. It 
 may, moreover, be added, that Giovanni was himself doomed 
 to death in the year 1526. 
 
 Giulio de' Medici was left in 152 1 to administer the State of 
 Florence single-handed. He was archbishop, and he resided 
 in the city, holding it with the grasp of an absolute ruler. Yet 
 he felt his position insecure. The republic had no longer any 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 165 
 
 forms of self government ; nor was there a magistracy to whom 
 the despot could delegate his power in his absence. Giulio's 
 ambition was fixed upon the Papal crown. The bastards he 
 was rearing were but children. Florence had, therefore, to be 
 furnished with some political machinery that should work of 
 itself The Cardinal did not wish to give freedom to the city, 
 but clockwork. He was in the perilous situation of having to 
 rule a commonwealth without life, without elasticity, without 
 capacity of self-movement, yet full of such material as, left 
 alone, might ferment, and breed a revolution. In this per- 
 plexity, he had recourse to advisers. The most experienced 
 poHticians, philosophical theorists, practical diplomatists, and 
 students of antique history were requested to furnish him with 
 plans for a new constitution, just as you ask an architect to 
 give you the plan of a new house. This was the field-day of 
 the doctrinaires. Now was seen how much political sagacity 
 the Florentines had gained while they were losing liberty. We 
 possess these several drafts of constitutions. Some recommend 
 tyranny ; some incline to aristocracy, or what Italians called 
 Govemo Stretto ; some to democracy, or Governo Largo ; some 
 to an eclectic compound of the other forms, or Governo Misto. 
 More consummate masterpieces of constructive ingenuity can 
 hardly be imagined. What is omitted in all, is just what no 
 doctrinaire, no nostrum can communicate — the breath of life, 
 the principle of organic growth. Things had come, indeed, to a 
 melancholy pass for Florence when her tyrant, in order to con- 
 firm his hold upon her, had to devise these springs and irons to 
 support her tottering limbs. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 While the Archbishop and the doctors were debating, a plot 
 was hatching in the Rucellai Gardens. It was here that the 
 Florentine Academy now held their meetings. For this society 
 
1 66 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Machiavelli wrote his ' Treatise on the Art of War,' and his 
 ' Discourses upon Livy.' The former was an exposition of 
 Machiavelli's scheme for creating a national mihtia, as the only 
 safeguard for Italy, exposed at this period to the invasions of 
 great foreign armies. The latter is one of the three or four 
 masterpieces produced by the Florentine school of critical 
 historians. Stimulated by the daring speculations of Machia- 
 velli, and fired to enthusiasm by their study of antiquity, the 
 younger academicians formed a conspiracy for murdering 
 Giulio de' Medici, and restoring the republic on a Roman 
 model. An irtercepted letter betrayed their plans. Two 
 of the conspirators wxre taken and beheaded. Others 
 escaped. But the discovery of this conjuration put a stop to 
 Giulio's scheme of reforming the State. Henceforth he ruled 
 Florence like a despot, mild in manners, cautions in the 
 exercise of arbitrary power, but firm in his autocracy. The 
 Condottiere, Alessandro Vitelli, with a company of soldiers, 
 was taken into service for the protection of his person and the 
 intimidation of the citizens. 
 
 In 1523, the Pope, Adrian VI., expired after a short papacy, 
 from which he gained no honour and Italy no profit. Giulio 
 hurried to Rome, and, by the clever use of his large influence, 
 caused himself to be elected with the title of Clement VII. 
 In Florence he left Silvio Passerini, Cardinal of Cortona, as his 
 vicegerent and the guardian of the two boys Alessandro and 
 Ippolito. The discipline of many years had accustomed the 
 Florentines to a government of priests. Still the burghers, 
 mindful of their ancient liberties, were galled by the yoke of 
 a Cortonese, sprung up from one of their subject cities ; nor 
 could they bear the bastards who were being reared to rule 
 them. Foreigners threw it in their teeth that Florence, the 
 city glorious of art and freedom, was become a stable for mules 
 ^^sialla da mult, in the expressive language of popular sarcasm. 
 Bastardy, it may be said in passing, carried with it small dis- 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 167 
 
 honour among the Italians. The Estensi were all illegitimate ; 
 the Aragonese house in Naples sprang from Alfonso's natural 
 son j and children of Popes ranked among the princes. Yet the 
 uncertainty of Alessandro's birth and the base condition of his 
 mother made the prospect of this tyrant peculiarly odious ; 
 while the primacy of a foreign cardinal in the midst of citizens 
 whose spirit was still unbroken, embittered the cup of humilia- 
 tion. The Casa Medici held its authority by a slender thread, 
 and depended more upon the disunion of the burghers than on 
 any power of its own. It could always reckon on the favour 
 of the lower populace, who gained profit and amusement 
 from the presence of a court. The Ottimati again hoped more 
 from a weak despotism than from a commonwealth, where 
 their privileges would have been merged in the mass of the 
 Grand Council. Thus the sympathies of the plebeians and the 
 selfishness of the rich patricians prevented the repubHc from 
 asserting itself. On this meagre basis of personal cupidity the 
 Medici sustained themselves. What made the situation still 
 more delicate, and at the same time protracted the feeble rule 
 of Clement, was that neither the Florentines nor the Medici 
 had any army. Face to face with a potentate so considerable 
 as the Pope, a free State could not be established without 
 military force. On the other hand, the Medrci, supported by a 
 mere handful of mercenaries, had no power to resist a popular 
 rising if any external event should inspire the middle classes 
 with a hope of liberty, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Clement assumed the tiara at a moment of great difficulty. 
 Leo had ruined the finance of Rome. France and Spain were 
 still contending for the possession of Italy. While acting as 
 Vice-Chancellor, Giulio de' Medici had seemed to hold the 
 reins with a firm grasp, and men expected that he would 
 
i68 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 prove a powerful Pope ; but in those days he had Leo to help 
 him ; and Leo, though indolent, was an abler man than his 
 cousin. He planned, and Giulio executed. Obliged to act 
 now for himself, Clement revealed the weakness of his nature. 
 That weakness was irresolution, craft without wisdom, diplo- 
 macy without knowledge of men. He raised the storm, and 
 showed himself incapable of guiding it. This is not the place 
 to tell by what a series of crooked schemes and cross purposes 
 he brought upon himself the ruin of the Church and Rome, to 
 relate his disagreement with the Emperor, or to describe again 
 the sack of the Eternal City by the rabble of the Constable de 
 Bourbon's army. That wreck of Rome in 1527 was the closing 
 scene of the Italian Renaissance — the l-ast of the Apocalyptic 
 tragedies foretold by Savonarola - the death of the old age. 
 
 When the Florentines knew what was happening in Rome, 
 they rose and forced the Cardinal Passerini to depart with the 
 Medicean bastards from the city. The youth demanded arms 
 for the defence of the town, and they received them. The 
 whole male population was enrall'eiJ in a militia. The Grand 
 Council was reformed, and the republic was restored upon the 
 basis of 1495. Niccolo Capponi was elected Gonfalonier. 
 The name of Christ was again registered as chief of the 
 commonwealth — to such an extent did the memory of Savo- 
 narola still sway the popular imagination. The new State 
 hastened to form an alliance with France, and Malatesta 
 Baglioni was chosen as military Commander-in-Chief. Mean- 
 while the city armed itself for siege — Michel Angelo Buon- 
 arroti and Francesco da San Gallo undertaking the construction 
 of new forts and ramparts. These measures were adopted with 
 sudden decision, because it was soon known that Clement had 
 made peace with the Emperor, and that the anny which had 
 sacked Rome was going to be marched on Florence. 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 169 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 In the month of August 1529, the Prince of Orange 
 assembled his forces at Terni, and thence advanced by easy 
 stages into Tuscany. As he approached, the Florentines laid 
 waste their suburbs, and threw down their wreath of towers, in 
 order that the enemy might have no harbourage or points of 
 vantage for attack. Their troops were concentrated within the 
 city, where a new Gonfalonier, Francesco Carducci, furiously 
 opposed to the Medici, and attached to the Piagnoni party, now 
 ruled. On September 4, the Prince of Orange appeared before 
 the walls, and opened the memorable siege. It lasted eight 
 months, at the end of which time, betrayed by their generals, 
 divided among themselves, and worn out with delays, the 
 Florentines capitulated. Florence was paid as compensation 
 for the insult offered to the pontiff in the sack of Rome. 
 
 The long yoke of the Medici had undermined the character 
 of the Florentines. This, their last glorious struggle for liberty, 
 was but a flash in the pan — a final flare up of the dying 
 lamp. The city was not satisfied with slavery ; but it had 
 no capacity for united action. The Ottimati were egotistic 
 and jealous of the people. The Palleschi desired to restore 
 the Medici at any price— some of them frankly wishing for a 
 principality, others trusting that the old quasi-republican 
 government might still be reinstated. The Red Republicans, 
 styled Libertini and Arrabbiati, clung together in blind hatred 
 of the Medicean party ; but they had no further policy to 
 guide them. The Piagnoni, or Frateschi, stuck to the memory 
 of Savonarola, and believed that angels would descend to 
 guard the battlements when human help had failed. These 
 enthusiasts still formed the true nerve of the nation — the class 
 that might have saved the State, if salvation had been possible. 
 Even as it was, the energy of their fanaticism prolonged the 
 
I70 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 siege until resistance seemed no longer physically possible. 
 The hero developed by the crisis was Francesco Ferrucci, a 
 plebeian who had passed his youth in manual labour, and who 
 now displayed rare military genius. He fell fighting outside 
 the walls of Florence. Had he commanded the troops from 
 the beginning, and remained inside the city, it is just possible 
 that the fate of the war might have been less disastrous. As it 
 was, Malatesta Baglioni, the Commander-in-Chief, turned out 
 an arrant scoundrel. He held secret correspondence with 
 Clement and the Prince of Orange. It was he who finally sold 
 Florence to her foes, ' putting on his head,' as the Doge of 
 Venice said before the Senate, ' the cap of the biggest traitor 
 upon record.' 
 
 xxvn. 
 
 What remains of Florentine history may be briefly told. 
 Clement, now the undisputed arbiter of power and honour in 
 the city, chose Alessandro de' Medici to be prince. Alessandro 
 was created Duke of Civitk di Penna, and married to a natural 
 daughter of Charles V. Ippolito was made a cardinal. Ippolito 
 would have preferred a secular to a priestly kingdom ; nor did he 
 conceal his jealousy for his cousin. Therefore Alessandro had 
 him poisoned. Alessandro in his turn was murdered by his kins- 
 man, Lorenzino de' Medici. Lorenzino paid the usual penalty of 
 tyrannicide some years later. When Alessandro was killed in 
 1539, Clement had himself been dead five years. Thus the whole 
 posterity of Cosimo de' Medici, with the exception of Catherine, 
 Queen of France, was utterly extinguished. But the Medici 
 had struck root so firmly in the State, and had so remodelled it 
 upon the type of tyranny, that the Florentines were no longer 
 able to do without them. The chiefs of the Ottimati selected 
 Cosimo, the representative of Giovanni the Invincible, for their 
 prince, and thus the line of the elder Lorenzo came at last to 
 
FLORENCE AND THE MEDICI. 171 
 
 power. This Cosimo was a boy of eighteen, fond of field- 
 sports, and unused to party intrigues. When Francesco Guicciar- 
 dini offered him a privy purse of one hundred and twenty 
 thousand ducats annually, together with the presidency of 
 Florence, this wily politician hoped that he would rule the 
 State through Cosimo, and realise at last that dream of the 
 Ottimati, a Governo Stretto or di Pochi. He was notably mis- 
 taken in his calculations. The first days of Cosimo's adminis- 
 tration showed that he possessed the craft of his family and 
 the vigour cf his immediate progenitors, and that he meant to 
 be sole master in Florence. He it was who obtained the title 
 of Grand Duke of Tuscany from the Pope — a title confirmed 
 by the Emperor, fortified by Austrian alliances, and trans- 
 mitted through his heirs to the present century. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 In this sketch of Florentine history, I have purposely 
 omitted all details that did not bear upon the constitutional 
 history of the republic, or on the growth of the Medici as 
 despots ; because I wanted to present a picture of the process 
 whereby that family contrived to fasten itself upon the freest 
 and most cultivated State in Italy. This success the Medici 
 owed mainly to their own obstinacy, and to the weakness of 
 republican institutions in Florence. Their power was founded 
 upon wealth in the first instance, and upon the ingenuity with 
 which they turned the favour of the proletariate to use. It was 
 confirmed by the mistakes and failures of their enemies, by 
 Rinaldo degli Albizzi's attack on Cosimo, by the conspiracy of 
 Neroni and Pitti against Piero, and by Francesco de' Pazzi's 
 attempt to assassinate Lorenzo. It was still further strengthened 
 by the Medicean sympathy for arts and letters — a sympathy 
 which placed both Cosimo and Lorenzo at the head of the 
 
172 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 Renaissance movement, and made them worthy to represent 
 Florence, the city of genius, in the fifteenth century. While 
 thus founding and cementing their dynastic influence upon the 
 basis of a wide-spread popularity, the Medici employed per- 
 sistent cunning in the enfeeblement of the Republic. It was 
 their policy not to plant themselves by force or acts of overt 
 tyranny, but to corrupt ambitious citizens, to secure the patron- 
 age of public officers, and to render the spontaneous working 
 of the State machinery impossible. By pursuing this policy 
 over a long series of years they made the revival of liberty in 
 1494, and again in 1527, ineffectual. While exiled from 
 Florence, they never lost the hope of returning as masters, so 
 long as the passions they had excited, and they alone could 
 gratify, remained in full activity. These passions were avarice 
 and egotism, the greed of the grasping Ottimati, the jealousy 
 of the nobles, the self-indulgence of the proletariate. Yet it is 
 probable they might have failed to recover Florence, on one or 
 other of these two occasions, but for the accident which placed 
 Giovanni de' Medici on the Papal chair, and enabled him to 
 put Giulio m the way of the same dignity. From the accession 
 of Leo in 15 13 to the year 1527 the Medici ruled Florence 
 from Rome, and brought the power of the Church into the 
 service of their despotism. After that date they were still 
 further aided by the imperial policy of Charles V., who chose 
 to govern Italy through subject princes, bound to himself by 
 domestic alliances and powerful interests. One of these was 
 Cosimo, the first Grand Duke of Tuscany. 
 
73 
 
 THE DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN 
 LITERATURE. 
 
 To an Englishman one of the chief interests of the study of 
 Itahan literature is derived from the fact that, between Eng- 
 land and Italy, an almost uninterrupted current of intellectual 
 intercourse has been maintained throughout the last five 
 centuries. The English have never, indeed, at any time been 
 slavish imitators of the Italians ; but Italy has formed the 
 dream-land of the English fancy, inspiring poets with their 
 most delightful thoughts, supplying them with subjects, and 
 implanting in their minds that sentiment of Southern beauty 
 which, engrafted on our more passionately imaginative Northern 
 nature, has borne rich fruit in the works of Chaucer, Spenser, 
 Marlowe, Shakspere, Milton, and the poets of this century. 
 
 It is not strange that Italy should thus in matters of culture 
 have been the guide and mistress of England. Italy, of all 
 the European nations, was the first to produce high art and 
 literature in the dawn of modern civilisation. Italy was the 
 first to display refinement in domestic life, polish of manners, 
 civilities of intercourse. In Italy the commerce of courts first 
 developed a society of men and women, educated by the same 
 traditions of humanistic culture. In Italy the principles of 
 government were first discussed and reduced to theory. In 
 Italy the zeal for the classics took its origin ; and scholarship, 
 to which we owe our mental training, was at first the possession 
 of none almost but Italians. It therefore followed that during 
 
174 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the age of the Renaissance any man of taste or genius, who 
 desired to share the newly discovered privileges of learning, 
 had to seek Italy. Every one who wished to be initiated into 
 the secrets of science or philosophy, had to converse with 
 Italians in person or through books. Every one who was 
 eager to poUsh his native language, and to render it the proper 
 vehicle of poetic thought, had to consult the masterpieces of 
 Italian literature. To Italians the courtier, the diplomatist, the 
 artist, the student of statecraft and of military tactics, the 
 political theorist, the merchant, the man of laws, the man of 
 arms, and the churchman turned for precedents and precepts. 
 The nations of the North, still torpid and somnolent in their 
 semi-barbarism, needed the magnetic touch of Italy before they 
 could awake to intellectual life. Nor was this all. Long 
 before the thirst for culture possessed the English mind, Italy 
 had appropriated and assimilated all that Latin literature con- 
 tained of strong or splendid to arouse the thought and fancy 
 of the modern world ; Greek, too, was rapidly becoming the 
 possession of the scholars of Florence and Rome; so that 
 English men of letters found the spirit of the ancients infused 
 into a modern literature ; models of correct and elegant com- 
 position existed for them in a language easy, harmonious, and 
 not dissimilar in usage to their own. 
 
 The importance of this service, rendered by Italians to the 
 rest of Europe, cannot be exaggerated. By exploring, digest- 
 ing, and reproducing the classics, Italy made the labour of 
 scholarship comparatively light for the Northern nations, and 
 extended to us the privilege of culture without the peril of 
 losing originality in the enthusiasm for erudition. Our great 
 poets could handle lightly, and yet profitably, those master- 
 pieces of Greece and Rome, beneath the weight of which, 
 when first discovered, the genius of the Italians had wavered. 
 To the originality of wShakspere an accession of wealth without 
 weakness was brought by the perusal of Italian works, in which 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 175 
 
 the spirit of the antique was seen as in a modem mirror. 
 Then, in addition to this benefit of instruction, Italy gave to 
 England a gift of pure beauty, the influence of which, in re- 
 fining our national taste, harmonising the roughness of our 
 manners and our language, and stimulating our imagination, 
 has been incalculable. It was a not unfrequent custom for 
 young men of ability to study at the Italian universities, or at 
 least to undertake a journey to the principal Italian cities. 
 From their sojourn in that land of loveliness and intellectual 
 life they returned with their Northern brains most powerfully 
 stimulated. To produce, by masterpieces of the imagination, 
 some work of style that should remain as a memento of that 
 glorious country, and should vie on English soil with the art of 
 Italy, was their generous ambition. Consequently the sub- 
 stance of the stories versified by our poets, the forms of our 
 metres, and the cadences of our prose periods reveal a close 
 attention to Italian originals. 
 
 This debt of England to Italy in the matter of our literature 
 began with Chaucer. Truly original and national as was the 
 framework of the * Canterbury Tales,' we can hardly doubt but 
 that Chaucer was determined in the form adopted for his 
 poem by the example of Boccaccio. The subject-matter, also, 
 of many of his tales was taken from Boccaccio's prose or verse. 
 For example, the story of Patient Grizzel is founded upon one 
 of the legends of the ' Decameron,' while the Knight's Tale is 
 almost translated from the ' Teseide ' of Boccaccio, and Troilus 
 and Creseide is derived from the ' Filostrato ' of the same 
 author. The Franklin's Tale and the Reeve's Tale are also 
 based either on stories of Boccaccio or else on French ' Fabli- 
 aux,' to which Chaucer, as well as Boccaccio, had access. I 
 do not wish to lay too much stress upon Chaucer's direct 
 obhgations to Boccaccio, because it is incontestable that the 
 French * Fabliaux,' which supplied them both with subjects, 
 were the common property of the mediaeval nations. But his 
 
176 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 indirect debt in all that concerns elegant handling of material, 
 and in the fusion of the romantic with the classic spirit, which 
 forms the chief charm of such tales as the Palamon and Arcite, 
 can hardly be exaggerated. Lastly, the seven-lined stanza, 
 called rime royal, which Chaucer used with so much effect in 
 narrative poetry, was probably borrowed from the earlier 
 Florentine ' Ballata,' the last line rhyming with its predecessor 
 being substituted for the recurrent refrain. Indeed, the 
 stanza itself, as used by our earliest poets, may be found in 
 Guido Cavalcanti's ' Ballatetta,' beginning, Fosso degli occhi miei. 
 Between Chaucer and Surrey the Muse of England fell 
 asleep ; but when in the latter half of the reign of Henry VIII. 
 she awoke again, it w^as as a conscious pupil of the Italian that 
 she attempted new strains and essayed fresh metres. ' In tlie 
 latter end of Henry VIII.'s reign,' says Puttenham, ' sprang up 
 a new company of courtly makers, of whom Sir T. Wyatt the 
 elder, and Henry Earl of Surrey, w^ere the two chieftains, who, 
 having travelled into Italy, and there tasted the sweet and 
 stately measures and style of the Italian poesy, as novices 
 newdy crept out of the schools of Dante, Ariosto, and Petrarch, 
 they greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar 
 poesy, from that it had been before, and for that cause may 
 justly be said the first reformers of our English metre and style.' 
 The chief point in which Surrey imitated his ' master, Francis 
 Petrarcha,' was in the use of the sonnet. He introduced this 
 elaborate form of poetry into our literature ; and how 'it has 
 thriven with us, the masterpieces of Spenser, Shakspere, Milton, 
 Wordsworth, Keats, Rossetti attest. As practised by Dante and 
 Petrarch, the sonnet is a poem of fourteen lines, divided into 
 two quatrains and two triplets, so arranged that the two quatrains 
 repeat one pair of rhymes, while the two triplets repeat another 
 pair. Thus an Italian sonnet of the strictest form is composed 
 upon four rhymes, interlaced with great art. But much diver- 
 gence from this rigid scheme of rhyming was admitted even by 
 
DEBT OF EyCLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 177 
 
 Petrarch, who not unfrequently divided the six final lines of 
 the sonnet into three couplets, interwoven in such a way that 
 the two last lines never rhymed.^ 
 
 It has been necessary to say thus much about the structure 
 of the Italian sonnet, in order to make clear the task which lay 
 before Surrey and Wyatt, when they sought to transplant it into 
 English. Surrey did not adhere to the strict fashion of 
 Petrarch : his sonnets consist either of three regular quatrains 
 concluded with a couplet, or el-^e of twelve lines rhyming 
 alternately and concluded with a couplet. Wyatt attempted to 
 follow the order and interlacement of the Italian rhymes more 
 closely, but he too concluded his sonnet with a couplet. This 
 introduction of the final couplet was a violation of the Italian 
 rule, which may be fairly considered as prejudicial to the 
 harmony of the whole structure, and which has insensibly 
 caused the English sonnet to terminate in an epigram. The 
 famous sonnet of Surrey on his love, Geraldine, is an excellent 
 example of the metrical structure as adapted to the supposed 
 necessities of English rhyming, and as afterwards adhered to by 
 Shakspere in his long series of love-poems. Surrey, while 
 adopting the form of the sonnet, kept quite clear of the 
 Petrarchist's mannerism. His language is simple and direct : 
 there is no subtilising upon far-fetched conceits, no wire-drawing 
 of exquisite sentimentalism, although he celebrates in this, as 
 in his other sonnets, a lady for whom he appears to have 
 entertained no more than a Platonic or imaginary passion. ^ 
 Surrey was a great experimentalist in metre. Besides the 
 sonnet, he introduced into England blank verse, which he 
 borrowed from the Italian versi sdolti, fixing that decasyllable 
 iambic rhythm for English versification in which our greatest 
 poetical triumphs have been achieved. ^ 
 
 * The order of rhymes runs thus : a, b, b, a, a, b, b, a, c, d, c, d, c, d \ 
 or in the terzets, c, d, e, c, d, r. or c, d, e, d, c, e, and so forth. 
 2 See Appendix on Blank Verse. 
 
 N 
 
175 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 Before quitting the subject of the sonnet it would, however, 
 be well to mention the changes which were wrought in its 
 structure by early poets desirous of emulating the Italians. 
 Shakspere, as already hinted, adhered to the simple form intro- 
 duced by Surrey : his stanzas invariably consist of three 
 separate quatrains followed by a couplet. But Sir Philip 
 Sidney, whose familiarity with Italian literature was intimate, 
 and who had resided long in Italy, perceived that without a 
 greater complexity and interweaving of rhymes the beauty of 
 the poem was considerably impaired. He therefore combined 
 the rhymes of the two quatrains, as the Italians had done, 
 leaving himself free to follow the Italian fashion in the con- 
 clusion, or else to wind up after English usage with a couplet. 
 Spenser and Drummond follow the rule of Sidney ; Drayton 
 and Daniel, that of Surrey and Shakspere. It was not until 
 Milton that an English poet preserved the form of the Italian 
 sonnet in its strictness ; but, after Milton, the greatest sonnet- 
 writers — Wordsworth, Keats, and Rossetti — have aimed at 
 producing stanzas as regular as those of Petrarch. 
 
 The great age of our literature — the age of Elizabeth — was 
 essentially one of Italian influence. In Italy the Renaissance 
 had reached its height : England, feeling the new life which 
 had been infused into arts and letters, turned instinctively to 
 Italy, and adopted her canons of taste. ' Euphues ' has a 
 distinct connection with the Italian discourses of polite culture. 
 Sidney's ' Arcadia ' is a copy of what Boccaccio had attempted 
 in his classical romances, and Sanazzaro in his pastorals.* 
 Spenser approached the subject of the ' Faery Queen' with his 
 
 ' It has extraordinary interest for the student of our literary develop- 
 ment, inasmuch as it is full of experiments in metres, which have never 
 thriven on English soil. Not to mention the attempt to write in asclepiads 
 and other classical rhythms, we might point to Sidney's terza rima poems 
 with sdrucciolo or treble rhymes. This peculiar and painful form he borrowed 
 from Ariosto and Sanazzaro ; but even in Italian it cannot be handled 
 without sacrifice of variety, without impeding the metrical movement and 
 marring the sense. 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 179 
 
 head full of Ariosto and the romantic poets of Italy. His 
 sonnets are Italian ; his odes embody the Platonic philosophy 
 of the Italians.^ The extent of Spenser's deference to the 
 Italians in matters of poetic art may be gathered from this 
 passage in the dedication to Sir Walter Raleigh of the * Faery 
 Queen : ' 
 
 I have followed all the antique poets historical : first Homer, who in 
 the persons of Agamemnon and Ulysses hath ensampled a good governor 
 and a virtuous man, the one in his Ilias, the other in his Odysseis ; then 
 Virgil, whose like intention was to do in the person of ^neas ; after him 
 Ariosto comprised them both in his Orlando ; and lately Tasso dissevered 
 them again, and formed both parts in two persons, namely, that part which 
 they in Philosophy call Ethice, or virtues of a private man, coloured in his 
 Rinaldo, the other named Politice in his GofTredo. 
 
 From this it is clear that, to the mind of Spenser, both Ariosto 
 and Tasso were authorities of hardly less gravity than Homer 
 and Virgil. Raleigh, in the splendid sonnet with which he 
 responds to this dedication, enhances the fame of Spenser by 
 affecting to believe that the great Italian, Petrarch, will be 
 jealous of him in the grave. To such an extent were the thoughts 
 of the English poets occupied with their Italian masters in the 
 art of song. 
 
 It was at this time, again, that English literature was en- 
 riched by translations of Ariosto and Tasso — the one from the 
 pen of Sir John Harrington, the other from that of Fairfax. 
 Both were produced in the metre of the original — the octave 
 stanza, which, however, did not at that period take root in 
 England. At the same period the works of many of the Italian 
 novelists, especially Bandello and Cinthio and Boccaccio, were 
 translated into English ; Painter's ' Palace of Pleasure ' being 
 a treasure-house of Italian works of fiction. Thomas Hoby 
 translated Castiglione's ' Courtier ' in 1561. As a proof of the 
 
 ^ The stately structure of the * Prothalamion ' and * Epithalamion ' is a 
 rebuilding of the Italian Canzone, His Eclogues, with their allegories, 
 repeat the manner of Petrarch's minor Latin poems. 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 extent to which Italian books were read in England at the end 
 of the sixteenth century, we may take a stray sentence from a 
 letter of Harvey, in which he disparages the works of Robert 
 Greene : — ' Even Guicciardine's silver histories and Ariosto's 
 golden cantos grow out of request : and the Countess of Pem- 
 broke's " Arcadia " is not green enough for queasy stomachs ; 
 but they must have seen Greene's " Arcadia," and I believe 
 most eagerly longed for Greene's " Faery Queen." ' 
 
 Still more may be gathered on the same topic from the 
 indignant protest uttered by Roger Ascham in his ' School- 
 master '(pp. 78-91, date 1570) against the prevalence of Italian 
 customs, the habit of Italian travel, and the reading of ItaHan 
 books translated into English. Selections of Italian stories 
 rendered into English were extremely popular ; and Greene's 
 tales, which had such vogue that Nash says of them, * glad was 
 that printer that might be so blest to pay him dear for the very 
 dregs of his wit,' were all modelled on the Italian. The educa- 
 tion of a young man of good family was not thought complete 
 unless he had spent some time in Italy, studied its literature, 
 admired its arts, and caught at least some tincture of its 
 manners. Our rude ancestors brought back with them from 
 these journeys many Southern vices, together with the culture 
 they had gone to seek. The contrast between the plain 
 dealing of the North and the refined Machiavellism of the 
 South, between Protestant earnestness in religion and Popish 
 scepticism, between the homely virtues of England and the 
 courtly libertinism of Venice or Florence, blunted the moral 
 sense, while it stimulated the intellectual activity of the English 
 travellers, and too often communicated a fatal shock to their 
 principles. Inglese Italianato I un diavolo incarnato passed 
 into a proverb : we find it on the lips of Parker, of Howell, of 
 Sidney, of Greene, and of Ascham ; while Italy itself was 
 styled by severe moralists the court of Circe. In James 
 Howell's * Instructions for forreine travel 1 ' we find this pregnant 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. i8i 
 
 sentence : * And being now in Italy, that great limbique of 
 working braines, he must be very circumspect in his carriage, 
 for she is able to turne a Saint into a devill, and deprave the 
 best natures, if one will abandon himselfe, and become a prey 
 to dissolut courses and wantonesse.' Italy, in truth, had 
 already become corrupt, and the fruit of her contact with the 
 nations of the North was seen in the lives of such scholars as 
 Robert Greene, who confessed that he returned from his travels 
 instructed * in all the villanies under the sun.* Many of the 
 scandals of the court of James might be ascribed to this aping 
 of Southern manners. 
 
 Yet, together with the evil of depraved morality, the advan- 
 tage of improved culture was imported from Italy into England ; 
 and the constitution of the English genius was young and 
 healthy enough to purge off the mischief, while it assimilated 
 what was beneficial. This is very manifest in the history of our 
 drama, which, taking it altogether, is at the same time the 
 purest and the most v'aried that exists in literature ; while it 
 may be affirmed without exaggeration that one of the main 
 impulses to free dramatic composition in England was com- 
 municated by the attraction everything Italian possessed for 
 the English fancy. It was in the drama that the English 
 displayed the richness and the splendour of the Renaissance, 
 which had blazed so gorgeously and at times so balefully below 
 the Alps. The Italy of the Renaissance fascinated our drama- 
 tists with a strange wild glamour — the contrast of external 
 pageant and internal tragedy, the alternations of radiance and 
 gloom, the terrible examples of bloodshed, treason, and heroism 
 emergent from ghastly crimes. Our drama began with a 
 translation of Ariosto's ' Suppositi ' and ended with Davenant's 
 * Just Italian.' In the very dawn of tragic composition Greene 
 versified a portion of the ^ Orlando Furioso,' and Marlowe 
 devoted one of his most brilliant studies to the villanies of a 
 Maltese Jew. Of Shakspere's plays five are incontestably 
 
1 82 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Italian : several of the rest are furnished with Italian names to 
 suit the popular taste. Ben Jonson laid the scene of his most 
 subtle comedy of manners, ' Volpone/ in Venice, and sketched 
 the first cast of ' Every Man in his Humour ' for Italian 
 characters. Tourneur, Ford, and Webster were so dazzled by 
 the tragic lustre of the wickedness of Italy that their finest 
 dramas, without exception, are minute and carefully studied 
 psychological analyses of great Italian tales of crime. The 
 same, in a less degree, is true of Middleton and Dekker. 
 Massinger makes a story of the Sforza family the subject of one 
 of his best plays. Beaumont and Fletcher draw the subjects 
 of comedies and tragedies alike from the Italian novelists. 
 Fletcher in his ' Faithful Shepherdess ' transfers the pastoral 
 style of Tasso and Guarini to the North. So close is the 
 connection between our tragedy and Italian novels that 
 Marston and Ford think fit to introduce passages of Italian 
 dialogue into the plays of 'Giovanni and Annabella' and 
 '■ Antonio and Mellida.' But the best proof of the extent to 
 which Italian life and literature had influenced our dramatists,, 
 may be easily obtained by taking down Halliwell's ' Dictionary 
 of Old Plays,' and noticing that about every third drama has 
 an ItaHan title. Meanwhile the poems composed by the chief 
 dramatists — Shakspere's ' Venus and Adonis,' Marlowe's ' Hero 
 and Leander,' Marston's ' PygmaHon,' and Beaumont's ' Her- 
 maphrodite ' — are all of them conceived in the Italian style, by 
 men who had either studied Southern literature, or had sub- 
 mitted to its powerful aesthetic influences. The Masques, 
 moreover, of Jonson, of Lyly, of Fletcher, and of Chapman are 
 exact reproductions upon the English court theatres of such 
 festival pageants as were presented to the Medici at Florence 
 or to the Este family at Ferrara.^ Throughout our drama the 
 
 ' Marlowe makes Gaveston talk of * Italian masques.' At the same 
 time in the prologue to Tamburlaine, he shows that he was conscious of 
 the new and nobler direction followed by the drama in England. 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 183 
 
 influence of Italy, direct or indirect, either as supplying our 
 playwrights with subjects or as stimulating their imagination, 
 may thus be traced. Yet the Elizabethan drama is in the 
 highest sense original. As a work of art pregnant with deepest 
 wisdom, and splendidly illustrative of the age which gave it 
 birth, it far transcends anything that Italy produced in the 
 same department. Our poets have a more masculine judg- 
 ment, more fiery fancy, nobler sentiment, than the Italians of 
 any age but that of Dante. What Italy gave, was the impulse 
 toward creation, not patterns to be imitated — the excitement of 
 the imagination by a spectacle of so much grandeur, not rules 
 and precepts for production — the keen sense of tragic beauty, 
 not any tradition of accomplished art. 
 
 The Elizabethan period of our literature was, in fact, the 
 period during which we derived most from the Italian nation. 
 The study of the Italian language went hand in hand with the 
 study of Greek and Latin, so that the three together contributed 
 to form the English taste. Between us and the ancient world 
 stood the genius of Italy as an interpreter. Nor was this con- 
 nection broken until far on into the reign of Charles II. What 
 Milton owed to Italy is clear not only from his Italian sonnets, 
 but also from the frequent mention of Dante and Petrarch in 
 his prose works, from his allusions to Boiardo and Anosto in the 
 ' Paradise Lost,' and from the hints which he probably derived 
 from Pulci, Tasso and AndreinL It woLild, indeed, be easy 
 throughout his works to trace a continuous vein of Italian 
 influence in detail. But, more than this, Milton's poetical taste 
 in general seems to have been formed and ripened by fami- 
 liarity with the harmonies of the Italian language. In his 
 Tractate on Education addressed to Mr. Hardib, he recom- 
 mends that boys should be instructed in the Italian pronuncia- 
 tion of vowel sounds, in order to give sonorousness and dignity 
 to elocution. This slight indication supplies us with a key to 
 the method of melodious structure employed by Milton in his 
 
1 84 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 blank verse. Those who have carefully studied the harmonies 
 of the ' Paradise Lost/ know how all-important are the asson- 
 ances of the vowel sounds of o and a in its most musical 
 passages. It is just this attention to the liquid and sonorous 
 recurrences of open vowels that we should expect from a 
 poet who proposed to assimilate his diction to that of the 
 Italians. 
 
 After the age of Milton the connection between Italy and 
 England is interrupted. In the seventeenth century Italy her- 
 self had sunk into comparative stupor, and her literature was 
 trivial. France not only swayed the political destinies of 
 Europe, but also took the lead in intellectual culture. Con- 
 sequently, our poets turned from Italy to France, and the 
 French spirit pervaded English literature throughout the 
 period of the Restoration and the reigns of William and Queen 
 Anne. Yet during this prolonged reaction against the earlier 
 movement of English literature, as manifested in Elizabethan- 
 ism, the influence of Italy was not wholly extinct. Dryden's 
 * Tales from Boccaccio ' are no insignificant contribution to our 
 poetry, and his ' Palamon and Arcite,' through Chaucer, returns 
 to the same source. But when, at the beginning of this 
 century, the Ehzabethan tradition was revived, then the Italian 
 influence reappeared more vigorous than ever. The metre of 
 ' Don Juan,' first practised by Frere and then adopted by Lord 
 Byron, is Pulci's octave stanza ; the manner is that of Berni, 
 Folengo, and the Abbe Casti, fused and heightened by the 
 brilliance of Byron's genius into a new form. The subject of 
 Shelley's strongest work of art is Beatrice Cenci. Rogers's 
 poem is styled ' Italy.' Byron's dramas are chiefly Italian. 
 Leigh Hunt repeats the tale of Francesca da Rimini. Keats 
 versifies Boccaccio's 'Isabella.' Passing to contemporary 
 poets, Rossetti has acclimatised in English the metres and the 
 manner of the earliest Italian lyrists. Swinburne dedicates his 
 noblest song to the spirit of liberty in Italy. Even George 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 185 
 
 Eliot and Tennyson have each of them turned stories of Boc- 
 caccio into verse. The best of Mrs. Browning's poems, ' Casa 
 Giiidi Windows' and 'Aurora Leigh/ are steeped in Italian 
 thought and Italian imagery. Browning's longest poem is a 
 tale of Italian crime ; his finest studies in the ' Men and 
 Women ' are portraits of Italian character of the Renaissance 
 period. But there is more than any mere enumeration of poets 
 and their work can set forth, in the connection between Italy 
 and England. That connection, so far as the poetical imagina- 
 tion is concerned, is vital. As poets in the truest sense of the 
 word, we English live and breathe through sympathy with the 
 Italians. The magnetic touch which is required to inflame the 
 imagination of the North, is derived from Italy. The nightin- 
 gales of English song who make our oak and beech copses 
 resonant in spring with purest melody, are migratory birds, 
 who have charged their souls in the South with the spirit of 
 beauty, and who return to warble native wood- notes in a 
 tongue which is their own. 
 
 What has hitherto been said about the debt of the English 
 poets to Italy, may seem to imply that our literature can be 
 regarded as to some extent a parasite on that of the Italians. 
 Against such a conclusion no protest too energetic could be 
 uttered. What we have derived directly from the Italian poets 
 are, first, some metres — especially the sonnet and the octave 
 stanza, though the latter has never taken firm root in England. 
 ' Terza rima,' attempted by Shelley, Byron, Morris, and Mrs. 
 Browning, has not yet become acclimatised. Blank verse, 
 although originally remodelled by Surrey upon the versi sciolti 
 of the Italians, has departed widely from Italian precedent, 
 first by its decasyllabic structure, whereas Italian verse consists 
 of hendecasyllables ; and, secondly, by its greater force, plas- 
 ticity, and freedom. The Spenserian stanza, again, is a new 
 and original metre peculiar to our literature ; though it is 
 possible that but for the complex structures of Italian lyric 
 
i86 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 verse, it might not have been fashioned for the 'Faery Queen.' 
 Lastly, the so-called heroic couplet is native to England ; at 
 any rate, it is in no way related to Italian metre. Therefore 
 the only true Italian exotic adopted without modification into 
 our literature is the sonnet. 
 
 In the next place, we owe to the Italians the subject-matter 
 of many of our most famous dramas and our most delightful 
 tales in verse. But the Enghsh treatment of these histories 
 and fables has been uniformly independent and original. 
 Comparing Shakspere's 'Romeo and Juliet' with Bandello's 
 tale, Webster's 'Duchess of Malfy' with the version given 
 from the Italian in Painter's ' Palace of Pleasure,' and Chaucer's 
 Knight's Tale with the ' Teseide ' of Boccaccio, we perceive at 
 once that the English poets have used their Italian models 
 merely as outlines to be filled in with freedom, as the canvas 
 to be embroidered with a tapestry of vivid groups. Nothing is 
 more manifest than the superiority of the English genius over 
 the Italian in all dramatic qualities of intense passion, profound 
 analysis, and living portrayal of character in action. The mere 
 rough detail of Shakspere's ' Othello ' is to be found in Cinthio's 
 Collection of Novelle ; but let an unprejudiced reader peruse 
 the original, and he will be no more deeply affected by it than 
 by any touching story of treachery, jealousy, and hapless inno- 
 cence. The wily subtleties of lago, the soldierly frankness of 
 Cassio, the turbulent and volcanic passions of Othello, the 
 charm of Desdemona, and the whole tissue of vivid incidents 
 which make ' Othello ' one of the most tremendous extant 
 tragedies of characters in combat, are Shakspere's, and only 
 Shakespere's. This instance, indeed, enables us exactly to 
 indicate what the English owed to Italy and what was essenti- 
 ally their own. From that Southern land of Circe about which 
 they dreamed, and which now and then they visited, came to 
 their imaginations a spirit-stirring breath of inspiration. It 
 was to them the country of marvels, of mysterious crimes, of 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 187 
 
 luxurious gardens and splendid skies, where love was more 
 passionate and life more picturesque, and hate more bloody 
 and treachery more black, than in our Northern climes. Italy 
 was a spacious grove of wizardry, which mighty poets, on the 
 quest of fanciful adventure, trod with fascinated senses and 
 quickened pulses. But the strong brain which converted what 
 they heard and read and saw of that charmed land into the 
 stuff of golden romance or sable tragedy, was their own. 
 
 English literature has been defined a literature of genius. 
 Our greatest work in art has been achieved not so much by 
 inspiration, subordinate to sentiments of exquisite good taste or 
 guided by observance of classical models, as by audacious 
 sallies of pure inventive power. This is true as a judgment of 
 that constellation which we call our drama, of the meteor 
 Byron, of Milton and Dryden, who are the Jupiter and Mars of 
 our poetic system, and of the stars which stud our literary 
 firmament under the names of Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, 
 Chatterton, Scott, Coleridge, Clough, Blake, Browning, Swin- 
 burne, Tennyson. There are only a very few of the English 
 poets. Pope and Gray, for example, in whom the free instincts 
 of genius are kept systematically in check by the laws of the 
 reflective understanding. Now Italian literature is in this 
 respect all unlike our own. It began, indeed, with Dante, as 
 a literature pre-eminently of genius ; but the spirit of scholar- 
 ship assumed the sway as early as the days of Petrarch and 
 Boccaccio, and after them Italian has been consistently a 
 literature of taste. By this I mean that even the greatest 
 ItaHan poets have sought to render their style correct, have 
 endeavoured to subordinate their inspiration to what they con- 
 sidered the rules of sound criticism, and have paid serious 
 attention to their manner as independent of the matter they 
 wished to express. The passion for antiquity, so early deve- 
 loped in Italy, delivered the later Italian poets bound hand 
 and foot into the hands of Horace. Poliziano was content to 
 
1 88 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY, 
 
 reproduce the classic authors in a mosaic work of exquisite 
 translations. Tasso was essentially a man of talent, producing 
 work of chastened beauty by diligent attention to the rule and 
 method of his art. Even Ariosto submitted the liberty of his 
 swift spirit to canons of prescribed elegance. While our 
 English poets have conceived and executed without regard for 
 the opinion of the learned and without obedience to the usages 
 of language — Shakspere, for example, producing tragedies 
 which set Aristotle at defiance, and Milton engrafting Latinisms 
 on the native idiom — the Italian poets thought and wrote with 
 the fear of Academies before their eyes, and studied before all 
 things to maintain the purity of the Tuscan tongue. The 
 consequence is that the Italian and English literatures are 
 eminent for very different excellences. All that is forcible in 
 the dramatic presentation of life and character and action, all 
 that is audacious in imagination and capricious in fancy, what- 
 ever strength style can gain from the sallies of original and 
 untrammelled eloquence, whatever beauty is derived from 
 spontaneity and native grace, belong in abundant richness to 
 the Enghsh. On the other hand, the Italian poets present us 
 with masterpieces of correct and studied diction, with carefully 
 elaborated machinery, and with a style maintained at a 
 uniform level of dignified correctness. The weakness of the 
 English proceeds from inequality and extravagance ; it is the 
 weakness of self-confident vigour, intolerant of rule, rejoicing 
 in its own exuberant resources. The weakness of the Italian is 
 due to timidity and moderation ; it is the weakness that springs 
 not so much from a lack of native strength as from the over- 
 anxious expenditure of strength upon the attainment of finish, 
 polish, and correctness. Hence the two nations have every- 
 thing to learn from one another. Modern Italian poets may 
 seek by contact with Shakspere and Milton to gain a freedom 
 from the trammels imposed upon them by the slavish followers 
 of Petrarch ; while the attentive perusal of Tasso should be 
 
DEBT OF ENGLISH TO ITALIAN LITERATURE. 189 
 
 recommended to all English people who have no ready access 
 to the masterpieces of Greek and Latin literature. 
 
 Another point of view may be gained by noticing the pre- 
 dominant tone of the two literatures. Whenever English 
 poetry is really great, it approximates to the tragic and the 
 stately ; whereas the Italians are peculiarly felicitous in the 
 smooth and pleasant style, which combines pathos with 
 amusement, and which does not trespass beyond the region 
 of beauty into the domain of sublimity or terror. Italian 
 poetry is analogous to Italian painting and Italian music : it 
 bathes the soul in a plenitude of charms, investing even the 
 most solemn subjects with loveliness. Rembrandt and Albert 
 Diirer depict the tragedies of the Sacred History with a serious 
 and awful reality : Italian painters, with a few rare but illustrious 
 exceptions, shrink from approaching them from any point of 
 view but that of harmonious melancholy. Even so the English 
 poets stir the soul to its very depths by their profound and 
 earnest delmeations of the stern and bitter truths of the world : 
 Italian poets environ all things with the golden haze of an 
 artistic harmony ; so that the soul is agitated by no pain at 
 strife with the persuasions of pure beauty. 
 
I90 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE 
 RENAISSANCE. 
 
 The semi-popular poetry of the Italians in the fifteenth century 
 formed an important branch of their national literature, and 
 flourished independently of the courtly and scholastic studies 
 which gave a special character to the golden age of the revival. 
 While the latter tended to separate the people from the culti- 
 vated classes, the former estabHshed a new link of connection 
 between them, different indeed from that which existed when 
 smiths and carters repeated the Canzoni of Dante by heart in 
 the fourteenth century, but still sufficiently real to exercise a 
 weighty influence over the national development Scholars 
 like Angelo PoUziano, princes like Lorenzo de' Medici, men of 
 letters like Feo Belcari and Benivieni, borrowed from the 
 people forms of poetry, which they handled with refined 
 taste, and appropriated to the uses of polite literature. The 
 most important of these forms, native to the people but assimi- 
 lated by the learned classes, were the Miracle Play or * Sacra 
 Rappresentazione ; ' the ' Ballata ' or lyric to be sung while 
 dancing ; the * Canto Carnascialesco ' or Carnival Chorus ; 
 the * Rispetto ' or short love-ditty ; the ' Lauda ' or hymn ; 
 the ' Maggio ' or May-song ; and the * Madrigale ' or little part- 
 song. 
 
 At Florence, where even under the despotism of the 
 Medici a show of republican life still lingered, all classes 
 joined in the amusements of carnival and spring time ; and 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 191 
 
 this poetry of the dance, the pageant, and the villa flourished 
 side by side with the more serious efforts of the humanistic 
 muse. It is not my purpose in this place to inquire into the 
 origins of each lyrical type, to discuss the alterations they may 
 have undergone at the hands of educated versifiers, or to 
 define their several characteristics ; but only to offer translations 
 of such as seem to me best suited to represent the genius of the 
 people and the age. 
 
 In the composition of the poetry in question, Angelo 
 Poliziano was indubitably the most successful. This giant of 
 learning, who filled the lecture-rooms of Florence with students 
 of all nations, and whose critical and rhetorical labours marked 
 an epoch in the history of scholarship, was by temperament a 
 poet, and a poet of the people. Nothing was easier for him 
 than to throw aside his professor's mantle, and to improvise 
 < Ballate ' for the girls to sing as they danced their ' Carola ' 
 upon the Piazza di Santa Trinitk in summer evenings. The 
 peculiarity of this lyric is that it starts with a couplet, which 
 also serves as refrain, supplying the rhyme to each successive 
 stanza. The stanza itself is identical with our rime royal, if 
 we count the couplet in the place of the seventh line. The 
 form is in itself so graceful and is so beautifully treated by 
 Poliziano that I cannot content myself with fewer that four of 
 his Ballate} The first is written on the world-old theme of 
 * Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' 
 
 I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, 
 In a green garden in mid month of May. 
 
 Violets and lilies grew on every side 
 
 Mid the green grass, and young flowers wonderful, 
 
 Golden and white and red and azure-eyed ; 
 
 Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull 
 Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful, 
 
 To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay. 
 
 1 I need hardly guard myself against being supposed to mean that the 
 form of Ballata in question was the only one of its kind in Italy. 
 
192 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, 
 In a green garden in mid month of May. 
 
 But when my lap was full of flowers I spied 
 Roses at last, roses of every hue ; 
 
 Therefore I ran to pluck their ruddy pride, 
 Because their perfume was so sweet and true 
 That all my soul went forth with pleasure new, 
 
 With yearning and desire too soft to say. 
 
 I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, 
 In a green garden in mid month of May. 
 
 I gazed and gazed. Hard task it were to tell 
 How lovely were the roses in that hour : 
 
 One was but peeping from her verdant shell, 
 
 And some were faded, some were scarce in flower : 
 Then Love said : Go, pluck from the blooming bower 
 
 Those that thou seest ripe upon the spray. 
 
 I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, 
 In a green garden in mid month of May. 
 
 For when the full rose quits her tender sheath, 
 
 "When she is sweetest and most fair to see. 
 Then is the time to place her in thy wreath, 
 
 Before her beauty and her freshness flee. 
 
 Gather ye therefore roses with great glee. 
 Sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away. 
 
 I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day. 
 In a green garden in mid month of May. 
 
 The next Ballata is less simple, but is composed with the 
 same intention. It may here be parenthetically mentioned 
 that the courtly poet, when he applied himself to this species of 
 composition, invented a certain rusticity of incident, scarcely in 
 keeping with the spirit of his art. It was in fact a conventional 
 feature of this species of verse that the scene should be laid in 
 the country, where the burgher, on a visit to his villa, is sup- 
 posed to meet with a rustic beauty who captivates his eyes and 
 heart. Guido Cavalcanti, in his celebrated Ballata, * In un 
 boschetto trovai pastorella,' struck the keynote of this music, 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 193 
 
 which, it may be reasonably conjectured, was imported into 
 Italy through Proven9al literature from the pastorals of Northern 
 France. The lady so quaintly imaged by a bird in the follow- 
 ing Ballata of Poliziano is supposed to have been Monna 
 Ippolita Leoncina of Prato, white-throated, golden-haired, and 
 dressed in crimson silk. 
 
 I found myself one day all, all alone. 
 
 For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. 
 
 I do not think the world a field could show 
 • With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare ; 
 But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row, 
 A thousand flowers around me flourished fair, 
 White, pied and crimson, in the summer air ; 
 Among the which I heard a sweet bird's tone. 
 
 I found myself one day all, all alone, 
 
 For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. 
 
 Her song it was so tender and so clear 
 That all the world listened with love ; then I 
 
 With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near, 
 
 Her golden head and golden wings could spy. 
 Her plumes that flashed like rubies neath the sky, 
 
 Her crystal beak and throat and bosom's zone. 
 
 I found myself one day all, all alone, 
 
 For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. 
 
 Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love ; 
 
 But arrow-like she soared, and through the air 
 Fled to her nest upon the boughs above ; 
 
 Wherefore to follow her is all my care, 
 
 For haply I might lure her by some snare 
 Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown, 
 
 I found myself one day all, all alone. 
 
 For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn. 
 
 Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile ; 
 
 But since of singing she doth take such pleasure, 
 Without or other art or other guile 
 
 I seek to win her with a tuneful measure ; 
 
 Therefore in singing spend I all my leisure. 
 To make by singing this sweet bird my own. 
 
 I found myself one day all, all alone, 
 For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn, 
 O 
 
194 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Ihe same lady is more directly celebrated in the next 
 
 Ballata, where Poliziano calls her by her name, Ippolita. I 
 
 have taken the Hberty of substituting Myrrha for this somewhat 
 
 unmanageable word. 
 
 He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 
 Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. 
 
 From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire, 
 An angel of our lord, a laughing boy, 
 
 Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre, 
 
 And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy. 
 That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy : 
 
 Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise ! 
 
 He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 
 Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. 
 
 From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move, 
 So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight. 
 
 That it is like the lightning of high Jove, 
 Riving of iron and adamant the might ; 
 Nathless the wound doth carry such delight 
 
 That he who suffers dwells in Paradise. 
 
 He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 
 Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. 
 
 From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger 
 
 Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee, 
 That all proud souls are bound to bend to her 
 
 So sweet her countenance, it turns the key 
 
 Of hard hearts locked in cold security : 
 Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise. 
 
 He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 
 Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. 
 
 In Myrrha's eyes beauty doth make her throne. 
 And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind { 
 
 Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known 
 As in the whole wide world he scarce may find: 
 Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind. 
 
 He lives again beneath her gazing eyes. 
 
 He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 
 Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. 
 
 The fourth Ballata sets forth the fifteenth-century Italian 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 195 
 
 code of love, the code of the Novelle, very different in its 
 avowed laxity from the high ideal of the trecentisti poets. 
 
 I ask no pardon if I follow Love ; 
 Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. 
 
 From those who feel the fire I feel, what use 
 
 Is there in asking pardon ? These are so 
 Gentle, kind-hearted, tender, piteous. 
 
 That they will have compassion, well I know. 
 
 From such as never felt that honeyed woe, 
 I seek no pardon : nought they know of Love. 
 
 I ask no pardon if I follow Love ; 
 Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. 
 
 Honour, pure love, and perfect gentleness, 
 
 Weighed in the scales of equity refined. 
 Are but one thing : beauty is nought or less, 
 
 Placed in a dame of proud and scornful mind. 
 
 Who can rebuke me then if I am kind 
 So far as honesty comports and Love ? 
 
 I ask no pardon if I follow Love ; 
 Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. 
 
 Let him rebuke me whose hard heart of stone 
 
 Ne'er felt of Love the summer in his vein ! 
 I pray to Love that who hath never known 
 
 Love's power, may ne'er be blessed with Love's great gain ; 
 
 But he who serves our lord with might and main, 
 May dwell for ever in the fire of Love ! 
 
 I ask no pardon if I follow Love ; 
 Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. 
 
 Let him rebuke me without cause who will ; 
 
 For if he be not gentle, I fear nought : 
 My heart obedient to the same love still 
 
 Hath little heed of light words envy-fraught : 
 
 So long as life remains, it is my thought 
 To keep the laws of this so gentle Love. 
 
 I ask no pardon if I follow Love ; 
 Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. 
 
 This Ballata is put into a woman's mouth. Another, 
 ascribed to Lorenzo de' Medici, expresses the sadness of a man 
 
196 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 who has lost the favour of his lady. It illustrates the well- 
 known use of the word Signore for mistress in Florentine 
 poetry. 
 
 How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, 
 When my loved lord no longer smiles on me? 
 
 Dances and songs and merry wakes I leave 
 To lovers fair, more fortunate and gay ; 
 
 Since to my heart so many sorrows cleave 
 That only doleful tears are mine for aye : 
 Who hath heart's ease, may carol, dance, and play ; 
 
 While I am fain to weep continually. 
 
 How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, 
 When my loved lord no longer smiles on me ? 
 
 I too had heart's ease once, for so Love willed. 
 
 When my lord loved me with love strong and great : 
 
 But envious fortune my life's music stilled, 
 And turned to sadness all my gleeful state. 
 Ah me ! Death surely were less desolate 
 
 Than thus to live and love-neglected be ! 
 
 How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, 
 When my loved lord no longer smiles on me ? 
 
 One only comfort soothes my heart's despair, 
 And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer ; 
 
 Unto my lord I ever yielded fair 
 
 Service of faith untainted pure and clear ; 
 If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier 
 
 It may be she will shed one tear for me. 
 
 How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free. 
 When my loved lord no longer smiles on me ? 
 
 The Florentine Rispetto was written for the most part in 
 octave stanzas, detached or continuous. The octave stanza in 
 Italian literature was an emphatically popular form ; and it is 
 still largely used in many parts of the peninsula for the lyrical 
 expression of emotion. * Poliziano did no more than treat it with 
 his own facility, sacrificing the unstudied raciness of his popular 
 models to literary elegance. 
 
 * See my Sketches in Italy and Greece, p. 1 14, 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENATSSANCE. igl 
 
 Here are a few of these detached stanzas or Rispetii 
 Spicciolati : — 
 
 Upon that day when first I saw thy face, 
 
 I vowed with loyal love to worship thee. 
 Move, and I move ; stay, and I keep my place : 
 
 Whate'er thou dost, will I do equally. 
 In joy of thine I find most perfect grace, 
 
 And in thy sadness dwells my misery : 
 Laugh, and I laugh ; weep, and I too will weep. 
 Thus Love commands, whose laws I loving keep. 
 
 Nay, be not over-proud of thy great grace, 
 Lady ! for brief time is thy thief and mine. 
 
 White will he turn those golden curls, that lace 
 Thy forehead and thy neck so marble-fine. 
 
 Lo ! while the flower still flourisheth apace, 
 Pluck it : for beauty but awhile doth shine. 
 
 Fair is the rose at dawn ; but long ere night 
 
 Her freshness fades, her pride hath vanished quite. 
 
 Fire, fire ! Ho, water ! for my heart's afire ! 
 
 Ho, neighbours ! help me, or by God I die ! 
 See, with his standard, that great lord. Desire ! 
 
 He sets my heart aflame : in vain I cry. 
 Too late, alas ! The flames mount high and higher. 
 
 Alack, good friends ! I faint, I fail, I die. 
 Ho ! water, neighbours mine ! no more delay ! 
 My heart's a cinder if you do but stay. 
 
 Lo, may I prove to Christ a renegade, 
 
 And, dog-like, die in pagan Barbary ; 
 Nor may God's mercy on my soul be laid, 
 
 If ere for aught I shall abandon thee : 
 Before all-seeing God this prayer be made — 
 
 When I desert thee, may death feed on me : 
 Now if thy hard heart scorn these vows, be sure 
 That without faith none may abide secure. 
 
 I ask not, Love, for any other pain 
 
 To make thy cruel foe and mine repent, 
 Only that thou shouldst yield her to the strain 
 
 Of these my arms, alone, for chastisement ; 
 Then would I clasp her so with might and main, 
 
 That she should learn to pity and relent, 
 jVnd, in revenge for scorn and proud despite, 
 A thousand times I'd kiss her forehead white. 
 
1 98 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Not always do fierce tempests vex the sea, 
 Nor always clinging clouds ofifend the sky ; 
 
 Cold snows before the sunbeams haste to flee, 
 Disclosing flowers that neath their whiteness lie ; 
 
 The saints each one doth wait his day to see, 
 
 And time makes all things change ; so, therefore, I 
 
 Ween that 'tis wise to wait my turn, and say, 
 
 That who subdues himself, deserves to sway. 
 
 It will be observed that the tone of these poems is not 
 passionate nor elevated. J^ove, as understood in Florence of 
 the fifteenth century, was neither ; nor was Poliziano the man to 
 have revived Platonic mysteries or chivalrous enthusiasms. 
 When the octave stanzas, written with this amorous intention, 
 were strung together into a continuous poem, this form of verse 
 took the title of Rispetto Continuato. In the collection of 
 Poliziano's poems there are several examples of the long 
 Rispetto, carelessly enough composed, as may be gathered from 
 the recurrence of the same stanzas in several poems. All 
 repeat the old arguments, the old enticements to a less than 
 lawful love. The one which I have chosen for translation, 
 styled Serenata ovvero Leitera in Istrambotti^ might be selected 
 as an epitome of Florentine convention in the matter of love- 
 making. 
 
 O thou of fairest fairs the first and queen, 
 Most courteous, kind, and honourable dame. 
 
 Thine ear unto thy servant's singing lean, 
 
 Who loves thee more than health, or wealth, or fame ; 
 
 For thou his shining planet still hast been. 
 And day and night he calls on thy fair name : 
 
 First wishing thee all good the world can give, 
 
 Next praying in thy gentle thoughts to live. 
 
 He humbly prayeth that thou shouldst be kind 
 
 To think upon his pure and perfect faith. 
 And that such mercy in thy heart and mind 
 
 Should reign, as so much beauty argueth : 
 , A thousand, thousand hints, or he were blind, 
 
 Of thy great courtesy he reckoneth : 
 Wherefore thy loyal subject now doth sue 
 Such guerdon only as shall prove them true. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 199 
 
 He knows himself unmeet for love from thee, 
 
 Unmeet for merely gazing on thine eyes ; 
 Seeing thy comely squires so plenteous be, 
 
 That there is none but 'neath thy beauty sighs : 
 Yet since thou seekest fame and bravery. 
 
 Nor carest aught for gauds that others prize, 
 And since he strives to honour thee alway, 
 He still hath hope to gain thy heart one day. 
 
 Virtue that dwells untold, unknown, unseen, 
 
 Still findeth none to love or value it ; 
 Wherefore his faith, that hath so perfect been. 
 
 Not being known, can profit him no whit : 
 He would find pity in thine eyes, I ween. 
 
 If thou shouldst deign to make some proof of it ; 
 The rest may flatter, gape, and stand agaze ; 
 Him only faith above the crowd doth raise. 
 
 Suppose that he might meet thee once alone, 
 
 Face unto face, without or jealousy, 
 Or doubt or fear from false misgiving grown. 
 
 And tell his tale of grievous pain to thee, 
 Sure from thy breast he'd draw full many a moan, 
 
 And make thy fair eyes weep right plenteously : 
 Yea, if he had but skill his heart to show. 
 He scarce could fail to win thee by its woe. 
 
 Now art thou in thy beauty's blooming hour ; ; 
 
 Thy youth is yet in pure perfection's prime : 
 Make it thy pride to yield thy fragile flower. 
 
 Or look to find it paled by envious time : 
 For none to stay the flight of years hath power, 
 
 And who culls roses caught by frosty rime ? 
 Give therefore to thy lover, give, for they 
 Too late repent who act not while they may. 
 
 Time flies : and lo ! thou let'st it idly fly : 
 There is not in the world a thing more dear : 
 
 And if thou wait to see sweet May pass by, 
 Where find'st thou roses in the later year ? 
 
 He never can, who lets occasion die : 
 
 Now that thou canst, stay not for doubt or fear ; 
 
 But by the forelock take the flying hour, 
 
 Ere change begins, and clouds above thee lower. 
 
 Too long 'twixt yea and nay he hath been wrung ; 
 Whether he sleep or wake he little knows, 
 
200 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Or free or in the bands of bondage strung : 
 Nay, lady, strike, and let thy lover loose ! 
 
 What joy hast thou to keep a captive hung ? 
 Kill him at once, or cut the cruel noose : 
 
 No more, I prithee, stay ; but take thy part : 
 
 Either relax the bow, or speed the dart. 
 
 Thou feedest him on words and windiness. 
 
 On smiles, and signs, and bladders light as air ; 
 
 Saying, thou fain wouldst comfort his distress, 
 But dar'st not, canst not : nay, dear lady fair. 
 
 All things are possible beneath the stress 
 Of will, that flames above the soul's despair ! 
 
 Dally no longer ; up, set to thy hand ; 
 
 Or see his love unclothed and naked stand. 
 
 For he hath sworn, and by this oath will bide, 
 E'en though his life be lost in the endeavour. 
 
 To leave no way, nor art, nor wile untried. 
 Until he pluck the fruit he sighs for ever : 
 
 And, though he still would spare thy honest pride, 
 The knot that binds him he must loose or sever ; 
 
 Thou too, O lady, shouldst make sharp thy knife, 
 
 If thou art fain to end this amorous strife. 
 
 Lo ! if thou lingerest still in dubious dread. 
 Lest thou shouldst lose fair fame of honesty. 
 
 Here hast thou need of wile and warihead. 
 To test thy lover's strength in screening thee ; 
 
 Indulge him, if thou find him well bestead. 
 
 Knowing that smothered love flames outwardly : 
 
 Therefore, seek means, search out some privy way ; 
 
 Keep not the steed too long at idle play. 
 
 Or if thou heedest what those friars teach, 
 I cannot fail, lady, to call thee fool : 
 
 Well may they blame our private sins and preach ; 
 But ill their acts match with their spoken rule ; 
 
 The same pitch clings to all men, one and each. 
 There, I have spoken ; set the world to school ! 
 
 With this true proverb, too, be well acquainted : 
 
 The devil's ne'er so black as he is painted. 
 
 Nor did our good Lord give such grace to thee 
 That thou shouldst keep it buried in thy breast, 
 
 But to reward thy servant's constancy, 
 
 Whose love and loyal faith thou hast repressed : 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 201 
 
 Think it no sin to be some trifle free, 
 
 Because thou livest at a lord's behest ; 
 For if he take enough to feed his fill, 
 To cast the rest away were surely ill. 
 
 They find most favour in the sight of heaven 
 
 Who to the poor and hungry are most kind ; 
 A hundred-fold shall thus to thee be given 
 
 By God, who loves the free and generous mind ; 
 Thrice strike thy breast, with pure contrition riven, 
 
 Crjdng : I sinned ; my sin hath made me blind ! — 
 He wants not much : enough if he be able 
 To pick up crumbs that fall beneath thy table. 
 
 Wherefore, O lady, break the ice at length ; 
 
 Make thou, too, trial of love's fruits and flowers : 
 When in thine arms thou feel'st thy lover's strength, 
 
 Thou wilt repent of all these wasted hours : 
 Husbands, they know not love, its breadth and length, 
 
 Seeing their hearts are not on fire like ours : 
 Things longed for give most pleasure ; this I tell thee j 
 If still thou doubtest let the proof compel thee. 
 
 What I have spoken is pure gospel sooth ; 
 
 I have told all my mind, withholding nought : 
 And well, I ween, thou canst unhusk the truth. 
 
 And through the riddle read the hidden thought : 
 Perchance if heaven still smile upon my youth. 
 
 Some good effect for me may yet Ije wrought : 
 Then fare thee well ; too many words offend : 
 She who is wise is quick to comprehend. 
 
 The levity of these love- declarations and the fluency of 
 their vows show them to be ' false as dicers' oaths,' mere verses 
 of the moment, made to please a facile mistress. One long 
 poem, which cannot be styled a Rispetto, but is rather a Canzone 
 of the legitimate type, stands out with distinctness from the 
 rest of Poliziano's love-verses. It was written by him for 
 Giuliano de' Medici, in praise of the fair Simonetta. The 
 following version attempts to repeat its metrical effects in some 
 measure : — 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 My task it is, since thus Love wills, who strains 
 
 And forces all the world beneath his sway, 
 
 In lowly verse to say 
 The great delight that in my bosom reigns. 
 For if perchance I took but little pains 
 
 To tell some part of all the joy I find, 
 
 I might be deem'd unkind 
 By one who knew my heart's deep happiness. 
 He feels but little bliss who hides his bliss ; 
 
 Small joy hath he whose joy is never sung; 
 
 And he who curbs his tongue 
 Through cowardice, knows but of love the name. 
 "Wherefore to succour and augment the fame 
 
 Of that pure, virtuous, wise, and lovely may. 
 
 Who like the star of day 
 Shines mid the stars, or like the rising sun, 
 Forth from my burning heart the words shall run. 
 
 Far, far be envy, far be jealous fear, 
 
 With discord dark and drear, 
 And all the choir that is of love the foe. — 
 The season had returned when soft winds blow, 
 
 The season friendly to young lovers coy. 
 
 Which bids them clothe their joy 
 In divers garbs and many a masked disguise. 
 Then I to track the game 'neath April skies 
 . Went forth in raiment strange apparelled, 
 
 And by kind fate was led 
 Unto the spot were stayed my soul's desire. 
 The beauteous nymph who feeds my soul with fire, 
 
 I found in gentle, pure, and prudent mood. 
 
 In graceful attitude, 
 Loving and courteous, holy, wise, benign. 
 So sweet, so tender was her face divine, 
 
 So gladsome, that in those celestial eyes 
 
 Shone perfect paradise. 
 Yea, all the good that we poor mortals crave. 
 Around her was a band so nobly brave 
 
 Of beauteous dames, that as I gazed at these, 
 
 Methought heaven's goddesses 
 That day for once had deigned to visit earth. 
 But she who gives my soul sorrow and mirth. 
 Seemed Pallas in her gait, and in her face 
 
 Venus ; for every grace 
 And beauty of the world in her combined. 
 Merely to think, far more to tell my mind 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENALSSANCE. 203 
 
 Of that most wondrous sight, confoundeth me, 
 
 Foy mid the maidens she 
 Who most resembled her was found most rare ' 
 Call ye another first among the fair ; 
 
 Not first, but sole before my lady set : 
 
 Lily and violet 
 And all the flowers below the roseinust bow, 
 Down from her royal head and lustrous Ijww? 
 
 The golden curls fell sportively unpent, 
 
 While through the choir she went 
 With feet well lessoned to the rhythmic sound. 
 Her eyes, though scarcely raised above the ground. 
 
 Sent me by stealth a ray divinely fair ; 
 
 But still her jealous hair 
 Broke the bright beam, and veiled her from my gaze. 
 She, born and nursed in heaven for angels' praise. 
 
 No sooner saw this wrong, than back she drew, 
 
 With hand of purest hue. 
 Her truant curls with kind and gentle mien. 
 Then from her eyes a soul so fiery keen. 
 
 So sweet a soul of love she cast on mine. 
 
 That scarce can I divine 
 How then I 'scaped from burning utterly. 
 These are the first fair signs of love to be. 
 
 That bound my heart with adamant, and these 
 
 The matchless courtesies 
 Which, dreamlike, still before mine eyes must hover. 
 This is the honeyed food she gave her lover, 
 
 To make him, so it pleased her, half-divine ; 
 
 Nectar is not so fine, 
 Nor ambrosy, the fabled feast of Jove. 
 Then, yielding proofs more clear and strong of love, 
 
 As though to show the faith within her heart. 
 
 She moved, with subtle art, 
 Her feet accordant to the amorous air. 
 But while I gaze and pray to God that ne'er 
 
 Might cease that happy dance angelical, 
 
 O, harsh, unkind recall ! 
 Back to the banquet was she beckoned. 
 She, with her face at first with pallor spread, 
 
 Then tinted with a blush of coral dye, 
 
 * The ball is best ! ' did cry. 
 Gentle in tone and smiling as she spake. 
 But from her eyes celestial forth did break 
 
204 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Favour at parting ; and I well could see 
 
 Young love confusedly 
 Enclosed within the furtive fervent gaze, 
 Heating his arrows at their beauteous rays, 
 
 For war with Pallas and with Dian cold. 
 
 Fairer than mortal mould. 
 She moved majestic with celestial gait ; 
 And with her hand her robe in royal state 
 
 Raised, as she went with pride ineffable. 
 
 Of me I cannot tell. 
 Whether alive or dead I there was left. 
 Nay, dead, methinks ! since I of thee was reft. 
 
 Light of my life ! and yet, perchance, alive— 
 
 Such virtue to revive 
 My lingering soul possessed thy beauteous face. 
 But if that powerful charm of thy great grace 
 
 Could then thy loyal lover so sustain, 
 
 Why comes there not again 
 More often or more soon the sweet delight ? 
 Twice hath the wandering moon with borrowed light 
 
 Stored from her brother's rays her crescent horn, 
 
 Nor yet hath fortune borne 
 Me on the way to so much bliss again. 
 Earth smiles anew ; fair spring renews her reign : 
 
 The grass and every shrub once more is green ; 
 
 The amorous birds begin, 
 From winter loosed, to fill the field with song. 
 See how in loving pairs the cattle throng ; 
 
 The bull, the ram, their amorous jousts enjoy : 
 
 Thou maiden, I a boy, 
 Shall we prove traitors to love's law for aye ? 
 Shall we these years that are so fair let fly ? 
 
 Wilt thou not put thy flower of youth to use ? 
 
 Or with thy beauty choose 
 To make him blest who loves thee best of all? 
 Haply I am some hind who guards the stall, 
 
 Or of vile lineage, or with years outworn, 
 
 Poor, or a cripple born. 
 Or faint of spirit that you spurn me so ? 
 Nay, but my race is noble and doth grow 
 
 With honour to our land, with pomp and power ; 
 
 My youth is yet in flower, 
 And it may chance some maiden sighs for me. 
 My lot it is to deal right royally 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 20: 
 
 With all the goods that fortune spreads around, 
 
 For still they more abound, 
 Shaken from her full lap, the more I waste. 
 My strength is such as whoso tries shall taste ; 
 
 Circled with friends, with favours crowned am I : 
 
 Yet though I rank so high 
 Among the blest, as men may reckon bliss, 
 Still without thee, my hope, my happiness, 
 
 It seems a sad, and bitter thing to live ! 
 
 Then stint me not, but give 
 That joy which holds all joys enclosed in one. 
 Let me pluck fruits at last, not flowers alone ! 
 
 With much that is frigid, artificial, and tedious in this old- 
 fashioned love-song, there is a curious monotony of sweetness 
 which commends it to our ears ; and he who reads it may 
 remember the profile portrait of Simonetta from the hand of 
 Piero della Francesca in the Pitti Palace at Florence. 
 
 It is worth comparing Poliziano's treatment of popular or 
 semi-popular verse-forms with his imitations of Petrarch's 
 manner. For this purpose I have chosen a Canzone, clearly 
 written in competition with the celebrated * Chiare, fresche e 
 dolci acque,' of Laura's lover. While closely modelled upon 
 Petrarch's form and similar in motive, this Canzone preserves 
 Poliziano's special qualities of fluency and emptiness of 
 content. 
 
 Hills, valleys, caves and fells. 
 
 With flowers and leaves and herbage spread ; 
 
 Green meadows ; shadowy groves where light is low ; 
 
 Lawns watered with the rills 
 
 That cruel Love hath made me shed. 
 
 Cast from these cloudy eyes so dark with woe ; 
 
 Thou stream that still dost know 
 
 What fell pangs pierce my heart, 
 
 So dost thou murmur back my moan ; 
 
 Lone bird that chauntest tone for tone, 
 
 While in our descant drear Love sings his part ; 
 
 Nymphs, woodland wanderers, wind and air ; 
 
 List to the sound out-poured from my despair ! 
 
2o6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Seven times and once more seven 
 
 The roseate dawn her beauteous brow 
 
 Enwreathed with orient jewels hath displayed ; 
 
 Cynthia once more in heaven 
 
 Hath orbed her horns with silver now ; 
 
 While in sea waves her brother's light was laid ; 
 
 Since this high mountain glade 
 
 Felt the white footstep fall 
 
 Of that proud lady, who to spring 
 
 Converts whatever woodland thing 
 
 She may o'ershadow, touch, or heed at all. 
 
 Here bloom the flowers, the grasses spring 
 
 From her bright eyes, and drink what mine must bring. 
 Yea, nourished with my tears 
 
 Is every little leaf I see, 
 
 And the stream rolls therewith a prouder wave. 
 
 Ah me ! through what long years 
 
 Will she withhold her face from me, 
 
 Which stills the stormy skies howe'er they rave ? 
 
 Speak ! or in grove or cave 
 
 If one hath seen her stray. 
 
 Plucking amid those grasses green 
 
 Wreaths for her royal brows serene. 
 
 Flowers white and blue and red and golden gay ! 
 
 Nay, prithee, speak, if pity dwell 
 
 Among these woods, within this leafy dell ! 
 O Love ! 'twas here we saw. 
 
 Beneath the new-fledged leaves that spring 
 
 From this old beech, her fair form lowly laid : — 
 
 The thought renews my awe ! 
 
 How sweetly did her tresses fling 
 
 Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed ! 
 
 Fire, frost within me played. 
 
 While I beheld the bloom 
 
 Of laughing flowers — O day of bliss ! — 
 
 Around those tresses meet and kiss, 
 
 And roses in her lap of Love the home ! 
 
 Her grace, her port divinely fair. 
 
 Describe it. Love ! myself I do not dare. 
 In mute intent surprise 
 
 I gazed, as when a hind is seen 
 
 To dote upon its image in a rill ; 
 
 Drinking those love-lit eyes, 
 
 Those hands, that face, those words serene. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 207 
 
 That song which with delight the heaven did fill, 
 
 That smile which thralls me still, 
 
 Which melteth stones unkind, 
 
 Which in this woodland wilderness 
 
 Tames every beast and stills the stress 
 
 Of hurrying waters. Would that I could find 
 
 Her footprints upon field or grove ! 
 
 I should not then be envious of Jove. 
 Thou cool stream rippling by, 
 
 Where oft it pleased her to dip 
 
 Her naked foot, how blest art thou ! 
 
 Ye branching trees on high, 
 
 That spread your gnarled roots on the lip 
 
 Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew ! 
 
 She often leaned on you, 
 
 She who is my life's bliss ! 
 
 Thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown, 
 
 How do I envy thee thy throne. 
 
 Found worthy to receive such happiness ! 
 
 Ye winds, how blissful must ye be. 
 
 Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony ! 
 The winds that music bore. 
 
 And wafted it to God on high, 
 
 That Paradise might have the joy thereof. 
 
 Flowers here she plucked, and wore 
 
 Wild roses from the thorn hard by : 
 
 This air she lightened with her look of love : 
 
 This running stream above, 
 
 She bent her face ! — Ah me ! 
 
 Where am I ? What sweet makes me swoon ? 
 
 What calm is in the kiss of noon ? 
 
 Who brought me here ? Who speaks ? What melody ? 
 
 Whence came pure peace into my soul ? 
 
 What joy hath rapt me from my own control ? 
 
 Poliziano's refrain is always : * Gather ye rosebuds while 
 ye may. It is spring-time now and youth. Winter and old 
 age are coming ! ' A Maggio, or May-day song, describing 
 the games, dances, and jousting matches of the Florentine lads 
 upon the morning of the first of May, expresses this facile philo- 
 sophy of life with a quaintness that recalls Herrick. It will be 
 noticed that the Maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on the 
 
2o8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 same system as Poliziano's Ballata. It has considerable 
 historical interest, for the opening couplet is said to be Guido 
 Cavalcanti's, while the whole poem is claimed by Roscoe for 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, and by Carducci with better reason for 
 Poliziano. 
 
 Welcome in the May 
 
 And the woodland garland gay ! 
 
 Welcome in the jocund spring 
 
 Which bids all men lovers be ! 
 Maidens, up with carolling, 
 
 With your sweethearts stout and free, 
 
 With roses and with blossoms ye 
 Who deck yourselves this first of May ! 
 
 Up, and forth into the pure 
 
 Meadows, mid the trees and flowers ! 
 Every beauty is secure 
 
 With so many bachelors : 
 
 Beasts and birds amid the bowers 
 Burn with love this first of May. 
 
 Maidens, who are young and fair, 
 
 Be not harsh, I counsel you ; 
 For your youth cannot repair 
 
 Her prime of spring, as meadows do : 
 
 None be proud, but all be true 
 , To men who love, this first of May. 
 
 Dance and carol every one 
 
 Of our band so bright and gay ! 
 See your sweethearts how they run 
 
 Through the jousts for you to-day ! 
 
 She who saith her lover nay. 
 Will deflower the sweets of May. 
 
 Lads in love take sword and shield 
 
 To make pretty girls their prize : 
 Yield ye, merry maidens, yield 
 
 To your lovers' vows and sighs : 
 
 Give his heart back ere it dies : 
 Wage not war this first of May. 
 
 He who steals another's heart. 
 
 Let him give his own heart too : 
 Who's the robber ? 'Tis the smart 
 
lOPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 209 
 
 Little cherub Cupid, who 
 Homage comes to pay with you, 
 Damsels, to the first of May. 
 
 Love comes smiling ; round his head 
 
 Lilies white and roses meet : 
 'Tis for you his flight is sped. 
 
 Fair one, haste our king to greet : 
 
 Who will fling him blossoms sweet 
 Soonest on this first of May ? 
 
 Welcome, stranger 1 welcome, king ! 
 Love, what hast thou to command ? 
 
 That each girl with wreaths should ring 
 Her lover's hair with loving hand, 
 That girls small and great should band 
 
 In Love's ranks this first of May. 
 
 The Cai2to Carnascialesco, for the final development, if 
 not for the invention of which all credit must be given to 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, does not greatly differ from the Maggio 
 in structure. It admitted, however, of great varieties, and was 
 generally more complex in its interweaving of rhymes. Yet the 
 essential principle of an exordium which should also serve for 
 a refrain, was rarely, if ever, departed from. Two specimens 
 of the Carnival Song will serve to bring into close contrast two 
 very different aspects of Florentine history. The earlier was 
 composed by Lorenzo de' Medici at the height of his power 
 and in the summer of Italian independence. It was sung by 
 masquers attired in classical costume, to represent Bacchus 
 and his crew. 
 
 Fair is youth and void of sorrow ; 
 
 But it hourly flies away. — 
 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day ; 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 This is Bacchus and the bright 
 
 Ariadne, lovers true ! 
 They, in flying time's despite, 
 
 Each with each find pleasure new ; 
 These their Nymphs, and all their crew 
 F 
 
SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY, 
 
 Keep perpetual holiday. — 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day ; 
 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 These blithe Satyrs, wanton-eyed, 
 Of the Nymphs are paramours : 
 
 Through the caves and forests wide 
 
 They have snared them mid the flowers ; 
 
 Warmed with Bacchus, in his bowers. 
 Now they dance and leap alway. — 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; 
 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 These fair Nymphs, they are not loth 
 
 To entice their lovers' wiles. 
 None but thankless folk and rough 
 
 Can resist when Love beguiles. 
 Now enlaced, with wreathed smiles, 
 
 All together dance and play. — 
 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day ; 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 See this load behind them plodding 
 
 On the ass ! Silenus he, 
 Old and drunken, merry, nodding, 
 
 Full of years and jollity ; 
 Though he goes so swayingly, 
 
 Yet he laughs and quaffs alway. — 
 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day ; 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 Midas treads a wearier measure :' 
 
 All he touches turns to gold : 
 If there be no taste of pleasure, 
 
 What's the use of wealth untold ? 
 What's the joy his fingers hold, 
 
 When he's forced to thirst for aye ? — 
 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 Listen well to what we're saying ; 
 
 Of to-morrow have no care ! 
 Young and old together playing, 
 
 Beys and girls, be blithe as air ! 
 Every sorry thought forswear ! 
 
 Keep perpetual holiday. — 
 
 Youths and maids, enjoy to-day 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 211 
 
 Ladies and gay lovers young ! 
 
 Long live Bacchus, live Desire ! 
 Dance and play ; let songs be sung ; 
 
 Let sweet love your bosoms fire ; 
 In the future come what may ! — 
 Youth and maids, enjoy to-day ! 
 Nought ye know about to-morrow. 
 
 Fair is youth and void of sorrow ; 
 But it hourly flies away. 
 
 The next, composed by Antonio Alamanni, after Lorenzo's 
 death and the ominous passage of Charles VIIL, was sung by 
 masquers habited as skeletons. The car they rode on, was a 
 Car of Death designed by Piero di Cosimo, and their music 
 was purposely gloomy. If in the jovial days of the Medici the 
 streets of Florence had rung to the thoughtless refrain, *■ Nought 
 ye know about to-morrow,' they now re-echoed with a cry of 
 * Penitence ; ' for times had strangely altered, and the heedless 
 past had brought forth a doleful present. The last stanza of 
 Alamanni's chorus is a somewhat clumsy attempt to adapt the 
 too real moral of his subject to the customary mood of the 
 Carnival. 
 
 Sorrow, tears, and penitence 
 Are our doom of pain for aye : 
 This dead concourse riding by 
 Hath no cry but penitence ! 
 
 E'en as you are, once were we : 
 You shall be as now we are : 
 We are dead men, as you see : 
 "We shall see you dead men, where 
 Nought avails to take great care. 
 After sins, of penitence. 
 
 We too in the Carnival 
 Sang our love-songs through the town ; 
 Thus from sin to sin we all 
 Headlong, heedless, tumbled down : — 
 Now we cry, the world around, 
 Penitence i oh, Penitence! 
 P 2 
 
212 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY, 
 
 Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools \ 
 Time steals all things as he rides : 
 Honours, glories, states, and schools. 
 Pass away, and nought abides ; 
 Till the tomb our carcase hides. 
 And compels this penitence. 
 
 This sharp scythe you see us bear. 
 Brings the world at length to woe : 
 But from life to life we fare ; 
 And that life is joy or woe : 
 All heaven's bliss on him doth flow 
 Who on earth does penitence. 
 
 Living here, we all must die ; 
 Dying, every soul shall live : 
 For the King of kings on high 
 This fixed ordinance doth give : 
 Lo, you all are fugitive ! 
 Penitence ! Cry Penitence ! 
 
 Torment great and grievous dole 
 Hath the thankless heart mid you : 
 But the man of piteous soul 
 Finds much honour in our crew : 
 Love for loving is the due 
 That prevents this penitence. 
 
 \ 
 Sorrow, tears, and penitence 
 
 Are our doom of pain for aye : 
 This dead concourse riding by 
 Hath no cry but Penitence ! 
 
 One song for dancing, composed less upon the type of the 
 Ballata than on that of the Carnival Song, may here be intro- 
 duced, not only in illustration of the varied forms assumed by this 
 style of poetry, but also because it is highly characteristic of 
 Tuscan town-life. This poem in the vulgar style has been 
 ascribed to Lorenzo de' Medici, but probably without due 
 reason. It describes the manners and customs of female street 
 
 gossips. 
 
 Since you beg with such a grace, 
 How can I refuse a song, 
 "Wholesome, honest, void of wrong, 
 On the follies of the place ? 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 213 
 
 Courteously on you I call ; 
 
 Listen well to what I sing : 
 For my roundelay to all 
 May perchance instruction bring, 
 And of life good lessoning. — 
 When in company you meet, 
 Or sit spinning, all the street 
 Clamours like a market-place. 
 
 Thirty of you there may be ; 
 
 Twenty-nine are sure to buzz, 
 And the single silent she 
 Racks her brains about her coz : — 
 Mrs. Buzz and Mrs. Hiizz, 
 Mind your work, my ditty saith ; 
 Do not gossip till your breath 
 Fails and leaves you black of face ! 
 
 Governments go out and in : — 
 
 You the truth must needs discover. 
 Is a girl about to win 
 A brave husband in her lover ? — 
 Straight you set to talk him over : 
 
 * Is he wealthy ? ' * Does his coat 
 Fit ? ' * And has he got a vote ? ' 
 
 ' Who's his father 1 ' * What's his race ? • 
 
 iDut of window one head pokes ; 
 Twenty others do the same : — 
 Chatter, clatter \ — creaks and croaks 
 All the year the same old game ! — 
 
 * See my spinning ! ' cries one dame, 
 ' Five long ells of cloth^ I trow ! ' 
 Cries another, * Mine must go. 
 Drat it, to the bleaching base ! ' 
 
 ' Devil take the fowl ! ' says one : 
 
 ' Mine are all bewitched, I guess ; 
 Cocks and hens with vermin run. 
 Mangy, filthy, featherless.' 
 Says another : ' I confess 
 Every hair I drop, I keep- 
 Plague upon it, in a heap 
 Falling off to my disgrace ! ' 
 
 If you see a fellow walk 
 
 Up or down the street and back. 
 How you nod and wink and talk. 
 
214 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Hurry-skurry, cluck and clack ! — 
 
 * What, I wonder, does he lack 
 
 Here about ? ' — ' There's something wrong ! ' 
 
 Till the poor man's made a song 
 
 For the female populace. 
 
 It were well you gave no thought 
 To such idle company ; 
 Shun these gossips, care for nought 
 But the business that you ply. 
 You who chatter, you who cry. 
 Heed my words; be wise, I pray : 
 Fewer, shorter stories say : 
 Bide at home, and mind yoiir place. 
 
 Since yo-u beg with such a grace. 
 How can I refuse a song, 
 Wholesome, honest, void of wrong, 
 On the follies of the place ? 
 
 The Madrigale, intended to be sung in parts, was another 
 species of popular poetry cultivated by the greatest of Italian 
 writers. Without seeking examples, from such men as Petrarch, 
 Michel Angelo, or Tasso, who used it as a purely literary form, 
 I will content myself with a few Madrigals by anonymous 
 composers, more truly popular in style, and more immediately 
 intended for music. ^ The similarity both of manner and 
 matter, between these little poems and the Ballate, is obvious. 
 There is the same affectation of rusticity in both. 
 
 Cogliendo per tin prata. 
 
 Plucking white lilies in a field I saw 
 
 Fair women, laden with young Love's delight : 
 
 Some sang, some danced ; but all were fresh and bright. 
 
 Then by the margin of a foimt they leaned, 
 
 And of those flowers, made garlands for their hair — 
 Wreaths for their golden tresses quaint and rare. 
 
 Forth from the field I passed, and gazed upon 
 
 Their loveliness, and lost my heart to one. 
 
 • The originals will be found in Carducci's Studi Letterari p. 273 et 
 seq. I have preserved their rhyming stiuc:ure. 
 
FOPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 215 
 
 Togliendo Puna alV ultra. 
 
 One from the other borrowing leaves and flowers, 
 I saw fair maidens neath the summer trees, 
 Weaving bright garlands with low love-ditties. 
 
 Mid that sweet sisterhood the loveliest 
 Turned her soft eyes to me, and whispered, * Take ! ' 
 Love-lost I stood, and not a word I spake. 
 
 My heart she read, and her fair garland gave : 
 
 Therefore I am her servant to the grave. 
 
 Appress' unfiume chiaro. 
 Hard by a crystal stream 
 
 Girls and maids were dancing round 
 
 A lilac with fair blossoms crowned. 
 Mid these I spied out one 
 
 So tender-sweet, so love-laden. 
 
 She stole my he^rt with singing then : 
 Love in her face so lovely-kind 
 And eyes and hands my soul did bind. 
 
 Di riva in riva. 
 
 From lawn to lea Love led me down the valley, 
 Seeking my hawk, where neath a pleasant hill 
 I spied fair maidens bathing in a rill. 
 
 Lina was there all loveliness excelling ; 
 The pleasure of her beauty made me sad, 
 And yet at sight of her my soul was glad. 
 
 Downward I cast mine eyes with modest seeming, 
 And all atremble from the fountain fled : 
 For each was naked as her maidenhead. 
 
 Thence singing fared I through a flowery, plain, 
 
 Where bye and bye I found my hawk again ! 
 
 Net chiaro fiume. 
 
 Down a fair streamlet crystal -clear and pleasant 
 
 I went a fishing all alone one day. 
 
 And spied three maidens bathing there at play. 
 Of love they told each other honeyed stories. 
 
 While with white hands they smote the stream, to wet 
 
 Their sunbright hair in the pure rivulet. 
 Gazing I crouched among thick flowering leafage, 
 
2i6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Till one who spied a rustling branch on high, 
 
 Turned to her comrades with a sudden cry, 
 And ' Go ! Nay, prithee go ! ' she called to me : 
 * To stay were surely but scant courtesy. ' 
 
 Quel sole che nutrica. 
 
 The sun which makes a lily bloom, 
 
 Leans down at times on her to gaze — 
 
 Fairer, he deems, than his fair rays : 
 Then, having looked a little while. 
 
 He turns and tells the saints in bliss 
 
 How marvellous her beauty is. 
 Thus up in heaven with flute and string 
 Thy loveliness the angels sing. 
 
 Di novo e giunf . 
 
 Lo ! here hath come an errant knight 
 
 Dn a barbed charger clothed in mail : 
 
 His archers scatter iron hail. 
 At brow and breast his mace he aims ; 
 
 Who therefore hath not arms of proof, 
 
 Let him live locked by door and roof; 
 Until Dame Summer on a day 
 That grisly knight return to slay. 
 
 Poliziano's treatment of the octave stanza for Rispetti was 
 comparatively popular. But in his poem of ' La Giostra,' 
 written to commemorate the victory of Giuliano de' Medici 
 in a tournament and to celebrate his mistress, he gave 
 a new and richer form to the metre which Boccaccio had 
 already used for epic verse. The slight and uninteresting 
 framework of this poem, which opened a new sphere for Italian 
 literature, and prepared the way for Ariosto's golden cantos, 
 might be compared to one of those wire-baskets which children 
 steep in alum-water, and incrust with crystals, sparkling, arti- 
 ficial, beautiful with colours not their own. The mind of 
 Poliziano held, as it were, in solution all the images and thoughts 
 of antiquity, all the riches of his native literature. In that vast 
 reservoir of poems and mythologies and phrases, so patiently 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 217 
 
 accumulated, so tenaciously preserved, so thoroughly assimi- 
 lated, he plunged the trivial subject he had chosen, and trium- 
 phantly presented to the world the spolia opima of scholarship 
 and taste. What mattered it that the theme was slight ? The 
 art was perfect, the result splendid. One canto of 125 stanzas 
 describes the youth of Giuliano, who sought to pass his life 
 among the woods, a hunter dead to love, but who was doomed 
 to be ensnared by Cupid. The chase, the beauty of Simonetta, 
 the palace of Venus, these are the three subjects of a book as 
 long as the first Iliad. The second canto begins with dreams 
 and prophecies of glory to be won by Giuliano in the tournament. 
 But it stops abruptly. The tragic catastrophe of the Pazzi 
 Conjuration cut short Poliziano's panegyric by the murder 
 of his hero. Meanwhile the poet had achieved his purpose. 
 His torso presented to Italy a model of style, a piece of written 
 art adequate to the great painting of the Renaissance period, a 
 double star of poetry which blent the splendours of the ancient 
 and the modern world. To render into worthy English the 
 harmonies of Poliziano is a difficult task. Yet this must be 
 attempted if an English reader is to gain any notion of the 
 scope and substance of the Italian poet's art. In the first part 
 of the poem we are placed, as it were, at the mid point between 
 the 'Hippolytus' of Euripides' and Shakspere's 'Venus and 
 Adonis.' The cold hunter Giuliano is to see Simonetta, and 
 seeing, is to love her. This is how he first discovers the trium- 
 phant beauty : — ^ 
 
 White is the maid, and white the robe around her, 
 
 With buds and roses and thin grasses pied ; 
 Enwreathed folds of golden tresses crowned her, 
 
 Shadowing her forehead fair with modest pride : 
 The wild wood smiled ; the thicket where he found her, 
 
 To ease his anguish, bloomed on every side : 
 Serene she sits, with gesture queenly mild. 
 And with her brow tempers the tempests wild. 
 
 * Stanza XLIII. All references are made to Carducci's excellent 
 
2i8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 After three stanzas of this sort, in which the poet's style is 
 more apparent than the object he describes, occurs this charm- 
 ing picture : — 
 
 f\ 
 I Reclined he found her on the swarded grass 
 
 In jocund mood ; and garlands she had made 
 Of every flower that in the meadow was, 
 
 Or on her robe of many hues displayed ; 
 But when she saw the youth before her pass, 
 
 Raising her timid head awhile she stayed ; 
 Then with her white hand gathered up her dress, 
 And stood, lap-full of flowers, in loveliness. 
 
 Then through the dewy field with footstep slow 
 The lingering maid began to take her way, / 
 
 Leaving her lover in great fear and woe, ' 
 
 For now he longs for nought but her alway : 
 
 The wretch, who cannot bear that she should go, 
 Strives with a whispered prayer her feet to stay ; 
 
 And thus at last, all trembling, all afire. 
 
 In humble wise he breathes his soul's desire : 
 
 * Whoe'er thou art, maid among maidens queen. 
 
 Goddess, or nymph — nay, goddess seems most clear — 
 
 If goddess, sure my Dian I have seen ; 
 If mortal, let thy proper self appear ! 
 
 Beyond terrestrial beauty is thy mien ; 
 I have no merit that I should be here ! 
 
 What grace of heaven, what lucky star benign 
 
 Yields me the sight of beauty so divine ? ' 
 
 A conversation ensues, after which GiuHano departs utterly 
 lovesick, and Cupid takes wing exultingly for Cyprus, where his 
 mother's palace stands. In the following picture of the house 
 of Venus, who shall say how much of Ariosto's Alcina and 
 Tasso's Armida is contained ? Cupid arrives, and the family 
 of Love is filled with joy at Giuliano's conquest. -From the 
 plan of the poem it is clear that its beauties are chiefly those 
 of detail. They are, however, very great. How perfect, for 
 
 edition, Le Stanze, lOrfeo e le Rime di Messer Angela Ambrogini Poliziano. 
 Firenze, G. Barbara, 1863. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 219 
 
 example, is the richness combined with deHcacy of the following 
 description of a country life : — 
 
 Book I. Stanzas 17—21. ' 
 
 ' How far more safe it is, how far more fair, 
 
 To chase the flying deer along the lea ; 
 Through ancient woods to track their hidden lair. 
 
 Far from the town, with long-drawn subtlety : 
 To scan the vales, the hills, the limpid air, 
 
 The grass and flowers, clear ice, and streams so free ; 
 To hear the birds wake from their winter trance, 
 The wind-stirred leaves and murmuring waters dance. 
 
 How sweet it were to watch the young goats hung 
 From toppling crags, cropping the tender shoot, 
 
 "While in thick pleached shade the shepherd sung 
 His uncouth rural lay and woke his flute ; 
 
 To mark, mid dewy grass, red apples flung, 
 And every bough thick set with ripening fruit, 
 
 The butting rams, kine lowing o'er the lea, 
 
 And cornfields waving like the windy sea. 1 
 
 Lo ! how the rugged master of the herd 
 Before his flock unbars the wattled cote ; 
 
 Then with his rod and many a rustic word 
 He rules their going : or 'tis sweet to note 
 
 The delver, when his toothed rake hath stirred 
 The stubborn clod, his hoe the glebe hath smote; 
 
 Barefoot the country girl, with loosened zone. 
 
 Spins, while she keeps her geese neath yonder stone. 
 
 After such happy wise, in ancient years, 
 Dwelt the old nations in the age of gold ; 
 
 Nor had the fount been stirred of mothers' tears 
 For sons in war's fell labour stark and cold ; 
 
 Nor trusted they to ships the wild wind steers. 
 Nor yet had oxen groaning ploughed the wold ; 
 
 Their houses were huge oaks, whose trunks had store 
 
 Of honey, and whose boughs thick acorns bore. 
 
 Nor yet, in that glad time, the accursed thirst 
 Of cruel gold had fallen on this fair earth : 
 
 Joyous in liberty they lived at first ; 
 
 Unploughed the fields sent forth their teeming birth ; 
 
220 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Till fortune, envious of such concord, burst 
 
 The bond of law, and pity banned and worth ; 
 Within their breasts sprang luxury and that rage 
 Which men call love in our degenerate age. 
 
 We need not be reminded that these stanzas are almost a 
 cento from Virgil, Hesiod, and Ovid. The merits of the trans- 
 lator, adapter, and combiner, who knew so well how to cull 
 their beauties and adorn them with a perfect dress of modern 
 diction, are so eminent that we cannot deny him the title of a 
 great poet. It is always in picture-painting more than in 
 dramatic presentation that Poliziano excels. Here is a bas- 
 relief of Venus rising from the Ocean foam : — 
 
 Stanzas 99 — 107. 
 
 In Thetis' lap, upon the vexed Egean, 
 
 The seed deific from Olympus sown, 
 Beneath dim stars and cycling empyrean 
 
 Drifts like white foam across the salt waves blown ; 
 ^ Thence, born at last by movements hymenean, 
 
 Rises a maid more fair than man hath known ; 
 Upon her shell the wanton breezes waft her ; 1 
 
 She nears the shore, while heaven looks down with laughter. * ( 
 
 Seeing the cai'ved work you would cry that real 
 Were shell and sea, and real the winds that blow ; 
 
 The lightning of the goddess' eyes you feel. 
 The smiling heavens, the elemental glow : 
 
 White-vested Hours across the smooth sands steal. 
 With loosened curls that to the breezes flow ; 
 
 Like, yet unlike, are all their beauteous faces, 
 
 E'en as befits a choir of sister Graces. 
 
 ' Well might you swear that on those waves were riding 
 
 The goddess with her right hand on her hair, 
 And with the other the sweet apple hiding ; 
 
 And that beneath her feet, divinely fair, 
 Fresh flowers sprang forth, the barren sands dividing; / 
 
 Then that, with glad smiles and enticements rare, 
 The three nymphs round their queen, embosoming her. 
 Threw the starred mantle soft as gossamer. ' 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENALSSANCE. 221 
 
 The one, with hands above her head upraised, 
 
 Upon her dewy tresses fits a wreath, 
 With ruddy gold and orient gems emblazed ; 
 
 The second hangs pure pearls her ears beneath j 
 The third round shoulders white and breast hath placed 
 
 Such wealth of gleaming carcanets as sheathe 
 Their own fair bosoms, when the Graces sing 
 Among the gods with dance and carolling. 
 
 Thence might you see them rising toward the spheres. 
 
 Seated upon a cloud of silvery white ; 
 The trembling of the cloven air appears 
 
 Wrought in the stone, and heaven serenely bright ; 
 The gods drink in with open eyes and ears 
 
 Her beauty, and desire her bed's delight ; 
 Each seems to marvel with a mute amaze — 
 Their brows and foreheads wrinkle as they gaze. 
 
 The next quotation shows Venus in the lap of Mars, and 
 visited by Cupid : — 
 
 / 
 
 Stanzas 122—124. 
 
 Stretched on a couch, outside the coverlid, 
 Love found her, scarce unloosed from Mars' embrace 5 
 
 He, lying back within her bosom, fed 
 
 His eager eyes on nought but her fair face ; 
 
 Roses above them like a cloud were shed. 
 To reinforce them in the amorous chace j 
 
 While Venus, quick with longings unsuppressed, 
 
 A thousand times his eyes and forehead kissed. / 
 
 Above, around, young Loves on every side 
 Played naked, darting birdlike to and fro ; 
 
 And one, whose plumes a thousand colours dyed, 
 Fanned the shed roses as they lay arow j 
 
 One filled his quiver with fresh flowers, and hied 
 To pour them on the couch that lay below ; 
 
 Another, poised upon his pinions, through 
 
 The falling shower soared shaking rosy dew : 
 
 For, as he quivered with his tremulous wing. 
 
 The wandering roses in their drift were stayed j — 
 
 Thus none was weary of glad gambolling ; 
 
 Till Cupid came, with dazzling plumes displayed, 
 
222 SKETCHESS AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Breathless ; and round his mother's neck did fling 
 
 His languid arms, and with his winnowing made 
 Her heart burn : — very glad and bright of face, 
 But, with his flight, too tired to speak apace. 
 
 These pictures have in them the very glow of ItaHan painting. 
 Sometimes we seem to see a quaint design of Piero di Cosimo, 
 with bright tints and multitudinous small figures in a spacious 
 landscape. Sometimes, it is the languid grace of Botticelli, 
 whose soul became possessed of classic inspiration as it were in 
 dreams, and who has painted the birth of Venus almost exactly 
 as Poliziano imagined it. Again, we seize the broader beauties 
 of the Venetian masters, or the vehemence of Giulio Romano's 
 pencil. To the last class belong the two next extracts : — 
 
 Stanzas 104 — 107. 
 
 In the last square the great artificer 
 
 Had wrought himself crowned with Love's perfect palm ; 
 Black from his forge and rough, he runs to her, 
 
 Leaving all labour for her bosom's calm : 
 Lips joined to lips with deep love-longing stir 
 
 Fire in his heart, and in his spirit balm ; 
 Far fiercer flames through breast and marrow fly 
 Than those which heat his forge in Sicily. 
 
 Jove, on the other side, becomes a bull. 
 
 Goodly and white, at Love's behest, and rears • 
 
 His neck beneath his rich freight beautiftil : 
 
 She turns toward the shore, that disappears, 
 With frightened gesture ; and the wonderful 
 
 Gold curls about her bosom and her ears 
 Float in the wind ; her veil waves, backward borne ; 
 This hand still clasps his back, and that his horn. 
 
 With naked feet close-tucked beneath her dress, 
 She seems to fear the sea that dares not rise : 
 
 So, imaged in a shape of drear distress, 
 In vain unto her comrades sweet she cries ; 
 
 They left amid the meadow-flowers, no less 
 For lost Europa wail with weeping eyes : 
 
 Europa, sounds the shore, bring t>ack our bliss ! 
 
 But the bull swims and turns her feet to kiss. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE, 223 
 
 Here Jove is made a swan, a golden shower, 
 
 Or seems a serpent, or a shepherd-swain, 
 To work his amorous will in secret hour ; 
 
 Here, like an eagle, soars he o'er the plain, 
 Love-led, and bears his Ganymede, the flower 
 
 Of beauty, mid celestial peers to reign ; 
 The boy with cypress hath his fair locks crowned, 
 Naked, with ivy wreathed his waist around. 
 
 Stanzas no — 112. 
 
 Lo ! here again fair Ariadne lies. 
 
 And to the deaf Mdnds of false Theseus plains, 
 And of the air and slumber's treacheries ; 
 
 Trembling with fear even as a reed that strains 
 And quivers by the mere neath breezy skies : 
 
 Her very speechless attitude complains — 
 No beast there is so cruel as thou art. 
 No beast less loyal to my broken heart. 
 
 Throned on a car, with ivy crowned and vine. 
 Rides Bacchus, by two champing tigers driven : 
 
 Around him on the sand deep-soaked with brine 
 Satyrs and Bacchantes rush ; the skies are riven 
 
 "With shouts and laughter ; Fauns quaff bubbling wine 
 From horns and cymbals ; Nymphs, to madness driven, 
 
 Trip, skip, and stumble ; mixed in wild enlacements, 
 
 Laughing they roll or meet for glad embracements. 
 
 Upon his ass Silenus, never sated, 
 
 "With thick, black veins, wherethrough the must is soaking, 
 Nods his dull forehead with deep sleep belated ; 
 
 His eyes are wine-inflamed, and red, and smoking : 
 Bold Maenads goad the ass so sorely weighted. 
 
 With stinging thyrsi ; he sways feebly poking 
 The mane with bloated fingers ; Fauns behind him, 
 E'en as he falls, upon the crupper bind him. 
 
 We almost seem to be looking at the frescoes in some 
 Trasteverine palace, or at the canvas of one of the sensual 
 Genoese painters. The description of the garden of Venus has 
 the charm of somewhat artificial elegance, the exotic grace of 
 style, which attracts us in the earlier Renaissance work : — 
 
224 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 The leafy tresses of that timeless garden 
 
 Nor fragile brine nor fresh snow dares to whiten ; 
 
 Frore winter never comes the rills to harden, 
 
 Nor winds the tender shrubs and herbs to frighten ; 
 
 Glad Spring is always here, a laughing warden ; 
 Nor do the seasons wane, but ever brighten ; 
 
 Here to the breeze young May, her curls unbinding. 
 
 With thousand flowers her wreath is ever winding. 
 
 Indeed it may be said with truth that Poliziano's most eminent 
 
 faculty as a descriptive poet corresponded exactly to the genius 
 
 of the painters of his day. To produce pictures radiant with 
 
 Renaissance colouring, and vigorous with Renaissance passion, 
 
 was the function of his art, not to express profound thought or 
 
 dramatic situations. This remark might be extended with 
 
 justice to Ariosto, and Tasso, and Boiardo. The great naiTa-   
 
 live poets of the Renaissance in Italy were not dramatists ; ' 
 
 nor were their poems epics : their forte lay in the inexhaustible 
 
 variety and beauty of their pictures. 
 
 Of Poliziano's plagiarism — if this be the right word to apply 
 
 to the process of assimilation and selection, by means of which 
 
 the poet-scholar of Florence taught the Italians how to use the 
 
 riches of the ancient languages and their own literature — here 
 
 are some specimens. In stanza 42 of the ' Giostra ' he says of 
 
 Simonetta: — 
 
 E 'n lei disceme un non so che divine. 
 
 Dante has the line : — 
 
 Vostri risplende un non so che divine. 
 
 In the 44th he speaks about the birds : — 
 
 E canta ogni augelletto in suo latino. 
 
 This comes from Cavalcanti's :— 
 
 E cantinne gli augelH 
 Ciascuno in suo latino. 
 
POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE. 225 
 
 Stanza 45 is taken bodily from Claudian, Dante, and Cavalcanti. 
 It would seem as though Poliziano wished to show that the 
 classic and mediaeval literature of Italy was all one, and that a 
 poet of the Renaissance could carry on the continuous tradition 
 in his own style. A line in stanza 54 seems perfectly 
 original : — 
 
 E gik dair alte ville il fumo esala. 
 
 It comes straight from Virgil : — 
 
 Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant. 
 
 In the next stanza the line — 
 
 Tal che '1 ciel tutto rassereno d' intorno, 
 
 is Petrarch's. So in the 56th, is the phrase *il dolce andar 
 celeste.' In stanza 57, — 
 
 Par che '1 cor del petto se gli schianti, 
 
 belongs to Boccaccio. In stanza 60 the first line : — 
 La notte che le cose ci nasconde, 
 
 together with its rhyme, ' sotto le amate fronde,' is borrowed 
 from the 23rd canto of the Paradiso. In the second line^ 
 ' Stellato ammanto,' is Claudian's ' stellantes sinus ' appHed to 
 the heaven. When we reach the garden of Venus we find 
 whole passages translated from Claudian's ' Marriage of 
 Honorius,' and from the ' Metamorphoses of Ovid.' 
 
 Poliziano's second poem of importance, which indeed may 
 historically be said to take precedence of ' La Giostra,' was the 
 so-called tragedy of ' Orfeo.' The English version of this 
 lyrical drama must be reserved for a separate study : yet it 
 belongs to the subject of this, inasmuch as the * Orfeo ' is a 
 classical legend treated in a form already familiar to the Italian 
 people. Nearly all the popular kinds of poetry of which 
 specimens have been translated in this chapter, will be found 
 combined in its six short scenes. 
 
 Q 
 
226 . SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL Y. 
 
 ORFEO. 
 
 The ' Orfeo ' of Messer Angelo Poliziano ranks amongst the 
 most important poems of the fifteenth century. It was com- 
 posed at Mantua in the short space of two days, on the occasion 
 of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga's visit to his native town in 
 1472. But, though so hastily put together, the 'Orfeo' marks 
 an epoch in the evolution of Italian poetry. It is the earliest 
 example of a secular drama, containing within the compass of 
 its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy, and the 
 pastoral play. In form it does not greatly differ from the ' Sacre 
 Rappresentazioni ' of the fifteenth century, as those miracle 
 plays were handled by popular poets of the earlier Renais- 
 sance. But while the traditional octave stanza is used for the 
 main movement of the piece, PoHziano has introduced episodes 
 of terza rima, madrigals, a carnival song, a ballata, and, above 
 all, choral passages which have in them the future melodrama 
 of the musical Italian stage. The lyrical treatment of the fable, 
 its capacity for brilliant and varied scenic effects, its combina- 
 tion of singing with action, and the whole artistic keeping of 
 the piece, which never passes into genuine tragedy, but stays 
 within the limits of romantic pathos, distinguish the * Orfeo ' as 
 a typical production of Italian genius. Thus, though little 
 better than an improvisation, it combines the many forms of 
 verse developed by the Tuscans at the close of the Middle 
 
ORFEO. 22^ 
 
 Ages, and fixes the limits beyond which their dramatic poets, 
 with a few exceptions, were not destined to advance. Nor 
 was the choice of the fable without significance. Quitting the 
 Bible stories and the Legends of Saints, which supplied the 
 mediaeval playwright with material. Poliziano selects a classic 
 story : and this story might pass for an allegory of Italy, whose 
 intellectual development the scholar-poet ruled. Orpheus is 
 the power of poetry and art, softening stubborn nature, civilis- 
 ing men, and prevaiHng over Hades for a season. He is 
 the right hero of humanism, the genius of the Renaissance, the 
 tutelary god of Italy, who thought she could resist the laws of 
 fate by verse and elegant accomplishments. To press this 
 kind of allegory is unwise ; for at a certain moment it breaks 
 in our hands. And yet in Eurydice the fancy might discover 
 Freedom, the true spouse of poetry and art ; Orfeo's last resolve 
 too vividly depicts the vice of the Renaissance ; and the 
 Msenads are those barbarous armies destined to lay waste the 
 plains of Italy, inebriate with wine and blood, obeying a new 
 lord of life on whom the poet's harp exerts no charm. But a 
 truce to this spinning of pedantic cobwebs. Let Mercury 
 appear, and let the play begin. 
 
 THE FABLE OF ORPHEUS, 
 
 MERCURY announces the shozu. 
 
 Ho, silence ! Listen ! There was once a hind, 
 Son of Apollo, Aristaeus hight, 
 Who loved with so untamed and fierce a mind 
 Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus wight, 
 That chasing her one day with will unkind 
 He wrought her cruel death in love's despite ; 
 For, as she fled toward the mere hard by, 
 A serpent stung her, and she had to die. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Now Orpheus, singing, brought her back from hell, 
 But could not keep the law the fates ordain : 
 Poor wretch, he backward turned and broke the spell ; 
 So that once more from him his love was ta'en. 
 Therefore he would no more with women dwell, 
 And in the end by women he was slain. 
 
 Enter A shepherd, who says — 
 
 Nay, listen, friends ! Fair auspices are given, 
 Since Mercury to earth hath come from heaven. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 MOPSUS, an old shepherd. 
 
 Say, hast thou seen a calf of mine, all white 
 Save for a spot of black upon her front. 
 Two feet, one flank, and one knee ruddy-bright ? 
 
 ARISTAEUS, a young shepherd. 
 
 Friend Mopsus, to the margin of this fount 
 
 No herds have come to drink since break of day ; 
 
 Yet may^st thou hear fhem low on yonder mount. 
 Go, Thyrsis, search the upland lawn, I pray ! 
 
 Thou Mopsus shalt with me the while abide ; 
 
 For I would have thee listen to my lay. \Exit THYRSIS. 
 
 *Twas yester morn where trees yon cavern hide, 
 
 I saw a n}T!nph more fair than Dian, who 
 
 Had a young lusty lover at her side : 
 But when that more than woman met my view, 
 
 The heart within my bosom leapt outright. 
 
 And straight the madness of wild Love I knew. 
 Since then, dear Mopsus, I have no delight ; 
 
 But weep and weep : of food and drink I tire. 
 
 And without slumber pass the weary night. 
 
 MOPSUS. 
 
 Friend Aristaeus, if this amorous fire 
 
 Thou dost not seek to quench as best may be, 
 Thy peace of soul will vanish in desire. 
 
ORFEO. 229 
 
 Thou know'st that love is no new thing to me : 
 
 I've proved how love grown old brings bitter pain : 
 Cure it at once, or hope no remedy ; 
 
 For if thou find thee in Love's cruel chain. 
 
 Thy bees, thy blossoms will be out of mind, 
 
 Thy fields, thy vines, thy flocks, thy cotes, thy gi-ain. 
 
 ARISTAEUS. 
 
 Mopsus, thou speak est to the deaf and blind : 
 
 Waste not on me these winged words, I pray, 
 Lest they be scattered to the inconstant wind. 
 
 I love, and cannot wish to say love nay ; 
 
 Nor seek to cure so charming a disease : 
 
 They praise Love best who most against him say. 
 
 Yet if thou fain wouldst give my heart some ease, 
 Forth from thy wallet take thy pipe, and we 
 Will sing awhile beneath the leafy trees ; 
 
 For well my nymph is pleased with melody. 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay ; 
 
 Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. 
 
 The lovely nymph is deaf to my lament, 
 
 Nor heeds the music of this rustic reed ; 
 
 Wherefore my flocks and herds are ill content. 
 
 Nor bathe their hoof where grows the water weed, 
 Nor touch the tender herbage on the mead ; 
 
 So sad, because their shepherd grieves, are they. 
 
 Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay ; 
 
 Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. 
 
 The herds are sorry for their master's moan ; 
 
 The nymph heeds not her lover though he die, 
 
 The lovely nymph, whose heart is made of stone — 
 Nay steel, nay adamant ! She still doth fly 
 Far, far before me, when she sees me nigh, 
 
 Even as a lamb flies from the wolf away. 
 
 Listen, ye wild woods to my roundelay ; 
 
 Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. 
 
 Nay, tell her, pipe of mine, how swift doth flee 
 Beauty together with our years amain j 
 
230 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Tell her how time destroys all rarity, 
 
 Nor youth once lost can be renewed asjain ; 
 Tell her to use the gifts that yet remain : 
 
 Roses and violets blossom not alway. 
 
 Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay ; 
 
 Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. 
 
 Carry, ye winds, these sweet words to her ears. 
 Unto the ears of my loved nymph, and tell 
 
 How many tears I shed, what bitter tears ! 
 Beg her to pity one who loves so well : 
 Say that my life is frail and mutable, 
 
 And melts like rime before the rising day. 
 
 Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay ; 
 
 Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray. 
 
 MOPSUS. 
 
 Less sweet, methinks the voice of waters falling 
 
 From cliffs that echo back their murmurous song ; 
 Less sweet the summer sound of breezes calling 
 Through pine-tree tops sonorous all day long ; 
 Than are thy rhymes, the soul of grief enthralling, 
 Thy rhymes o'er field and forest borne along : 
 If she but hear them, at thy feet she'll fawn. — 
 Lo, Thyrsis, hurrying homeward from the lawn ! 
 
 [Re-enters thyrsis. 
 
 ARISTAEUS. 
 
 What of the calf? Say, hast thou seen her now ? 
 
 THYRSIS, the cowherd. 
 
 I have, and I'd as lief her throat were cut ! 
 She almost ripped my bowels up, I vow. 
 Running amuck with horns well set to butt : 
 Nathless I've locked her in the stall below : 
 She's blown with grass, I tell you, saucy slut ! 
 
 ARISTAEUS. 
 
 Now, prithee, let me hear what made you stay 
 So long upon the upland lawns away ? 
 
ORFEO. 231 
 
 THYRSIS, 
 
 talking, I spied a gentle maiden there, 
 
 Who plucked wild flowers upon the mountain side : 
 I scarcely think that Venus is more fair, 
 Of sweeter grace, most modest in her pride : 
 She speaks, she sings, with voice so soft and rare, 
 That listening streams would backward roll their tide : 
 Her face is snow and roses ; gold her head ; 
 All, all alone she goes, white-raimented. 
 
 ARISTAEUS. 
 
 Stay, Mopsus ! I must follow : for 'tis she 
 
 Of whom I lately spoke. So, friend, farewell ! 
 
 MOPSUS. 
 
 Hold, Aristaeus, lest for her or thee 
 
 Thy boldness be the cause of mischief fell ! 
 
 ARISTAEUS. 
 Nay, death this day must be my destiny, 
 Unless I try my fate and break the spell. 
 Stay therefore, Mopsus, by the fountain stay ! 
 I'll follow her, meanwhile, yon mountain way. 
 
 \Exit ARISTAEUS. 
 MOPSUS. 
 Thyrsis, what thinkest thou of thy loved lord ? 
 See'st thou that all his senses are distraught ? 
 Couldst thou not speak some seasonable word, 
 Tell him what shame this idle love hath wrought ? 
 
 THYRSIS. 
 Free speech and servitude but ill accord. 
 Friend Mopsus, and the hind is folly-fraught 
 Who rates his lord ! He's wiser far than I. 
 To tend these kine is all my mastery. 
 
 SCENE n. 
 
 ARISTAEUS, in pursuit <?/eurydice. 
 Flee not from me, maiden ! 
 Lo, I am thy friend ! 
 Dearer far than life I hold thee. 
 List, thou beauty-laden, 
 
232 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 To these prayers attend : 
 
 Flee not, let my arms enfold thee ! 
 
 Neither wolf nor bear will grasp thee : 
 
 That I am thy friend I've told thee : 
 
 Stay thy course then ; let me clasp thee ! — 
 
 Since thou 'rt deaf and wilt not heed me, 
 
 Since thou 'rt still before me flying, 
 
 While I follow panting, dying, 
 
 Lend me wings. Love, wings to speed me ! 
 
 \Exit ARISTAEUS, pursuing eurydice. 
 
 SCENE in. 
 
 A DRYAD. 
 
 Sad news of lamentation and of pain, 
 
 Dear sisters, hath my voice to bear to you : 
 I scarcely dare to raise the dolorous strain. 
 
 Eurydice by yonder stream lies low ; 
 
 The flowers are fading round her stricken head, 
 And the complaining waters weep their woe. 
 
 The stranger soul from that fair house hath fled ; 
 And she, like privet pale, or white May-bloom 
 Untimely plucked, lies on the meadow, dead. 
 
 Hear then the cause of her disastrous doom ! 
 A snake stole forth and stung her suddenly. 
 I am so burdened with this weight of gloom 
 
 That, lo, I bid you all come weep with me ! 
 
 CHORUS OF DRYADS. 
 
 Let the wide air with our complaint resound ! 
 For all heaven's light is spent. 
 Let rivers break their bound. 
 Swollen with tears outpoured from our lament ! 
 
 Fell death hath ta'en their splendour from the skies : 
 
 The stars are sunk in gloom. 
 
 Stern death hath plucked the bloom 
 
 Of nymphs : — Eurydice down-trodden lies. 
 Weep, Love ! The woodland cries. 
 
 Weep, groves and founts ; 
 
 Ye craggy mounts ; you leafy dell. 
 
 Beneath whose boughs she fell. 
 
 Bend every branch in time with this sad sound. 
 
ORFEO. 233 
 
 Let the wide air with our complaint resound ! 
 
 Ah, fortune pitiless ! Ah, cruel snake ! 
 
 Ah, luckless doom of woes ! 
 
 Like a cropped summer rose. 
 
 Or lily cut, she withers on the brake. 
 Her face, which once did make 
 
 Our age so bright 
 
 With beauty's light, is faint and pale ; 
 
 And the clear lamp doth fail, 
 
 "Which shed pure splendour all the world around. 
 
 Let the wide air with our complaint resound ! 
 
 Who e'er will sing so sweetly, now she's gone ? 
 
 Her gentle voice to hear. 
 
 The wild winds dared not stir; 
 
 And now they breathe but sorrow, moan for moan : 
 So many joys are flown, 
 
 Such jocund days 
 
 Doth Death erase with her sweet eyes ! 
 
 Bid earth's lament arise, 
 
 And make our dirge through heaven and sea rebound ! 
 
 Let the wide air with our complaint resound ! 
 
 A DRYAD. 
 'Tis surely Orpheus, who hath reached the hill, 
 
 With harp in hand, glad-eyed and light of heart ! 
 
 He thinks that his dear love is living still. 
 My news will stab him with a sudden smart : 
 
 An unforeseen and unexpected blow 
 
 Wounds worst and stings the bosom's tenderest part. 
 Death hath disjoined the truest love, I know. 
 
 That nature yet to this low world revealed. 
 
 And quenched the flame in its most charming glow. 
 Go, sisters, hasten ye to yonder field. 
 
 Where on the sward lies slain Eurydice ; 
 
 Strew her with flowers and grasses ! I must yield 
 This man the measure of his misery. 
 
 [Exeunt dryads. Enter orpheus, singing. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Musa, triumphales titulos et gesta canamus 
 
 Herculis, et forti nionstra subacta manu ; 
 Ut timidae matri presses ostenderit angues^ 
 
 Intrepidtisque fero riserit ore piier. 
 
234 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 A DRYAD. 
 
 Orpheus, I bring thee bitter news. Alas ! 
 
 Thy nymph who was so beautiful, is slain ! 
 
 Flying from Aristaeus o'er the grass. 
 
 What time she reached yon stream that threads the plain, 
 
 A snake which lurked mid flowers where she did pass. 
 
 Pierced her fair foot with his envenomed bane : 
 
 So fierce, so potent was the sting, that she 
 
 Died in mid course. Ah, woe that this should be ! 
 
 [ORPHEUS turns to go in silence. 
 
 MNESILLUS, the satyr. 
 
 Mark ye how sunk in woe 
 
 The poor wretch forth doth pass. 
 
 And may not answer, for his grief, one word ? 
 
 On some lone shore, unheard. 
 
 Far, far away, he'll go. 
 
 And pour his heart forth to the winds, alas ! 
 
 I'll follow and observe if he 
 
 Moves with his moan the hills to sympathy. 
 
 [Follows ORPHEUS. 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Let us lament, O lyre disconsolate ! 
 
 Our wonted music is in tune no more. 
 
 I^ament we while the heavens revolve, and let 
 
 The nightingale be conquered on Love's shore ! 
 
 O heaven, O earth, O sea, O cruel fate ! 
 
 How shall I bear a pang so passing sore ? 
 
 Eurydice, my love ! O life of mine ! 
 
 On earth I will no more without thee pine ! 
 I will go down unto the doors of hell, 
 
 And see if mercy may be found below : 
 
 Perchance we shall reverse fate's spoken spell 
 
 With tearful songs and words of honeyed woe : 
 
 Perchance will Death be pitiful ; for well 
 
 With singing have we turned the streams that flow ; 
 
 Moved stones, together hind and tiger drawn, 
 
 And made trees dance upon the forest lawn. 
 
 [Passes from sight on his way to Hades. 
 
 MNESILLUS. 
 The staff" of Fate is strong 
 
 And will not lightly bend, 
 
ORFEO. 235 
 
 Nor yet the stubborn gates of steely Hell. 
 
 Nay, I can see full well 
 
 His life will not be long : 
 
 Those downward feet no more will earthward wend. 
 
 "What marvel if they lose the light, 
 
 Who make blind Love their guide by day and night ! 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 ORPHEUS, at the gate of Hell. 
 
 Pity, nay pity for a lover's moan ! 
 
 Ye Powers of Hell, let pity reign in you ! 
 
 To your dark regions led me Love alone : 
 
 Downward upon his wings of light I flew. 
 
 Hush, Cerberus ! Howl not by Pluto's throne ! 
 
 For when you hear my tale of misery, you, 
 
 Nor you alone, but all who here abide 
 
 In this blind world, will weep by Lethe's tide. 
 There is no need, ye Furies, thus to rage ; 
 
 To dart those snakes that in your tresses twine : 
 
 Knew ye the cause of this my pilgrimage, 
 
 Ye would lie down and join your moans with mine. 
 
 Let this poor wretch but pass, who war doth wage 
 
 With heaven, the elements, the powers divine ! 
 
 I beg for pity or for death. No more ! 
 
 But open, ope Hell's adamantine door ! 
 
 [ORPHEUS enters Hell. 
 
 PLUTO. 
 
 What man is he who with his golden lyre 
 
 Hath moved the gates that never move, 
 
 While the dead folk repeat his dirge of love ? 
 The rolling stone no more doth tire 
 
 Swart Sisyphus on yonder hill; 
 
 And Tantalus with water slakes his fire : 
 The groans of mangled Tityos are still ; 
 
 Ixion's wheel forgets to fly ; 
 
 The Danaids their urns can fill : 
 I hear no more the tortured spirits cry ; 
 But all find rest in that sweet harmony. 
 
236 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 PROSERPINE. 
 
 Dear consort, since, compelled by love of thee, 
 
 I left the light of heaven serene, 
 
 And came to reign in hell, a sombre queen ; 
 The charm of tenderest sympathy 
 
 Hath never yet had power to turn 
 
 My stubborn heart, or draw forth tears from me. 
 Now with desire for yon sweet voice I yearn ; 
 
 Nor is there aught so dear 
 
 As that delight. Nay, be not stem 
 To this one prayer ! Relax thy brows severe, 
 And rest awhile with me that song to hear ! 
 
 [ORPHEUS stands before the throne. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Ye rulers of the people lost in gloom, 
 
 Who see no more the jocund light of day ! 
 
 Ye who inherit all things that the womb 
 
 Of Nature and the elements display ! 
 
 Hear ye the grief that draws me to the tomb ! 
 
 Love, cruel Love, hath led me on this way : 
 
 Not to chain Cerberus I hither come. 
 
 But to bring back my mistress to her home. 
 A serpent hidden among flowers and leaves 
 
 Stole my fair mistress — nay, my heart — from me : 
 
 Wherefore my wounded life for ever grieves, 
 
 Nor can I stand against this agony. 
 
 Still, if some fragrance lingers yet and cleaves 
 
 Of your famed love unto your memory. 
 
 If of that ancient rape you think at all, 
 
 Give back Eurydice !— On you I call. 
 All things ere long unto this bourne descend : 
 
 All mortal lives to you return at last : 
 
 Whate'er the moon hath circled, in the end 
 
 Must fade and perish in your empire vast : 
 
 Some sooner and some later hither wend ; 
 
 Yet all upon this pathway shall have passed : 
 
 This of our footsteps is the final goal ; 
 
 And then we dwell for aye in your control. 
 Therefore the nymph I love is left for you 
 
 When nature leads her deathward in due time : 
 
 But now you've cropped the tendrils as they grew. 
 
 The grapes unripe, while yet the sap did climb : 
 
ORFEO. 237 
 
 Who reaps the young blades wet with April dew, 
 Nor waits till summer hath o'erpassed her prime ? 
 Give back, give back my hope one little day ! — 
 Not for a gift, but for a loan I pray. 
 I pray not to you by the waves forlorn 
 Of marshy Styx or dismal Acheron, 
 By Chaos where the mighty world was bom, 
 Or by the sounding flames of Phlegethon ; 
 But by the fruit which charmed thee on that morn 
 When thou didst leave our world for this dread throne ! 
 
 queen ! if thou reject this pleading breath, 
 
 1 will no more return, but ask for death ! 
 
 PROSERPINE. 
 
 Husband, I never guessed 
 
 That in our realm oppressed 
 
 Pity could find a home to dwell : 
 
 But now I know that mercy teems in hell. 
 
 I see Death weep ; her breast 
 
 Is shaken by those tears that faultless fell. 
 
 Let then thy laws severe for him be swayed 
 
 By love, by song, by the just prayers he prayed ! 
 
 PLUTO. 
 
 She's thine, but at this price : 
 Bend not on her thine eyes. 
 Till mid the souls that live she stay. 
 See that thou turn not back upon the way ! 
 Check all fond thoughts that rise ! 
 Else will thy love be torn from thee away. 
 I am well pleased that song so rare as thine 
 The might of my dread sceptre should incline. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 ORPHEUS, sings. 
 
 Ite triumphales circum mea tempora lauri. 
 
 Vicimus Eurydicen: teddita vita mihi est. 
 Haec mea praecipue victoria digna corond, 
 
 Credimus? an lateri juncta puella meo? 
 
238 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 EURYDICE. 
 
 Ah me ! Thy love too great 
 Hath lost not thee alone ! 
 I am torn from thee by strong Fate. 
 No more I am thine own. 
 
 In vain I stretch these arms. Back, back to Hell 
 I'm drawn, I'm drawn. My Orpheus, fare thee well ! 
 
 [EURYDICE disappears. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 Who hath laid laws on Love ? 
 Will pity not be given 
 For one short look so full thereof? 
 Since I am robbed of heaven, 
 Since all my joy so great is turned to pain, 
 I will go back and plead with Death again ! 
 
 [tisiphone blocks hts way. 
 
 TISIPHONE. 
 
 Nay, seek not back to turn ! 
 
 Vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. 
 Eurydice may not complain 
 Of aught but thee — albeit her grief is great. 
 Vain are thy verses 'gainst the voice of Fate ! 
 How vain thy song ! For Death is stern ! 
 Try not the backward path : thy feet refrain ! 
 The laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain. 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 ORPHEUS. 
 
 What sorrow-laden song shall e'er be found 
 
 To match the burden of my matchless woe ? 
 How shall I make the fount of tears abound, 
 To weep apace with grief's unmeasured flow ? 
 Salt tears I'll waste upon the barren ground, 
 So long as life delays me here below ; 
 And since my fate hath wrought me wrong so sore, 
 I swear I'll never love a woman more ! 
 
 Henceforth I'll pluck the buds of opening spring. 
 The bloom of youth when life is loveliest, 
 Ere years have spoiled the beauty which they bring 
 
ORFEO. 239 
 
 This love, I swear, is sweetest, softest, best ! 
 
 Of female charms let no one speak or sing ; 
 
 Since she is slain who ruled within my breast. 
 
 He who would seek my converse, let him see 
 
 That ne'er he talk of woman's love to me ! 
 How pitiful is he who changes mind 
 
 For woman ! for her love laments or grieves ! 
 
 Who suffers her in chains his will to bind. 
 
 Or trusts her words lighter than withered leaves. 
 
 Her loving looks more treacherous than the wind ! 
 
 A thousand times she veers ; to nothing cleaves : 
 
 Follows who flies; from him who follows, flees; 
 
 And comes and goes like waves on stormy seas ! 
 High Jove confirms the truth of what I said, 
 
 Who, caught and bound in love's delightful snare, 
 
 Enjoys in heaven his own bright Ganymed : 
 
 Phoebus on earth had Hyacinth the fair : 
 
 Hercules, conqueror of the world, was led 
 
 Captive to Hylas by this love so rare. — 
 
 Advice for husbands ! Seek divorce, and fly 
 
 Far, far away from female company ! 
 
 [Enter a maenad leading a train <?/' BACCHANTES. 
 
 A MAENAD. 
 
 Ho! Sisters! Up! Alive! 
 
 See him who doth our sex deride ! 
 
 Hunt him to death, the slave ! 
 Thou snatch the thyrsus ! Thou this oak-tree rive ! 
 
 Cast down this doeskin and that hide ! 
 
 We'll wreak our fury on the knave ! 
 Yea, he shall feel our wrath, the knave ! 
 
 He shall yield up his hide 
 
 Torn as woodmen pine-trees rive ! 
 
 No power his life can save ; 
 
 Since women he hath dared deride ! 
 
 Ho ! To him, sisters ! Ho ! Alive ! 
 
 [ORPHEUS is chased off the scene and slain: //5^ MAENADS 
 then return. 
 
 A MAENAD. 
 
 Ho ! Bacchus ! Ho ! I yield thee thanks for this ! 
 
 Through all the woodland we the wretch have borne : 
 So that each root is slaked with blood of his : 
 Yea, limb from limb his body have we torn 
 
240 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Through the wild forest with a fearful bliss : 
 His gore hath bathed the earth by ash and thorn ! — 
 Go then ! thy blame on lawful wedlock fling ! 
 Ho ! Bacchus ! Take the victim that we bring ! 
 
 CHORUS OF MAENADS. 
 
 Bacchus ! we all must follow thee ! 
 Bacchus ! Bacchus ! Ohe ! Ohe ! 
 
 With ivy coronals, bunch and berry, 
 
 Crown we our heads to worship thee ! 
 Thou hast bidden us to make merry 
 
 Day and night with jollity ! 
 Drink then ! Bacchus is here ! Drink free, 
 And hand ye the drinking-cup to me ! 
 
 Bacchus ! we all must follow thee ! 
 
 Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohe! Ohe! 
 See, I have emptied my horn already : 
 
 Stretch hither your beaker to me, I pray : 
 Are the hills and the lawns where we roam unsteady ? 
 
 Or is it my brain that reels away ? 
 Let every one run to and fro through the hay, 
 As ye see me run ! Ho ! after me ! 
 
 Bacchus ! we all must follow thee ! 
 
 Bacchus ! Bacchus ! Ohe ! Ohe ! 
 Methinks I am dropping in swoon or slumber : 
 
 Am I drunken or sober, yes or no ? 
 What are these weights my feet encumber ? 
 
 You too are tipsy, well I know ! 
 Let every one do as ye see me do, 
 Let every one drink and quaff like me ! 
 
 Bacchus ! we all must follow thee ! 
 
 Bacchus ! Bacchus ! Ohe ! Ohe ! 
 
 Cry Bacchus ! Cry Bacchus ! Be blithe and merry, 
 
 Tossing wine down your throats away ! 
 Let sleep then come and our gladness bury : 
 
 Drink you, and you, and you, while ye may ! 
 Dancing is over for me to-day. 
 Let everyone cry aloud Evohe ! 
 
 Bacchus ! we all must follow thee ! 
 
 Bacchus ! Bacchus ! Ohe ! Ohe ! 
 
 Though an English translation can do little toward render- 
 ing the facile graces of Poliziano's style, that * roseate fluency ' 
 
ORFEO. 241 
 
 fof which it has been praised by his Italian admirers, the main 
 quahties of the ' Orfeo ' as a composition may be traced in this 
 rough copy. Of dramatic power, of that mastery over the 
 deeper springs of human nature which distinguished the 
 first effort of the EngUsh muse in Marlowe's plays, there is but 
 little. A certain adaptation of the language to the characters, 
 as in the rudeness of Thyrsis when contrasted with the rustic 
 elegance of Aristaeus, a touch of simple feeling in Eurydice's 
 lyrical outcry of farewell, a discrimination between the tender 
 sympathy of Proserpine and Pluto's stern relenting, a spirited 
 presentation of the Bacchanalian furore in the Maenads, an 
 attempt to model the Satyr Mnesillus as apart from human 
 nature and yet sympathetic to its anguish, tbJese. points consti- 
 tute the chief dramatic features of the melodrama. Orpheus 
 himself is a purely lyrical personage. Of character, he can 
 scarcely be said to have anything marked , and his part rises to 
 its height precisely in that passage where the lyrist has to be 
 displayed. Before the gates of Hades and the throne of 
 Proserpine he sings, and his singing is the right outpouring of 
 a poet's soul ; each octave resumes the theme of the last 
 stanza with a swell of utterance, a crescendo of intonation that 
 recalls the passionate and unpremeditated descant of a bird 
 upon the boughs alone. To this true quality of music is added 
 the persuasiveness of pleading. That the violin melody of his 
 incomparable song is lost, must be reckoned a great misfortune. 
 We have good reason to believe that the part of Orpheus 
 was taken by Messer Baccio Ugolini, singing to the viol. Here 
 too it may be mentioned tha a tondo in monochrome, painted 
 by Signorelli among the arabesques at Orvieto, shows Orpheus 
 at the throne of Pluto, habited as a poet with the laurel crown 
 and playing on a violin of antique form. It would be inter- 
 esting to know whether a rumour of the Mantuan pageant had 
 reached the ears of the Cortonese painter. 
 
 If the whole of the * Orfeo ' had been conceived and executed 
 
 R 
 
242 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 with the same artistic feeling as the chief act, it would have 
 been a really fine poem independently of its historical interest. 
 But we have only to turn the page and read the lament uttered 
 for the loss of Euridice, in order to perceive PoHziano's inca- 
 pacity for dealing with his hero in a situation of greater diffi- 
 culty. The pathos which might have made us sympathise 
 with Orpheus in his misery, the passion, approaching to mad- 
 ness, which might have justified his misogyny, are absent. It 
 is difficult not to feel that in this climax of his anguish he 
 was a poor creature, and that the Maenads served him right. 
 Nothing illustrates the defect of real dramatic imagination 
 better than this failure to dignify the catastrophe. Gifted with 
 a fine lyrical inspiration, Poliziano seems to have already felt 
 the Bacchic chorus which forms so brilliant a termination to 
 his play, and to have forgotten his duty to the unfortunate 
 Orpheus, whose sorrow for Eurydice is stultified and made un- 
 meanirg by the prosaic expression of a base resolve. It may 
 indeed be said in general that the ' Orfeo ' is a good poem only 
 where the situation is not so much dramatic as lyrical, and that 
 its finest passage— the scene in Hades— was fortunately for its 
 author one in which the dramatic motive had to be lyrically 
 expressed. In this respect, as in many others, the * Orfeo ' 
 combines the faults and merits of the Italian attempts at melo- 
 tragedy. To break a butterfly upon the wheel is, however, no 
 fit function of criticism : and probably no one would have 
 smiled more than the author of this improvisation, at the thought 
 of its being gravely dissected just four hundred years after the 
 occasion it was meant to serve had long been given over to 
 oblivion.^ 
 
 ' For the text of the ' Orfeo ' and for my method of dealing with it, see 
 Appendix. 
 
243 
 
 CANOSSA, 
 
 Italy is less the land of what is venerable in antiquity, than of 
 beauty, by divine right young eternally in spite of age. This is 
 due partly to her history and art and literature, partly to the 
 temper of the races who have made her what she is, and partly 
 to her natural advantages. Her oldest architectual remains, 
 the temples of Paestum and Girgenti, or the gates of Perugia 
 and Volterra, are so adapted to Italian landscape and so graceful 
 in their massive strength, that we forget the centuries which 
 have passed over them. We leap as by a single bound from 
 the times of Roman greatness to the new birth of humanity in 
 the fourteenth century, forgetting the many years during which 
 Italy, like the rest of Europe, was buried in what our ancestors 
 called Gothic barbarism. The illumination cast upon the 
 classic period by the literature of Rome and by the memory of 
 her great men is so vivid, that we feel the days of the Republic 
 and the Empire to be near us ; while the Italian Renaissance 
 is so truly a revival of that former splendour, a resumption of 
 the music interrupted for a season, that it is extremely difficult 
 to form any conception of the five long centuries which elapsed 
 between the Lombard invasion in 568 and the accession of 
 Hildebrand to the Pontificate in 1073. So true is it that 
 nothing lives and has reality for us but what is spiritual, 
 intellectual, self-possessed in personality and consciousness. 
 When the Egyptian priest said to Solon, ' You Greeks are 
 always children,' he intended a gentle sarcasm, but he implied 
 a compliment ; for the quality of imperishable youth belonged 
 to the Hellenic spirit, and has become the heritage of every 
 
244 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL V. 
 
 race which partook of it. And this spirit in no common degree 
 has been shared by the ItaUans of the earlier and the later 
 classic epoch. The land is full of monuments pertaining to those 
 two brilliant periods ; and whenever the voice of poet has spoken 
 or the hand of artist has been at work, that spirit, as dis- 
 tinguished from the spirit of mediaevalism, has found expression. 
 
 Yet it must be remembered that during the five centuries 
 above mentioned Italy was given over to Lombards, Franks, 
 and Germans. Feudal institutions, alien to the social and 
 political ideals of the classic world, took a tolerably firm hold on 
 the country. The Latin element remained silent, passive, in 
 abeyance, undergoing an important transformation. It was 
 in the course of those five hundred years that the Italians as a 
 modern people, separable from their Roman ancestors, were 
 formed. At the close of this obscure passage in Italian 
 history, their communes, the foundation of Italy's future 
 independence, and the source of her peculiar national 
 development, appeared in all the vigour and audacity of youth. 
 At its close the Italian genius presented Europe with its greatest 
 triumph of constructive ability, the Papacy. At its close again 
 the series of supreme artistic achievements, starting with the 
 architecture of churches and public palaces, passing on to 
 sculpture and painting, and culminating in music, which only 
 ended with the temporary extinction of national vitality in the 
 seventeenth century, was simultaneously begun in all the 
 provinces of the peninsula. 
 
 So important were these five centuries of incubation for 
 Italy, and so little is there left of them to arrest the attention 
 of the student, dazzled as he is by the ever-living glories of 
 Greece, Rome, and the Renaissance, that a visit to the ruins of 
 Canossa is almost a duty. There, in spite of himself, by the 
 very isolation and forlorn abandonment of what was once so 
 formidable a seat of feudal despotism and ecclesiastical tyranny, 
 he is forced to confront the obscure but mighty spirit of the 
 
CANOSSA. 245 
 
 middle ages. There, if anywhere, the men of those iron- 
 hearted times anterior to the Crusades will acquire distinctness 
 for his imagination, when he recalls the three main actors in 
 the drama enacted on the summit of Canossa's rock in the 
 bitter winter of 1077. 
 
 Canossa lies almost due south of Reggio d'Emilia, upon 
 the slopes of the .Apennines. Starting from Reggio, the 
 carriage-road keeps to the plain for some while in a westerly 
 direction and then bends away towards the mountains. As 
 we approach their spurs, the ground begins to rise. The rich 
 Lombard tilth of maize and vine gives place to English-looking 
 hedgerows, lined with oaks, and studded with handsome dark 
 tufts of green hellebore. The hills descend in melancholy 
 earth-heaps on the plain, crowned here and there with ruined 
 castles. Four of these mediaeval strongholds, called Bianello, 
 Montevetro, Monteluzzo, and Montezano, give the name of 
 Quattro Castelli to the commune. The most important of 
 them, Bianello, which, next to Canossa, was the strongest 
 fortress possessed by the Countess Matilda and her ancestors, 
 still presents a considerable mass of masonry, roofed, and 
 habitable. The group formed a kind of advance-guard for 
 Canossa against attack from Lombardy. After passing 
 Quattro Castelli we enter the hills, climbing gently upwards 
 between barren slopes of ashy grey earth — the debris of most 
 ancient Apennines — crested at favourable points with lonely 
 towers. In truth the whole country bristles with ruined forts, 
 making it clear that during the middle ages Canossa was but 
 the centre of a great military system, the core and kernel of a 
 fortified position which covered an area to be measured by 
 scores of square miles, reaching far into the mountains, and 
 buttressed on the plain. As yet, however, after nearly two 
 hours' driving, Canossa has not come in sight. At last a turn in 
 the road discloses an opening in the valley of the Enza to the 
 left : up this lateral gorge we see first the Castle of Rossena 
 
246 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 on its knoll of solid red rock, flaming in the sunlight ; and 
 then, further withdrawn, detached from all surrounding objects, 
 and reared aloft as though to sweep the sea of waved and 
 broken hills around it, a sharp horn of hard white stone. That 
 is Canossa — the alba Canossa^ the Candida petra of its rhyming 
 chronicler. There is no mistaking the commanding value of 
 its situation. At the same time the brilliant whiteness of 
 Canossa's rocky hill, contrasted with the red gleam of Rossena, 
 and outlined against the prevailing dulness of these earthy 
 Apennines, secures a picturesque individuality concordant with 
 its unique history and unrivalled strength. 
 
 There is still a journey of two hours before the castle can 
 be reached : and this may be performed on foot or horseback. 
 The path winds upward over broken ground ; following the 
 arete of curiously jumbled and thwarted hill-slopes ; passing 
 beneath the battlements of Rossena, whence the unfortunate 
 Everelina threw herself in order to escape the savage love of her 
 lord and jailor ; and then skirting those horrid earthen balz€ 
 which are so common and so unattractive a feature of Apennine 
 scenery. The most hideous baize to be found in tha length 
 and breadth of Italy are probably those of Volterra, from 
 which the citizens themselves recoil with a kind of terror, and 
 which lure melancholy men by intolerable fascination on to 
 suicide. For ever crumbling, altering with frost and rain, 
 discharging gloomy glaciers of slow- crawling mud, and 
 scarring the hillside with tracts of barrenness, these earth- 
 precipices are among the most ruinous and discomfortable 
 failures of nature. They have not even so much of wildness or 
 grandeur as forms the saving merit of nearly all wasteful things 
 in the world, and can only be classed with the dtsolsitt ghiare 
 of Italian river-beds. 
 
 Such as they are, these bake form an appropriate preface 
 to the gloomy and repellent isolation of Canossa. The rock 
 towers from a narrow platform to the height of rather more 
 
CANOSSA. 2 if 
 
 than 1 60 feet from its base. The top is fairly level, forming 
 an irregular triangle, of which the greatest length is about 260 
 feet, arid the width about 100 feet. Scarcely a vestige of any 
 building can be traced either upon the platform or the summit, 
 with the excepticHi of a broken wall and windows supposed to 
 belong to the end of the sixteenth century. The ancient castle, 
 with its triple circuit of walls, enclosing barracks for the garrison, 
 lodgings for the lord and his retainers, a stately church, a 
 sumptuous monastery, storehouses, stables, workshops, and all 
 the various buildings of a fortified stronghold, have utterly dis- 
 appeared. The very passage of approach cannot be ascertained ; 
 for it is doubtful whether the present irregular path that scales 
 the western face of the rock be really the remains of some 
 old staircase, corresponding to that by which Mont S. Michel 
 in Normandy is ascended. One thing is tolerably certain — that 
 the three walls of which we hear so much from the chroniclers, 
 and which played so picturesque a part in the drama of Henry 
 IV. 's penance, surrounded the cliff at its base, and embraced a 
 large acreage of ground. The citadel itself must have been 
 but the acropolis or keep of an extensive fortress. 
 
 There has been plenty of time since the year 1255, when 
 the people of Reggio sacked and destroyed Canossa, for 
 Nature to resume her undisputed sway by obliterating the 
 handiwork of men; and at present Nature forms the chief 
 charm of Canossa. Lying one afternoon of May on the crisp 
 short grass at the edge of a precipice purple with iris in full 
 blossom, I surveyed, from what were once the battlements of 
 Matilda's castle, a prospect than which there is none more 
 spirit-stirring by reason of its beauty and its manifold associations 
 in Europe. The lower castle-crowded hills have sunk. Reggio 
 lies at our feet, shut in between the crests of Monte Carboniano 
 and Monte delle Celle. Beyond Reggio stretches Lombardy — 
 the fairest and most memorable battle-field of nations, the richest 
 and most highly cultivated garden of civilised industry. Nearly 
 
248 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 all the Lombard cities may be seen, some of them faint like 
 bluish films of vapour, some clear with dome and spire. There 
 is Modena and her Ghirlandina. Carpi, Parma, Mirandola, 
 Verona, Mantua, lie well-defined and russet on the flat green 
 map ; and there flashes a bend of lordly Po ; and there the 
 Euganeans rise like islands, telling us where Padua and 
 Ferrara nestle in the amethystine, haze^ Beyond and above all 
 to the northward sweep the Alps, tossing their silvery crests up 
 into the cloudless sky from the violet mist that girds their 
 flanks and drowns their basements. Monte Adamello and 
 the Ortler, the cleft of the Brenner, and the sharp peaks of the 
 Venetian Alps are all distinctly visible. An eagle flying 
 straight from our eyrie might traverse Lombardy and light 
 among the snow-fields of the Valtelline between sunrise and 
 sundown. Nor is the prospect tame to southward. Here the 
 Apennines roll, billow above billow, in majestic desolation, 
 soaring to snow summits in the Pellegrino region. As our 
 eye attempts to thread that labyrinth of hill and vale, we tell 
 ourselves that those roads wind to Tuscany, and yonder 
 stretches Garfagnana, where Ariosto lived and mused in 
 honourable exile from the world he loved. 
 
 It was by one of the mountain passes that lead from Lucca 
 northward that the first founder of Canossa is said to have 
 travelled early in the tenth century. Sigifredo, if the tradition 
 may be trusted, was very wealthy ; and with his money he 
 bought lands and signorial rights at Reggio, bequeathing to his 
 children, when he died about 945, a patrimony which they 
 developed into a petty kingdom. Azzo, his second son, forti- 
 fied Canossa, and made it his principal place of residence. 
 When Lothair, King of Italy, died in 950, leaving his beautiful 
 widow to the ill-treatment of his successor, Berenger, Adelaide 
 found a protector in this Azzo. She had been imprisoned on 
 the Lake of Garda ; but managing to escape in man's clothes 
 to Mantua, she thence sent news of her misfortunes to Canossa. 
 
CANOSSA. 249 
 
 Azzo lost no time in riding with his knights to her relief, and 
 brought her back in safety to his mountain fastness. It is 
 related that Azzo was afterwards instrumental in calling Otho 
 into Italy and procuring his marriage with Adelaide, in conse- 
 quence of which events Italy became a fief of the Empire. 
 Owing to the part he played at this time, the Lord of Canossa 
 was recognised as one of the most powerful vassals of the 
 German Emperor in Lombardy. Honours were heaped upon 
 him ; and he grew so rich and formidable that Berenger, the 
 titular King of Italy, laid siege to his fortress of Canossa. The 
 memory of this siege, which lasted for three years and a half, is 
 said still to linger in the popular traditions of the place. When 
 Azzo died at the end of the tenth century, he left to his son 
 Tedaldo the title of Count of Reggio and Modena ; and this 
 title was soon after raised to that of Marquis. The Marches 
 governed as Vicar of the Empire by Tedaldo included Reggio, 
 Modena, Ferrara, Brescia, and probably Mantua. They 
 stretched, in fact, across the north of Italy, forming a quadri- 
 lateral between the Alps and Apennines. Like his father, 
 Tedaldo adhered consistently to the Imperial party ; and when 
 he died and was buried at Canossa, he in his turn bequeathed 
 to his son Bonifazio a power and jurisdiction increased by his 
 own abilities. Bonifazio held the state of a sovereign at 
 Canossa, adding the duchy of Tuscany to his father's fiefs, and 
 meeting the aUied forces of the Lombard barons in the field of 
 Coviolo hke an independent potentate. His power and 
 splendour were great enough to rouse the jealousy of the 
 Emperor; but Henry III. seems to have thought it more 
 prudent to propitiate this proud vassal, and to secure his kind- 
 ness, than to attempt his humiliation, Bonifazio married 
 Beatrice, daughter of Frederick, Duke of Lorraine — her whose 
 marble sarcophagus in the Campo Santo at Pisa is said to have 
 inspired Niccola Pisano with his new style of sculpture. Their 
 only child, Matilda, was born, probably at Lucca, in 1046 ; and 
 
2SO SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 six years after her birth, Bonifazio, who had swayed his subjects 
 like an iron-handed tyrant, was murdered. To the great house 
 of Canossa, the rulers of one-third of Italy, there now remained 
 only two women, Bonifazio's widow Beatrice, and his daughter 
 Matilda. Beatrice married Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine, who 
 was recognised by Henry IV. as her husband and as feudatory 
 of the Empire in the full place of Boniface. He died about 
 1070; and in this year Matilda was married by proxy to his 
 son, Godfrey the Hunchback, whom, however, she did not see 
 till the year 1072. The marriage was not a happy one ; and 
 the question has even been disputed among Matilda's biogra- 
 phers whether it was ever consummated. At any rate it did 
 not last long ; for Godfrey was killed at Antwerp in 1076. In 
 this year Matilda also lost her mother, Beatrice, who died at 
 Pisa, and was buried in the cathedral. 
 
 By this rapid enumeration of events it will be seen how the 
 power and honours of the house of Canossa, including Tuscany, 
 Spoleto, and the fairest portions of Lombardy, had devolved 
 upon a single woman of the age of thirty at the moment when 
 the fierce quarrel between Pope and Emperor began in the 
 year 1076. Matilda was destined to play a great, a striking, 
 and a tragic part in the opening drama of Italian history. Her 
 decided character and uncompromising course of action have 
 won for her the name of ' la gran donna d'ltalia,' and have 
 caused her memory to be blessed or execrated, according as the 
 temporal pretensions and spiritual tyranny of the Papacy may 
 have found supporters or opponents in posterity. She was 
 reared from childhood in habits of austerity and unquestioning 
 piety. Submission to the Church became for her not merely a 
 rule of conduct, but a passionate enthusiasm. She identified 
 herself with the cause of four successive Popes, protected her 
 idol, the terrible and iron-hearted Hildebrand, in the time of 
 his adversity ; remained faithful to his principles after his death ; 
 and having served the Holy See with all her force and all that 
 
CA.VOSSA. 251 
 
 she possessed through all her life-time, she bequeathed her vast 
 dominions to it on her death-bed. Like some of the greatest 
 mediaeval characters — like Hildebrand himself — Matilda was so 
 thoroughly of one piece, that she towers above the mists of 
 ages with the massive grandeur of an incarnated idea. She is 
 for us the living statue of a single thought, an undivided im- 
 pulse, the more than woman born to represent her age. Nor 
 was it without reason that Dante symbolised in her the love of 
 Holy Church ; though students of the ' Purgatory ' will hardly 
 recognise the lovely maiden, singing and plucking flowers 
 beside the stream of Lethe, in the stern and warlike chatelaine 
 of Canossa. Unfortunately we know but little of Matilda's 
 personal appearance. Her health was not strong ; and it is 
 said to have been weakened, especially in her last illness, by 
 ascetic observances. Yet she headed her own troops, armed 
 with sword and cuirass, avoiding neither peril nor fatigue in the 
 quarrels of her master Gregory. Up to the year 1622 two 
 strong suits of mail were preserved at Quattro Castelli, which 
 were said to have been worn by her in battle, and which were 
 afterwards sold on the market-place at Reggio. This habit of 
 donning armour does not, however, prove that Matilda was 
 exceptionally vigorous ; for in those savage times she could 
 hardly have played the part of heroine without participating 
 personally in the dangers of warfare. 
 
 No less monumental in the plastic unity of his character 
 was the monk Hildebrand, who for twenty years before his 
 elevation to the Papacy had been the maker of Popes and the 
 creator of the policy of Rome. When he was himself elected 
 in the year 1073, and had assumed the name of Gregory VH., 
 he immediately began to put in practice the plans for Church 
 aggrandisement he had slowly matured during the previous 
 quarter of a century. To free the Church from its subservience 
 to the Empire, to assert the Pope's right to ratify the election 
 of the Emperor and to exercise the right of jurisdiction over 
 
252 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 him, to place ecclesiastical appointments in the sole power of 
 the Roman See, and to render the celibacy of the clergy 
 obligatory, were the points he had resolved to carry. Taken 
 singly and together, these chief aims of Hildebrand's policy 
 had but one object — the magnification of the Church at the 
 expense both of the people and of secular authorities, and the 
 further separation of the Church from the ties and sympathies 
 of common life that bound it to humanity. To accuse Hilde- 
 brand of personal ambition would be but shallow criticism, 
 though it is clear that his inflexible and puissant nature found 
 a savage selfish pleasure in trampling upon power and humbling 
 pride at warfare with his own. Yet his was in no sense an 
 egotistic purpose like that which moved the Popes of the 
 Renaissance to dismember Italy for their bastards. Hildebrand, 
 like Matilda, was himself the creature of a great idea. These 
 two potent personalities completely understood each other, and 
 worked towards a single end. The mythopoeic fancy might 
 conceive of them as the male and female manifestations of one 
 dominant faculty, the spirit of ecclesiastical dominion incarnate 
 in a man and woman of almost superhuman mould. 
 
 Opposed to them, as the third actor in the drama of 
 Canossa, was a man of feebler mould. Henry IV., King of 
 Italy, but not yet crowned Emperor, had none of his opponents' 
 unity of purpose or monumental dignity of character. At war 
 with his German feudatories, browbeaten by rebellious sons, 
 unfaithful and cruel to his wife, vacillating in the measures he 
 adopted to meet his divers difficulties, at one time tormented 
 by his conscience into cowardly submission, and at another 
 treasonably neglectful of the most solemn obligations, Henry 
 was no match for the stern wills against which he was destined 
 to break in unavailing passion. Early disagreements with 
 Gregory had culminated in his excommunication. The German 
 nobles abandoned his cause ; and Henry found it expedient 
 to summon a council in Augsburg for the settlement of matters 
 
CANOSSA. 253 
 
 in dispute between the Empire and the Papacy. Gregory ex- 
 pressed his wiUingness to attend this council, and set forth from 
 Rome accompanied by the Countess Matilda in December, 
 1076. He did not, however, travel further than Vercelli, for 
 news here reached him that Henry was about to enter Italy at 
 the head of a powerful army. Matilda hereupon persuaded 
 the Holy Father to place himself in safety among her strong- 
 holds of Canossa. Thither accordingly Gregory retired before 
 the ending of that year ; and bitter were the sarcasms uttered 
 by the imperial partisans in Italy upon this protection offered 
 by a fair countess to the monk who had been made a Pope. 
 The foul calumnies of that bygone age would be unworthy of 
 even so much as this notice, if we did not trace in them the 
 ineradicable Italian tendency to cynical insinuation. — a tendency 
 which has involved the history of the Renaissance Popes in an 
 almost impenetrable mist of lies and exaggerations. 
 
 Henry was in truth upon his road to Italy, but with a veiy 
 different attendance from that which Gregory expected. Ac- 
 companied by Bertha, his wife, and his boy son Conrad, the 
 Emperor elect left Spires in the condition of a fugitive, crossed 
 Burgundy, spent Christmas at Besangon, and journeyed to the 
 foot of Mont Cenis. It is said that he was followed by a single . 
 male servant of mean birth ; and if the tale of his adventures 
 during the passage of the Alps can be credited, history presents 
 fewer spectacles more picturesque than the straits to which this 
 representative of the Csesars, this supreme chief of feudal 
 civility, this ruler destined still to be the leader of mighty 
 armies and the father of a line of monarchs, was exposed, 
 Conceahng his real name and state, he induced some shepherds 
 to lead him and his escort through the thick snows to the 
 summit of Mont Cenis ; and by the help of these men the 
 imperial party were afterwards let down the snow-slopes on the 
 further side by means of ropes. Bertha and her women were 
 sewn up in hides and dragged across the frozen surface of the 
 
254 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 winter drifts. It was a year memorable for its severity. Heavy 
 snow had fallen in October, which continued ice-bound and 
 unyielding till the following April. 
 
 No sooner had Henry reached Turin, than he set forward 
 again in the direction of Canossa. The fame of his arrival had 
 preceded him, and he found that his party was far stronger in 
 Italy than he had ventured to expect. Proximity to the 
 Church of Rome divests its fulminations of half their terrors. 
 The ItaHan bishops and barons, less superstitious than the 
 Germans, and with greater reason to resent the domineering 
 graspingness of Gregory, were ready to espouse the Emperor's 
 cause. Henry gathered a formidable force as he marched 
 onward across Lombardy; and some of the most illustrious 
 prelates and nobles of the South were in his suite. A more 
 determined leader than Henry proved himself to be, might 
 possibly have forced Gregory to some accommodation, in spite 
 of the strength of Canossa and the Pope's invincible obstinacy, 
 by proper use of these supporters. Meanwhile the adherents 
 of the Church were mustered in Matilda's fortress ; among 
 whom may be mentioned Azzo, the progenitor of Este and 
 Brunswick ; Hugh, Abbot of Clugny ; and the princely family 
 of Piedmont. ' I am become a second Rome,' exclaims Ca- 
 nossa, in the language of Matilda's rhyming chronicler ; * all 
 honours are mine ; I hold at once both Pope and King, the 
 princes of Italy and those of Gaul, those of Rome, and those 
 from far beyond the Alps.' The stage was ready ; the audience 
 had assembled ; and now the three great actors were about to 
 meet. Immediately upon his arrival at Canossa, Henry sent 
 for his cousin, the Countess Matilda, and besought her to 
 intercede for him with Gregory. He was prepared to make 
 any concessions or to undergo any humiliations, if only the ban 
 of excommunication might be removed ; nor, cowed as he was 
 by his own superstitious conscience, and by the memory of the 
 opposition he had met with from his German vassals, does he 
 
CA.VGSSA. 255 
 
 seem to have once thought of meeting force with force, and of 
 returning to his northern kingdom triumphant in the overthrow 
 of Gregory's pride. Matilda undertook to plead his cause 
 before the Pontiff. But Gregory was not to be moved so soon 
 to mercy. ' If Henry has in truth repented/ he replied, ' let 
 him lay down crown and sceptre, and declare himself unworthy 
 of the name of king.' The only point conceded to the sup- 
 pliant was that he should be admitted in the garb of a penitent 
 within the precincts of the castle. Leaving his retinue outside 
 the walls, Henry entered the first series of outworks, and was 
 thence conducted to the second, so that between him and the 
 citadel itself there still remained the third of the surrounding 
 bastions. Here he was bidden to wait the Pope's pleasure ; 
 and here, in the midst of that bitter winter weather, while the 
 fierce winds of the Apennines were sweeping sleet upon him in 
 their passage from Monte Pellegrino to the plain, he knelt 
 barefoot, clothed in sackcloth, fasting fi-om dawn till eve, for 
 three whole days. On the morning of the fourth day, judging 
 that Gregory was inexorable, and that his suit would not be 
 granted, Henry retired to the Chapel of S. Nicholas, which 
 stood within this second precinct. There he called to his aid 
 the Abbot of Clugny and the Countess, both of whom were his 
 relations, and who, much as they might sympathise with 
 Gregory, could hardly be supposed to look with satisfaction on 
 their royal kinsman's outrage. The Abbot told Henry that 
 nothing in the world could move the Pope ; but Matilda, when 
 in turn he fell before her knees and wept, engaged to do for 
 him the utmost. She probably knew that the moment for un- 
 bending had arrived, and that her imperious guest could not 
 with either decency or prudence prolong the outrage offered to 
 the civil chief of Christendom. It was January 25 when the 
 Emperor elect was brought, half dead with cold and misery, 
 into the Pope's presence. There he prostrated himseli m the 
 dust, crying aloud for pardon. It is said that Gregory first 
 
256 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 placed his foot upon Henry's neck, uttering these words of 
 Scripture : * Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis, et con- 
 culcabis leonem et draconem/ and that then he raised him 
 from the earth and formally pronounced his pardon. The 
 prelates and nobles who took part in this scene were compelled 
 to guarantee with their own oaths the vows of obedience pro- 
 nounced by Henry ; so that in the very act of reconciliation a 
 new insult was offered to him. After this Gregory said mass, 
 and permitted Henry to communicate ; and at the close of the 
 day a banquet was served, at which the King sat down to meat 
 with the Pope and the Countess. 
 
 It is probable that, while Henry's penance was performed 
 in the castle courts beneath the rock, his reception by the 
 Pope, and all that subsequently happened, took place in the 
 citadel itself. But of this we have no positive information. 
 Indeed the silence of the chronicles as to the topography of 
 Canossa is peculiarly unfortunate for lovers of the picturesque 
 in historic detail, now that there is no possibility of tracing the 
 outlines of the ancient building. Had the author of the ' Vita 
 Mathildis ' (Muratori, vol. v.) foreseen that his beloved Canossa 
 would one day be nothing but a mass of native rock, he would 
 undoubtedly have been more explicit on these points; and 
 much that is vague about an event only paralleled by our 
 Henry II.'s penance before Becket's shrine at Canterbury, 
 might now be clear. 
 
 Very little remains to be told about Canossa. During the 
 same year, 1077, Matilda made the celebrated donation of her 
 fiefs to Holy Church. This was accepted by Gregory in the 
 name of S. Peter, and it was confirmed by a second deed 
 during the pontificate of Urban IV. in 1102. Though Matilda 
 subsequently married Guelfo d'Este, son of the Duke of 
 Bavaria, she was speedily divorced from him ; nor was there 
 any heir to a marriage ridiculous by reason of disparity of age, 
 the bridegroom being but eighteen, while the bride was forty- 
 
CANOSSA. 257 
 
 three in the year of her second nuptials. During one of 
 Henry's descents into Italy, he made an unsuccessful attack 
 upon Canossa, assailing it at the head cf a considerable force 
 one October morning in 1092. Matilda's biographer informs ^ 
 us that the mists of autumn veiled his beloved fortress from the 
 eyes of the beleaguerers. They had not even the satisfaction 
 of .beholding the unvanquished citadel ; and, what was more, 
 the banner of the Emperor was seized and dedicated as a 
 trophy in the Church of S. Apollonio. In the following year 
 the Countess opened her gates of Canossa to an illustrious 
 fugitive, Adelaide, the wife of her old foeman, Henry, who had 
 escaped with difficulty from the insults and the cruelty of her 
 husband. After Henry's death, his son, the Emperor Henry V., 
 paid Matilda a visit in her castle of Bianello, addressed her by 
 the name of mother, and conferred upon her the vice-regency of 
 Liguria. At the age of sixty-nine she died, in 1 1 15, at Bondeno 
 de' Roncori, and was buried, not among her kinsmen at 
 Canossa, but in an abbey of S. Benedict near Mantua. With 
 her expired the main line of the noble house she represented ; 
 though Canossa, now made a fief of the Empire in spite of 
 Matilda's donation, was given to a family which claimed 
 descent from Bonifazio's brother Conrad — a young man killed 
 in the battle of Coviolo. This family, in its turn, was extin- 
 guished in the year 1570; but a junior branch still exists at 
 Verona. It will be remembered that Michelangelo Buonarroti 
 claimed kinship with the Count of Canossa ; and a letter from 
 the Count is extant acknowledging the validity of his pre- 
 tension. 
 
 As far back as 1255 the people of Reggio destroyed the 
 castle ; nor did the nobles of Canossa distinguish themselves 
 in subsequent history among those families who based their 
 despotisms on the debris of the Imperial power in Lombardy. 
 It seemed destined that Canossa and all belonging to it should 
 remain as a mere name aad memory of the outgrown middle 
 
258 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 ages. Estensi, Carraresi, Visconti, Bentlvogli, and Gonzaghi, 
 belong to a later period of Lombard history, and mark the 
 dawn of the Renaissance. 
 ^ As I lay and mused that afternoon of May upon the short 
 grass, cropped by two grey goats, whom a little boy was tending, 
 it occurred to me to ask the woman who had served me as 
 guide, whether any legend remained in the country concerning 
 the Countess Matilda. She had often, probably, been asked 
 this question by other travellers. Therefore she was more 
 than usually ready with an answer, which, as far as I could 
 understand her dialect, was this. Matilda was a great and 
 potent witch, whose summons the devil was bound to obey. 
 One day she aspired, alone of all her sex, to say mass ; but 
 when the moment came for sacring the elements, a thunderbolt 
 fell from the clear sky, and reduced her to ashes. ' That the 
 most single-hearted handmaid of the Holy Church, whose life 
 was one long devotion to its ordinances, should survive in this 
 grotesque myth, might serve to point a satire upon the vanity 
 of earthly fame. The legend in its very extravagance is a 
 fanciful distortion of the truth. 
 
 ^ I find that this story is common in the country round Canossa. It is 
 mentioned by Professor A. Ferretti in his monograph entitled Canossa, 
 Studi e Ricerche, Reggio, 1S76, a work to which I am indebted, and which 
 will repay careful study. 
 
259 
 
 FOR NOVO, 
 
 In the town of Parma there is one surpassingly strange relic of 
 the past. The palace of the Farnesi, like many a haunt of 
 upstart tyranny and beggared pride on these Italian plains, 
 rises misshapen and disconsolate above the stream that bears 
 the city's name. The squalor of this grey-brown edifice of 
 formless brick, left naked like the palace of the same Farnesi 
 at Piacenza, has something even horrid in it now that only 
 vague memory survives of its former uses. The princely 
 sprczzatura of its ancient occupants, careless of these unfinished 
 courts and unroofed galleries amid the splendour of their purfled 
 silks and the glitter of their torchlight pageantry, has yielded to 
 sullen cynicism — the cynicism of arrested ruin and unreverend 
 age. All that was satisfying to the senses and distracting to the 
 eyesight in their transitory pomp has passed away, leaving a 
 sinister and naked shell. Remembrance can but summon up 
 the crimes, the madness, the trivialities of those dead palace- 
 builders. An atmosphere of evil clings to the dilapidated walls, 
 as though the tainted spirit of the infamous Pier Luigi still 
 possessed the spot, on which his toadstool brood of princelings 
 sprouted in the mud of their misdeeds. Enclosed in this huge 
 labyrinth of brickwork is the relic of which I spoke. It is the 
 once world-famous Teatro Farnese, raised in the year 1618 by 
 Ranunzio Farnese for the marriage of Odoardo Farnese with 
 Margaret of Austria. Giambattista Aleotti, a native of pageant- 
 loving Ferrara, traced the stately curves and noble orders of the 
 
 s 2 
 
260 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 galleries, designed the columns that support the raftered roof, 
 marked out the orchestra, aiTanged the stage, and breathed into 
 the whole the spirit of Palladio's most heroic neo-Latin style. 
 Vast, built of wood, dishevelled, with broken statues and blurred 
 coats of arms, with its empty scene, its uncurling frescoes, its 
 hangings all in rags, its cobwebs of two centuries, its dust and 
 mildew and discoloured gold — this theatre, a sham in its best 
 days, and now that ugliest of things, a sham unmasked and 
 naked to the light of day, is yet sublime, because of its propor- 
 tioned harmony, because of its grand Roman manner. The 
 sight and feeling of it fasten upon the mind and abide in the 
 memory like a nightmare, — like one of Piranesi's weirdest and 
 most passion-haunted etchings for the Carceru IdHng there at 
 noon in the twilight of the dust-bedarkened windows, we fill the 
 tiers of those high galleries with ladies, the space below with 
 grooms and pages ; the stage is ablaze with torches, and an 
 Italian Masque, such as our Marlowe dreamed of, fills the scene. 
 But it is impossible to dower these fancies with even such life 
 as in healthier, happier ruins phantasy may lend to imagination's 
 figments. This theatre is like a maniac's skull, empty of all 
 but unrealities and mockeries of things that are. The ghosts 
 we raise here could never have been living men and women : 
 questi sciawati non fur mai vivi. So clinging is the sense of 
 instability that appertains to every fragment of that dry-rot 
 tyranny which seized by evil fortune in the sunset of her golden 
 day on Italy. 
 
 In this theatre I mused one morning after visiting Fomovo ; 
 and the thoughts suggested by the battlefield found their proper 
 atmosphere in the dilapidated place. What, indeed, is the 
 Teatro Farnese but a symbol of those hollow principalities 
 which the despot and the stranger built in Italy after the fatal 
 date of 1494, when national enthusiasm and political energy 
 were expiring in a blaze of art, and when the Italians as a people 
 had ceased to be ; but when the phantom of their former life, 
 
FOR NOVO. 261 
 
 surviving in high works of beauty, was still superb by reason of 
 imperishable style ! How much in Italy of the Renaissance 
 was, like this plank-built plastered theatre, a glorious sham ! 
 The sham was seen through then ; and now it stands unmasked : 
 and yet, strange to say, so perfect is its form that we respect 
 the sham and yield our spirits to the incantation of its music. 
 
 The battle of Fornovo, as modern battles go, was a paltry 
 affair ; and even at the time it seemed sufficiently without 
 result. Yet the trumpets which rang on July 6, 1495, ^^r the 
 onset, sounded the reveille of the modern world ; and in the 
 inconclusive termination of the struggle of that day, the Italians 
 were already judged and sentenced as a nation. The armies 
 who met that morning represented Italy and France, — Italy, 
 the Sibyl of Renaissance; France, the Sibyl of Revolution. At 
 the fall of evening Europe was already looking northward ; and 
 the last years of the fifteenth century were opening an act which 
 closed in blood at Paris on the ending of the eighteenth. 
 
 If it were not for thoughts like these, no one, I suppose, 
 would take the trouble to drive for two hours out of Parma to 
 the little village of Fornovo, — a score of bare grey hovels on 
 the margin of a pebbly river-bed beneath the Apennines. The 
 fields on either side, as far as eye can see, are beautiful indeed 
 in May sunlight, painted here with flax, like shallow sheets of 
 water reflecting a pale sky, and there with clover red as blood. 
 Scarce unfolded leaves sparkle like flamelets of bright green 
 upon the knotted vines, and the young corn is bending all one 
 way beneath a western breeze. But not less beautiful than this 
 is the whole broad plain of Lombardy ; nor are the nightingales 
 louder here than in the acacia trees around Pavia. As we drive, 
 the fields become less fertile, and the hills encroach upon the 
 ievel, sending down their spurs upon that waveless plain like 
 blunt rocks jutting out into a tranquil sea. When we reach the 
 bed of the Taro, these hills begin to narrow on either hand, and 
 the road rises. Soon they open out again with gradual curving 
 
262 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 lines, forming a kind of amphitheatre filled up from flank to 
 flank with the ghiara or pebbly bottom of the Taro. The Taro 
 is not less wasteful than any other of the brotherhood of streams 
 that pour from Alp or Apennine to swell the Po. It wanders, 
 an impatient rivulet, through a wilderness of boulders, uncertain 
 of its aim, shifting its course with the season of the year, unless 
 the jaws of some deep-cloven gully hold it tight and show how 
 insignificant it is. As we advance, the hills approach again ; 
 between their skirts there is nothing but the river-bed ; and 
 now on rising ground above the stream, at the point of juncture 
 between the Ceno and the Taro, we find Fornovo. Beyond 
 the village the valley broadens out once more, disclosing Apen- 
 nines capped with winter snow. To the right descends the 
 Ceno. To the left foams the Taro, following whose rocky 
 channel we should come at last to Pontremoli and the Tyr- 
 rhenian sea beside Sarzana. On a May-day of sunshine like the 
 present, the Taro is a gentle stream. A waggon drawn by two 
 white oxen has just entered its channel, guided by a contadino 
 with goat- skin leggings, wielding a long goad. The patient 
 creatures stem the water, which rises to the peasant's thighs and 
 ripples round the creaking wheels. Swaying to and fro, as the 
 shingles shift upon the river-bed, they make their way across ; 
 and now they have emerged upon the stones ; and now we lose 
 them in a flood of sunlight. 
 
 It was by this pass that Charles VIII. in 1495 returned from 
 Tuscany, v/hen the army of the League was drawn up waiting 
 to intercept and crush him in the mousetrap of Fornovo. No 
 road remained for Charles and his troops but the rocky bed of 
 the Taro, running, as I have described it, between the spurs of 
 steep hills. It is true that the valley of the Baganza leads, from 
 a little higher up among the mountains, into Lombardy. But 
 this pass runs straight to Parma ; and to follow it would have 
 brought the French upon the walls of a strong city. Charles 
 could not do otherwise than descend upon the village of 
 
FORNOVO. 263 
 
 Fornovo, and cut his way thence in the teeth of the Italian 
 army over stream and boulder between the gorges of throttling 
 mountain. The failure of the ItaHans to achieve what here 
 upon the ground appears so simple, delivered Italy hand-bound 
 to strangers. Had they but succeeded in arresting Charles and 
 destroying his forces at Fornovo, it is just possible that then — 
 even then, at the eleventh hour — Italy might have gained the 
 sense of national coherence, or at least have proved herself 
 capable of holding by her leagues the foreigner at bay. As it 
 was, the battle of Fornovo, in spite of Venetian bonfires and 
 Mantuan Madonnas of Victory, made her conscious of incom- 
 petence and convicted her of cowardice. After Fornovo, her 
 sons scarcely dared to hold their heads up in the field against 
 invaders ; and the battles fought upon her soil were duels among 
 aliens for the prize of Italy. 
 
 In order to comprehend the battle of Fornovo in its bearings 
 on Italian history, we must go back to the year 1492, and 
 understand the conditions of the various States of Italy at that 
 date. On April 8 in that year, Lorenzo de' Medici, who had 
 succeeded in maintaining a political equilibrium in the peninsula, 
 expired, and was succeeded by his son Piero, a vain and fool- 
 hardy young man, from whom no guidance could be expected. 
 On July 25, Innocent VIII. died, and was succeeded by the 
 very worst Pope who has ever occupied S. Peter's chair, 
 Roderigo Borgia, Alexander VI. It was felt at once that the 
 old order of things had somehow ended, and that a new era, 
 the destinies of which as yet remained incalculable, was opening 
 for Italy. The chief Italian powers, hitherto kept in equipoise 
 by the diplomacy of Lorenzo de' Medici, were these — the Duchy 
 of Milan, the Republic of Venice, the Republic of Florence, 
 the Papacy, and the kingdom of Naples. Minor States, such as 
 the Republics of Genoa and Siena, the Duchies of Urbino and 
 Ferrara, the Marquisate of Mantua, the petty tyrannies of 
 Romagna, and the wealthy city of Bologna, were sufficiently 
 
264 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 important to affect the balance of power, and to produce new 
 combinations. For the present purpose it is, however, enough 
 to consider the five great Powers. 
 
 After the peace of Constance, which freed the Lombard 
 Communes from Imperial interference in the year 1183, Milan, 
 by her geographical position, rose rapidly to be the first city of 
 North Italy. Without narrating the changes by which she lost 
 her freedom as a Commune, it is enough to state that, earliest 
 of all Italian cities, Milan passed into the hands of a single 
 family. The Visconti managed to convert this flourishing 
 commonwealth, with all its dependencies, into their private 
 property, ruling it exclusively for their own profit, using its 
 municipal institutions as the machinery of administration, and 
 employing the taxes which they raised upon its wealth for 
 purely selfish ends. Wlien the line of the Visconti ended in 
 the, year 1447, their tyranny was continued by Francesco 
 Sforza, the son of a poor soldier of adventure, who had raised 
 himself by his military genius, and had married Bianca, the 
 illegitimate daughter of the last Visconti.. On the death of 
 Francesco Sforza in 1466, he left two sonSy Galeazzo Maria 
 and Lodovico, surnamed II Moro, both of whom were destined 
 to play a prominent part in history. Galeazzo Maria, dissolute, 
 vicious, and cruel to the core, was murdered by his injured 
 subjects in the year 1476. His son, Giovanni Galeazzo, aged 
 eight, would in course of time have succeeded to the Duchy, 
 had it not been for the ambition of his uncle Lodovico. Lodo- 
 vico contrived to name himself as Regent for his nephew, 
 whom he kept, long after he had come oi age, in a kind of 
 honourable prison. Virtual master in Milan,, but without a 
 legal title to the throne, unrecognised in his authority by the 
 Italian powers, and holding it from day to day by craft and 
 fraud, Lodovico at last found his situation untenable ; and it 
 was this difficulty of an usurper to maintain himself in his des- 
 potism which, as we shall see, brought the French into Italy. 
 
FORNOVO. 265 
 
 Venice, the neighbour and constant foe of Milan, had be- 
 come a close oligarchy by a process of gradual constitutional 
 development, which threw her government into the hands of a 
 few nobles. She was practically ruled by the hereditary 
 members of the Grand Council. Ever since the year 1453, 
 when Constantinople fell beneath the Turk, the Venetians had 
 been more and more straitened in their Oriental commerce, 
 and were thrown back upon the policy of territorial aggrandise- 
 ment in Italy, from which they had hitherto refrained as alien 
 to the temperament of the Republic. At the end of the 
 fifteenth century Venice therefore became an object of envy 
 and terror to the Italian States. They envied her because she 
 alone was tranquil, wealthy, powerful, and free. They feared 
 her because they had good reason to suspect her of encroach- 
 ment ; and it was foreseen that if she got the upper hand in 
 Italy, all Italy would be the property of the families inscribed 
 upon the Golden Book. It was thus alone that the Italians 
 comprehended government. Thp principle of representation 
 being utterly unknown, and the privileged burghers in each 
 city being regarded as absolute and lawful owners of the city 
 and of everything belonging to it, the conquest of a town by a 
 republic implied the political extinction of that town and the 
 disfranchisement of its inhabitants in favour of the conquerors. 
 
 Florence at this epoch still called itself a Republic ; and of 
 all Italian commonwealths it was by far the most democratic. 
 Its history, unlike that of Venice, had been the history of con- 
 tinual and brusque changes, resulting in the destruction of the ' 
 old nobility, in the equalisation of the burghers, and in the 
 formation of a new aristocracy of wealth. From this class of 
 bourgeois nobles sprang the Medici, who, by careful manipula- 
 tion of the State machinery, by the creation of a powerful 
 party devoted to their interests, by flattery of the people, by 
 corruption, by taxation, and by constant scheming, raised them- 
 selves to the lirst place in the commonwealth, and became its 
 
266 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 virtual masters. In the year 1492, Lorenzo de' Medici, the 
 most remarkable chief of this despotic family, died, bequeath- 
 ing his supremacy in the Republic to a son of marked incom- 
 petence. 
 
 Since the Pontificate of Nicholas V. the See of Rome had 
 entered upon a new period of existence. The Popes no longer 
 dreaded to reside in Rome, but were beat upon making the 
 metropolis of Christendom both splendid as a seat of art and 
 learning, and also potent as the capital of a secular kingdom. 
 Though their fiefs in Romagna and the March were still held 
 but loosely, though their provinces swarmed with petty despots 
 who defied the Papal authority, and though the princely 
 Roman houses of Colonna and Orsini were still strong enough 
 to terrorise the Holy Father in the Vatican, it was now clear 
 that the Papal See must in the end get the better of its adver- 
 saries, and consolidate itself into a first-rate power. The 
 internal spirit of the Papacy at this time corresponded to its 
 external policy. It was thoroughly secularised by a series of 
 worldly and vicious pontiffs, who had clean forgotten what 
 their title. Vicar of Christ, implied. They consistently used 
 their religious prestige to enforce their secular authority, while 
 by their temporal power they caused their religious claims to 
 be respected. Corrupt and shameless, they indulged them- 
 selves in every vice, openly acknowledged their children, and 
 turned Italy upside down in order to estabfish favourites and 
 bastards in the principalities they seized as spoils of war. 
 
 The kingdom of Naples differed from any other state of 
 Italy. Subject continually to foreign rulers since the decay of 
 the Greek Empire, governed in succession by the Normans, 
 the Hohenstauffens, and the House of Anjou, it had never 
 enjoyed the real independence, or the free institutions, of the 
 northern provinces ; nor had it been Italianised in the same 
 sense as the rest of the peninsula. Despotism, which assumed 
 so many forms in Italy, was here neither the tyranny of a noble 
 
FOR NOVO. 267 
 
 house, nor the masked autocracy of a burgher, nor yet the 
 forceful sway of a condottiere. It had a dynastic character, 
 resembling the monarchy of one of the great European nations, 
 but modified by the peculiar conditions of Italian statecraft. 
 Owing to this dynastic and monarchical complexion of the 
 Neapolitan kingdom, semi-feudal customs flourished in the 
 south far more than in the north of Italy. The barons were 
 more powerful ; and the destinies of the Regno often turned 
 upon their feuds and quarrels with the Crown. At the same 
 time the Neapolitan despots shared the uneasy circumstances 
 of all Italian potentates, owing to the uncertainty of their 
 tenure, both as conquerors and aliens, and also as the nominal 
 vassals of the Holy See. The rights of suzerainty which the 
 Normans had yielded to the Papacy over their southern 
 conquests, and which the Popes had arbitrarily exercised in 
 favour of the Angevine princes, proved a constant source of 
 peril to the rest of Italy by rendering the succession to the 
 crown of Naples doubtful. On the extinction of the Angevine 
 line, however, the throne was occupied by a prince who had no 
 valid title but that of the sword to its possession. Alfonso of 
 Aragon conquered* Naples in 1442, and neglecting his heredi- 
 tary dominion, settled in his Italian capital. Possessed with 
 the enthusiasm for literature which was then the ruling passion 
 of the Italians, and very liberal to men of learning, Alfonso 
 won for himself the surname of Magnanimous. On his death, 
 in 1458, he bequeathed his Spanish kingdom, together with 
 Sicily and Sardinia, to his brother, and left the fruits of his 
 Italian conquest to his bastard, Ferdinand. This Ferdinand, 
 whose birth was buried in profound obscurity, was the reigning 
 sovereign in the year 1492. Of a cruel and sombre tempera- 
 ment, traitorous and tyrannical, Ferdinand was hated by his 
 subjects as much as Alfonso had been loved. He possessed, 
 however, to a remarkable degree, the qualities which at that 
 epoch constituted a consummate statesman; and though the 
 
26 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 history of his reign is the history of plots and conspiracies, of 
 judicial murders and forcible assassinations, of famines pro- 
 duced by iniquitous taxation, and of every kind of diabolical 
 tyranny, Ferdinand contrived to hold his own, in the teeth of a 
 rebellious baronage or a maddened population. His political 
 sagacity amounted almost to a prophetic instinct in the last 
 years of his life, when he became aware that the old order was 
 breaking up in Italy, and had cause to dread that Charles VIII. 
 of France would prove his title to the kingdom of Naples by 
 force of arms. ^ 
 
 Such were the component parts of the Italian body politic, 
 with the addition of numerous petty principalities and powers, 
 adhering more or less consistently to one or other of the greater 
 States. The whole complex machine was bound together by 
 no sense of common interest, animated by no common purpose, 
 amenable to no central authority. Even such community of 
 feeling as one spoken language gives, was lacking. And yet 
 Italy distinguished herself clearly from the rest of Europe, not 
 merely as a geographical fact, but also as a people intellectually 
 and spiritually one. The rapid rise of humanism had aided in 
 producing this national self-consciousness.* Every State and 
 every city was absorbed in the recovery of culture and in the 
 development of art and literature. Far in advance of the other 
 European nations, the Italians regarded the rest of the world 
 as barbarous, priding themselves the while, in spite of mutual 
 jealousies and hatreds, on their Italic civilisation. They were 
 enormously wealthy. The resources of the Papal treasury, the 
 private fortunes of the Florentine bankers, the riches of the 
 Venetian merchants might have purchased all that France or 
 Germany possessed of value. The single Duchy of Milan 
 yielded to its masters 700,000 golden florins of revenue, ac- 
 
 * Charles claimed under the will of Rene of Anjou, who in turn claimed 
 under the will of Joan II. 
 
FOR NOVO. 269 
 
 cording to the computation of De Comlnes. In default of a 
 confederative system, the several States were held in equili- 
 brium by diplomacy. By far the most important people, . next 
 to the despots and the captains of adventure, were ambassadors 
 and orators. War itself had become a matter of arrangement, 
 bargain, and diplomacy. The game of stratagem was played 
 by generals who had been friends yesterday and might be 
 friends again to-morrow, with troops who felt no loyalty what- 
 ever for the standards under which they listed. To avoid 
 slaughter and to achieve the ends of warfai-e by parade and 
 demonstration was the interest of every one concerned. Look- 
 ing back upon Italy of the fifteenth century, taking account of 
 her religious deadness and moral corruption, estimating the 
 absence of political vigour in the republics and the noxious 
 tyranny of the despots, analysing her lack of national spirit, and 
 comparing her splendid life of cultivated" ease with the want of 
 martial energy, we can see but too plainly that contact with a 
 simpler and stronger people could not but produce a terrible 
 catastrophe. The Italians themselves, however, were far from 
 comprehending this. Centuries of undisturbed internal in- 
 trigue had accustoxned them to play the game of forfeits with 
 each other, and nothing warned them that the time was come at 
 which diplomacy, finesse, and craft would stand them in ill 
 stead against rapacious conquerors. 
 
 The storm which began to gather over Italy in the year 
 1492 had its first beginning in the North, Lodovico Sforza's 
 position in the Duchy of Milan was becoming every day more 
 difficult, when a slight and to all appearances insignificant 
 incident converted his apprehension of danger into panic. It 
 was customary for the States of Italy to congratulate a new 
 Pope on his election by their ambassadors ; and this ceremony 
 had now to be performed for Roderigo Borgia, Lodovico pro- 
 posed that his envoys should go to Rome together with those 
 of Venice, Naples, and Florence \ but Piero de' Medici, whose 
 
270 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 vanity made him wish to send an embassy in his own name, 
 contrived that Lodovico's proposal should be rejected both by 
 Florence and the King- of Naples. So strained was the situa- 
 tion of Italian affairs that Lodovico saw in this repulse a 
 menace to his own usurped authority. Feeling himself 
 isolated among the princes of his country, rebuffed by the 
 Medici, and coldly treated by the King of Naples, he turned 
 in his anxiety to France, and advised the young king, Charles 
 VIIL, to make good his claim upon the Regno. It was a bold 
 move to bring the foreigner thus into Italy ; and even Lodo- 
 vico, who prided himself upon his sagacity, could not see how 
 things would end. He thought his situation so hazardous, 
 however, that any change must be for the better. Moreover, 
 a French invasion of Naples would tie the hands of his natural 
 foe, King Ferdinand, whose granddaughter, Isabella of Aragon, 
 had married Giovanni Galeazzo Sforza, and was now the rightful 
 Duchess of Milan. When the Florentine ambassador at Milan 
 asked him how he had the courage to expose Italy to such 
 peril, his reply betrayed the egotism of his policy : ' You talk 
 to me of Italy ; but when have I looked Italy in the face ? No 
 one ever gave a thought to my affairs. I have, therefore, had 
 to give them such security as I could.' 
 
 Charles VIIL was young, light-brained, romantic, and ruled 
 hy parvenus, who had an interest in disturbing the old order of 
 the monarchy. He lent a willing ear to Lodovico's invitation, 
 backed as this was by the eloquence and passion of nu- 
 merous ItaHan refugees and exiles. Against the advice of 
 his more prudent counsellors, he taxed all the resources of his 
 kingdom, and concluded treaties on disadvantageous terms with 
 England, Germany, and Spain, in order that he might be able 
 to concentrate all his attention upon the Italian expedition. 
 At the end of the year 1493, it was known that the invasion 
 was resolved upon. Gentile Becchi, the Florentine envoy at 
 the Court of France^ wrote to Piero de' Medici : ' If the King 
 
FORNOVO. 271 
 
 succeeds, it is all over with lldXy—tutta a bordello.^ The 
 extraordinary selfishness of the several Italian States at this 
 critical moment deserves to be noticed. The Venetians, as 
 Paolo Antonio Sodefini described them to Piero de' Medici, 
 * are of opinion that to keep quiet, and to see other potentates 
 of Italy spending and suffering, cannot but be to their advan- 
 tage. They trust no one, and feel sure they have enough 
 money to be able at any moment to raise sufficient troops, and 
 so to guide events according to their inchnations.' As the 
 invasion was directed against Naples, Ferdinand of Aragon dis- 
 played the acutest sense of the situation. ' Frenchmen,' he 
 exclaimed, in what appears like a prophetic passion when con- 
 trasted with the cold indifference of others no less really 
 menaced, * have never come into Italy without inflicting ruin ; 
 and this invasion, if rightly considered, cannot but bring uni- 
 versal ruin, although it seems to manace us alone.' In his 
 agony Ferdinand applied to Alexander VI. But the Pope looked 
 coldly upon him, because the King of Naples, with rare per- 
 spicacity, had predicted that his elevation to the Papacy would 
 prove disastrous to Christendom. Alexander preferred to ally 
 himself with Venice and Milan. Upon this Ferdinand wrote 
 as follows : * It seems fated that the Popes should leave no 
 peace in Italy. We are compelled to fight ; but the Duke of 
 Bari {i.e. Lodovico Sforza) should think what may ensue from 
 the tumult he is stirring up. He who raises this wind will not 
 be able to lay the tempest when he likes. Let him look to the 
 past, and he will see how every time that our internal quarrels 
 have brought Powers from beyond the Alps into Italy, these 
 have oppressed and lorded over her.' 
 
 Terribly verified as these words were destined to be, — and 
 they were no less prophetic in their political sagacity than 
 Savonarola's prediction of the Sword and bloody Scourge, — it 
 was now too late to avert the coming ruin. On March i, 1494, 
 Charles was with his army at Lyons. Early in September he 
 
272 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 had crossed the pass of Mont Genevre and taken up his quarters 
 in the town of Asti. There is no need to describe in detail 
 the hoUday march of the French troops through Lombardy, 
 Tuscany, and Rome, until, without having struck a blow of 
 consequence, the gates of Naples opened to receive the con- 
 queror upon February 22, 1495. Philippe de Comines, who 
 parted from the king at Asti and passed the winter as his envoy 
 at Venice, has more than once recorded his behef that nothing 
 but the direct interposition of Providence could have brought 
 so mad an expedition to so successful a conclusion. ' Dieu 
 monstroit conduire Ventre prise.' No sooner, however, was 
 Charles installed in Naples than the States of Italy began to 
 combine against him. Lodovico Sforza had availed himself of 
 the general confusion consequent upon the first appearance of 
 the French, to poison his nephew. He was, therefore, now the 
 titular, as well as virtual, Lord of Milan. So far, he had 
 achieved what he desired, and had no further need of Charles. 
 The overtures he now made to the Venetians and the Pope 
 terminated in a League between these Powers for the expulsion 
 of the French from Italy. Germany and Spain entered into 
 the same alliance ; and De Comines, finding himself treated 
 with marked coldness by the Signory of Venice, despatched a 
 courier to warn Charles in Naples of the coming danger. After 
 a stay of only fifty days in his new capital, the French King 
 hurried northward. Moving quickly through the Papal States 
 and Tuscany, he engaged his troops in the passes of the 
 Apennines near Pontremoli, and on July 5, 1495, ^o<^^ ^P ^is 
 quarters in the village of Fornovo. De Comines reckons that 
 his whole fighting force at this time did not exceed 9,000 men, 
 with fourteen pieces of artillery. Against him at the opening 
 of the valley was the army of the League, numbering some 
 35,000 men, of whom three-fourths were supplied by Venice, 
 the rest by Lodovico Sforza and the German Emperor. 
 Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua, was the general of the 
 
FORNOVO. 273 
 
 Venetian forces ; and on him, therefore, fell the real responsi- 
 bility of the battle. 
 
 De Comines remarks on the imprudence of the allies, who 
 allowed Charles to advance as far as Fomovo, when it was 
 their obvious poHcy to have established themselves in the 
 village and so have caught the French troops in a trap. It 
 was a Sunday when the French marched down upon Fornovo. 
 Before them spread the plain of Lombardy, and beyond it 
 the white crests of the Alps. *We were,' says De 
 Comines, *in a valley between two little mountain flanks, 
 and in that valley ran a river which could easily be 
 forded on foot, except when it is swelled with sudden rains. 
 The whole valley was a bed of gravel and big stones, very 
 difficult for horses, about a quarter of a league in breadth, and 
 on the right bank lodged our enemies.' Any one who has 
 visited Fornovo can understand the situation of the two 
 armies. Charles occupied the village on the right bank of the 
 Taro. On the same bank, extending downward toward the 
 plain, lay the host of the allies ; and in order that Charles should 
 escape them, it was necessary that he should cross the Taro, 
 just below its junction with the Ceno, and reach Lombardy by 
 marching in a parallel line with his foes. 
 
 All through the night of Sunday it thundered and rained 
 incessantly ; so that on the Monday morning the Taro was 
 considerably swollen. At seven o'clock the king sent for De 
 Comines, who found him already armed and mounted on the 
 finest horse he had ever seen. The name of this charger was 
 Savoy. He was black, one-eyed, and of middling height ; and 
 to his great courage, as we shall see, Charles owed life upon 
 that day. The French army, ready for the march, now took 
 to the gravelly bed of the Taro, passing the river at a distance 
 of about a quarter of a league from the allies. As the French 
 left Fornovo, the light cavalry of their enemies entered the 
 village and began to attack the baggage. At the same time 
 
 T 
 
274 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the Marquis of Mantua, with the flower of his men-at-arms, 
 crossed the Taro and harassed the rear of the French host; 
 while raids from the right bank to the left were constantly 
 being made by sharp-shooters and flying squadrons. *At this 
 moment/ says De Comines, ' not a single man of us could have 
 escaped if our ranks had once been broken.' The French 
 army was divided into three main bodies. The vanguard con- 
 sisted of some 350 men-at-arms, 3,000 Switzers, 300 archers of 
 the Guard, a few mounted crossbow-men, and the artillery. 
 Next came the Battle, and after this the rearguard. At the 
 time when the Marquis of Mantua made his attack, the French 
 rearguard had not yet crossed the river. Charles quitted the 
 van, put himiself at the head of his chivalry, and charged the 
 Italian horsemen, driving them back, some to the village and 
 others to their camp. De Comines observes, that had the 
 Italian knights been supported in this passage of arms by the 
 light cavalry of the Venetian force, called Stradiots, the French 
 must have been outnumbered, thrown into confusion, and 
 defeated. As it was, these Stradiots were engaged in plunder- 
 ing the baggage of the French ; and the Italians, accustomed 
 to bloodless encounters, did not venture, in spite of their 
 immense superiority of numbers, to renew the charge. In the 
 pursuit of Gonzaga's horsemen Charles outstripped his staff, 
 and was left almost alone to grapple with a little band of 
 mounted foemen. It was here that his noble horse. Savoy, 
 saved his person by plunging and charging till assistance came 
 up from the French, and enabled the King to regain his van. 
 
 It is incredible, considering the nature of the ground and 
 the number of the troops engaged, that the allies should not 
 have returned to the attack and have made the passage of the 
 French into the plain impossible. De Comines, however, 
 assures us that the actual engagement only lasted a quarter of 
 an hour, and the pursuit of the Italians three quarters of an 
 hour. After they had once resolved to fly, they threw away their 
 
FORNOVO. 275 
 
 lances and betook themselves to Reggio and Parma. So com- 
 plete was their discomfiture, that De Comines gravely blames the 
 want of military genius and adventure in the French host If, 
 instead of advancing along the left bank of the Taro and there 
 taking up his quarters for the night, Charles had recrossed the 
 stream and pursued the army of the allies, he would have had 
 the whole of Lombardy at his discretion. As it was, the 
 French army encamped not far from the scene of the action in 
 great discomfort and anxiety. De Comines had to bivouac in 
 a vineyard, without even a mantle to wrap round him, having 
 lent his cloak to the King in the morning ; and as it had been 
 pouring all day, the ground could not have afforded very 
 luxurious quarters. The same extraordinary luck which had 
 attended the French in their whole expedition, now favoured 
 their retreat ; and the same pusillanimity which the allies had 
 shown at Fornovo, prevented them from re-forming and 
 engaging with the army of Charles upon the plaia One hour 
 before daybreak on Tuesday morning, the French broke up 
 their camp and succeeded in clearing the valley. That night 
 they lodged at Fiorenzuola, the -next at Piacenza, and so on ; 
 till on the eighth day they arrived at Asti without having been 
 so much as incommoded by the army of the allies in their rear. 
 
 Although the field of Fornovo was in reality so disgraceful to 
 the Italians, they reckoned it a victory upon the technical pre- 
 tence that the camp and baggage of the French had been seized. 
 Illuminations and rejoicings made the piazza of S. Mark in 
 Venice gay, and Francesco da Gonzaga had the glorious Ma- 
 donna della Vittoria painted for him by Mantegna, in commemo- 
 ration of what ought only to have been remembered with shame. 
 
 A fitting conclusion to this sketch, connecting its close with 
 the commencement, may be found in some remarks upon the 
 manner of warfare to which the Italians of the Renaissance had 
 become accustomed, and which proved so fiitile on the field 
 of Fornovo. During the middle ages, and in the days of the 
 
27& SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Communes, the whole male population of Italy had fought 
 light-armed on foot. Merchant and artisan left the counting- 
 house and the workshop, took shield and pike, and sallied 
 forth to attack the barons in their castles, or to meet the 
 Emperor's troops upon the field. It was with this national 
 militia that the citizens of Florence freed their Contado of 
 the nobles, and the burghers of Lombardy gained the battle of 
 Legnano. In course of time, by a process of change which it 
 is not very easy to trace, heavily-armed cavalry began to take 
 the place of infantry in mediaeval warfare. Men-at-arms, as 
 they were called, encased from head to foot in iron, and 
 mounted upon chargers no less solidly caparisoned, drove the 
 foot-soldiers before them at the points of their long lances. 
 Nowhere in Italy do they seem to have met with the fierce 
 resistance which the bears of the Swiss Oberland and the bulls 
 of Uri offered to the knights of Burgundy. No Tuscan Arnold 
 von Winkelried clasped a dozen lances to his bosom that the 
 foeman's ranks might thus be broken at the cost of his own life ; 
 nor did it occur to the Italian burghers to meet the charge of 
 the horsemen with squares protected by bristling spears. They 
 seem, on the contrary, to have abandoned military service with 
 the readiness of men whose energies were already absorbed in 
 the affairs of peace. To become a practised and efficient man- 
 at-arms required long training and a life's devotion. So much 
 time the burghers of the free towns could not spare to military 
 service, while the petty nobles were only too glad to devote 
 themselves to so honourable a calling. Thus it came to pass 
 that a class of professional fighting-men was gradually formed 
 in Italy, whose services the burghers and the princes bought, 
 and by whom the wars of the peninsula were regularly farmed 
 by contract. Wealth and luxury in the great cities continued 
 to increase ; and as the burghers grew more comfortable, they 
 were less inclined to take the field in their own persons, and 
 Bnore disposed to vote large sums of money for the purchase of 
 
FOR NOVO. 277 
 
 necessary aid. At the same time this system suited the despots, 
 since it spared them the peril of arming their own subjects, 
 while they taxed them to pay the services of foreign captains. 
 War thus became a commerce. Romagna, the Marches of 
 Ancona, and other parts of the Papal dominions, supplied a 
 number of petty nobles whose whole business in life it was to 
 form companies of trained horsemen, and with these bands to 
 hire themselves out to the republics and the despots. Gain 
 was the sole purpose of these captains. They sold their 
 service to the highest bidder, fighting irrespectively of principle 
 or patriotism, and passing with the coldest equanimity from the 
 camp of one master to that of his worst foe. It was impos- 
 sible that tnie military spirit should survive this prostitution of 
 the art of war. A species of mock warfare prevailed in Italy, 
 Battles were fought with a view to booty more than victory ; 
 prisoners were taken for the sake of ransom ; bloodshed was 
 carefully avoided, for the men who fought on either side in any 
 pitched field had been comrades with their present foemen in 
 the last encounter, and who could tell how soon the general of 
 the one host might not need his rival's troops to recruit his 
 own ranks? Like every genuine institution of the Italian 
 Renaissance, warfare was thus a work of fine art, a masterpiece 
 of intellectual subtlety; and like the Renaissance itself, this 
 peculiar form of warfare was essentially transitional. The 
 cannon and the musket were already in use ; and it only 
 required one blast of gunpowder to turn the sham-fight of 
 courtly, traitorous, finessing captains of adventure into some- 
 thing terribly more real. To men like the Marquis of Mantua 
 war had been a highly profitable game of skill ; to men like 
 the Marechal de Gi^ it was a murderous horse-play ; and this 
 difference the Italians were not slow to perceive. When they 
 cast away their lances at Fornovo, and fled — in spite of their 
 superior numbers — never to return, one fair- seeming sham of 
 the fifteenth century became a vision of the past. 
 
278 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 TWO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY, 
 
 There are few contrasts more striking than that which is 
 presented by the memoirs of Goldoni and Alfieri. Both of 
 these men bore names highly distinguished in the history of 
 Italian literature. Both of them were framed by nature with 
 strongly marked characters, and fitted to perform a special 
 work in the world. Both have left behind them records of their 
 lives and literary labours, singularly illustrative of their peculiar 
 differenceSo There is no instance in which we see more clearly 
 the philosophical value of autobiographies, than m. these vivid 
 pictures which the great Italian tragedian and comic author 
 have delineated. Some of the most interesting works of 
 Lionardo da Vinci, Giorgione,. Albert Diirer, Rembrandt,. 
 Rubens, and Andrea del Sarto^ are their portraits painted by 
 themselves. These pictures exhibit not only the lineaments of 
 the masters, but also their art. The hand which drew them 
 was the hand which drew the ' Last Supper,' or the ' Madonna 
 of the Tribune : ' colour, method, chiaroscuro, all that makes 
 up manner in painting, may be studied on the same canvas a& 
 that which faithfully represents the features of the man whose 
 genius gave his style its special character. We seem to under- 
 stand the clear calm niajesty of Lionardo's manner, the silver- 
 gray harmonies and smooth facility of Andrea's Madonnas, the 
 better for looking at their faces drawn by tlieir own hands at 
 Florence. And if this be the case with a dumb picture, how 
 far higher must be the interest and importance of the written 
 
TIVO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 279 
 
 life of a known author. Not only do we recognise in its com- 
 position the style and temper and habits of thought which are 
 familiar to us in his other writings ; but we also hear from his 
 own lips how these were formed, how his tastes took their 
 peculiar direction, what circumstances acted on his character, 
 what hopes he had, and where he failed. Even should his 
 autobiography not bear the marks of uniform candour, it 
 probably reveals more of the actual truth, more of the man's 
 real nature in its height and depth, than any memoir written 
 by friend or foe. Its unconscious admissions, its general spirit, 
 and the inferences which we draw from its perusal, are far more 
 valuable than any mere statement of facts or external analysis, 
 however scientific. When we become acquainted with the 
 series of events which led to the conception or attended the 
 production of some masterpiece of Hterature, a new light is 
 thrown upon its beauties, fresh life bursts forth from every 
 chapter, and we seem to have a nearer and more personal 
 interest in its success. What a powerful sensation, for instance, 
 is that which we experience when, after studying the ' Decline 
 and Fall of the Roman Empire,' Gibbon tells us how the thought 
 of writing it came to him upon the Capitol, among the ruins of 
 dead Rome, and within hearing of the mutter of the monks of 
 Ara Coeli, and how he finished it one night by Lake Geneva, 
 and laid his pen down and walked forth and saw the stars 
 above his terrace at Lausanne. 
 
 The memoirs of Alfieri and Goldoni are not deficient in any 
 of the characteristics of good autobiography. They seem to 
 bear upon their face the stamp of truthfulness, they illustrate 
 their authors' lives with marvellous lucidity, and they are full of 
 interest as stories. But it is to the contrast which they present 
 that our attention should be chiefly drawn. Other biographies 
 may be as interesting and amusing. None show in a more 
 marked manner two distinct natures endowed with genius for 
 one art, and yet designed in every possible particular for 
 
28o SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 different branches of that art. Alfieri embodies Tragedy ; 
 Goldoni is the spirit of Comedy. They are both ItaHans : their 
 tragedies and comedies are by no means cosmopoHtan ; but 
 this national identity of character only renders more remarkable 
 the individual divergences by which they were impelled into 
 their different paths. Thalia seems to have made the one, 
 body, soul, and spirit ; and Melpomene the other ; each goddess 
 launched her favourite into circumstances suited to the evolu- 
 tion of his genius, and presided over his development, so that 
 at his death she might exclaim, — Behold the living model of 
 my Art ! 
 
 Goldoni was bom at Venice in the year 1707; he had already 
 reached celebrity when Alfieri saw the light for the first time, in 
 1749, at Asti. Goldoni's grandfather was a native of Modena, 
 who had settled in Venice, and there lived with the prodigality 
 of a rich and ostentatious ' bourgeois.' ' Amid riot and luxury 
 did I enter the world,' says the poet, after enumerating the 
 banquets and theatrical displays with which the old Goldoni 
 entertained his guests in his Venetian palace and country-house. 
 Venice at that date was certainly the proper birthplace for a 
 comic poet. The splendour of the Renaissance had thoroughly 
 habituated her nobles to pleasures of the sense, and had 
 enervated their proud, maritime character, while the great name 
 of the republic robbed them of the caution for which they used 
 to be conspicuous. Yet the real strength of Venice was almost 
 spent, and nothing remained but outward insolence and prestige. 
 Everything was gay about Goldoni in his earliest childhood. 
 Puppet-shows were built to amuse him by his grandfather. 
 * My mother,' he says, ' took charge of my education, and my 
 father of my amusements.' 
 
 Let us turn to the opening scene in Alfieri's life, and mark 
 the difference. A father above sixty, * noble, wealthy, and 
 respectable,' who died before his son had reached the age of 
 one year old. A mother devoted to religion, the widow of one 
 
TWO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 281 
 
 marquis, and after the death of a second husband, Alfieri's 
 father, married for the third time to a nobleman of ancient 
 birth. These were Alfieri's parents. He was born in a solemn 
 palazzo in the country town of Asti, and at the age of five 
 already longed for death as an escape from disease and other 
 earthly troubles. So noble and so wealthy was the youthful 
 poet that an abbe was engaged to carry out his education, but 
 not to teach him more than a count should know. Except 
 this worthy man he had no companions whatever. Strange 
 ideas possessed the boy. He ruminated on his melancholy, 
 and when eight years old attempted suicide. At this age he 
 was sent to the academy at Turin, attended, as befitted a lad of 
 his rank, by a man-servant, who was to remain and wait on him 
 at school. Alfieri stayed here several years without revisiting his 
 home, tyrannised over by the valet who added to his grandeur, 
 constantly subject to sickness, and kept in almost total ignor- 
 ance by his incompetent preceptors. The gloom and pride 
 and stoicism of his temperament were augmented by this 
 unnatural discipline. His spirit did not break, but took a 
 haughtier and more disdainful tone. He became familiar with 
 misfortunes. He learned to brood over and intensify his 
 passions. Every circumstance of his life seemed strung up to 
 a tragic pitch. This at least is the impression which remains 
 upon our mind after reading in his memoirs the narrative of 
 what must in many of its details have been a common schoolboy's 
 life at that time. 
 
 Meanwhile, what had become of young Goldoni ? His 
 boyhood was as thoroughly plebeian, various, and comic, as 
 Alfieri's had been patrician, monotonous, and tragical. Instead 
 of one place of residence, we read of twenty. Scrape succeeds 
 to scrape, adventure to adventure. Knowledge of the world, 
 and some book learning also, flow in upon the boy, and are 
 eagerly caught up by him and heterogeneously amalgamated in 
 his mind. Alfieri learned nothing, wrote nothing, in his youth, 
 
282 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL Y. 
 
 and heard his parents say — ' A nobleman need never strive to 
 be a doctor of the faculties.' Goldoni had a little medicine 
 and much law thrust upon him. At eight he wrote a comedy, 
 and ere long began to read the plays of Plautus, Terence, 
 Aristophanes, and Machiavelli. Between the nature of the 
 two poets there was a marked and characteristic difference as 
 to their mode of labour and of acquiring knowledge. Both of 
 them loved fame, and wrought for it ; but Alfieri did so from a 
 sense of pride and a determination to excel ; while Goldoni 
 loved the approbation of his fellows, sought their compliments, 
 and basked in the sunshine of smiles. Alfieri wrote with 
 labour. Each tragedy he composed went through a triple 
 process of composition, and received frequent polishing when 
 finished. Goldoni dashed off his pieces with the greatest ease 
 on every possible subject. He once produced sixteen comedies 
 in one theatrical season. Alfieri's were hke lion's whelps — 
 brought forth with difficulty, and at long interv^als ; Goldoni's, 
 like the brood of a hare — many, frequent, and as agile as their 
 parent. Alfieri amassed knowledge scrupulously, but with 
 infinite toil. He mastered Greek and Hebrew when he was 
 past forty. Goldoni never gave himself the least trouble to 
 learn anything, but trusted to the ready wit, good memory, and 
 natural powerSj which helped him in a hundred strange emer- 
 gencies. Power of will and pride sustained the one ; facility 
 and a good-humoured vanity the other. This contrast was 
 apparent at a very early age. We have seen how Alfieri passed 
 his time at Turin, in a kind of aristocratic prison of educational 
 ignorance. Goldoni's grandfather died when he was five years 
 old, and left his family in great embarrassment. The poet's 
 father went off to practise medicine at Perugia. His son 
 followed him, acquired the rudiments of knowledge in that 
 town, and then proceeded to study philosophy alone at Rimini. 
 There was no man-servant or academy in his case. He was far 
 too plebeian and too free. The boy lodged with a merchant, 
 
TIVO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 283 
 
 and got some smattering of Thomas Aquinas and the Peripate- 
 tics into his small brain, while he contrived to form a friendship 
 with an acting company. They were on the wing for Venice 
 in a coasting boat, which would touch at Chiozza, where 
 Goldoni's mother then resided. The boy pleased them. 
 Would he like the voyage ? This offer seemed too tempting, and 
 away he rushed, concealed himself on board, and made one of 
 a merry motley shipload. ' Twelve persons, actors as well as 
 actresses, a prompter, a machinist, a storekeeper, eight domestics, 
 four chambermaids, two nurses, children of every age, cats, 
 dogs, monkeys, parrots, birds, pigeons, and a lamb ; it was 
 another Noah's ark.' The young poet felt at home ; how could 
 a comic poet feel otherwise ? They laughed, they sang, they 
 danced ; they ate and drank, and played at cards. * Macaroni 1 
 Every one fell on it, and three dishes were devoured. We had 
 also alamode beef,, cold fowl, a loin of veal, a dessert, and 
 excellent wine. What a charming dinner ! No cheer like a 
 good appetite.' Their harmony, however, was disturbed. The 
 ' premiere amoureuse,' who, in spite of her rank and title, was 
 ugly and cross, and required to be coaxed with cups of choco- 
 late, lost her cat. She tried to kill the whole boat -load of 
 beasts — cats, dogs, monkeys, parrots, pigeons, even the lamb 
 stood in danger of her wrath. A regular quarrel ensued, was 
 somehow set at peace, and all began to laugh again. This is a 
 sample of Goldoni's youth. Comic pleasures, comic dangers ; 
 nothing deep or lasting, but light and shadow cheerfully dis- 
 tributed, clouds lowering with storm, a distant growl of thunder, 
 then a gleam of light and sunshine breaking overhead. He 
 gets articled to an attorney at Venice, then goes to study law at 
 Pavia ; studies society instead, and flirts, and finally is expelled 
 for writing satires. Then he takes a turn at medicine with his 
 father in Friuli, and acts as clerk to the criminal chancellor at 
 Chiozza. 
 
 Every employment seems easy to him, but he really cares 
 
284 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 for none but literature. He spends all his spare time in read- 
 ing and in amusements, and begins to write a tragic opera. 
 This proves, however, eminently unsuccessful, and he burns it 
 in a comic fit of anger. One laughable love-affair in which he 
 engaged at Udine exhibits his adventures in their truly comic 
 aspect. It reminds us of the scene in ' Don Giovanni,' where 
 Leporello personates the Don and deceives Donna Elvira. 
 Goldoni had often noticed a beautiful young lady at church 
 and on the public drives : she was attended by a waiting-maid, 
 who soon perceived that her mistress had excited the young 
 man's admiration, and who promised to befriend him in his 
 suit. Goldoni was told to repair at night to the palace of his 
 mistress, and to pour his passion forth beneath her window. 
 Impatiently he waited for the trysting hour, conned his love- 
 sentences, and gloried in the romance of the adventure. When 
 night came, he found the window, and a veiled figure of a lady 
 in the moonlight, whom he supposed at once to be his mistress. 
 Her he eloquently addressed in the true style of Romeo's 
 rapture, and she answered him. Night after night this hap- 
 pened, but sometimes he was a little troubled by a sound of 
 ill-suppressed laughter interrupting the tete-a-tete. Meanwhile 
 Teresa, the waiting-maid, received from his hands costly 
 presents for her mistress, and made him promises on her part 
 in exchange. As she proved unable to fulfil them, Goldoni 
 grew suspicious, and at last discovered that the veiled figure to 
 whom he had poured out his tale of love was none other than 
 Teresa, and that the laughter had proceeded from her mistress, 
 whom the faithless waiting-maid regaled at her lover's expense. 
 Thus ended this ridiculous matter. Goldoni was not, however, 
 cured by his experience. One other love-affair rendered 
 Udine too hot to hold him, and in consequence of a third he 
 had to fly from Venice just when he was beginning to 
 flourish there. At length he married comfortably and 
 suitably, settling down into a quiet life with a woman whom, if 
 
TJVO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY, 285 
 
 he did not love her with passion, he at least respected and ad- 
 mired. Goldoni, in fact, had no real passion in his nature. 
 
 Alfieri, on the other hand, was given over to volcanic ebul- 
 litions of the most ungovernable hate and affection, joy and 
 sorrow. The chains of love which Goldoni courted so willingly, 
 Alfieri regarded with the greatest shyness. But while Goldoni 
 healed his heart of all its bruises in a week or so, the tragic 
 poet bore about him wounds that would not close. He 
 enumerates three serious passions which possessed his whole 
 nature, and at times deprived him almost of his reason. A 
 Dutch lady first won his heart, and when he had to leave her, 
 Alfieri suffered so intensely that he never opened his lips 
 during the course of a long journey through Germany, Switzer- 
 land, and Piedmont. Fevers, and suicides attempted but 
 interrupted, marked the termination of this tragic amour. His 
 second passion had for its object an English lady, with whose 
 injured husband he fought a duel, although his collar-bone was 
 broken at the time. The lady proved unworthy of Alfieri as 
 well as of her husband, and the poet left her in a most deplor- 
 able state of hopelessness and intellectual prostration. At last 
 he formed a permanent affection for the wife of Prince Charles 
 Edward, the Countess of Albany, in close friendship with 
 whom he lived after her husband's death. The society of this 
 lady gave him perfect happiness ; but it was founded on her 
 lofty beauty, the pathos of her situation, and her intellectual 
 qualities. Melpomene presided at this union, while Thalia 
 blessed the nuptials of Goldoni. How characteristic also were 
 the adventures which these two pairs of lovers encountered 1 
 Goldoni once carried his wife upon his back across two rivers 
 in their flight from the Spanish to the Austrian camp at Rimini, 
 laughing and groaning, and perceivmg the humour of his 
 situation all the time. Alfieri, on an occasion of even greater 
 difficulty, was stopped with his illustrious friend at the gates of 
 Paris in 1792. They were flying in post-chaises, with their 
 
286 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL Y. 
 
 servants and their baggage, from the devoted city, when a troop of 
 sansculottes rushed on them, surged around the carriage, called 
 them aristocrats, and tried to drag them off to prison. Alfieri 
 with his tall gaunt figure, pallid face, and red voluminous hair, 
 stormed, raged, and raised his deep bass voice above the 
 tumult. For half an hour he fought with them, then made his 
 coachmen gallop through the gates, and scarcely halted till 
 they got to Gravelines. By this prompt movement they 
 escaped arrest and death at Paris. These two scenes would 
 make agreeable companion pictures : Goldoni staggering be- 
 neath his wife across the muddy bed of an Italian stream — the 
 smiling writer of agreeable plays, with his half-tearful helpmate 
 ludicrous in her disasters ; Alfieri mad with rage among 
 Parisian Maenads, his princess quaking in her carriage, the air 
 hoarse with cries, and death and safety trembling in the 
 balance. It is no wonder that the one man wrote ' La Donna 
 di Garbo ' and the ' Cortese Veneziano,' while the other was in- 
 diting essays on Tyranny and dramas of ' Antigone/ ' Timoleon/ 
 and * Brutus.' 
 
 The difference between the men is seen no less remarkably 
 in regard to courage. Alfieri was a reckless rider, and asto- 
 nished even English huntsmen by his desperate leaps. In one 
 of them he fell and broke his collar-bone, but not the less he 
 held his tryst with a fair lady, cHmbed her park gates, and 
 fought a duel with her husband. Goldoni was a pantaloon for 
 cowardice. In the room of an inn at Desenzano which he 
 occupied together with a female fellow-traveller, an attempt 
 was made to rob them by a thief at night All Goldoni was 
 able to do consisted in crying out for help, and the lady called 
 him ' M. I'Abb^ ' ever after for his want of pluck. Goldoni 
 must have been by far the more agreeable of the two. In all 
 his changes from town to town of Italy he found amusement 
 and brought gaiety. The sights, the theatres, the society 
 aroused • his curiosity. He trembled with excitement at the 
 
TIVO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 287 
 
 performance of his pieces, made friends with the actors, taught 
 them, and wrote parts to suit their quaUties. At Pisa he 
 attended as a stranger the meeting of the Arcadian Academy, 
 and at its close attracted all attention to himself by his clever 
 improvisation. He was in truth a ready-witted man, pliable, 
 full of resource, bred half a valet, half a Roman grceculus, 
 Alfieri saw more of Europe than Goldoni. France, Germany, 
 Holland, Switzerland, England, Spain, all parts of Italy he 
 visited with restless haste. From land to land he flew, seeking 
 no society, enjoying nothing, dashing from one inn door to 
 another with his servants and his carriages, and thinking chiefly 
 of the splendid stud of horses which he took about with him 
 upon his travels. He was a lonely, stiff, self-engrossed, indo- 
 mitable man. He could not rest at home : he could not bear 
 to be the vassal of a king and breathe the air of courts. So he 
 lived always on the wing, and ended by exihng himself from 
 Sardinia in order to escape the trammels of paternal govern- 
 ment. As for his tragedies, he wrote them to win laurels from 
 posterity. He never cared to see them acted ; he bullied 
 even his printers and correctors ; he cast a glove down in 
 defiance of his critics. Goldoni sought the smallest meed of 
 approbation. It pleased him hugely in his old age to be 
 Italian master to a French princess. Alfieri openly despised 
 the pubUc Goldoni wrote because he liked to write ; Alfieri, 
 for the sake of proving his superior powers. Against Alfieri's 
 hatred of Turin and its trivial solemnities, we have to set 
 Goldoni's love of Venice and its petty pleasures. He would 
 willingly have drunk chocolate and played at dominoes or 
 picquet all his life on the Piazza di San Marco, when Alfieri 
 was crossing the sierras on his Andalusian horse, and devouring 
 a frugal meal of rice in solitude. Goldoni glided through life 
 an easy man, with genial, venial thoughts ; with a clear, gay, 
 gentle temper ; a true sense of what is good and just ; and a 
 heart that loved diffusively, if not too warmly. Many were the 
 
288 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 checks and obstacles thrown on his path ; but round them or 
 above them he passed nimbly, without scar or scathe. Poverty 
 went close behind him, but he kept her off, and never felt the 
 pinch of need. Alfieri strained and strove against the barriers 
 of fate ; a sombre, rugged man, proud, candid, and self- 
 confident, who broke or bent all opposition ; now moving 
 solemnly with tragic pomp, now dashing passionately 
 forward by the might of will. Goldoni drew his inspirations 
 from the moment and surrounding circumstances. Alfieri pur- 
 sued an ideal, slowly formed, but strongly fashioned and 
 resolutely followed. Of wealth he had plenty and to spare, but 
 he disregarded it, and was a Stoic in his mode of life. He was 
 an unworldly man, and hated worldliness. Goldoni, but for 
 his authorship, would certainly have grown a prosperous 
 advocate, and died of gout in Venice. Goldoni liked smart 
 clothes ; Alfieri went always in black. Goldoni's fits of spleen 
 - — for he was melancholy now and then — lasted a day or two, 
 and disappeared before a change of place. Alfieri dragged his 
 discontent about with him all over Europe, and let it interrupt 
 his work and mar his intellect for many months together. 
 Alfieri was a patriot, and hated France. Goldoni never speaks 
 of politics, and praises Paris as a heaven on earth. The genial 
 moralising of the latter appears childish by the side of Alfieri's 
 terse philosophy and pregnant remarks on the development of 
 character. What suits the page of Plautus would look poor in 
 (Edipus or Agamemnon. Goldoni's memoirs are diffuse and 
 flippant in their light French dress. They seem written to 
 please. Alfieri's Italian style marches with dignity and Latin 
 terseness. He rarely condescends to smile. He writes to 
 instruct the world and to satisfy himself. Grim humour some- 
 times flashes out, as when he tells the story of the Order of 
 Homer, which he founded. How different from Goldoni's 
 naive account of his little ovation in the theatre at Paris ! 
 
 But it would be idle to carry on this comparison, already 
 
TPP^O DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 289 
 
 tedious. The life of Goldoni was one long scene of shifts and 
 jests, of frequent triumphs and some failures, of lessons hard at 
 times, but kindly. Passions and ennid^ flashes of heroic 
 patriotism, constant suffering and stoical endurance, art and 
 love idealised, fill up the life of Alfieri. Goldoni clung much 
 to his fellow-men, and shared their pains and pleasures. 
 Alfieri spent many of his years in almost absolute solitude. 
 On the whole character and deeds of the one man was stamped 
 Comedy : the other was own son of Tragedy. 
 
 If, after reading the autobiographies of Alfieri and Goldoni, 
 we turn to the perusal of their plays, we shall perceive that 
 there is no better commentary on the works of an artist than 
 his hfe, and no better life than one written by himself. The 
 old style of criticism, which strove to separate an author's pro- 
 ductions from his life, and even from the age in which he lived, 
 to set up an arbitrary canon of taste, and to select one or two 
 great painters or poets as ideals because they seemed to illus- 
 trate that canon, has passed away. We are beginning to feel 
 that art is a part of history and of physiology. That is to say, 
 the artist's work can only be rightly understood by studying his 
 age and temperament. Goldoni's versatility and want of depth 
 induced him to write sparkling comedies. The merry life men 
 passed at Venice in its years of decadence proved favourable to 
 his genius. Alfieri's melancholy and passionate qualities, fostered 
 in solitude, and aggravated by a tyranny he could not bear, 
 led him irresistibly to tragic composition. Though a noble, his 
 nobility only added to his pride, and insensibly his intellect 
 had been imbued with the democratic sentiments which were 
 destined to shake Europe in his lifetime. This, in itself, was a 
 tragic circumstance, bringing him into close sympathy with the 
 Brutus, the Prometheus, the Timoleon of ancient history. 
 Goldoni's bourgeoisie^ in the atmosphere of which he was born and 
 bred, was essentially comic. The true comedy of manners, which 
 is quite distinct from Shakspere's fancy or from Aristophanic 
 
 U 
 
290 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 satire, is always laid in middle life. Though Goldoni tried to 
 write tragedies, they were unimpassioned, dull, and tame. He 
 lacked altogether the fire, high-wrought nobility of sentiment, 
 and sense of form essential for tragic art. On the other hand, 
 Alfieri composed some comedies before his death which were 
 devoid of humour, grace, and lightness. A strange elephantine 
 eccentricity is their utmost claim to comic character. Indeed, 
 the temper of Alfieri, ever in extremes, led him even to exag- 
 gerate the qualities of tragedy. He carried its severity to a 
 pitch of dulness and monotony. His chiarosMro was too strong ; 
 virtue and villany appearing in pure black and white upon his 
 pages. His hatred of tyrants induced him to transgress the 
 rules of probability, so that it has been well said that if his 
 wicked kings had really had such words of scorn and hatred 
 thrown at them by their victims, they were greatly to be pitied. 
 On the other hand, his pithy laconisms have often a splendidly 
 tragical effect. There is nothing in the modern drama more 
 rhetorically impressive, though spasmodic, than the well-known 
 dialogue between Antigone and Creon : — 
 ' Cr. Scegliesti? 
 
 * A?tt. Ho scelto. 
 
 * Cr. Emon ? 
 
 * Ajit. Morte. 
 
 ' Cr. L'avrai ! ' 
 
 Goldoni's comedies, again, have not enough of serious thought 
 or of true creative imagination to be works of high art. They 
 lean too much to the side of farce ; they have none of the 
 tragic salt which gives a dignity to Tartuflfe. They are, in a 
 word, almost too euethistically comic. 
 
 The contrast between these authors might lead us to raise 
 the question long ago discussed by Socrates at Agathon's 
 banquet — Can the same man write both comedies and trage- 
 dies? We in England are accustomed to read the serious and 
 comic plays of Shakspere, Fletcher, Jonson, and to think that 
 
TIVO DRAMATISTS OF THE LAST CENTURY. 291 
 
 one poet could excel in either branch. The custom of the 
 Elizabethan theatre obliged this double authorship ; yet it 
 must be confessed that Shakspere's comedies are not such 
 comedies as Greek or Roman or French critics would admit. 
 They are works of the purest imagination, wholly free from the 
 laws of this world ; while the tragedies of Fletcher have a 
 melodramatic air equally at variance with the classical Melpo- 
 mene. It may very seriously be doubted whether the same 
 mind could produce, with equal power, a comedy like the 
 * Cortese Veneziano ' and a tragedy like Alfieri's * Brutus.' At 
 any rate, returning to our old position, we find in these two 
 men the very opposite conditions of dramatic genius. They 
 are, as it were, specimens prepared by Nature for the instruc- 
 tion of those who analyse genius in its relations to temperament, 
 to Mf'Q, and to external circumstances. 
 
 u 2 
 
292 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX, 
 
 Few people visit Crema. It is a little country town of Lom- 
 bardy, between Cremona and Treviglio, with no historic 
 memories but very misty ones belonging to the days of the 
 Visconti dynasty. On every side around the city walls stretch 
 smiling vineyards and rich meadows, where the elms are 
 married to the mulberry-trees by long festoons of foHage hiding 
 purple grapes, where the sunflowers droop their heavy golden 
 heads among tall stems of millet and gigantic maize, and here 
 and there a rice-crop ripens in the marshy loam. In vintage 
 time the carts, drawn by their white oxen, come creaking town- 
 ward in the evening, laden with blue bunches. Down the long 
 straight roads, between rows of poplars, they creep on ; and on 
 the shafts beneath the pyramid of fruit lie contadini stained 
 with lees of wine. Far off across that * waveless sea '' of Lom- 
 bard y, which has been the battle-field of countless generations, 
 rise the dim grey Alps, or else pearled domes of thunder-clouds 
 in gleaming masses over some tall solitary tower. Such back- 
 grounds, full of peace, suggestive of almost infinite distance, 
 and dignified with colours of incomparable depth and breadth, 
 the Venetian painters loved. No landscape in Europe is more 
 wonderful than this — thrice wonderful in the vastness of its 
 arching heavens, in the stillness of its level plain, and in the 
 bulwark of huge crested mountains, reared afar like bastions 
 against the northern sky. 
 
 The little town is all alive in this September weather. At 
 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 
 
 293 
 
 every corner of the street, under rustling abeles and thick- 
 foliaged planes, at the doors of palaces and in the yards of inns, 
 men, naked from the thighs downward, are treading the red 
 must into vats and tuns ; while their mild-eyed oxen lie be- 
 neath them in the road, peaceably chewing the cud between one 
 journey to the vineyard and another. It must not be imagined 
 that the scene of Alma Tadema's ' Roman Vintage,' or what 
 we fondly picture to our fancy of the Athenian Lensea, is re- 
 peated in the streets of Crema. This modern treading of the 
 wine-press is a very prosaic affair. The town reeks with a sour 
 smell of old casks and. crushed grape-skins, and the men and 
 women at work bear no resemblance whatever to Bacchus and 
 his crew. Yet even as it is, the Lombard vintage, beneath 
 floods of sunlight and a pure blue sky, is beautiful ; and he 
 who would fain make acquaintance with Crema, should time 
 his entry into the old town, if possible, on some still golden 
 afternoon of autumn. It is then, if ever, that he will learn to 
 love the glowing brickwork of its churches and the quaint terra- 
 cotta traceries that form its chief artistic charm. 
 
 How the unique brick architecture of the Lombard cities 
 took its origin — whether from the precepts of Byzantine aliens 
 in the earliest middle ages, or from the native instincts of a 
 mixed race composed of Gallic, Ligurian, Roman, and Teu- 
 tonic elements, under the leadership of Longobardic rulers — is 
 a question for antiquarians to decide. There can, however, be 
 no doubt that the monuments of the Lombard style, as they 
 now exist, are no less genuinely local, no less characteristic of 
 the country they adorn, no less indigenous to the soil they 
 sprang from, than the Attic colonnades of Mnesicles and 
 Ictinus. What the marble quarries of Pentelicus were to the 
 Athenian builders, the clay beneath their feet was to those 
 Lombard craftsmen. From it they fashioned structures as 
 enduring, towers as majestic, and cathedral aisles as solemn, as 
 were ever wrought from chiselled stone. There is a true sym- 
 
:94 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pathy between those buildings and the Lombard landscape, 
 which by itself might suffice to prove the originality of their 
 almost unknown architects. The rich colour of the baked 
 clay — finely modulated from a purplish red, through russet, 
 crimson, pink, and orange, to pale yellow and dull grey — har- 
 monises with the brilliant greenery of Lombard vegetation and 
 with the deep azure of the distant Alpine range. Reared aloft 
 above the flat expanse of plain, those square torroni^ tapering 
 into octagons and crowned with slender cones, break the long 
 sweeping lines and infinite horizons with a contrast that affords 
 relief, and yields a resting place to tired eyes ; while, far away, 
 seen haply from some bridge above Ticino, or some high-built 
 palace loggia, they gleam like columns of pale rosy fire against 
 the front of mustering storm-clouds blue with rain. In that 
 happy orchard of Italy, a pergola of vines in leaf, a clump of 
 green acacias, and a campanile soaring above its church roof, 
 brought into chance combination with the reaches of the plain 
 and the dim mountain range, make up a picture eloquent in its 
 suggestive beauty. 
 
 Those ancient builders wrought cunningly with their 
 material. The bricks are fashioned and fixed to last for all 
 time. Exposed to the icy winds of a Lombard winter, to the 
 fierce fire of a Lombard summer, and to the moist vapours of a 
 Lombard autumn ; neglected by unheeding generations ; with 
 flowers clustering in their crannies, and birds nesting in their 
 eaves, and mason-bees filling the delicate network of their 
 traceries — they still present angles as sharp as when they were 
 but finished, and joints as nice as when the mortar dried in the 
 first months of their building. This immunity from age and 
 injury they owe partly to the imperishable nature of baked 
 clay ; partly to the care of the artists who selected and mingled 
 the right sorts of earth, burned them with scrupulous attention, 
 and fitted them together with a patience born of loving service. 
 Each member of the edifice was designed with a view to its 
 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 295 
 
 ultimate place. The proper curve was ascertained for cylin- 
 drical columns and for rounded arches. Larger bricks were 
 moulded for the supporting walls, and lesser pieces were 
 adapted to the airy vaults and lanterns. In the brickfield and 
 the kiln the whole church was planned and wrought out in its 
 details, before the hands that made a unity of all these scattered 
 elements were set to the work of raising it in air. When they 
 came to put the puzzle together, they laid each brick against 
 its neighbour, filling up the almost imperceptible interstices 
 with liquid cement composed of quick-lime and fine sand in 
 water. After five centuries the seams between the layers of 
 bricks that make the bell-tower of S. Gottardo at Milan, yield 
 no point of vantage to the penknife or the chisel. 
 
 Nor was it in their welding of the bricks alone that these 
 craftsmen showed their science. They were wont to enrich 
 the surface with marble, sparingly but effectively employed — as 
 in those slender detached columns, which add such beauty 
 to the octagon of S. Gottardo, or in the string-courses of 
 strange beasts and reptiles that adorn the church fronts of 
 Pavia. They called to their aid the mandorlato of Verona, 
 supporting their porch pillars on the backs of couchant lions, 
 inserting polished slabs on their facades, and building huge 
 sarcophagi into their cloister alleys. Between tena-cotta and 
 this marble of Verona there exists a deep and deHcate affinity. 
 It took the name of mandorlato, I suppose, from a resemblance 
 to almond blossoms. But it is far from having the simple beauty 
 of a single hue. Like all noble veined stones, it passes by a 
 series of modulations and gradations through a gamut of 
 associated rather than contrasted tints. Not the pink of the 
 almond blossom only, but the creamy whiteness of the almond 
 kernel, and the dull yellow of the almond nut may be found in 
 it ; and yet these colours are so blent and blurred to all- 
 pervading mellowness, that nowhere is there any shock of 
 contrast or violence of a preponderating tone. The veins 
 
296 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 which run in labyrinths of crossing, curving, and contorted lines 
 all over its smooth surface add, no doubt, to this effect of unity. 
 The polish, lastly, which it takes, makes the maiidorlato shine 
 like a smile upon the sober face of the brickwork : for, service- 
 able as terra-cotta is for nearly all artistic purposes, it cannot 
 reflect light or gain the illumination which comes from surface 
 brightness. 
 
 What the clay can do almost better than any crystalline 
 material, may be seen in the mouldings so characteristic of 
 Lombard architecture. Geometrical patterns of the rarest and 
 most fanciful device ; scrolls of acanthus foliage, and traceries 
 of tendrils ; Cupids swinging in festoons of vines ; angels join- 
 ing hands in dance, with fluttering skirts and windy hair, and 
 mouths that symbol singing; grave faces of old men and 
 beautiful profiles of maidens leaning from medallions ; wide- 
 winged genii filling the spandrils of cloister arches, and cherubs 
 clustered in the rondure of rose-windows — ornaments like 
 these, wrought from the plastic clay, and adapted with true 
 taste to the requirements of the architecture, are familiar to 
 every one who has studied the church front of Crema, the 
 cloisters of the Certosa, the courts of the Ospedale Maggiore 
 at Milan, or the public palace of Cremona. 
 
 If the mandorlato gives a smile to those majestic Lombard 
 buildings, the terra-cotta decorations add the element of life 
 and movement. The thought of the artist in its first freshness 
 and vivacity is felt in them. They have all the spontaneity of 
 improvisation, the seductive melody of unpremeditated music. 
 Moulding the supple earth with ' hand obedient to the brain,' 
 the plasticatore has impressed his most fugitive dreams of 
 beauty on it without effort ; and what it cost him but a few 
 fatigueless hours to fashion, the steady heat of the furnace has 
 gifted with imperishable life. Such work, no doubt, has the 
 defects of its qualities. As there are few diflficulties to over- 
 come, it suffers from a fatal facility — nee phiteiim ccedit nee 
 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 297 
 
 demorsos sapit ungues. It is therefore apt to be unequal, touch- 
 ing at times the highest point of inspiration, as in the angels of 
 Guccio at Perugia, and sinking not unfrequently into the 
 commonplace of easy-going triviality, as in the common floral 
 traceries of Milanese windows. But it is never laboured, never 
 pedantic, never dulled by the painful effort to subdue an 
 obstinate material to the artist's will. If marble is required to 
 develop the strength of the few supreme sculptors, terra- cotta 
 saves intact the fancies of a crowd of lesser men. 
 
 When we reflect that all the force, solemnity, and beauty of 
 the Lombard buildings was evoked from clay, we learn from 
 them this lesson : that the thought of man needs neither 
 precious material nor yet stubborn substance for the production 
 of enduring masterpieces. The red earth was enough for God 
 when He made man in His own image ; and mud dried in the 
 sun suffices for the artist, who is next to God in his creative 
 faculty — since iion merita nome di creatore se non Iddio ed il 
 poeta. After all, what is more everlasting than terra-cotta? 
 The hobnails of the boys who ran across the brickfields in the 
 Roman town of Silchester, may still be seen, mingled with the 
 impress of the feet of dogs and hoofs of goats, in the tiles dis- 
 covered there. Such traces might serve as a metaphor for the 
 footfall of artistic genius, when the form-giver has stamped his 
 thought upon the moist clay, and fire has made that imprint 
 permanent. 
 
 Of all these Lombard edifices, none is more beautiful than 
 the Cathedral of Crema, with its delicately-finished campanile, 
 built of choicely-tinted yellow bricks, and ending in a lantern 
 of the gracefullest, most airily capricious fancy. This bell- 
 tower does not display the gigantic force of Cremona's famous 
 tori'azzo., shooting 396 feet into blue ether from the city square; 
 nor can it rival the octagon of S. Gottardo for warmth of hue. 
 Yet it has a character of elegance, combined with boldness of 
 invention, that justisfies the citizens of Crema in their pride. 
 
298 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 It is unique ; and he who has not seen it does not know the 
 whole resources of the Lombard style. The fagade of the 
 Cathedral displays that peculiar blending of Byzantine or 
 Romanesque round arches with Gothic details in the windows, 
 and with the acute angle of the central pitch, which forms the 
 characteristic quality of the late trecento Lombard manner. In 
 its combination of purity and richness it corresponds to the 
 best age of decorated work in English Gothic, What, however, 
 strikes a Northern observer is the strange detachment of this 
 elaborate fagade from the main structure of the church. Like 
 a frontispiece cut out of cardboard and pierced with ornamental 
 openings, it shoots far above the low roof of the nave ; so 
 that at night the moon, rising above the southern aisle, shines 
 through its topmost window, and casts the shadow of its 
 tracery upon the pavement of the square. This is a construc- 
 tive blemish to which the Italians in no part of the peninsula 
 were sensitive. They seem to have regarded their church- 
 fronts as independent of the edifice, capable of separate treat- 
 ment, and worthy in themselves of being made the subject of 
 decorative skill. 
 
 In the so-called Santuario of Crema — a circular church 
 dedicated to S. Maria della Croce, outside the walls — the 
 Lombard style has been adapted to the manner of the Mid 
 Renaissance. This church was raised in the last years of the 
 fifteenth century by Gian Battista Battagli, an architect of Lodi, 
 who followed the pure rules of taste, bequeathed to North 
 Italian builders by Bramante. The beauty of the edifice is due 
 entirely to its tranquil dignity and harmony of parts, the light- 
 ness of its circling loggia, and the just proportion maintained 
 between the central structure and the four projecting porticoes. 
 The sharp angles of these vestibules afford a contrast to the 
 simplicity of the main building, while their clustered cupolas 
 assist the general effect of roundness aimed at by the architect. 
 Such a church as this proves how much may be achieved by 
 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 299 
 
 the happy distribution of architectural masses. It was the 
 triumph of the best Renaissance style to attain lucidity of 
 treatment, and to produce beauty by geometrical proportion. 
 When Leo Battista Alberti complained to his friend, Matteo 
 di Bastia, that a slight alteration of the curves in his design for 
 S. Francesco at Rimini would ' spoil his music,' cib che tu mutt 
 discoi'da tutta qiiella musica, this is what he meant. The 
 melody of lines and the harmony of parts made a symphony to 
 his eyes no less agreeable than a concert of tuned lutes and 
 voices to his ears ; and to this concord he was so sensitive that 
 any deviation was a discord. 
 
 After visiting the churches of Crema and sauntering about 
 the streets awhile, there is nothing left to do but to take refuge 
 in the old Albergo del Pozzo. This is one of those queer 
 Italian inns, which carry you away at once into a scene of 
 Goldoni. It is part of some palace, where nobles housed their 
 bravi in the sixteenth century, and which the lesser people of 
 to-day have turned into a dozen habitations. Its great stone 
 staircase leads to a saloon upon which the various bed- 
 chambers open ; and round its courtyard runs an open balcony, 
 and from the court grows up a fig-tree poking ripe fruit against 
 a bedroom window. Oleanders in tubs and red salvias in pots, 
 and kitchen herbs in boxes, flourish on the pavement, where 
 the ostler comes to wash his carriages, and where the barber 
 shaves the poodle of the house. Visitors to the Albergo del 
 Pozzo are invariably asked if they have seen the Museo ; and 
 when they answer in the negative, they are conducted with 
 some ceremony to a large room on the ground-floor of the inn, 
 looking out upon the courtyard and the fig-tree. It was here 
 that I gained the acquaintance of Signor Folcioni, and became 
 possessor of an object that has made the memory of Crema 
 doubly interesting to me ever since. 
 
 When we entered the Museo, we found a little old man, 
 gentle, grave, and unobtrusive, varnishing the ugly portrait of 
 
30O SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 some Signer of the Cinque Cento. Round the walls hung 
 pictures, of mediocre value, in dingy frames ; but all of them 
 bore sounding titles. Titians, Leonardos, Guido Renis, and 
 Luinis, looked down and waited for a purchaser. In truth this 
 museum was a bric-a-brac shop of a sort that is common 
 enough in Italy, where treasures of old lace, glass, armour, 
 furniture, and tapestry, may still be met with. Signor Folcioni 
 began by pointing out the merits of his pictures; and after 
 making due allowance for his zeal as amateur and dealer, it 
 was possible to join in some of his eulogiums. A would-be 
 Titian, for instance, bought in Verona from a noble house in 
 ruins, showed Venetian wealth of colour in its gemmy greens 
 and lucid crimsons shining from a background deep and glow- 
 ing. Then he led us to a walnut-wood bureau of late Renais- 
 sance work, profusely carved with nymphs and Cupids, and 
 armed men, among festoons of fruits embossed in high relief. 
 Deeply drilled worm-holes set a seal of antiquity upon the 
 blooming faces and luxuriant garlands — like the touch of Time 
 who ' delves the parallels in beauty's brow.* On the shelves of 
 an ebony cabinet close by he showed us a row of cups cut out 
 of rock-crystal and mounted in gilt silver, with heaps of 
 engraved gems, old snuff-boxes, coins, medals, sprays of coral, 
 and all the indescribable lumber that one age flings aside as 
 worthless for the next to pick up from the dust-heap and regard 
 as precious. Surely the genius of culture in our century might 
 be compared to a chiffonnier oi Paris, who, when the night has 
 fallen, goes into the streets, bag on back and lantern in hand, 
 to rake up the waifs and strays a day of whirling life has left 
 him. 
 
 The next curiosity was an ivory carving of S. Anthony 
 preaching to the fishes, so fine and small you held it on your 
 palm, and used a lens to look at it. Yet there stood the Santo 
 gesticulating, and there were the fishes in rows — the little fishes 
 first, and then the middle-sized, and last of all the great big 
 
CREMA AATI) THE CRUCIFIX. 301 
 
 fishes almost out at sea, with their heads above the water and 
 their mouths wide open, just as the Fioretti di San Francesco 
 describes them. After this came some original drawings of 
 doubtful interest, and then a case of fifty-two nielli. Tliese 
 were of unquestionable value ; for has not Cicognara engraved 
 them on a page of his classic monograph? The thin silver 
 plates, over which once passed the burin of Maso Finiguerra, 
 cutting lines finer than hairs, and setting here a shadow in dull 
 acid-eaten grey, and there a high light of exquisite polish, were 
 far more delicate than any proofs impressed from them. 
 These frail masterpieces of Florentine art — the first beginnings 
 of line engraving— we held in our hands while Signor Folcioni 
 read out Cicognara's commentary in a slow impressive voice, 
 breaking off now and then to point at the originals before us. 
 
 The sun had set, and the room was almost dark, when he 
 laid his book down, and said : ' I have not much left to show 
 — yet stay ! Here are still some little things of interest.' He 
 then opened the door into his bedroom, and took down from a 
 nail above his bed a wooden Crucifix. Few things have fasci- 
 nated me more than this Crucifix — produced without parade, 
 half negligently, from the dregs of his collection by a dealer in 
 old curiosities at Crema. The cross was, or is — for it is lying 
 on the table now before me — twenty-one inches in length, 
 made of strong wood, covered with coarse yellow parchment, 
 and shod at the four ends with brass. The Christ is roughly 
 hewn in reddish wood, coloured scarlet, where the blood 
 streams from the five wounds. Over the head an oval medal- 
 lion, nailed into the cross, serves as framework to a miniature 
 of the Madonna, softly smiling with a Correggiesque simper. 
 The whole Crucifix is not a work of art, but such as may be 
 found in every convent. Its date cannot be earlier than the 
 beginning of the eighteenth century. As I held it in my hand, 
 I thought — perhaps this has been carried to the bedside of 
 the sick and dying ) preachers have brandished it from the 
 
302 SKETCBES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pulpit over conscience-stricken congregations ; monks have 
 knelt before it on the brick floor of their cells, and novices have 
 kissed it in the vain desire to drown their yearnings after the 
 relinquished world ; perhaps it has attended criminals to the 
 scaffold, and heard the secrets of repentant murderers ; but 
 why should it be shown me as a thing of rarity ? These thoughts 
 passed through my mind, while Signor Folcioni quietly re- 
 marked : * I bought this Cross from the Frati when their 
 convent was dissolved in Crema.' Then he bade me turn it 
 round, and showed a little steel knob fixed into the back between 
 the arms. This was a spring. He pressed it, and the upper 
 and lower parts of the cross catne asunder ; and holding the 
 top like a handle, I drew out as from a scabbard a sharp steel 
 blade, concealed in the thickness of the wood, behind the very 
 body of the agonising Christ. What had been a Crucifix 
 became a deadly poniard in my grasp, and the rust upon it in 
 the twilight looked like blood. * I have often wondered,' said 
 Signor Folcioni, * that the Frati cared to sell me this.' 
 
 There is no need to raise the question of the genuineness of 
 this strange relic, though I confess to having had my doubts 
 about it, or to wonder for what nefarious purposes the impious 
 weapon was designed — whether the blade was inserted by some 
 rascal monk who never told the tale, or whether it was used on 
 secret service by the friars. On its surface the infernal engine 
 carries a dark certainty of treason, sacrilege, and violence. 
 Yet it would be wrong to incriminate the Order of S. Francis by 
 any suspicion, and idle to seek the actual history of this myste- 
 rious weapon. A writer of fiction could indeed produce some 
 dark tale in the style of De Stendhal's * Nouvelles,' and christen 
 it ' The Crucifix of Crema,* And how delighted would Webster 
 have been if he had chanced to hear of such a sword-sheath ! 
 He might have placed it in the hands of Bosola for the keener 
 torment of his Duchess. Flamineo might have used it ; or the 
 disguised friars, who made the death-bed of Bracciano hideous, 
 
CREMA AND THE CRUCIFIX. 303 
 
 might have plunged it in the Duke's heart after mocking his 
 eyes with the figure of the suffering Christ. To imagine such 
 an instrument of moral terror mingled with material violence, 
 lay within the scope of Webster's sinister and powerful genius. 
 But unless he had seen it with his eyes, what poet would have 
 ventured to devise the thing and display it even in the dumb 
 show of a tragedy ? Fact is more wonderful than romance. 
 No apocalypse of Antichrist matches what is told of Roderigo 
 Borgia ; and the crucifix of Crema exceeds the sombre fantasy 
 of Webster. 
 
 Whatever may be the truth about this cross, it has at any 
 rate the value of a symbol or a metaphor. The idea which it 
 materialises, the historical events of which it is a sign, may well 
 arrest attention. A sword concealed in the crucifix — what 
 emblem brings more forcibly to mind than this that two-edged 
 glaive of persecution which Dominic unsheathed to mow down 
 the populations of Provence and to make Spain destitute of 
 men ? Looking upon the crucifix of Crema, we may seem to 
 see pestilence-stricken multitudes of Moors and Jews dying on 
 the coasts of Africa and Italy. The Spaniards enter Mexico ; 
 and this is the cross they carry in their hands. They take 
 possession of Peru ; and while the gentle people of the Incas 
 come to kiss the bleeding brows of Christ, they plunge this 
 dagger in their sides. What, again, was the temporal power of 
 the Papacy but a sword embedded in a cross ? Each Papa Re, 
 when he ascended the Holy Chair, was forced to take the 
 crucifix of Crema and to bear it till his death. A long proces- 
 sion of war-loving Pontiffs, levying armies and paying captains 
 with the pence of S. Peter, in order to keep by arms the lands 
 they had acquired by fraud, defiles before our eyes. First goes 
 the terrible Sixtus IV., who died of grief when news was brought 
 him that the Italian princes had made peace. He it was who 
 sanctioned the conspiracy to murder the Medici in church, at 
 the moment of the elevation of the Host. The brigands hired 
 
304 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 to do this work refused at the last moment. The sacrilege 
 appalled them. 'Then,* says the chronicler, 'was found a 
 priest, who, being used to churches, had no scruple.' The 
 poignard this priest carried was this crucifix of Crema. After 
 Sixtus came the blood-stained Borgia ; and after him Julius II., 
 whom the Romans in triumphal songs proclaimed a second 
 Mars, and who turned, as Michelangelo expressed it, the 
 chalices of Rome into swords and helms. Leo X., who dis- 
 membered Italy for his brother and nephew ; and Clement 
 VII., who broke the neck of Florence and delivered the 
 Eternal City to the spoiler, follow. Of the antinomy between 
 the Vicariate of Christ and an earthly kingdom, incarnated by 
 these and other Holy Fathers, what symbol could be found 
 more fitting than a dagger with a crucifix for case and cover- 
 ing? 
 
 It is not easy to think or write of these matters without 
 rhetoric. When I laid my head upon my pillow that night in 
 the Albergo del Pozzo at Crema, it was full of such thoughts ; 
 and when at last sleep came, it brought with it a dream begotten 
 doubtless by the perturbation of my fancy. For I thought that 
 a brown Franciscan, with hollow cheeks, and eyes aflame 
 beneath his heavy cowl, sat by my bed-side, and, as he raised 
 the crucifix in his lean quivering hands, whispered a tale of 
 deadly passion and of dastardly revenge. His confession 
 carried me away to a convent garden of Palermo ; and there 
 was love in the story, and hate that is stronger than love, and, 
 for the ending of the whole matter, remorse which dies not even 
 in the grave. Each new possessor of the crucifix of Crema, he 
 told me, was forced to hear from him in dreams his dreadful 
 history. But, since it was a dream and nothing more, why 
 should I repeat it ! I have wandered far enough already from 
 the vintage and the sunny churches of the little Lombard 
 town. 
 
305 
 
 BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONL 
 
 From the new town of commerce to the old town of history upon 
 the hill, the road is carried along a rampart lined with horse- 
 chestnut trees — clumps of massy foliage, and snowy pyramids of 
 bloom, expanded in the rapture of a southern spring. Each pair 
 of trees between their stems and arch of intermingling leaves in- 
 cludes a space of plain, checkered with cloud-shadows, melting 
 blue and green in amethystine haze. To right and left the last 
 spurs of the Alps descend, jutting like promontories, heaving like 
 islands from the misty breadth below : and here and there are 
 towers, half-lost in airy azure ; and cities dwarfed to blots ; and 
 silvery lines where rivers flow ; and distant, vapour-drowned, dim 
 crests of Apennines. The city walls above us wave with snap- 
 dragons and iris among fig-trees sprouting from the riven stones. 
 There are terraces over-rioted with pergolas of vine, and houses 
 shooting forward into balconies and balustrades, from which a 
 Romeo might launch himself at daybreak, warned by the larks 
 song. A sudden angle in the road is turned, and we pass from 
 air-space and freedom into the old town, beneath walls of dark 
 brown masonry, where wild valerians light their torches of red 
 bloom in immemorial shade. Squalor and splendour live here 
 side by side. Grand Renaissance portals grinnmg with Satyr 
 masks are flanked by tawdry frescoes shamming stone-work, 
 or by doorways where the withered bush hangs out a promise 
 of bad wine. 
 
 The Cappella Colleoni is our destination, that masterpiece of 
 the sculptor-architect's craft, with its variegated marbles,— rosy 
 
 X 
 
3o6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 and white and creamy yellow and jet-black, — in patterns, 
 basreliefs, pilasters, statuettes, encrusted on the fanciful domed 
 shrine. Upon the facade are mingled, in the true Renaissance 
 spirit of genial acceptance, motives Christian and Pagan with 
 supreme impartiality. Medallions of emperors and gods 
 alternate with virtues, angels and cupids in a maze of loveliest 
 arabesque ; and round the base of the building are told two 
 stories — the one of Adam from his creation to his fall, the 
 other of Hercules and his labours. Italian craftsmen of the 
 * quattro cento ' were not averse to setting thus together, in one 
 framework, the myths of our first parents and Alcmena's son : 
 partly perhaps because both subjects gave scope to the free 
 treatment of the nude ; but partly also, we may venture to 
 surmise, because the heroism of Hellas counterbalanced the 
 sin of Eden. Here then we see how Adam and Eve were 
 made and tempted and expelled from Paradise and set to 
 labour, how Cain killed Abel, and Lamech slew a man to his 
 hurt, and Isaac was offered on the mountain. The tale of 
 human sin and the promise of redemption are epitomized in 
 twelve of the sixteen basreliefs. The remaining four show 
 Hercules wrestling with Antaeus, taming the Nemean lion, 
 extirpating the Hydra, and bending to his will the bull of Crete. 
 Labour, appointed for a punishment to Adam, becomes a title 
 to immortality for the hero. The dignity of man is reconquered 
 by prowess for the Greek, as it is repurchased for the Christian 
 by vicarious suffering. Many may think this interpretation of 
 Amadeo's basreliefs far-fetched : yet, such as it is, it agrees with 
 the spirit of Humanism, bent ever on harmonising the two great 
 traditions of the past. Of the workmanship little need be said, 
 except that it is wholly Lombard, distinguished from the 
 similar work of Delia Quercia at Bologna and Siena by a 
 more imperfect feeling for composition, and a lack of monu- 
 mental gravity, yet graceful, rich in motives, and instinct with 
 a certain wayward improvvisatore charm. 
 
This Chapel was built by the great Condottiere Barto- 
 lommeo Colleoni, to be the monument of his puissance even 
 in the grave. It had been the Sacristy of S. Maria Maggiore, 
 which, when the Consigho della Misericordia refused it to him 
 for his half proud, half pious purpose, he took and held by 
 force. The structure, of costliest materials, reared by Gian 
 Antonio Amadeo, cost him 50,000 golden florins. An eques- 
 trian statue of gilt wood, voted to him by the town of Bergamo, 
 surmounts his monument inside the Chapel. This was the 
 work of two German masters, called ' Sisto figlio di Enrico Syri 
 da Norimberga,' and ' Leonardo Tedesco.' The tomb itself is 
 of marble, executed for the most part in a Lombard style 
 resembling Amadeo's, but scarcely worthy of his genius. The 
 whole eifect is disappointing. Five figures representing Mars, 
 Hercules, and three sons-in-law of Colleoni, who surround the 
 sarcophagus of the^ buried general, are indeed almost grotesque. 
 The angularity and crumpled draperies of the Milanese 
 manner, when so exaggerated, produce an impression of carica- 
 ture. Yet many subordinate details — a row of putti in a 
 Cinque Cento frieze, for instance — and much of the low 
 relief work — especially the Crucifixion with its characteristic 
 episodes of the fainting Maries and the soldiers casting dice — 
 are lovely in their unaffected Lombardism. 
 
 There is another portrait of Colleoni in a round above the 
 great door, executed with spirit, though in a bravura style that 
 curiously anticipates the decline of Italian sculpture. Gaunt, 
 hollow-eyed, with prominent cheek bones and strong jaws, this 
 animated, half-length statue of the hero, bears the stamp of a 
 good likeness : but when or by whom it was made, I do not 
 know. 
 
 Far more noteworthy than Colleoni's own monument is that 
 of his daughter Medea. She died young in 1470, and her 
 father caused her tomb, carved of Carrara marble, t© be placed 
 in the Dominican Church of Ba&ella, which he had previously 
 
3o8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 founded. It was not until 1842 that this most precious master- 
 piece of Antonio Amadeo's skill was transferred to Bergamo. 
 Hie jacet Medea virgo. Her hands are clasped across her 
 breast. A robe of rich brocade, gathered to the waist and 
 girdled, lies in simple folds upon the bier. Her throat, 
 exceedingly long and slender, is circled with a string of pearls. 
 Her face is not beautiful, for the features, especially the nose, 
 are large and prominent ; but it is pure and expressive of vivid 
 individuality. The hair curls in crisp short clusters, and the 
 ear, fine and shaped almost like a Faun's, reveals the scrupulous 
 fidelity of the sculptor. Italian art has, in truth, nothing 
 more exquisite than this still sleeping figure of the girl, who, 
 when she lived, must certainly have been so rare of type and 
 loveable in personality. If Busti's Lancinus Curtius be the 
 portrait of a humanist, careworn with study, burdened by the 
 laurel leaves that were so dry and dusty — if Gaston de Foix in 
 the Brera, smiling at death and beautiful in the cropped bloom of 
 youth, i-dealise the hero of romance — if Michelangelo's Pense- 
 roso translate in marble the dark broodings of a despot's soul 
 — if Delia Porta's Julia Farnese be the Roman courtesan 
 magnificently throned in nonchalance at a Pope's foot-stool — 
 if Verocchio's CoUeoni on his horse at Venice impersonate 
 the pomp and circumstance of scientific war — surely this 
 Medea exhales the flower-like graces, the sweet sanctities 
 of human life, that even in that turbid age were found among 
 high-bred Italian ladies. Such power have mighty sculptors, 
 even in our modern world, to make the mute stone speak in 
 poems and clasp the soul's life of a century in some five or six 
 transcendent forms. 
 
 The Colleoni, or Coglioni, family were of considerable 
 antiquity and well authenticated nobility in the town of 
 Bergamo. Two lions' heads conjoined formed one of their 
 canting ensigns ; another was borrowed from the vulgar 
 meaning of their name. Many members of the house held 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONL 309 
 
 important office during the three centuries preceding the birth 
 of the famous general, Bartolommeo. He was born in the 
 year 1400 at Solza, in the Bergamasque Contado. His father 
 Paolo, or Puho as he was commonly called, was poor and 
 exiled from the city, together with the rest of the Guelf nobles, 
 by the Visconti. Being a man of daring spirit, and little 
 inclined to languish in a foreign state as the dependent on 
 some patron, Puho formed the bold design of seizing the 
 Castle of Trezzo. This he achieved in 1405 by fraud, and 
 afterwards held it as his own by force. Partly with the view of 
 establishing himself more firmly in his acquired lordship, and 
 partly out of family affection, Puho associated four of his first- 
 cousins in the government of Trezza They repaid his kind- 
 ness with an act of treason and cruelty, only too characteristic 
 of those times in Italy, One day while he was playing at 
 draughts in a room of the Castle, they assaulted him and killed 
 him, seized his wife and the boy Bartolommeo, and flung them 
 into prison. The murdered Puho had another son, Antonio, 
 who escaped and took refuge with Giorgio Benzone, the tyrant 
 of Crema. After a short time the Colleoni brothers found 
 means to assassinate him also ; therefore Bartolommeo alone, 
 a child of whom no heed was taken, remained to be his father's 
 avenger. He and his mother lived together in great indigence 
 at Solza, until the lad felt strong enough to enter the service of 
 one of the numerous petty Lombard princes, and to make him- 
 self if possible a captain of adventure. His name alone was a 
 sufficient introduction, and the Duchy of Milan, dismembered 
 upon the death of Gian Maria Visconti, was in such a state that 
 all the minor despots were increasing their forx:es and preparing 
 to defend by arms the fragments they had seized from the 
 Visconti heritage. Bartolommeo therefore had no difficulty in 
 recommending himself to Filippo d'Arcello, sometime general 
 in the pay of the Milanese, but now the new lord of Piacenza. 
 With this master he remained as page for two or three years^ 
 
3IO SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 learning the use of arms, riding, and training himself in the 
 physical exercises which were indispensable to a young Italian 
 soldier. Meanwhile Filippo Maria Visconti reacquired his 
 hereditary dominions ; and at the age of twenty, Bartolommeo 
 found it prudent to seek a patron stronger than d'Arcello. 
 The two great Condottieri, Sforza Attendolo and Braccio^ 
 divided the military glories, of Italy at this period ; and any 
 youth who sought to rise in his profession, had to enroll himself 
 under the banners of the one or the other.. Bartolommeo 
 chose Braccio for his master, and was enrolled among his men 
 as a simple trooper, or ragazzo, with no better prospects than 
 he could make for himself by tlie help of his talents and his. 
 borrowed horse and armour. Braccio at this time was in 
 Apulia, prosecuting the war of the Neapolitan Succession dis- 
 puted between Alfonso of Aragpn and Louis of Anjou under 
 the weak sovereignty of Queen Joan. On which side of a 
 quarrel a Condottiere fought, mattered but little : so great was. 
 the confusion of Italian politics, and so complete was the 
 egotism of these fraudful, violent, and treacherous party leaders. 
 Yet it may be mentioned that Braccio had espoused Alfonso's 
 cause. Bartolommeo Colleoni early distinguished himself 
 among the ranks of the Bracceschi. But he soon perceived 
 that he could better his position: by deserting to another camj). 
 Accordingly he offered his services to Jacopo Caldora, one of 
 Joan's generals, and received from him a commission of 
 twenty men-at-arms. It may here be parenthetically said that 
 the rank and pay of an Italian captain varied with the number 
 of the men he brought into the field. His title 'Condottiere' 
 was derived from the circumstance that he was said to have 
 received a Condotta di venti cavalli, and so forth. Each cavallo 
 was equal to one mounted man-at-arms and two attendants,, 
 who were also called ragazzi. It was bis business to provide 
 the stipulated number of men, to keep them in good discipline, 
 and to satisfy their just demands. Therefore an Italian army 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONL 311 
 
 at this epoch consisted of numerous small armies varying in 
 size, each held together by personal engagements to a captain, 
 and all dependent on the will of a general in chief, who had 
 made a bargain with some prince or republic for supplying a 
 fixed contingent of fighting-men. The Coiidottiere was in other 
 words a contractor or wipresario^ undertaking to do a certain 
 piece of work for a certain price, and to furnish the requisite 
 forces for the business in good working order. It will be 
 readily seen upon this system how important were the personal 
 qualities of the captain, and what great advantages those Con- 
 dottieri had, who, like the petty princes of Romagna and the 
 March, the Montefeltri, Ordelafii, Malatesti, Manfredi, Orsini; 
 and Vitelli, could rely upon a race of hardy vassals for their 
 recruits. 
 
 It is not necessary to follow Colleoni's fortunes in the 
 Regno, at Aquila, Ancona, and Bologna. He continued in 
 the service of Caldora, who was now General of the Church; 
 and had his Condotta gradually increased. Meanwhile his 
 cousins, the murderers of his father, began to dread his rising 
 power, and determined, if possible, to ruin him. He was not 
 a man to be easily assassinated ; so they sent a hired ruffian to 
 Caldora's camp to say that Bartolommeo had taken his name 
 by fraud, and that he was himself the real son of Piiho Colleoni. 
 Bartolommeo defied the liar to a duel ; and this would have 
 taken place before the arniy, had not two witnesses appeared, 
 who knew the fathers of both Colleoni and the bravo^ and who 
 gave such evidence that the captains of the army were enabled 
 to ascertain the truth. The impostor was stripped and 
 drummed out of the camp. 
 
 At the conclusion of a peace between the Pope and the 
 Bolognese, Bartolommeo found himself without occupation. 
 He now offered himself to the Venetians, and began to fight 
 again under the great Carmagnola against Filippo Visconti. 
 His engagement allowed him forty men, which, after the 
 
312 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 judicial murder of Carmagnola at Venice in 1432, were in- 
 creased to eighty. Erasmo da Narni, better known as Gat- 
 tamelata, was now his general-in-chief — a man who had risen 
 from the lowest fortunes to one of the most splendid military 
 positions in Italy. Colleoni spent the next years of his hfe, 
 until 1443, in Lombardy, manoeuvring against II Piccinino, and 
 gradually rising in the Venetian service, until his Condotta 
 reached the number of 800 men. Upon Gattamelata's death 
 at Padua in 1440, Colleoni became the most important of the 
 generals who had fought with Caldora in the March. The 
 lordships of Romano in the Bergamasque and of Covo and 
 Antegnate in the Cremonese had been assigned to him ; and he 
 was in a position to make independent engagements with 
 princes. What distinguished him as a general, was a combina- 
 tion of caution with audacity. He united the brilliant system 
 of his master Braccio with the more prudent tactics of the 
 Sforzeschi ; and thus, though he often surprised his foes by 
 daring stratagems and vigorous assaults, he rarely met with any 
 serious check. He was a captain who could be relied upon 
 for boldly seizing an advantage, no less than for using a success 
 with discretion. Moreover he had acquired an almost unique 
 reputation for honesty in dealing with his masters, and for 
 justice combined with humane indulgence to his men. His 
 company was popular, and he could always bring capital troops 
 into the field. 
 
 In the year 1443, Colleoni quitted the Venetian service on 
 account of a quarrel with Gherardo Dandolo, the Proveditore of 
 the Republic. He now took a commission from Filippo Maria 
 Visconti, who received him at Milan with great honour, be- 
 stowed on him the Castello Adorno at Pavia, and sent him into 
 the March of Ancona upon a military expedition. Of all 
 Italian tyrants this Visconti was the most difficult to serve. 
 Constitutionally timid, surrounded with a crowd of spies and 
 base informers, shrinking from the sight of men in the recesses 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONL 313 
 
 of his palace, and controlling the complicated affairs of his 
 Duchy by means of correspondents and intelligencers, this last 
 scion of the Milanese despots Uved like a spider in an inscrut- 
 able network of suspicion and intrigue. His poUcy was one of 
 endless plot and counterplot. He trusted no man ; his 
 servants were paid to act as spies on one another ; his body- 
 guard consisted of mutually hostile mercenaries ; his captains 
 in the field were watched and thwarted by commissioners 
 appointed to check them at the point of successful ambition or 
 magnificent victory. The historian has a hard task when he 
 tries to fathom the Visconti's schemes, or to understand his 
 motives. Half the Duke's time seems to have been spent in 
 unravelling the webs that he had woven, in undoing his own 
 work, and weakening the hands of his chosen ministers. 
 Conscious that his power was artificial, that the least breath 
 might blow him back into the nothingness from which he had 
 arisen on the wrecks of his father's tyranny, he dreaded the 
 personal eminence of his generals above all things. His chief 
 object was to establish a system of checks, by means of which 
 no one whom he employed should at any moment be great 
 enough to threaten him. The most formidable of these 
 military adventurers, Francesco Sforza, had been secured by 
 marriage with Bianca Maria Visconti, his master's only 
 daughter, in 1441 ; but the Duke did not even trust his son-in- 
 law. The last six years of his life were spent in scheming to 
 deprive Sforza of his lordships ; and the war in the March, on 
 which he employed CoUeoni, had the object of ruining the 
 principality acquired by this daring captain from Pope 
 Eugenius IV. in 1443. 
 
 Colleoni was by no means deficient in those foxiike quali- 
 ties which were necessary to save the lion from the toils spread 
 for him by ItaHan intriguers. He had already shown that he 
 knew how to push his own interests, by changing sides and 
 taking service with the highest bidder, as occasion prompted. 
 
314 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 Nor, though his character for probity and loyalty stood 
 exceptionally high among the men of his profession, was he 
 the slave to any questionable claims of honour or of duty. 
 In that age of confused politics and extinguished patriotism, 
 there was not indeed much scope for scrupulous honesty. 
 But Filippo Maria Visconti proved more than a match for 
 him in craft. While Colleoni was engaged in pacifying the 
 revolted population of Bologna, the Duke yielded to the sug- 
 gestion of his parasites at Milan, who whispered that the 
 general was becoming dangerously powerful. He recalled him, 
 and threw him without trial into the dungeons of the Forni at 
 Monza. Here Colleoni remained a prisoner more than a year, 
 until the Duke's death, in 1447, when he made his escape, and 
 profited by the disturbance of the Duchy to reacquire his lord- 
 ships in he Bergamasque territory. The true motive for his 
 imprisonment remains still buried in obscure conjecture. Pro- 
 bably it was not even known to the Visconti, who acted on 
 this, as on so many other occasions, by a rnere spasm of suspi- 
 cious jealousy, for which he could have given no account. 
 
 From the year 1447 to the year 1455, it is difficult to follow 
 Colleoni's movements, or to trace his policy. First, we find 
 him employed by the Milanese Republic, during its brief space 
 of independence ; then he is engaged by the Venetians, with a 
 commission for 1500 horse ; next, he is in the service of 
 Francesco Sforza ; once more in that of the Venetians, and yet 
 again in that of the Duke of Milan. His biographer relates 
 with pride that, during this period, he was three times success- 
 ful against French troops in Piedmont and Lombardy. It 
 appears that he made short engagements, and changed his pay- 
 masters according to convenience. But all this time he rose 
 in personal importance, acquired fresh lordships in the Berga- 
 masque, and accumulated wealth. He reached the highest 
 point of his prosperity in 1455, when the Republic of S. Mark 
 elected him General-in-Chief of their armies, with the fullest 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI. 315 
 
 powers, and with a stipend of 100,000 florins. For nearly 
 twenty-one years, until the day of his death, in 1475, Colleoni 
 held this honourable and lucrative office. In his will he 
 charged the Signory of Venice that they should never again 
 commit into the hands of a single Captain such unlimited con- 
 trol over their military resources. It was indeed no slight 
 tribute to Colleoni's reputation for integrity, that the jealous 
 Republic, which had signified its sense of Carmagnola's un- 
 trustworthiness by capital punishment, should have left him so 
 , long in the undisturbed disposal of their army. The Standard 
 and the Baton of S. Mark were conveyed to Colleoni by two 
 ambassadors, and presented to him at Brescia on June 24, 1455. 
 Three years later he made a triumphal entry into Venice, and 
 received the same ensigns of military authority' from the 
 hands of the new Doge, Pasquale Malipiero. On this occasion 
 his staff consisted of some two hundred officers, splendidly 
 armed, and followed by a train of serving-men. Noblemen 
 from Bergamo, Brescia, and other cities of the Venetian terri- 
 tory, swelled the corte'ge. When they embarked on the lagoons, 
 they found the water covered with boats and gondolas, bearing 
 the population of Venice in gala attire, to greet the illustrious 
 guest with instruments of music. Three great galleys of the 
 Republic, called Bucentaurs, issued from the crowd of smaller 
 craft. On the first was the Doge in his state robes, attended 
 by the government in office, or the Signoria of S. Mark. On 
 the second were members of the Senate and minor magistrates. 
 The third carried the ambassadors of foreign powers. Colleoni 
 was received into the first state-galley, and placed by the side 
 of the Doge. The oarsmen soon cleared the space between 
 the land and Venice, passed the small canals, and swept majes- 
 tically up the Canalozzo among the plaudits of the crowds 
 assembled on both sides to cheer their General. Thus they 
 reached the piazzetta, where Colleoni alighted between the two 
 great pillars, and, conducted by the Doge in person, walked to 
 
3i6 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the Church of S. Mark. Here, after Mass had been said, 
 and a sermon had been preached, kneeUng before the high 
 altar he received the truncheon from the Doge's hands. The 
 words of his commission ran as follows : — 
 
 * By authority and decree of this most excellent City of 
 Venice, of us the Prince, and of the Senate, you are to be 
 Commander and Captain General of all our forces and arma- 
 ments on terra firma. Take from our hands this truncheon, 
 with good augury and fortune, as sign and warrant of your 
 power. Be it your care and effort, with dignity and splendour 
 to maintain and to defend the Majesty, the Loyalty, and the 
 Principles of this Empire. Neither provoking, nor yet pro- 
 voked, unless at our command, shall you break into open war- 
 fare with our enemies. Free jurisdiction and lordship over 
 each one of our soldiers, except in cases of treason, we hereby 
 commit to you.' 
 
 After the ceremony of his reception, Colleoni was conducted 
 with no less pomp to his lodgings, and the next ten days were 
 spent in festivities of all sorts. 
 
 The commandership-in-chief of the Venetian forces was 
 perhaps the highest military post in Italy. It placed Colleoni 
 on the pinnacle of his profession, and made his camp the 
 favourite school of young soldiers. Among his pupils or lieu- 
 tenants we read of Ercole d'Este, the future Duke of Ferrara ; 
 Alessandro Sforza, lord of Pesaro ; Boniface, Marquis of 
 Montferrat ; Cicco and Pino Ordelaffi, princes of Forli ; Astorre 
 Manfredi, the lord of Faenza ; three Counts of Mirandola ; two 
 princes of Carpi ; Deifobo, the Count of Anguillara ; Giovanni 
 Antonio Caldora, lord of Jesi in the March ^ and many others 
 of less name. Honours came thick upon him. When one of 
 the many ineffectual leagues against the infidel was formed in 
 1468, during the pontificate of Paul II., he was named Captain- 
 General for the Crusade. Pius II. designed him for the leader 
 of the expedition he had planned against the impious and 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI. 317 
 
 savage despot, Sigismondo Malatesta. King Rene of Anjou, 
 by special patent, authorised him to bear his name and arms, 
 and made him a member of his family. The Duke of Bur- 
 gundy, by a similar heraldic fiction, conferred upon him his 
 name and armorial bearings. This will explain why Colleoni 
 is often styled ' di Andegavia e Borgogna.' In the case of 
 Rene, the honour was but a barren show. But the patent of 
 Charles the Bold had more significance. In 1473 ^^ enter- 
 tained the project of employing the great Italian General 
 against his Swiss foes ; nor does it seem reasonable to reject a 
 statement made by Colleoni's biographer, to the effect that a 
 secret compact had been drawn up between him and the Duke 
 of Burgundy, for the conquest and partition of the Duchy of 
 Milan. The Venetians, in whose service Colleoni still re- 
 mained, when they became aware of this project, met it with 
 peaceful but irresistible opposition. 
 
 Colleoni had been engaged continually since his earliest 
 boyhood in the trade of war. It was not therefore possible 
 that he should have gained a great degree of literary culture. 
 Yet the fashion of the times made it necessary that a man in 
 his position should seek the society of scholars. Accordingly 
 his court and camp were crowded with students, in whose 
 wordy disputations he is said to have delighted. It will be 
 remembered that his contemporaries, Alfonso the Magnanimous, 
 Francesco Sforza, Federigo of Urbino, and Sigismondo Pan- 
 dolfo Malatesta, piqued themselves at least as much upon their 
 patronage of letters, as upon their prowess in the field. 
 
 Colleoni's court, like that of Urbino, was a model of good 
 manners. As became a soldier, he was temperate in food 
 and moderate in slumber. It was recorded of him that he 
 had never sat more than one hour at meat in his own house, 
 'and that he never overslept the sunrise. After dinner he 
 would converse with his friends, using commonly his native 
 dialect of Bergamo, and entertaining the company now with 
 
3i8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Stories of adventure, and now with pithy sayings. In another 
 essential point he resembled his illustrious contemporary, the 
 Duke of Urbino ; for he was sincerely pious in an age which, 
 however it preserved the decencies of ceremonial religion, was 
 profoundly corrupt at heart. His principal lordships in the 
 Bergamasque territory owed to his munificence their fairest 
 churches and charitable institutions. At Martinengo, for 
 example, he rebuilt and re-endowed two monasteries, the one 
 dedicated to S. Chiara, the other to S. Francis. In Ber- 
 gamo itself he founded an establishment named * La Pieta,' for 
 the good purpose of dowering and marrying poor girls. This 
 house he endowed with a yearly income of 3,000 ducats. The 
 Sulphur baths of Trescorio, at some distance from the city, 
 were improved and opened to poor patients by a hospital 
 which he provided. At Rumano he raised a church to S. 
 Peter, and erected buildings of pubhc utility, which on his 
 death he bequeathed to the society of the Misericordia in that 
 town. All the places of his jurisdiction owed to him such 
 benefits as good water, new walls, and irrigation works. In 
 addition to these munificent foundations must be mentioned 
 the Basella, or Monastery of Dominican friars, which he esta- 
 blished not far from Bergamo, upon the river Serio, in memory 
 of his beloved daughter Medea. Last, not least, was the 
 Chapel of S. John the Baptist, attached to the Church of S. 
 Maria Maggiore, which he endowed with fitting maintenance 
 for two priests and deacons. 
 
 The one defect acknowledged by his biographer was his 
 partiality for women. Early in life he married Tisbe, of the 
 noble house of the Brescian Martinenghi, who bore him one 
 daughter, Caterina, wedded to Gasparre Martinengo. Two 
 illegitimate daughters, Ursina and Isotta, were recognised and 
 treated by him as legitimate. The first he gave in marriage to 
 Gherardo Martinengo, and the second to Jacopo of the same 
 family. Two other natural children, Doratina and Ricardona, 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONL 319 
 
 were mentioned in his will : he left them four thousand ducats 
 a piece for dowry. Medea, the child of his old age (for she 
 was born to him when he was sixty), died before her father, and 
 was buried, as we have seen, in the Chapel of Basella. 
 
 Throughout his life he was distinguished for great physical 
 strength and agility. When he first joined the troop of Braccio, 
 he could race, with his corselet on, against the swiftest runner 
 of the army ; and when he was stripped, few horses could beat 
 him in speed. Far on into old age he was in the habit of 
 taking long walks every morning for the sake of exercise, and 
 delighted in feats of arms and jousting matches. ' He was 
 tall, straight, and full of flesh, well-proportioned, and excel- 
 lently made in all his limbs. His complexion incHned some- 
 what to brown, but was coloured with sanguine and lively car- 
 nation. His eyes were black ; in look and sharpness of light, 
 they were vivid, piercing and terrible. The outlines of his 
 nose and all his countenance expressed a certain manly noble- 
 ness, combined with goodness and prudence.' Such is the 
 portrait drawn of Colleoni by his biographer ; and it well accords 
 with the famous bronze statue of the general at Venice. 
 
 Colleoni lived with a magnificence that suited his rank. 
 His favourite place of abode was Malpaga, a castle built by him 
 at the distance of about an hour's drive from Bergamo. The 
 place is worth a visit, though its courts and gates and galleries 
 have now been turned into a monster farm, and the southern 
 rooms, where Colleoni entertained his guests, are given over to 
 the silkworms. Half a dozen families, employed upon a 
 vast estate of the Martinengo family, occupy the still substantial 
 house and stables. The moat is planted with mulberry-trees ; 
 the upper rooms are used as granaries for golden maize ; cows, 
 pigs, and horses litter in the spacious yard. Yet the walls of 
 the inner court and of the ancient state rooms are brilliant with 
 frescoes, executed by some good Venetian hand, which represent 
 the chief events of Colleoni's life — his battles, his reception by 
 
320 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY, 
 
 the Signory of Venice, his tournaments and hawking parties^ 
 and the great series of entertainments with which he welcomed 
 Christiem of Denmark. This king had made his pilgrimage to 
 Rome and was returning westward, when the fame of Colleoni 
 and his princely state at Malpaga induced him to turn aside 
 and spend some days as the general's guest. In order to do 
 him honour, Colleoni left his castle at the king's disposal and 
 estabUshed himself with all his staff and servants in a camp at 
 some distance from Malpaga. The camp was duly furnished 
 with tents and trenches, stockades, artillery, and all the other 
 furniture of war. On the king's approach, Colleoni issued with 
 trumpets blowing and banners flying to greet his guest, gratify- 
 ing him thus with a spectacle of the pomp and circumstance of 
 war as carried on in Italy. The visit was further enlivened 
 by sham fights, feats of arms, and trials of strength. When it 
 ended, Colleoni presented the king with one of his own suits of 
 armour, and gave to each of his servants a complete livery of 
 red and white, his colours. Among the frescoes at Malpaga 
 none are more interesting, and none, thanks to the silkworms 
 rather than to any other cause, are fortunately in a better state 
 of preservation, than those which represent this episode in the 
 history of the Castle. 
 
 Colleoni died in the year 1475, ^^ the age of seventy-five. 
 Since he left no male epresentative, he constituted the 
 Republic of S. Mark his he.r in chief, after properly providing 
 for his daughters and his numerous foundations. The Venetians 
 received under this testament a sum of 100,000 ducats, together 
 with all arrears of pay due to him, and 10,000 ducats owed him 
 by the Duke of Ferrara. It set forth the testator's intention 
 that this money should be employed in defence of the Christian 
 faith against the Turk. One condition was attached to the 
 bequest. The legatees were to erect a statue to Colleoni on 
 the Piazza of S. Mark. This, however, involved some difficulty ; 
 for the proud Republic had never accorded a similar honour, 
 
BERGAMO AND BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI. 321 
 
 nor did they choose to encumber their splendid square with a 
 monument. They evaded the condition by assigning the 
 Campo in front of the Scuola di S. Marco, where also stands 
 the Church of S. Zanipolo, to the purpose. Heiie accordingly 
 the finest bronze equestrian statue in Italy, if we except the 
 Marcus Aurelius of the Capitol, was reared upon its marble 
 pedestal by Andrea Verocchio and Alessandro Leopardi. 
 
 Colleoni's liberal expenditure of wealth found its reward in 
 the immortality conferred by art. While the names of Braccio, 
 his master in the art of war, and of Piccinino, his great adversary, 
 are familiar to few but professed students, no one who has 
 visited either Bergamo or Venice can fail to have learned some- 
 thing about the founder of the Chapel of S. John and the 
 original of Leopardi's bronze. The annals of sculpture assijgn 
 to Verocchio, of Florence, the principal share in this statue : 
 but Verocchio died before it was cast ; and even granting 
 that he designed the model, its execution must be attributed to 
 his collaborator, the Venetian Leopardi. For my own part, I 
 am loth to admit thatthe chief credit -of this masterpiece belongs 
 to a man whose undisputed work at Florence shows but little 
 of its living spirit and splendour of suggested motion. That 
 the Tuscan science of Verocchio secured conscientious model- 
 ling for man and horse may be assumed ; but I am fain to 
 believe that the concentrated fire which animates them both is 
 due in no small measure to the handling of his northern fellow- 
 craftsman. 
 
 While immersed in the dreary records of crimes, treasons, 
 cruelties, and base ambitions, which constitute the bulk of 
 fifteenth- century Italian history, it is refreshing to meet with a 
 character so frank and manly, so simply pious and comparatively 
 free from stain, as CoUeoni. The only general of his day who 
 can bear comparison with him for purity of public life and 
 decency in conduct, was Federigo di Montefeltro. Even here, 
 the comparison redounds to Colleoni's credit ; for he, unlike 
 
 Y 
 
322 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the Duke of Urbiiio, rose to eminence by his own exertion in 
 a profession fraught with peril to nien of ambition and energy. 
 Federigo started with a principaHty sufficient to satisfy his just 
 desires for power. Nothing but his own sense of right and 
 prudence restrained CoUeoni upon the path which brought 
 Francesco Sforza to a duchy by dishonourable dealings, and 
 Carmagnola to the scaffold by questionable practice against his 
 masters. 
 
323 
 
 COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO. 
 
 To which of the Italian lakes should the palm of beauty be 
 accorded ? This question may not unfrequently have moved 
 the idle minds of travellers, wandering through that loveliest 
 region from Orta to Garda — from little Orta, with her gem- 
 like island, rosy granite crags, and chestnut-covered swards above 
 the Colma ; to Garda, bluest of all waters, surveyed in majestic 
 length from Desenzano or poetic Sirmione, a silvery sleeping 
 haze of hill and cloud and heaven and clear waves bathed in 
 modulated azure. And between these extreme points what 
 varied lovelinesses lie in broad Maggiore, winding Como, 
 Varese with the laughing face upturned to heaven, Lugano 
 overshadowed by the crested crags of Monte Generoso, and 
 Iseo far withdrawn among the rocky Alps ! He who loves 
 immense space, cloud shadows slowly sailing over purple 
 slopes, island gardens, distant glimpses of snow-capped 
 mountains, breadth, air, immensity, and flooding sunlight, will 
 choose Maggiore. But scarcely has he cast his vote for this, 
 the Juno of the divine rivals, when he remembers the triple 
 lovelinesses of the Larian Aphrodite, disclosed in all their 
 placid grace from Villa Serbelloni ; — the green blue of the 
 waters, clear as glass, opaque through depth ; the millefleiirs 
 roses clambering into cypresses by Cadenabbia ; the laburnums 
 hanging their yellow clusters from the clefts of Sasso Rancio ; 
 the oleander arcades of Varenna ; the wild white limestone 
 crags of San Martino, which he has climbed to feast his eyes 
 with the perspective, magical, serene, Lionardesquely perfect, 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 of the distant gates of Adda. Then while this modern Paris 
 is yet doubting, perhaps a thought may cross his mind of 
 sterner, soUtary Lake Iseo — the Pallas of the three. She 
 offers her own attractions. The sublimity of Monte Adamello, 
 dominating Lovere and all the lowland like Hesiod's hill of 
 Virtue reared aloft above the plain of common life, has charms 
 to tempt heroic lovers. Nor can Varese be neglected. In 
 some picturesque respects, Varese is the most perfect of the 
 lakes. Those long lines of swelling hills that lead into the 
 level, yield an infinite series of placid foregrounds, pleasant 
 to the eye by contrast with the dominant snow-summits, from 
 Monte Viso to Monte Leone : the sky is limitless to south- 
 ward ; the low horizons are broken by bell-towers and farm- 
 houses ; while armaments of clouds are ever rolling in the 
 interval of Alps and plain. 
 
 Of a truth, to decide which is the queen of the Italian 
 lakes, is but an infinita quc&stio ; and the mere raising of it is 
 folly. Still each lover of the beautiful may give his vote ; and 
 mine, like that of shepherd Paris, is already given to the 
 Larian goddess. Words fail in attempting to set forth charms 
 which have to be enjoyed, or can at best but lightly be touched 
 with most consummate tact, even as great poets have already 
 touched on Como Lake — from Virgil with his ' Lari maxume,' 
 to Tennyson and the Italian Manzoni. The threshold of the 
 shrine is, however, less consecrated ground ; and the Cathedral 
 of Como may form a vestibule to the temple where silence is 
 more golden than the speech of a describer. 
 
 I'he Cathedral of Como is perhaps the most perfect build- 
 ing in Italy for illustrating the fusion of Gothic and Renaissance 
 styles, both of a good type and exquisite in their sobriety. The 
 Gothic ends with the nave. The noble transepts and the choir, 
 each terminating in a rounded tribune of the same dimensions, 
 are carried out in a. simple and decorous Bramantesque manner. 
 The transition from the one style to the other is managed so 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHmO. 325 
 
 felicitously, and the sympathies between them are so well 
 developed, that there is no discord. What we here call Gothic, 
 is conceived in a truly southern spirit, without fantastic efflores- 
 cence or imaginative complexity of multiplied parts ; while the 
 Renaissance manner, as applied by Tommaso Rodari, has not 
 yet stiffened into the lifeless neo-Latinism of the later Cinque 
 Cento : it is still distinguished by delicate inventiveness, and 
 beautiful subordination of decorative detail to architectural 
 effect. Under these happy conditions we feel that the Gothic 
 of the nave, with its superior severity and sombreness, dilates 
 into the lucid harmonies of choir and transepts like a flower 
 unfolding. In the one the mind is tuned to inner meditation 
 and religious awe ; in the other the worshipper passes into a 
 temple of the clear explicit faith — as an initiated neophyte 
 might be received into the meaning of the mysteries. 
 
 After the collapse of the Roman Empire the district of 
 Como seems to have maintained more vividly than the rest of 
 Northern Italy some memory of classic art. Magistri 
 Comacini is a title frequently inscribed upon deeds and 
 charters of the earlier middle ages, as synonymous with 
 sculptors and architects. This fact may help to account for 
 the purity and beauty of the Duomo. It is the work of a 
 race in which the tradition of delicate artistic invention had 
 never been wholly interrupted. To Tommaso Rodari and his 
 brothers, Bernardino and Jacopo, the world owes this sympathetic 
 fusion of the Gothic and the Bramantesque styles ; and theirs 
 too is the sculpture with which the Duomo is so richly 
 decorated. They were natives of Maroggia, a village near 
 Mendrisio, beneath the crests of Monte Generoso, close to 
 Campione, which sent so many able craftsmen out into the 
 world between the years 1300 and 1500. Indeed the name of 
 Campionesi would probably have been given to the Rodari, 
 had they left their native province for service in Eastern 
 Lombardy. The body of the Duomo had been finished when 
 
326 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Tommaso Rodari was appointed master of the fabric in 1487. 
 To complete the work by the addition of a tribune was his 
 duty. He prepared a wooden model and exposed it, after the 
 fashion of those times, for criticism in his bottega ; and the 
 usual difference of opinion arose among the citizens of Como 
 concerning its merits. Cristoforo Solaro,. surnamed II Gobbo, 
 was called in to advise. It may be remembered that when 
 Michelangelo first placed his Pieta in S. Peter's, rumour gave 
 it to this celebrated Lombard sculptor, and the Florentine 
 was constrained to set his own signature upon the marble. 
 The same Solaro carved the monument of Beatrice Sforza in 
 the Certosa of Pavia. He was indeed in all points competent to 
 criticise or to confirm the design of his fellow- craftsman. II 
 Gobbo disapproved of the proportions chosen by Rodari, and 
 ordered a new model to be made ; but after much discussion, 
 and some concessions on the part of Rodari, who is said to 
 have increased the number of the windows and lightened the 
 orders of his model, the work was finally entrusted to the master 
 of Maroggia. 
 
 Not less creditable than the general design of the tribune 
 is the sculpture executed by the brothers. The north side 
 door is a master-work of early Renaissance chiselling, combin- 
 ing mixed Christian and classical motives with a wealth of 
 floral ornament. Inside, over the same door, is a procession 
 of children seeming to represent the Triumph of Bacchus, with 
 perhaps some Christian symbolism. Opposite, above the south 
 door, is a frieze of fighting Tritons — horsed sea deities pound- 
 ing one another with bunches of fish and splashing the water, 
 in Mantegna's spirit. The doorways of the facade are 
 decorated with the same rare workmanship ; and the canopies, 
 supported by naked fauns and slender twisted figures, under 
 which the two Plinies are seated, may be reckoned among the 
 supreme achievements of delicate Renaissance sculpture. 
 The Plinies are not like the work of the same master. They 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO. 327 
 
 are older, stiffer, and more Gothic. The chief interest 
 attaching to them is that they are habited and seated after the 
 fashion of Humanists. This consecration of the two Pagan 
 saints beside the portals of the Christian temple is truly charac- 
 teristic of the fifteenth century in Italy- Beneath, are little 
 basreliefs representing scenes from their respective lives, in 
 the style of carved predellas on the altars of saints. 
 
 The whole church is peopled, with detached statues, among 
 which a Sebastian in the Chapel of the Madonna must be 
 mentioned as singularly beautiful. It is a finely modelled 
 figure, with the full life and exuberant adolescence of Venetian* 
 inspiration. A peculiar feature of the external architecture is 
 the series of Atlantes, bearing on their shoulders urns, heads of 
 lions, and other devices, and standing on brackets round the 
 upper cornice just below the roof. They are of all sorts : 
 young and old, male and female ; classically nude, and boldly 
 outlined. These water-conduits, the work of Bernardo Bianco 
 and Francesco Rusca, illustrate the departure of the earlier 
 Renaissance from the Gothic style. They are gargoyles ; but 
 they have lost the grotesque element. At the same time the 
 sculptor, while discarding Gothic tradition, has not betaken 
 himself yet to a servile imitation of the antique. He has used 
 invention, and substituted for grinning dragons' heads some- 
 thing wild and bizarre of his own in harmony with classic taste. 
 
 The pictures in the chapels, chiefly by Luini and Ferrari — 
 an idyllic Nativity, with faun-like shepherds and choirs of angels 
 — a sumptuous adoration of the Magi — a jewelled Sposalizio 
 with abundance of golden hair flowing over draperies of green 
 and crimson — will interest those who are as yet unfamiliar with 
 Lombard painting. Yet their architectural setting, perhaps, is 
 superior to their intrinsic merit as works of art ; and their chief 
 value consists in adding rare dim flakes of colour to the cool 
 light of the lovely church. More curious, because less easily 
 matched, is the gilded woodwork above the altar of S. Abondio, 
 
328 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 attributed to a German carver, but executed for the most part 
 in the purest Luinesque manner. The pose of the enthroned 
 Madonna, the tyj^e and gesture of S. Catherine, and the treat- 
 ment of the Pieta above, are thoroughly Lombard, showing 
 how Luini's ideal of beauty could be expressed in carving. 
 Some of the choicest figures in the Monastero Maggiore at 
 Milan seem to have descended from the walls and stepped into 
 their tabernacles on this altar. Yet the style is not maintained 
 consistently. In the reliefs illustrating the life of S. Abondio 
 we miss Luini's childlike grace, and find instead a something 
 that reminds us of Donatello — a seeking after the classical in 
 dress, carriage, and grouping of accesssory figures. It may 
 have been that the carver, recognising Luini's defective com- 
 position, and finding nothing in that master's manner adapted 
 to the spirit of relief, had the good taste to render what was 
 Luinesquely lovely in his female figures, and to fall back on a 
 severer model for his bas-reliefs. 
 
 The building-fund for the Duomo was raised in Como and 
 its districte. Boxes were placed in all the churches to receive 
 the alms of those who wished to aid the work. The clergy 
 begged in Lent, and preached the duty of contributing on special 
 days. Presents of lime and bricks and other materials were 
 thankfully received. Bishops, canons, and municipal magistrates 
 were expected to make costly gifts on taking office. Notaries, 
 under penalty of paying loo soldi if they neglected their engage- 
 ment, were obliged to persuade testators, cum bonis modis dul- 
 citer, to inscribe the Duomo on their wills. Fines for various 
 offences were voted to the building by the city. Each new 
 burgher paid a certain sum ; while guilds and farmers of the 
 taxes bought monopolies and privileges at the price of yearly 
 subsidies. A lottery was finally established for the benefit ot 
 the fabric. Of course each i^yment to the good work carried 
 with it spiritual privileges ; and so willingly did the people 
 respond to the call of the Church, that during the sixteenth 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO. 329 
 
 century the sums subscribed amounted to 200,000 golden 
 crowns. Among the most munificent donators are mentioned 
 the Marchese Giacomo Gallio, who bequeathed 290,000 Ure, 
 and a Benzi, who gave 10,000 ducats. 
 
 While the people of Como were thus straining every nerve 
 to complete a pious work, which at the same time is one of the 
 most perfect masterpieces of Italian art, their lovely lake was 
 turned into a pirate's stronghold, and its green waves stained 
 with slaughter of conflicting navies. So curious is this episode 
 in the history of the Larian lake that it is worth while to treat 
 of it at some length. Moreover, the lives of few captains of 
 adventure offer matter more rich in picturesque details and 
 more illustrative of their times than that of Gian Giacomo de' 
 Medici, the Larian corsair, long known and still remembered as 
 II Medeghino. He was born in Milan in 1498, at the beginning 
 of that darkest and most disastrous period of Italian history, 
 when the old fabric of social and political existence went to 
 ruin under the impact of conflicting foreign armies. He lived 
 on until the year 1555, witnessing and taking part in the dis- 
 memberment of the Milanese Duchy, playing a game of hazard 
 at high stakes for his own profit with the two last Sforzas, the 
 Empire, the French, and the Swiss. At the beginning of the 
 century, while he was still a youth, the rich valley of tlie Val- 
 telline, with Bormio and Chiavenna, had been assigned to the 
 Grisons. The Swiss Cantons at the same time had possessed 
 themselves of Lugano and Bellinzona. By these two acts of 
 robbery the mountaineers tore a portion of its fairest territory 
 from the Duchy ; and whoever ruled in Milan, whether a Sforza, 
 or a Spanish viceroy, or a French general, was impatient to 
 recover the lost jewel of the ducal crown. So much has to be 
 premised, because the scene of our hero's romantic adventures 
 was laid upon the borderland between the Duchy and the 
 Cantons. Intriguing at one time with the Duke of Milan, at 
 another with his foes the French or Spaniards, II Medeghino 
 
330 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL Y. 
 
 found free scope for his peculiar genius in a guerilla warfare, 
 carried on with the avowed purpose of restoring the Valtelline 
 to Milan. To steer a plain course through that chaos of politics, 
 in which the modern student, aided by the calm clear lights of 
 history and meditation, cannot find a clue, was of course im- 
 possible for an adventurer whose one aim was to gratify his 
 passions and exalt himself at the expense of others. It is there- 
 fore of little use to seek motives of statecraft or of patriotism in 
 the conduct of II Medeghino. He was a man shaped according 
 to Machiavelli's standard of political morality — self-reliant, using 
 craft and force with cold indifference to moral ends, bent only 
 upon wringing for himself the largest share of this world's power 
 from men who, like himself, identified virtue with unflinching 
 and immitigable egotism. 
 
 II Medeghino*s father was Bernardo de* Medici, a Lombard, 
 who neither claimed nor could have proved cousinship with the 
 great Medicean family of Florence. His mother was Cecilia 
 Serbelloni. The boy was educated in the fashionable human 
 istic studies, nourishing his young imagination with the tales of 
 Roman heroes. The first exploit by which he proved his virtu^ 
 was the murder of a man he hated, at the age of sixteen. This 
 * virile act of vengeance,' as it was called, brought him into 
 trouble, and forced him to choose the congenial profession of 
 arms. At a time when violence and vigour passed for manli- 
 ness, a spirited assassination formed the best of introductions 
 to the captains of mixed mercenary troops. II Medeghino 
 rose in favour with his generals, helped to reinstate Francesco 
 Sforza in his capital, and, returning himself to Milan, inflicted 
 severe vengeance on the enemies who had driven him to exile. 
 It was his ambition, at this early period of his life, to be made 
 governor of the Castle of Musso, on the Lake of Como. While 
 lighting in the neighbourhood, he had observed the unrivalled 
 capacities for defence presented by its site ; and some prevision 
 of his future destinies now urged him to acquire it, as the basis 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHIMO. 331 
 
 for the free marauding life he planned. The. headland of Musso 
 lies about half way between Gravedona and Menaggio, on the 
 right shore of the Lake of Como. Planted on a pedestal of 
 rock, and surmounted by a sheer cHff, there then stood a very 
 ancient tower, commanding this promontory on the side of the 
 land. Between it and the water the Visconti, in more recent 
 days, had built a square fort ; and the headland had been further 
 strengthened by the addition of connecting walls and bastions 
 pierced for cannon. Combining precipitous cliffs, strong 
 towers, and easy access from the lake below, this fortress of 
 Musso was exactly the fit station for a pirate. So long as he 
 kept the command of the lake, he had Httle to fear from land 
 attacks, and had a splendid basis for aggressive operations. 
 II Medeghino made his request to the Duke of Milan ; but the 
 foxlike Sforza would not grant him a plain answer. At length 
 he hinted that if his suitor chose to rid him of a troublesome 
 subject, the noble and popular Astore Visconti, he should receive 
 Musso for payment. Crimes of bloodshed and treason sat 
 lightly on the adventurer's conscience. In a short time he 
 compassed the young Visconti's death, and claimed his reward. 
 The Duke despatched him thereupon to Musso, with open 
 letters to the governor, commanding him to yield the castle to 
 the bearer. Private advice, also entmsted to II Medeghino, 
 bade the governor, on the contrary, cut the bearer's throat. 
 The young man, who had the sense to read the Duke's letter, 
 destroyed the secret document, and presented the other, or, as 
 one version of the story goes, forged a ducal order in his own 
 favour.^ At any rate, the castle was placed in his hands ; and 
 affecting to know nothing of the Duke's intended treachery, 
 II Medeghino took possession of it as a trusted servant of the 
 ducal crown. 
 
 » I cannot see clearly through these transactions, the muddy waters of 
 decadent Italian plot and counterplot being inscrutable to senses assisted 
 by nothing more luminous than mere tradition. 
 
332 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 As soon as he was settled in his castle, the freebooter 
 devoted all his energies to rendering it still more impregnable 
 by strengthening the walls and breaking the cliffs into more 
 horrid precipices. In this work he was assisted by his numerous 
 friends and followers ; for Musso rapidly became, like ancient 
 Rome, an asylum for the ruffians and outlaws of neighbouring 
 provinces. It is even said that his sisters, Clarina and 
 Margherita, rendered efficient aid with manual labour. The 
 mention of Clarina's name justifies a parenthetical side-glance 
 at II Medeghino's pedigree, which will serve to illustrate the 
 exceptional conditions of Italian society during this age. She 
 was married to the Count Giberto Borromeo, and became the 
 mother of the pious Carlo Borromeo, whose shrine is still adored 
 at Milan in the Duomo. II Medeghino's brother, Giovan 
 Angelo, rose to the Papacy, assuming the title of Pius IV. 
 Thus this murderous marauder was the brother of a Pope and 
 the uncle of a Saint ; and these three persons of one family 
 embraced the various degrees and typified the several characters 
 which flourished with peculiar lustre in Renaissance Italy — 
 the captain of adventure soaked in blood, the churchman 
 unrivalled for intrigue, and the saint aflame with holiest enthu- 
 siasm. II Medeghino was short of stature, but well made and 
 powerful ; broad-chested ; with a penetrating voice and winning 
 countenance. He dressed simply, like one of his own soldiers ; 
 slept but little ; was insensible to carnal pleasure ; and though 
 he knew how to win the aflection of his men by jovial speech, 
 he maintained strict discipline in his Uttle army. In all points 
 he was an ideal bandit chief, never happy unless fighting or 
 planning campaigns, inflexible of purpose, bold and cunning in 
 the execution of his schemes, cruel to his enemies, generous to 
 his followers, sacrificing all considerations, human and divine, 
 to the one aim of his life, self-aggrandisement by force and 
 intrigue. He knew well how to make himself both feared and 
 respected. One instance of his dealing will suffice. A gentle- 
 
CO A/0 AND IL MEDECmNO. 333 
 
 man of Bellano, Polidoro Boldoni, in return to his advances, 
 coldly replied that he cared for neither amity nor relationship 
 with thieves and robbers ; whereupon II Medeghino extirpated 
 his family, almost to a man. 
 
 Soon after his settlement in Musso, II Medeghino, wishing 
 to secure the gratitude of the Duke, his master, began war with 
 the Grisons. From Coire, from the Engadine, and from Davos, 
 the Alpine pikemen were now pouring down to swell the troops 
 of Francis I. ; and their road lay through the Lake of Como. 
 II Medeghino burned all the boats upon the lake, except those 
 which he took into his own service, and thus made himself 
 master of the water passage. He then swept the ' length of 
 lordly Lario ' from Colico to Lecco, harrying the villages upon 
 the shore, and cutting off the bands of journeying Switzers at 
 his pleasure. Not content with this guerilla, he made a descent 
 upon the territory of the Trepievi, and pushed far up towards 
 Chiavenna, forcing the Grisons to recall their troops from the 
 Milanese. These acts of prowess convinced the Duke that he 
 had found a strong ally in the pirate chief When Francis I. 
 continued his attacks upon the Duchy, and the Grisons still 
 adhered to their French paymaster, the Sforza formally invested 
 Gian Giacomo de' Medici with the perpetual governorship of 
 Musso, the Lake of Como, and as much as he could wrest from 
 the Grisons above the lake. Furnished now with a just title 
 for his depredations, II Medeghino undertook the siege of 
 Chiavenna. That town is the key to the valleys of the Spliigen 
 and Bregaglia. Strongly fortified and well situated for defence, 
 the burghers of the Grisons well knew that upon its possession 
 depended their power in the ItaHan valleys. To take it by 
 assault was impossible. II Medeghino used craft, entered the 
 castle, and soon had the city at his disposition. Nor did he 
 lose time in sweeping Val Bregaglia. The news of this con- 
 quest recalled the Switzers from the Duchy ; and as they hurried 
 homeward just before the battle of Pavia, it may be affirmed 
 
334 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 that Gian Giacoitio de' Medici was instrumental in the defeat 
 and capture of the French King. The mountaineers had no 
 great difficulty in dislodging their pirate enemy from Chiavenna, 
 the Valtelline, and Val Bregaglia. But he retained his hold on 
 the Trepievi, occupied the Valsassina, took Porlezza, and estab- 
 lished himself still more strongly in Musso as the corsair 
 monarch of the lake. 
 
 The tyranny of the Sforzas in Milan was fast going to pieces 
 between France and Spain ; and in 1526 the Marquis of Pescara 
 occupied the capital in the name of Charles V. The Duke, 
 meanwhile, remained a prisoner in his Castello. II Medeghino 
 was now without a master ; for he refused to acknowledge the 
 Spaniards, preferring to watch events and build his own power 
 on the ruins of the dukedom. At the head of 4,000 men, 
 recruited from the lakes and neighbouring valleys, he swept 
 the country far and wide, and occupied the rich champaign of 
 the Brianza. He was now lord of the lakes of Como and 
 Lugano, and absolute in Lecco and the adjoining valleys. The 
 town of Como itself alone belonged to the Spaniards ; and 
 even Como was blockaded by the navy of the corsair. II 
 Medeghino had a force of seven big ships, with three sails and 
 forty-eight oars, bristling with guns and carrying marines. His 
 flagship was a large brigantine, manned by picked rowers, from 
 the mast of which floated the red banner with the golden palle 
 of the Medicean arms. Besides these larger vessels, he com- 
 manded a flotilla of countless small boats. It is clear that to 
 reckon with him was a necessity. If he could not be put down 
 with force, he might be bought over by concessions. The 
 Spaniards adopted the second course, and II Medeghino, 
 judging that the cause of the Sforza family was desperate, 
 determined in 1528 to attach himself to the Empire. Charles 
 V. invested him with the Castle of Musso and the larger part 
 of Como Lake, including the town of Lecco. He now assumed 
 the titles of Marquis of Musso and Count of Lecco : and in 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO. 335 
 
 order to prove his sovereignty before the world, he coined 
 money with his own name and devices. 
 
 It will be observed that Gian Giacomo de' Medici had 
 hitherto acted with a single-hearted view to his own interests. 
 At the age of thirty he had raised himself from nothing to a 
 principality, which, though petty, might compare with many of 
 some name in Italy — with Carpi, for example, or Mirandola, or 
 Camerino. Nor did he mean to remain quiet in the prime of 
 life. He regarded Como Lake as the mere basis for more 
 arduous undertakings. Therefore, when the whirligig of events 
 restored Francesco Sforza to his duchy in 1529, II Medeghino 
 refused to obey his old lord. Pretending to move under the 
 Duke's orders, but really acting for himself alone, he proceeded 
 to attack his ancient enemies, the Grisons. By fraud and 
 force he worked his way into their territory, seized Morbegno, 
 and overran the Valtelline. He was destined, however, to 
 receive a serious check. Twelve thousand Switzers rose 
 against him on the one hand, on the other the Duke of Milan 
 sent a force by land and water to subdue his rebel subject, 
 while Alessandro Gonzaga marched upon his castles in the 
 Brianza, He was thus assailed by formidable forces from 
 three quarters, converging upon the Lake of Como, and driving 
 him to his chosen element, the water. Hastily quitting the 
 Valtelline, he fell back to the Castle of Mandello on the lake, 
 collected his navy, and engaged the ducal ships in a battle off 
 Menaggio. In this battle he was worsted. But he did not lose 
 his courage. From Bellagio, from Varenna, from Bellano he 
 drove forth his enemies, rolled the cannon of the Switzers into 
 the lake, regained Lecco, defeated the troops of Alessandro 
 Gonzaga, and took the Duke of Mantua prisoner. Had he but 
 held Como, it is probable that he might have obtained such 
 terms at this time as would have consolidated his tyranny. 
 The town of Como, however, now belonged to the Duke of 
 Milan, and formed an excellent basis for operations against the 
 
336 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pirate. Overmatched, with an exhausted treasury and broken 
 forces, II Medeghino was at last compelled to give in. Yet he 
 retired with all the honours of war. In exchange for Musso 
 and the lake, the Duke agreed to give him 35,000 golden 
 crowns, together with the feud and marquisate of Marignano. 
 A free pardon was promised not only to himself and his 
 brothers, but to all his followers ; and the Duke further under- 
 took to transport his artillery and munitions of war at his own 
 expense to Marignano. Having concluded this treaty under 
 the auspices of Charles V. and his lieutenant, II Medeghino, in 
 March 1532, set sail from Musso, and turned his back upon 
 the lake for ever. The Switzers immediately destroyed the 
 towers, forts, walls, and bastions of the Musso promontory, 
 leaving in the midst of their ruins the little chapel of S. 
 Eufemia. 
 
 Gian Giacomo de' Medici, henceforth known to Europe as 
 the Marquis of Marignano, now took service under Spain ; and 
 through the favour of Anton de Leyva, Viceroy for the Duchy, 
 rose to the rank of Field Marshal. When the Marquis del 
 Vasto succeeded to the Spanish governorship of Milan in 1536, 
 he determined to gratify an old grudge against the ex-pirate, 
 and, having invited him to a banquet, made him prisoner. II 
 Medeghino was not, however, destined to languish in a 
 dungeon. Princes and kings interested themselves in his fate. 
 He was released, and journeyed to the court of Charles V. in 
 Spain. The Emperor received him kindly, and employed him 
 first in the Low Countries, where he helped to repress the 
 burghers of Ghent, and at the siege of Landrecy commanded 
 the Spanish artillery against other Italian captains of adventure ; 
 for, Italy being now dismembered and enslaved, her sons sought 
 foreign service where they found best pay and widest scope for 
 martial science. Afterwards the Medici ruled Bohemia as 
 Spanish Viceroy ; and then, as general of the league formed 
 by the Duke of Florence, the Emperor, and the Pope to repress 
 
COMO AND IL MEDEGHINO. 337 
 
 the liberties of Tuscany, distinguished himself in that cruel war 
 of extermination, which turned the fair Contado of Siena into a 
 poisonous Maremma. To the last II Medeghino preserved the 
 instincts and the passions of a brigand chief. It was at this 
 time that, acting for the Grand Duke of Tuscany, he first 
 claimed open kinship with the Medici of Florence. Heralds 
 and genealogists produced a pedigree, which seemed to authorise 
 this pretension ; he was recognised, together with his brother, 
 Pius IV., as an offshoot of the great house which had already 
 given Dukes to Florence, Kings to France, and two Popes to 
 the Christian world. In the midst of all this foreign service he 
 never forgot his old dream of conquering the Valtelline ; and 
 in 1547 he made proposals to the Emperor for a new campaign 
 against the Grisons. Charles V. did not choose to engage in 
 a war, the profits of which would have been inconsiderable for 
 the master of half the civilised world, and which might have 
 proved troublesome by stirring up the tameless Switzers. II 
 Medeghino was obliged to abandon a project cherished from 
 the earliesjt dawn of his adventurous manhood. 
 
 When Gian Giacomo died in 1555, his brother Battista 
 succeeded to his claims upon Lecco and the Trepievi. His 
 monument, magnificent with five bronze figures, the masterpiece 
 of Leone Lioni, from Menaggio, Michelangelesque in style, and 
 of consummate workmanship, still adorns the Duomo of Milan. 
 It stands close by the door that leads to the roof. This 
 mausoleum, erected to the memory of Gian Giacomo and his 
 brother Gabrio, is said to have cost 7,800 golden crowns. On 
 the occasion of the pirate's funeral the Senate of Milan put on 
 mourning, and the whole city followed the great robber, the 
 hero of Renaissance virtii^ to the grave. 
 
 Between the Cathedral of Como and the corsair Medeghino 
 there is but a slight link. Yet so extraordinary were the social 
 circumstances of Renaissance Italy, that almost at every turn, 
 on her sea-board, in her cities, from her hill-tops, we are com- 
 
 z 
 
338 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 pelled to blend our admiration for the loveliest and purest works 
 of art amid the choicest scenes of nature with memories of 
 execrable crimes and lawless characters. Sometimes, as at 
 Perugia, the nextis is but local. At others, one single figure, 
 like that of Cellini, unites both points of view in a romance of 
 unparalleled dramatic vividness. Or, again, beneath the vaults 
 of the Certosa, near Pavia, a masterpiece of the serenest beauty^ 
 carries our thoughts perforce back to the hideous cruelties and 
 snake-like frauds of its despotic founder. This is the excuse 
 for combining two such diverse subjects in one study. 
 
339 
 
 LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 
 
 On the Superga. 
 
 This is the chord of Lombard colouring in May. Lowest in 
 the scale : bright green of varied tints, the meadow-grasses 
 minghng with willows and acacias, harmonised by air and 
 distance. Next, opaque blue— the blue of something between 
 amethyst and lapis-lazuli — that belongs alone to the basements 
 of Italian mountains. Higher, the roseate whiteness of ridged 
 snow on Alps or Apennines. Highest, the blue of the sky, ascend- 
 ing from pale turquoise to transparent sapphire filled with light. 
 A mediaeval mystic might have likened this chord to the 
 spiritual world. For the lowest region is that of natural life, 
 of plant and bird and beast, and unregenerate man ; it is the 
 place of faun and nymph and satyr, the plain where wars are 
 fought and cities built, and work is done. Thence we climb to 
 purified humanity, the mountains of purgation, the solitude 
 and simplicity of contemplative life not yet made perfect by 
 freedom from the flesh. Higher comes that thin white belt, 
 where are the resting places of angelic feet, the points whence 
 purged souls take their flight toward infinity. Above all is heaven, 
 the hierarchies ascending row on row to reach the light of God. 
 This fancy occurred to me as I climbed the slope of the 
 Superga, gazing over acacia hedges and poplars to the mountains 
 bare in morning light. The occasional occurrence of bars 
 across this chord — poplars shivering in sun and breeze, 
 stationary cypresses as black as night, and tall campanili with 
 
 z 2 
 
340 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the hot red shafts of glowing brick — adds just enough of com- 
 position to the landscape. Without too much straining of the 
 allegory, the mystic might have recognised in these aspiring 
 bars the upward effort of souls rooted in the common life of 
 earth. 
 
 The panorama, unrolling as we ascend, is enough to over- 
 power a lover of beauty. There is nothing equal to it for 
 space and breadth and majesty. Monte Rosa, the masses of 
 Mont Blanc blent with the Grand Paradis, the airy pyramid of 
 Monte Viso, these are the battlements of that vast Alpine 
 rampart, in which the vale of Susa opens like a gate. To west 
 and south sweep the Maritime Alps and the Apennines. 
 Beneath, glides the infant Po ; and where he leads our eyes, 
 the plain is only limited by pearly mist. 
 
 A Bronze Bust of Caligula at Turin. 
 
 The Albertina bronze is one of the most precious portraits 
 of antiquity, not merely because it confirms the testimony of 
 the green basalt bust in the Capitol, but also because it supplies 
 an even more emphatic and impressive illustration to the 
 narrative of Suetonius. 
 
 Caligula is here represented as young and singularly beau- 
 tiful. It is indeed an ideal Roman head, with the powerful 
 square modelling, the crisp short hair, low forehead and regular 
 firm features, proper to the noblest Roman type. The head is 
 thrown backward from the throat ; and there is a something of 
 menace or defiance or suffering in the suggestion of brusque 
 movement given to the sinews of the neck. This attitude, to- 
 gether with the tension of the forehead, and the fixed expres- 
 sion of pain and strain communicated by the lines of the 
 mouth — strong muscles of the upper Hp and abruptly chiselled 
 under lip — in relation to the small eyes, deep set beneath their 
 cavernous and level brows, renders the whole face a monument 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 341 
 
 of spiritual anguish. I remember that the green basalt bust of 
 the Capitol has the same anxious forehead, the same troubled 
 and overburdened eyes \ but the agony of this fretful mouth, 
 comparable to nothing but the mouth of Pandolfo Sigismondo 
 Malatesta, and, like that, on the verge of breaking into the 
 spasms of delirium, is quite peculiar to the Albertina bronze. 
 It is just this which the portrait of the Capitol lacks for the 
 completion of Caligula. The man who could be so repre- 
 sented in art had nothing wholly vulgar in him. The brutality 
 of Caracalla, the overblown sensuality of Nero, the effeminacy 
 of Commodus or Heliogabalus, are all absent here. This face 
 ideahses the torture of a morbid soul. It is withal so truly 
 beautiful that it might easily be niade the poem of high suffer- 
 ing or noble passion. If the bronze were plastic, I see how a 
 great sculptor, by but few strokes, could convert it into an 
 agonismg Stephen or Sebastian. As it is, the unimaginable 
 touch of disease, the unrest of madness, made Caligula the 
 genius of insatiable appetite ; and his martyrdom was the tor- 
 ment of lust and ennui and everlasting agitation. The accident 
 of empire tantalised him with vain hopes of satisfying the 
 Charybdis of his soul's sick cravings. From point to point he 
 passed of empty pleasure and unsatisfying cruelty, for ever 
 hungry ; until the malady of his spirit, unrestrained by any 
 limitations, and with the right medium for its development, 
 became unique — the tragic type of pathological desire. What 
 more than all things must have plagued a man with that face 
 was probably the unavoidable meanness of his career. When 
 we study the chapters of Suetonius, we are forced to feel that, 
 though the situation and the madness of Caligula were dramati- 
 cally impressive, his crimes were trivial and small. In spite of 
 the vast scale on which he worked his devilish will, his life 
 presents a total picture of sordid vice, differing only from pot- 
 house dissipation and schoolboy cruelty in point of size. And 
 this of a truth is the Nemesis of evil. After a time, mere 
 
342 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL V. 
 
 tyrannous caprice must become commonplace and cloying, 
 tedious to the tyrant, and uninteresting to the student of 
 humanity : nor can I believe that Caligula failed to perceive 
 this to his own infinite disgust. 
 
 Suetonius asserts that he was hideously ugly. How are we 
 to square this testimony with the witness of the bronze before 
 us ? What changed the face, so beautiful and terrible in youth, 
 to ugliness that shrank from sight in manhood? Did the 
 murderers find it blurred in its fine lineaments, furrowed with 
 lines of care, hollowed with the soul's hunger ? Unless a life 
 of vice and madness had succeeded in making Caligula's face 
 what the faces of some maniacs are — the bloated ruin of what 
 was once a living witness to the soul within — I could fancy 
 that death may have sanctified it with even more beauty than 
 this bust of the self-tormented young man shows. Have we 
 not all seen the anguish of thought-fretted faces smoothed out 
 by the hands of the Deliverer ? 
 
 Ferrari at Vercelli. * 
 
 It is possible that many visitors to the Cathedral of Como 
 have carried away the memory of stately women with abundant 
 yellow hair and draperies of green and crimson, in a picture 
 they connect thereafter with Gaudenzio Ferrari. And when 
 they come to Milan, they are probably both impressed and 
 disappointed by a Martyrdom of S. Catherine in the Brera, 
 bearing the same artist's name. If they wish to understand 
 this painter, they must seek him at Varallo, at Saronno, and at 
 Vercelli. In the Church of S. Cristoforo in Vercelli, Gaudenzio 
 Ferrari at the full height of his powers showed what he could 
 do to justify Lomazzo's title chosen for him of the Eagle. He 
 has indeed the strong wing and the swiftness of the king of 
 birds. And yet the works of few really great painters— and 
 among the really great we place Ferrari — leave upon the mind 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 343 
 
 a more distressing sense of imperfection. Extraordinary ferti- 
 lity of fancy, vehement dramatic passion, sincere study of 
 nature, and great command of technical resources are here (as 
 elsewhere in Ferrari's frescoes) neutralised by an incurable 
 defect of the combining and harmonising faculty, so essential 
 to a masterpiece. There is stuff enough of thought and vigour 
 and imagination to make a dozen artists. And yet we turn 
 away disappointed from the crowded, dazzling, stupefying 
 wilderness of forms and faces on these mighty walls. 
 
 All that Ferrari derived from actual life — the heads of 
 single figures, the powerful movement of men and women in 
 excited action, the monumental pose of two praying nuns — is 
 admirably rendered. His angels too, in S. Cristoforo as else- 
 where, are quite original ; not only in their type of beauty, 
 which is terrestrial and peculiar to Ferrari, without a touch of 
 Correggio's sensuality ; but also in the intensity of their emo- 
 tion, the realisation of their vitality. Those which hover round 
 the Cross in the fresco of the * Crucifixion ' are as passionate 
 as any angels of the Giottesque masters in Assisi. Those 
 again which crowd the Stable of Betlilehem in the ' Nativity ' 
 yield no point of idyllic charm to Gozzoli's in the Riccardi 
 Chapel . 
 
 The ' Crucifixion ' and the ' Assumption of Madonna ' are 
 very tall and narrow compositions, audacious in their attempt 
 to fill almost unmanageable space with a connected action. 
 Of the two frescoes the ' Crucifixion,' which has points of strong 
 similarity to the same subject at Varallo, is by far the best. 
 Ferrari never painted anything at once truer to life and nobler 
 in tragic style than the fainting Virgin. Her face expresses 
 the very acme of martyrdom — not exaggerated nor spasmodic, 
 but real and sublime — in the suffering of a stately matron. 
 In points like this Ferrari cannot be surpassed. Raphael 
 could scarcely have done better ; besides, there is an air 
 of sincerity, a stamp of popular truth, in this episode, which 
 
344 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 lies beyond Raphael's sphere. It reminds us rather of Tin- 
 toretto. 
 
 After the * Crucifixion/ I place the ' Adoration of the Magi/ 
 full of fine mundane motives and gorgeous costumes ; then the 
 * Sposalizio ' (whose marriage, I am not certain), the only 
 grandly composed picture of the series, and marked by noble 
 heads ; then the ' Adoration of the Shepherds,' with two lovely 
 angels holding the bambino. The 'Assumption of the Mag- 
 dalen' — for which fresco there is a valuable cartoon in the 
 Albertina Collection at Turin — must have been a fine picture ; 
 but it is ruined now. An oil altar-piece in the choir of the 
 same church struck me less than the frescoes. It represents 
 Madonna and a crowd of saints under an orchard of apple- 
 trees, with cherubs curiously flung about almost at random in 
 the air. The motive of the orchard is prettily conceived and 
 carried out with spirit. 
 
 What Ferrari possessed was rapidity of movement, fulness 
 and richness of reality, exuberance of invention, excellent por- 
 traiture, dramatic vehemence, and an almost unrivalled 
 sympatliy with the swift and passionate world of angels. What 
 he lacked was power of composition, simplicity of total effect, 
 harmony in colouring, control over his own luxuriance, the 
 sense of tranquilHty. He seems to have sought grandeur in 
 size and multitude, richness, ^clat, contrast. Being the disciple 
 of Lionardo and Raphael, his defects are truly singular. As a 
 composer, the old leaven of Giovenone remained in him ; but 
 he felt the dramatic tendencies of a later age,, and in occasional 
 episodes he realised them with a force and furia granted to 
 very few of the Italian painters. 
 
 Lanini at Vercelll 
 
 The Casa Mariano is a palace which belonged to a family 
 of that name. Like many houses of the sort in Italy, it fell to 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 345 
 
 vile uses ; and its hall of audience was turned into a lumber- 
 room. The Operai of Vercelli, I was told, bought the palace 
 a few years ago, restored the noble hall, and devoted a smaller 
 room to a collection of pictures valuable for students of the 
 early Vercellese style of painting. Of these there is no need to 
 speak. The great hall is the gem of the Casa Mariano. It 
 has a coved roof, with a large flat oblong space in the centre of 
 the ceiling. The whole of this vault and the lunettes beneath 
 were painted by Lanini ; so runs the tradition of the fresco- 
 painter's name ; and though much injured by centuries of out- 
 rage, and somewhat marred by recent restoration, these frescoes 
 form a precious monument of Lombard art. The object of the 
 painter's design seems to have been the glorification of Music. 
 In the central compartment of the roof is an assembly of the 
 gods, obviously borrowed from Raphael's ' Marriage of Cupid 
 and Psyche ' in the Farnesina at Rome. The fusion of Roman 
 composition with Lombard execution constitutes the chief 
 charm of this singular work, and makes it, so far as I am aware, 
 unique. Single figures of the goddesses, and the whole move- 
 ment of the scene upon Olympus, are transcribed without 
 attempt at concealment And yet the fresco is not a barefaced 
 copy. The manner of feeling and of execution is quite dif- 
 ferent from that of Raphael's school. The poetry and senti- 
 ment are genuinely Lombard. None of Raphael's pupils could 
 have carried out his design with a delicacy of emotion and a 
 technical skill in colouring so consummate. What, we think, 
 as we gaze upward, would the Master have given for such a 
 craftsman ? The hardness, coarseness, and animal crudity of 
 the Roman School are absent : so ulso is their vigour. But 
 where the grace of form and colour is so soft and sweet, where 
 the high-bred calm of good company is so sympathetically 
 rendered, where the atmosphere of amorous languor and of 
 melody is so artistically diffused, we cannot miss the powerful 
 modelling and rather vulgar tours de force of Giulio Romano. 
 
346 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 The scale of tone is silvery golden. There are no hard blues, 
 no coarse red flesh-tints, no black shadows. Mellow lights, 
 the morning hues of primrose, or of palest amber, pervade the 
 whole society. It is a court of gentle and harmonious souls ; 
 and though this style of beauty might cloy, at first sight there is 
 something ravishing in those yellow-haired, white-limbed, 
 blooming deities. No movement of lascivious grace as in 
 Correggio, no perturbation of the senses as in some of the 
 Venetians, disturbs the rhythm of their music ; nor is the plea- 
 sure of the flesh, though felt by the painter and communicated 
 to the spectator, an interruption to their divine calm. The 
 white, saffron-haired goddesses are grouped together like stars 
 seen in the topaz light of evening, like daffodils half smothered 
 in snow-drops, and among them, Diana, with the crescent on 
 her forehead, is the fairest. Her dream-like beauty need fear 
 no comparison with the Diana of the Camera di S. Paolo. 
 Apollo and Bacchus are scarcely less lovely in their bloom of 
 earliest manhood ; honey-pale, as Greeks would say ; like 
 statues of living electron ; realising Simaetha's picture of her 
 lover and his friend : — 
 
 Tols S' 7\v ^avBoripa H€u €\txpv<roio yevsids, 
 <Tri]d€a 5* (rTiK'^ovra ttoXu itXiov % tv 'S.^Xava.^ 
 
 It was thus that the almost childlike spirit of the Milanese 
 
 painters felt the antique: how differently from their Roman 
 
 brethren ! It was thus that tliey interpreted the lines of their 
 
 own poets : — 
 
 E i tuoi capei piu volte ho somigliati 
 Di Cerere a le paglie secche o bionde 
 Dintorno crespi al tuo capo legati.'^ 
 
 * ' The down upon their cheeks and chin was yeilower than helichiysus, 
 and their breasts gleamed whiter far than thou, O Moon.' 
 
 2 ' Thy tresses have I oftentimes compared to Ceres' yellow autumn 
 sheaves, wreathed in curled bands around thy head.' 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 347 
 
 Yet the painter of this hall— whether we are to call him Lanini 
 or another — was not a composer. Where he has not robbed 
 the motives and the distribution of the figures from Raphael, 
 he has nothing left but grace of detail. The intellectual feeble- 
 ness of his style may be seen in many figures of women playing 
 upon instruments of music, ranged around the walls. One girl 
 at the organ is graceful ; another with a tambourine has a sort 
 of Bassarid beauty. But the group of Apollo, Pegasus, and a 
 Muse upon Parnassus, is a failure in its meaningless frigidity, 
 while few of these subordinate compositions show power of 
 conception or vigour of design. 
 
 Lanini, like Sodoma, was a native of Vercelli ; and though 
 he was Ferrari's pupil, there is more in him of Luini or of 
 Sodoma than of his master. He does not rise at any point to 
 the height of these three great masters, but he shares some of 
 Luini's and Sodoma's fine quaUties, without having any of 
 Ferrari's force. A visit to the mangled remnants of his frescoes 
 in S. Caterina will repay the student of art. This was once, 
 apparently, a double church, or a church with the hall and 
 chapel of a confraterfiita appended to it. One portion of the 
 building was painted with the history of the Saint ; and very 
 lovely must this work have been, to judge by the fragments 
 which have recently been rescued from whitewash, damp, and 
 ruthless mutilation. What wonderful Lombard faces, half 
 obliterated on the broken wall and mouldering plaster, smile 
 upon us like drowned memories swimming up from the depths 
 of oblivion ! Wherever three or four are grouped together, we 
 find an exquisite little picture— an old woman and two young 
 women in a doorway, for example, telling no story, but touch- 
 ing us with simple harmony of form. Nothing further is 
 needed to render their grace intelligible. Indeed, knowing the 
 faults of the school, we may seek some consolation by telling 
 ourselves that these incomplete fragments yield Lanim's best. 
 In the coved compartments of the roof, above the windows, 
 
348 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 ran a row of dancing boys ; and these are still most beautifully 
 modelled, though the pallor of recent whitewash is upon them. 
 All the boys have blonde hair. They are naked, with scrolls 
 or ribbons wreathed around them, adding to the airiness of 
 their continual dance. Some of the loveliest are in a room 
 used to stow away the lumber of the church — old boards and 
 curtains, broken lanterns, candle-ends in tin sconces, the musty 
 apparatus of festival adornments, and in the midst of all a 
 battered, weather-beaten bier. 
 
 The Piazza of Piacenza. 
 
 The great feature of Piacenza is its famous piazza — a 
 romantically, picturesquely perfect square, surpassing the most 
 daring attempts of the scene-painter, and realising a poet's 
 dreams. The space is considerable, and many streets con- 
 verge upon it at irregular angles. Its finest architectural 
 feature is the antique Palace of the Commune : Gothic arcades 
 of stone below, surmounted by a brick building with wonder- 
 fully delicate and varied terra-cotta work in the round-arched 
 windows. Before this fagade, on the marble pavement, prance 
 the bronze equestrian statues of two Farnesi — insignificant 
 men, exaggerated horses, flying drapery — as barocco as it is pos- 
 sible to be in style, but so splendidly toned with verdigris, so 
 superb in their bravura attitude, and so happily placed in the 
 line of two streets lending far vistas from the square into the 
 town beyond, that it is difficult to criticise them seriously. 
 They form, indeed, an important element in the pictorial effect, 
 and enhance the terra-cotta work of the fagade by the contrast 
 of their colour. 
 
 The time to see this square is in evening twilight — that 
 wonderful hour after sunset — when the people are strolling on 
 the pavement, polished to a mirror by the pacing of successive 
 centuries, and when the cavalry soldiers group themselves at 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 349 
 
 the angles under the lamp-posts or beneath the dimly-lighted 
 Gothic arches of the Palace. This is the magical mellow hour 
 to be sought by lovers of the picturesque in all the towns of 
 Italy, the hour which, by its tender blendings of sallow western 
 lights with glimmering lamps, casts the veil of half shadow over 
 any crudeness and restores the injuries of Time ; the hour 
 when all the tints of these old buildings are intensified, ethe- 
 realised, and harmonised by one pervasive glow. When I last 
 saw Piacenza, it had been raining all day ; and ere sundown a 
 clearing had come from the Alps, followed by fresh threatenings 
 of thunderstorms. The air was very liquid. There was a tract 
 of yellow sunset sky to westward, a faint new moon half 
 swathed in mist above, and over all the north a huge towered 
 thundercloud kept flashing distant lightnings. The pallid 
 primrose of the West, forced down and reflected back from 
 that vast bank of tempest, gave unearthly beauty to the hues of 
 church and palace — tender half-tones of violet and russet 
 paling into greys and yellows on what in daylight seemed 
 but dull red brick. Even the uncompromising facade of S. 
 Francesco helped; and the Dukes were like statues of the 
 * Gran Commendatore,' waiting for Don Giovanni's invitation. 
 
 Masolino at Castiglione d'Olona. 
 
 Through the loveliest Arcadian scenery of woods and fields 
 and rushing waters the road leads downward from Varese to 
 Castiglione. The Collegiate Church stands on a leafy hill 
 above the town, with fair prospect over groves and waterfalls 
 and distant mountains. Here in the choir is a series of frescoes 
 by Masolino da Panicale. the master of Masaccio, who painted 
 them about the year 1428. '■ Masolinus de Florentia pinxit ' 
 decides their authorship. The histories of the Virgin, S. Stephen 
 and S. Lawrence, are represented : but the injuries of time and 
 neglect have been so great that it is difficult to judge them 
 
350 SKETCHES AND STUDIES m ITAL K 
 
 fairly. All we feel for certain is that Masolino had not yet 
 escaped from the traditional Giottesque mannerism. Only a 
 group of Jews stoning Stephen, and Lawrence before the 
 tribunal, remind us by dramatic energy of the Brancacci 
 Chapel. 
 
 The Baptistery frescoes, dealing with the legend of S. John, 
 show a remarkable advance ; and they are luckily in better 
 preservation. A soldier lifting his two-handed sword to strike 
 off the Baptist's head is a vigorous figure, full of Florentine 
 realism. Also in the Baptism in Jordan we are reminded of 
 Masaccio by an excellent group of bathers — one man taking off 
 his hose, another putting them on again, a third standing naked 
 with his back turned, and a fourth shivering half-dressed with 
 a look of curious sadness on his face. The nude has been 
 carefully studied and well realised. The finest composition of 
 this series is a large panel representing a double action — 
 Salome at Herod's table begging for the Baptist's head, and 
 then presenting it to her mother Herodias. The costumes are 
 quattrocento Florentine, exactly rendered. Salome is a 
 graceful slender creature; the two women who regard her 
 offering to Herodias with mingled curiosity and horror, are 
 well conceived. The background consists of a mountain 
 landscape in Masaccio's simple manner, a rich Renaissance 
 villa, and an open loggia. The architecture perspective is 
 scientifically accurate, and a frieze of boys with garlands on the 
 villa is in the best manner of Florentine sculpture. On the 
 mountain side, diminished in scale, is a group of elders, 
 burying the body of S. John. These are massed together and 
 robed in the style of Masaccio, and have his virile dignity of 
 form and action. Indeed this interesting wall-painting furnishes 
 an epitome of Florentine art, in its intentions and achievements, 
 during the first half of the fifteenth century. The colour is 
 strong and brilliant, and the execution solid. 
 
 The margin of the Salome panel has been used for scratching 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES, 351 
 
 the Chronicle of Castighone. I read one date, 1568, several of 
 the next century, the record of a duel between two gentlemen, 
 and many inscriptions to this effect, * Erodiana Regina ' ' Omni^ 
 praetereunt,' etc. A dirty one-eyed fellow keeps the place. 
 In my presence he swept the frescoes over with a scratchy 
 broom, flaying their upper surface in profound unconsciousness 
 of mischief. The armour of the executioner has had its steel 
 colours almost rubbed off by this infernal process. Damp and 
 cobwebs are far kinder. 
 
 The Certosa. 
 
 The Certosa of Pavia leaves upon the mind an impression of 
 bewildering sumptuousness : nowhere else are costly materials 
 so combined with a lavish expenditure of the rarest art. Those 
 w^ho have only once been driven round together with the crew 
 of sight-seers, can carry little away but the memory of lapis- 
 lazuli and bronze- work, inlaid agates and labyrinthine sculpture, 
 cloisters tenantless in silence, fair painted faces smiling from 
 dark corners on the senseless crowd, trim gardens with rows of 
 pink primroses in spring, and of bigonia in autumn, blooming 
 beneath colonnades of glowing terra-cotta. The striking con- 
 trast between the Gothic of the interior and the Renaissance 
 fagade, each in its own kind perfect, will also be remembered ; 
 and thoughts of the two great houses, Visconti and Sforza, to 
 whose pride of power it is a monument, may be blended with 
 the recollection of art-treasures alien to their spirit. 
 
 Two great artists, Ambrogio Borgognone and Antonio 
 Amadeo, are the presiding genii of the Certosa. To minute 
 criticism, based upon the accurate investigation of records and 
 the comparison of styles, must be left the task of separating 
 their work from that of numerous collaborators. But it is 
 none the less certain that the keynote of the whole music is 
 struck by them. Amadeo, the master of the Colleoni chapel 
 
352 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL Y. 
 
 at Bergamo, was both sculptor and architect. If the facade 
 of the Certosa be not absolutely his creation, he had a 
 hand in the distribution of its masses and the detail of its 
 ornaments. The only fault in this, otherwise faultless product 
 of the purest quattrocento inspiration, is that the fagade is a 
 frontispiece, with hardly any structural relation to the Church 
 it masks : and this, though serious from the point of view of 
 architecture, is no abatement of its sculpturesque and picturesque 
 refinement. At first sight it seems a wilderness of loveliest re- 
 liefs and statues — of angel faces, fluttering raiment, flowing hair, 
 love-laden youths, and stationary figures of grave saints, mid 
 wayward tangles of acanthus and wild vine and cupid-laden 
 foliage ; but the subordination of these decorative details to the 
 main design, clear, rhythmical, and lucid, like a chaunt of 
 Pergolese or Stradella, will enrapture one who has the sense for 
 unity evoked from divers elements, for thought subduing all 
 caprices to the harmony of beauty. It is not possible elsewhere 
 in Italy to find the instinct of the earlier Renaissance, so amorous 
 in its expenditure of rare material, so lavish in its bestowal of 
 the costliest workmanship on ornamental episodes, brought into 
 truer keeping with a pure and simple structural effect. 
 
 All the great sculptor-architects of Lombardy worked in 
 succession on this miracle of beauty ; and this may account 
 for the sustained perfection of style, which nowhere suffers 
 from the languor of exhaustion in the artist or from repetition 
 of motives. It remains the triumph of North Italian genius, 
 exhibiting qualities of tenderness and self-abandonment to in- 
 spiration, which we lack in the severer masterpieces of the 
 Tuscan school. 
 
 To Borgognone is assigned the painting of the roof in nave 
 and choir — exceeding rich, varied, and withal in sympathy with 
 stately Gothic style. Borgognone again is said to have designed 
 the saints and martyrs worked ii^ tarsia for the choir-stalls. 
 His frescoes are in some parts well preserved, as in the lovely 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 353 
 
 little Madonna at the end of the south chapel, while the great 
 fresco above the window in the south transept has an historical 
 value that renders it interesting in spite of partial decay. 
 Borgognone's oil pictures throughout the church prove, if such 
 proof were needed after inspection of the altar-piece in our 
 National Gallery, that he was one of the most powerful and 
 original painters of Italy, blending the repose of the earHer 
 masters and their consummate workmanship with a profound 
 sensibility to the finest shades of feeling and the rarest forms 
 of natural beauty. He selected an exquisite type of face for 
 his young men and women ; on his old men he bestowed 
 singular gi'avity and dignity. His saints are a society of strong, 
 pure, restful, earnest souls, in whom the passion of deepest 
 emotion is transfigured by habitual calm. The brown and 
 golden harmonies he loved, are gained without sacrifice of 
 lustre : there is a self-restraint in his colouring which corre* 
 sponds to the reserve of his emotion ; and though a regret 
 sometimes rises in our mind that he should have modelled the 
 light and shade upon his faces with a brusque, unpleasing hard- 
 ness, their pallor dwells within our memory as something 
 delicately sought if not consummately attained. In a word, 
 Borgognone was a true Lombard of the best time. The very 
 imperfection of his flesh-painting repeats in colour what the 
 greatest Lombard sculptors sought in stone — a sharpness of 
 relief that passes over into angularity. This brusqueness was 
 the counterpoise to tenderness of feeling and intensity of fancy 
 in these northern artists. Of all Borgognone's pictures in the 
 Certosa I should select the altar-piece of S. Siro with S. 
 Lawrence and S. Stephen and two Fathers of the Church, for 
 its fusion of this master's qualities. 
 
 The Certosa is a wilderness of lovely workmanship. From 
 Borgognone's majesty we pass into the quiet region of Luini's 
 Christian grace, or mark the influence of Lionardo on that 
 rare Assumption of Madonna by his pupil, Andrea Solari. 
 
 A A 
 
354 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Like everything touched by the Lionardesque spirit, this great 
 picture was left unfinished : yet Northern Italy has nothing 
 finer to show than the landscape, outspread in its immeasure- 
 able purity of calm, behind the grouped Apostles and the 
 ascendant Mother of Heaven. The feeling of that happy 
 region between the Alps and Lombardy, where there are many 
 waters — et tacitos sine labe lacus sine murmure rivos — and where 
 the last spurs of the mountains sink in undulations to the plain, 
 has passed into this azure vista, just as all Umbria is suggested 
 in a twilight background of young Raphael or Penigino. 
 
 The portraits of the Dukes of Milan and their families 
 carry us into a very different realm of feeling. Medallions 
 above the doors of sacristy and chancel, stately figures reared 
 aloft beneath gigantic canopies, men and women slumbering 
 with folded hands upon their marble biers — we read in all 
 those sculptured forms a strange record of human restlessness, 
 resolved into the quiet of the tomb. The iniquities of Gian 
 Galeazzo Visconti, // g7'an Biscione, the blood-thirst of Gian 
 Maria, the dark designs of Filippo and his secret vices, Fran- 
 cesco Sforza's treason, Galeazzo Maria's vanities and lusts ; 
 their tyrants' dread of thunder and the knife ; their awful deaths 
 by pestilence and the assassin's poignard ; their selfishness, 
 oppression, cruelty and fraud ; the murders of their kinsmen; 
 their labyrinthine plots and acts of broken faith ; — all is tranquil 
 now, and we can say to each what Bosola found for the 
 Duchess of Malfi ere her execution : — 
 
 Much you had of land and rent ; 
 Your length in clay's now competent : 
 A long war disturbed your mind ; 
 Here your perfect peace is signed ! 
 
 Some of these faces are commonplace, with bourgeois cunning 
 written on the heavy features ; one is bluff, another stolid, a 
 third bloated, a fourth stately. The sculptors have dealt fairly 
 with all, and not one has the lineaments of utter baseness. 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES, 355 
 
 To Cristoforo Solari's statues of Lodovico Sforza and his wife, 
 Beatrice d'Este, the palm of excellence in art and of historical 
 interest must be awarded. Sculpture has rarely been more 
 dignified and true to life than here. The woman with her 
 short clustering curls, the man with his strong face, are resting 
 after that long fever which brought woe to Italy, to Europe a 
 new age, and to the boasted minion of Fortune a slow death 
 in the prison palace of Loches. Attired in ducal robes, they 
 lie in state ; and the sculptor has carved the lashes on their 
 eyelids, heavy with death's marmoreal sleep. He at least has 
 passed no judgmeat on their crimes. Let us too bow and 
 leave their memories to the historian's pen, their spirits to God's 
 mercy. 
 
 After all wanderings in this Temple of Art, we return to 
 Antonio Amadeo, to his long-haired seraphs playing on the 
 lutes of Paradise, to his angels of tiae Passion with their flutter- 
 ing robes and arms outspread in agony, to his saints and satyrs 
 mingled on pilasters of the marble doorways, his delicate 
 Lavabo decorations, and his hymns of piety expressed in noble 
 forms of weeping women and dead Christs. Wherever we 
 may pass, this master-spirit of the Lombard style enthralls 
 attention. His curious treatment of drapery as though it were 
 made of crumpled paper, and his trick of enhancing relief by 
 sharp angles and attenuated limbs, do not detract from his 
 peculiar charm. That is his way, very different from Dona- 
 tello's, of attaining to the maximum of life and Hghtness in the 
 stubborn vehicle of stone. Nor do all the riches of the choir— 
 those multitudes of singing angels, those Ascensions and As- 
 sumptions, and innumerable bas-reliefs of gleaming marble 
 moulded into softest wax by mastery of art — distract our eyes 
 from the single round medallion, not larger than a common 
 plate, inscribed by him upon the front of the high altar. 
 Perhaps, if one who loved Amadeo were bidden to point out 
 his masterpiece, he would lead the way sX once to this. The 
 
356 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL K 
 
 space is small : yet it includes the whole tragedy of the 
 Passion. Christ is lying dead among the women on his 
 mother's lap, and there are pitying angels in the air above. 
 One woman lifts his arm, another makes her breast a pillow 
 for his head. Their agony is hushed, but felt in every limb 
 and feature ; and the extremity of suffering is seen in each 
 articulation of the worn and wounded form just taken from the 
 cross. It would be too painful, were not the harmony of art 
 so rare, the interlacing of those many figures in a simple 
 round so exquisite. The noblest tranquillity and the most 
 passionate emotion are here fused in a manner of adorable 
 naturalness. 
 
 From the church it is delightful to escape into the cloisters, 
 flooded with sunlight, where the swallows skim, and the brown 
 hawks circle, and the mason bees are at work upon their cells 
 among the carvings. The arcades of the two cloisters are the 
 final triumph of Lombard terra-cotta. The memory fails 
 before such infinite invention, such facility and felicity of 
 execution. Wreaths of cupids gliding round the arches among 
 grape-bunches and bird -haunted foliage of vine; rows ot 
 angels, like rising and setting planets, some smiHng and some 
 grave, ascending and descending by the Gothic curves ; saints 
 stationary on their pedestals, and faces leaning from the rounds 
 above ; crowds of cherubs, and courses of stars, and acanthus 
 leaves in woven lines, and ribands incessantly inscribed with 
 Ave Maria \ Then, over all, the rich red light and purple 
 shadows of the brick, than which no substance sympathises 
 more completely with the sky of solid blue above, the broad 
 plain space of waving summer grass beneath our feet. 
 
 It is now late afternoon, and when evening comes, the 
 train will take us back to Milan. There is yet a little while to 
 rest tired eyes and strained spirits among the willows and the 
 poplars by the monastery wall. Through that grey-green 
 leafage, young with early spring, the pinnacles of the Certosa 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 357 
 
 leap like flames into the sky. The rice-fields are under water, 
 far and wide, shining like burnished gold beneath the level 
 light now near to sun-down. Frogs are croaking ; those per- 
 sistent frogs, whom the Muses have ordained to sing for aye, 
 in spite of Bion and all tuneful poets dead. We sit and watch 
 the water-snakes, the busy rats, the hundred creatures swarming 
 in the fat well-watered soil. Nightingales here and there, new- 
 comers, tune their timid April song : but, strangest of all sounds 
 in such a place, my comrade from the Grisons jodels forth an 
 Alpine cowherd's melody. Auf den Alpen droben ist ein 
 herrliches Leben ! 
 
 Did the echoes of Gian Galeazzo's convent ever wake to 
 such a tune as this before ? 
 
 San Maurizio. 
 
 The student of art in Italy, after mastering the characters 
 of different styles and epochs, finds a final satisfaction in the 
 contemplation of buildings designed and decorated by one 
 master, or by groups of artists interpreting the spirit of a single 
 period. Such supreme monuments of the national genius are 
 not very common, and they are therefore the more precious. 
 Giotto's Chapel at Padua ; the Villa Farnesina at Rome, built 
 by Peruzzi and painted in fresco by Raphael and Sodoma ; the 
 Palazzo del Te at Mantua, Giulio Romano's masterpiece ; the 
 Scuola di San Rocco, illustrating the Venetian Renaissance 
 at its climax, might be cited among the most splendid of 
 these achievements. In the church of the Monastero Maggiore 
 at Milan, dedicated to S. Maurizio, Lombard architecture and 
 fresco-painting may be studied in this rare combination. The 
 monastery itself, one of the oldest in Milan, formed a retreat 
 for cloistered virgins following the rule of S. Benedict. It 
 may have been founded as early as the tenth century ; but its 
 church was rebuilt in the first two decades of the sixteenth. 
 
3S8 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL V. 
 
 between 1503 and 15 19, and was immediately aflem'-ards 
 decorated with frescoes by Liiini and his pupils. Gian 
 Giacomo Dolcebono, architect and sculptor, called by his 
 fellow-craftsmen magistro di taliare pietre, gave the design, at 
 once simple and harmonious, which was carried out with hardly 
 any deviation from his plan. The church is a long parallelo- 
 gram, divided into two unequal portions, th^ first and smaller 
 for the public, the second for the nuns. The walls are pierced 
 with rounded and pilastered windows, ten on each side, four of 
 which belong to the outer and six to the inner section. The 
 dividing wall or septum rises to the point from which the 
 groinings of the roof spring; and round three sides of the 
 whole building, north, east, and south,, runs a gallery for the use 
 of the convent. The altars of the inner and outer church are 
 placed against the septum, back to back, with certain differences 
 of structure that need, not be described. Simple and severe,. 
 S. Maurizio owes its architectural beauty wholly and entirely 
 to purity of line and perfection of proportion. There is a 
 prevailing spirit of repose, a sense of space, fair, lightsome, 
 and adapted to serene moods of the meditative fancy in this 
 building, which is singularly at variance with the religious 
 mysticism and imaginative grandeur of a Gothic edifice. The 
 principal beauty of the church, however, is its tone of colour. 
 Every square inch is covered with fresco or rich woodwork, 
 mellowed by time into that harmony of tints which blends the 
 work of greater and lesser artists in one golden hue of brown. 
 Round the arcades of the convent -loggia run delicate 
 arabesques with faces of fair female saints— Catherine, Agnes, 
 Lucy, Agatha, — gem-like or star-like, gazing from their 
 gallery upon the church below. The Luinesque smile is on 
 their lips and in their eyes, quiet, refined, as though the 
 emblems of their martyrdom brought back no thought of pain 
 to break the Paradise of rest in which they dwell. There are 
 twenty-six in all, a sisterhood of stainless souls, the lilies of Love's 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 359 
 
 garden planted round Christ's throne. Soldier saints are 
 mingled with them in Gtill smaller rounds above the windows, 
 chosen to illustrate the virtues of an order which renounced 
 the world. To decide whose hand produced these masterpieces 
 of Lombard suavity and grace, or whether more than one, 
 would not be easy. Near the altar we can perhaps trace the 
 style of Bartolommeo Suardi in an Annunciation painted on 
 the spandrils — that heroic style, large and noble, known to us 
 by the chivalrous S. Martin and the glorified Madonna of the 
 Brera frescoes. It is not impossible that the male saints of 
 the loggia may be also his, through a tenderer touch, a some- 
 thing more nearly Lionardesque in its quietude, must be 
 discerned in Lucy and her sisters. The whole of the altar in 
 this inner church belongs to Luini. Were it not for darkness 
 and decay, we should pronounce this series of the Passion in 
 nine great compositions, with saints and martyrs and torch- 
 bearing genii, to be one of his most ambitious and successful 
 efforts. As it is, we can but judge in part ; the adolescent beauty 
 of Sebastian, the grave compassion of S. Rocco, the classical 
 perfection of the cupid with lighted tapers, the gracious 
 majesty of women smiling on us sideways from their Lombard 
 eyelids — these remain'^to haunt our memory, emerging from the 
 shadows of the vault above. 
 
 The inner church, as is fitting, excludes all worldly elements. 
 We are in the presence of Christ's agony, relieved and tempered 
 by the sunlight of those beauteous female faces. All is 
 solemn here, still as the convent, pure as the meditations of a 
 novice. We pass the septum, and find ourselves in the outer 
 chuich appropriated to the laity. Above the high altar the 
 whole wall is covered with Luini's loveliest work, in excellent 
 light and far from ill preserved. The space divides into eight 
 compartments. A Pietk, an Assumption, Saints and Founders 
 of the church, group themselves under the influence of Luini's 
 harmonising colour into one symphonious whole. But the 
 
360 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 places of distinction are reserved for two great benefactors of 
 the convent, Alessandro de' Bentivogli and his wife, Ippolita 
 Sforza. When the Bentivogli were expelled from Bologna by 
 the Papal forces, Alessandro settled at Milan, where he dwelt, 
 honoured by the Sforzas and aUied to them by marriage, till 
 his death in 1532. He was buried in the monastery by the 
 side of his sister Alessandra, a nun of the order. Luini has 
 painted the illustrious exile in his habit as he lived. He is 
 kneeling, as though in ever-during adoration of the altar 
 mystery, attired in a long black senatorial robe trimmed with 
 furs. In his left hand he holds a book ; and above his pale, 
 serenely noble face is a little black berretta. Saints attend him, 
 as though attesting to his act of faith. Opposite kneels Ippolita, 
 his wife, the brilliant queen of fashion, the witty leader of 
 society, to whom Bandello dedicated his Novelle, and whom he 
 praised as both incomparably beautiful and singularly learned. 
 Her queenly form is clothed from head to foot in white 
 brocade, slashed and trimmed with gold lace, and on her fore- 
 head is a golden circlet. She has the proud port of a princess, 
 the beauty of a woman past her prime but stately, the indescrib- 
 able dignity of attitude which no one but Luini could have 
 rendered so majestically sweet. In her hand is a book ; and 
 she, like Alessandro, has her saintly sponsors, Agnes and 
 Catherine and S. Scolastica. 
 
 Few pictures bring the splendid Milanese Court so vividly 
 before us as these portraits of the Bentivogli : they are, more- 
 over, very precious for the light they throw on what Luini 
 could achieve in the secular style so rarely touched by him. 
 Great, however, as are these frescoes, they are far surpassed 
 both in value and interest by his paintings in the side chapel of 
 S. Catherine. Here more than anywhere else, more even than 
 at Saronno or Lugano, do we feel the true distinction of Luini — 
 his unrivalled excellence as a colourist, his power over pathos, 
 the refinement of his feeling, and the peculiar beauty of his 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 361 
 
 favourite types. The chapel was decorated at the expense of 
 a Milanese advocate, Francesco Besozzi, who died in 1529. 
 It is he who is kneeling, grey-haired and bare-headed, under 
 the protection of S. Catherine of Alexandria, intently gazing at 
 Christ unbound from the scourging pillar. On the other side 
 stand S. Lawrence and S. Stephen, pointing to the Christ and 
 looking at us, as though their lips were framed to say : ' Behold 
 and see if there be any sorrow like unto his sorrow.' Even the 
 soldiers who have done their cruel work, seem softened. They 
 untie the cords tenderly, and support the fainting form, too 
 weak to stand alone. What sadness in the lovely faces of 
 S. Catherine and Lawrence ! What divine anguish in the 
 loosened limbs and bending body of Christ ; what piety in 
 the adoring old man ! All the moods proper to this supreme 
 tragedy of the faith are touched as in some tenor song with 
 low accompaniment of viols ; for it was Luini's special province 
 to feel profoundly and to express musically. The very depth 
 of the Passion is there ; and yet there is no discord. 
 
 Just in proportion to this unique faculty for yielding a 
 melodious representation of the most intense moments of 
 stationary emotion, was his inability to deal with a dramatic 
 subject. The first episode of S. Catherine's execution, when 
 the wheel was broken and the executioners struck by lightning, 
 is painted in this chapel without energy and with a lack of 
 composition that betrays the master's indifference to his subject. 
 Far different is the second episode when Catherine is about 
 to be beheaded. The executioner has raised his sword to 
 strike. She, robed in brocade of black and gold, so cut as 
 to display the curve of neck and back, while the bosom is 
 covered, leans her head above her praying hands, and waits 
 the blow in sweetest resignation. Two soldiers stand at some 
 distance in a landscape of hill and meadow ; and far up are 
 seen the angels carrying her body to its tomb upon mount 
 Sinai. I cannot find words or summon courage to describe 
 
362 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAL V. 
 
 the beauty of this picture ; its atmosphere of holy peace, the 
 dignity of its composition, the golden richness of its colouring. 
 The most tragic situation has here again been alchemized 
 by Luini's magic into a pure idyll, without the loss of power, 
 without the sacrifice of edification. 
 
 S. Catherine in this incomparable fresco is a portrait, the 
 history of which so strikingly illustrates the relation of the arts 
 to religion on the one hand, and to life on the other, in the age 
 of the Renaissance, that it cannot be omitted. At the end of 
 his fourth Novella, having related the life of the Contessa di 
 Cellant, Bandello says : ' And so the poor woman was be- 
 headed ; such was the end of her unbridled desires ; and he 
 who would fain see her painted to the life, let him go to the 
 Church of the Monistero Maggiore, and there will he behold 
 her portrait.' The Contessa di Cellant was the only child of a 
 rich usurer who lived at Casal Monferrato. Her mother was a 
 Greek ; and she was a girl of such exquisite beauty, that, in 
 spite of her low origin, she became the wife of the noble Ermes 
 Visconti in her sixteenth year. He took her to live with him 
 at Milan, where she frequented the house of the Bentivogli, but 
 none other. Her husband told Bandello that he knew her 
 temper better than to let her visit with the freedom of the 
 Milanese ladies. Upon his death, while she was little more 
 than twenty, she retired to Casale and led a gay life among 
 many lovers. One of these, the Count of Cellant in the Val 
 d'Aosta, became her second husband, conquered by her extra- 
 ordinary loveliness. They could not, however, agree together. 
 She left him, and established herself at Pavia. Rich with her 
 father's wealth and still of most seductive beauty, she now 
 abandoned herself to a life of profligacy. Three among her 
 lovers must be named : Ardizzino Valperga, Count of Masino ; 
 Roberto Sanseverino, of the princely Naples family ; and Don 
 Pietro di Cardona, a Sicilian. With each of the two first she 
 quarrelled, and separately besought each to murder the other. 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES, 363 
 
 They were friends and frustrated her plans by communicating 
 them to one another. The third loved her with the insane pas- 
 sion of a very young man. What she desired, he promised to 
 do blindly ; and she bade him murder his two predecessors in her 
 favour. At this time she was living at Milan, where the Duke 
 of Bourbon was acting as viceroy for the Emperor. Don Pietro 
 took twenty-five armed men of his household, and waylaid the 
 Count of Masino, as he was returning with his brother and 
 eight or nine servants, late one night from supper. Both the 
 brothers and the greater part of their suite were killed : but 
 Don Pietro was caught. He revealed the atrocity of his mis- 
 tress ; and she was sent to prison. Incapable of proving her 
 innocence, and prevented from escaping, in spite of 15,000 
 golden crowns with which she hoped to bribe her jailors, she 
 was finally beheaded. Thus did a vulgar and infamous 
 Messalina, distinguished only by rare beauty, furnish Luini 
 with a S. Catherine for this masterpiece of pious art ! The 
 thing seems scarcely credible. Yet Bandello lived in Milan 
 while the Church of S. Maurizio was being painted ; nor does 
 he show the slightest sign of disgust at the discord between the 
 Contessa's life and her artistic presentation in the person of a 
 royal martyr. 
 
 A Humanist's Monument. 
 
 In the Sculpture Gallery of the Brera is preserved a fair 
 white marble tomb, carved by that excellent Lombard sculptor, 
 Agostino Busti. The epitaph runs as follows : — 
 
 En Vlrtutem Mortis nesciam. 
 Vivet Lancinus Curtius 
 Saecula per omnia 
 Quascunque lustrans oras, 
 Tantum possunt Camoenae. 
 
 ' Look here on Virtue that knows nought of Death ! Lancinus 
 
364 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 Curtius shall live through all the centuries, and visit every 
 shore of earth. Such power have the Muses/ The time-worn 
 poet reclines, as though sleeping or resting, ready to be waked ; 
 his head is covered with flowing hair, and crowned with laurel ; 
 it leans upon his left hand. On either side of his couch stand 
 cupids or genii with torches turned to earth. Above is a group 
 of the three Graces, flanked by winged Pegasi. Higher up are 
 throned two Victories with palms, and at the top a naked 
 Fame. We need not ask who was Lancinus Curtius. He is 
 forgotten, and his virtue has not saved him from oblivion; 
 though he strove in his lifetime, pro virili parte, for the palm 
 that Busti carved upon his grave. Yet his monument teaches 
 in short compass a deep lesson ; and his epitaph sums up the 
 dream which lured the men of Italy in the Renaissance to their 
 doom. We see before us sculptured in this marble the ideal of 
 the humanistic poet-scholar's life : Love, Grace, the Muse, and 
 Nakedness, and Glory. There is not a single intrusive thought 
 derived from Christianity. The end for which the man lived 
 was Pagan. His hope was earthly fame. Yet his name 
 survives, if this indeed be a survival, not in those winged verses 
 which were to carry him abroad across the earth, but in the 
 marble of a cunning craftsman, scanned now and then by a 
 wandering scholar's eye in the half-darkness of a vault. 
 
 The Monument of Gaston de Foix in the Brera. 
 
 The hero of Ravenna lies stretched upon his back in the 
 hollow of a bier covered with laced drapery ; and his head rests 
 on richly ornamented cushions. These decorative accessories, 
 together with the minute work of his scabbard, wrought in the 
 fanciful mannerism of the cinquecento, serve to enhance the 
 statuesque simplicity of the young soldier's effigy. The contrast 
 between so much of richness in the merely subordinate details, 
 and this sublime severity of treatment in the person of the hero, 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 365 
 
 is truly and touchingly dramatic. There is a smile as of content 
 in death, upon his face; and the features are exceedingly 
 beautiful — with the beauty of a boy, almost of a woman. The 
 heavy hair is cut straight above the forehead and straight over 
 the shoulders, falling in massive clusters. A delicately sculp- 
 tured laurel branch is woven into a victor^s crown, and laid 
 lightly on the tresses it scarcely seems to clasp. So fragile is 
 this wreath that it does not break the pure outline of the boy- 
 conqueror's head. The armour is quite plain. So is the sur- 
 coat. Upon the swelling bust, that seems fit harbour for a 
 hero's heart, there lies the collar of an order composed of cockle- 
 shells ; and this is all the ornament given to the figure. The 
 hands are clasped across a sword laid flat upon the breast, and 
 placed between the legs. Upon the chin is a little tuft of hair, 
 parted, and curling either way ; for the victor of Ravenna, like 
 the Hermes of Homer, was -rrpatroy vTrrjvriTrjQj * a youth of princely 
 blood, whose beard hath just begun to grow, for whom the 
 season of bloom is in its prime of grace.' The whole statue is 
 the idealisation of vz'rft/ — that quality so highly prized by the 
 Italians and the ancients, so well fitted for commemoration in 
 the arts. It is the apotheosis of human Hfe resolved into un- 
 dying memory because of one great deed. It is the supreme 
 portrait in modem times of a young hero, chiselled by artists 
 belonging to a race no longer heroic, but capable of compre- 
 hending and expressing the aesthetic charm of heroism. Stand- 
 ing before it, we may say of Gaston what Arrian wrote to 
 Hadrian of Achilles : — ' That he was a hero, if hero ever lived, 
 I cannot doubt ; for his birth and blood were noble, and he 
 was beautiful, and his spirit was mighty, and he passed in 
 youth's prime away from men.' Italian sculpture, under the 
 condition of the cinquecento, had indeed no more congenial theme 
 than this of bravery and beauty, youth and fame, immortal 
 honour and untimely death; nor could any sculptor of death 
 have poetised the theme more thoroughly than Agostino Busti, 
 
366 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 whose simple instinct, unlike that of Michelangelo, led him 
 to subordinate his own imagination to the pathos of reality. 
 
 Saronno. 
 
 The Church of Saronno is a pretty building with a Braman- 
 tesque cupola, standing among meadows at some distance from 
 the little town. It is the object of a special cult, which draws 
 pilgrims from the neighbouring country side ; but the concourse 
 is not large enough to load the sanctuary with unnecessary 
 wealth. Everything is very quiet in the holy place, and the 
 offerings of the pious seem to have been only just enough to 
 keep the building and its treasures of art in repair. The 
 church consists of a nave, a central cupola, a vestibule leading to 
 the choir, the choir itself, and a small tribune behind the choir. 
 No other single building in North Italy can boast so much that 
 is first-rate of the work of Luini and Gaudenzio Ferrari. 
 
 The cupola is raised on a sort of drum composed of twelve 
 pieces, perforated with round windows and supported on four 
 massive piers. On the level of the eye are frescoes by Luini 
 of S. Rocco, S. Sebastian, S. Christopher and S. Antony — by 
 no means in his best style, and inferior to all his other paintings 
 in this church. The Sebastian, for example, shows an effort 
 to vary the traditional treatment of this saint. He is tied in a 
 sprawling attitude to a tree ; and little of Luini's special pathos 
 or sense of beauty — the melody of idyllic grace made spiritual — 
 appears in him. These four saints are on the piers. Above 
 are frescoes from the early Bible history by Lanini, painted in 
 continuation of Ferrari's medallions from the story of Adam 
 expelled from Paradise, which fill the space beneath the cupola, 
 leading the eye upward to Ferrari's masterpiece. 
 
 The dome itself is crowded with a host of angels singing 
 and playing upon instruments of music. At each of the 
 twelve angles of the drum stands a coryphseus of this celestial 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES, 367 
 
 choir, full length, with waving drapery. Higher up, the 
 golden-haired, broad-winged, divine creatures are massed 
 together, filling every square inch of the vault with colour. 
 Yet there is no confusion. The simplicity of the selected 
 motive and the necessities of the place acted like a check on 
 Ferrari, who, in spite of his dramatic impulse, could not tell a 
 story coherently or fill a canvas with harmonised variety. There 
 is no trace of his violence here. Though the motion of music 
 runs through the whole multitude Hke a breeze, though the joy 
 expressed is a real tripudio celest€, not one of all these angels 
 flings his arms abroad or makes a movement that disturbs the 
 rhythm. We feel that they are keeping time and resting 
 quietly, each in his appointed seat, as though the sphere was 
 circling with them round the throne of God, who is their centre 
 and their source of gladness. Unlike Correggio and his 
 imitators, Ferrari has introduced no clouds, and has in no case 
 made the legs of his angels prominent. It is a mass of noble 
 faces and voluminously robed figures, emerging each above 
 the other like flowers in a vase. Each too has specific character, 
 while all are robust and full of life, intent upon the service set 
 them. Their instruments of music are all the lutes and viols, 
 flutes, cymbals, drums, fifes, citherns, organs, and harps that 
 Ferrari's day could show. The scale of colour, as usual with 
 Ferrari, is a little heavy ; nor are the tints satisfactorily har- 
 monised. But the vigour and invention of the whole work 
 would atone for minor defects of far greater consequence. 
 
 It is natural, beneath this dome, to turn aside and think 
 one moment of Correggio at Parma. Before the macchinisti 
 of the seventeenth century had vulgarised the motive, Cor- 
 reggio's bold attempt to paint heaven in flight from earth — 
 earth left behind in the persons of the Apostles standing round 
 the empty tomb, heaven soaring upward with a spiral vortex 
 into the abyss of light above — had an originality which set at 
 nought all criticism. There is such ecstasy of jubilation, such 
 
368 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITAIY. 
 
 rapturous rapidity of flight, that we who strain our eyes from 
 below, feel we are in the darkness of the grave which Mary left. 
 A kind of controlling rhythm for the composition is gained by 
 placing Gabriel, Madonna, and Christ at three points in the 
 swirl of angels. Nevertheless, composition — the presiding all- 
 controlHng intellect — is just what makes itself felt by absence ; 
 and Correggio's special qualities of light and colour have now 
 so far vanished from the cupola of the Duomo that the con- 
 structive poverty is not disguised. Here, if anywhere in 
 painting, we may apply Goethe's words — Gefiihl ist Alles. 
 
 If then we return to Ferarri's angels at Saronno, we find 
 that the painter of Varallo chose a safer though a far more 
 modest theme. Nor did he expose himself to that most cruel 
 of all degradations which the ethereal genius of Correggio has 
 suffered from incompetent imitators. To daub a tawdry and 
 superficial reproduction of those Parmese frescoes, to fill the 
 cupolas of Italy with veritable guazzetti di rane, was com- 
 paratively easy ; and between our intelligence and what remains 
 of that stupendous masterpiece of boldness, crowd a thousand 
 memories of such ineptitude. On the other hand, nothing but 
 solid work and conscientious inspiration could enable any 
 workman, however able, to follow Ferrari in the path struck out 
 by him at Saronno. His cupola has had no imitator ; and 
 its only rival is the noble pendant painted at Varallo by his own 
 hand, of angels in adoring anguish round the Cross. 
 
 In the ante-choir of the sanctuary are Luini's priceless 
 frescoes of the Marriage of the Virgin^ and the Dispute with 
 the Doctors} Their execution is flawless, and they are 
 perfectly preserved. If criticism before such admirable 
 examples of so excellent a master be permissible, it may be 
 questioned whether the figures are not too crowded, whether 
 the groups are sufficiently varied and connected by rhythmic 
 
 ' Both these and the large frescoes in the choir have been chromo- 
 lithographed by the Arundel Society. 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 369 
 
 lines. Yet the concords of yellow and orange with blue in 
 the SposaliziOf and the blendings of dull violet and red in the 
 Disputa^ make up for much of stiffness. Here, as in the 
 Chapel of S. Catherine at Milan, we feel that Luini was the 
 greatest colourist among frescanti. In the Sposalizio the 
 female heads are singularly noble and idyllically graceful. 
 Some of the young men too have Luini's special grace and 
 abundance of golden hair. In the Disputa the gravity and 
 dignity of old men are above all things striking. 
 
 Passing into the choir, we find on either hand the Adoration 
 of t/i€ Magi and the Purification of the Virgin, two of Luini's 
 divinest frescoes. Above them in lunettes are four Evangelists 
 and four Latin Fathers, with four Sibyls. Time and neglect 
 have done no damage here : and here, again, perforce we notice 
 perfect mastery of colour in fresco. The blues detach themselves 
 too much, perhaps, from the rest of the colouring ; and that is 
 all a devil's advocate could say. It is possible that the absence 
 of blue makes the S. Catherine frescoes in the Monastero 
 Maggiore at Milan surpass all other works of Luini. But 
 nowhere else has he shown more beauty and variety in detail 
 than here. The group of women led by Joseph, the shepherd 
 carrying the lamb upon his shoulder, the girl with a basket of 
 white doves, the child with an apple on the altar-steps, the 
 lovely youth in the foreground heedless of the scene ; all these 
 are idyllic incidents treated with the purest, the serenest, the 
 most spontaneous, the truest, most instinctive sense of beauty. 
 The landscape includes a view of Saronno, and an episodical 
 picture of the Flight into Egypt where a white-robed angel 
 leads the way. All these lovely things are in the Purification^ 
 which is dated Bernardinus Lovinus pinxit, mdxxv. 
 
 The fresco of th^ Magi is, less notable in detail, and in 
 general effect is more spoiled by obtrusive blues. There is, 
 however, one young man of wholly Lionardesque loveliness, 
 whose divine innocence of adolescence, unalloyed by serious 
 
 £ B 
 
370 SKETCHES AND STIWIES IN ITALY. 
 
 thought, unstirred by passions, almost forces a comparison with 
 Sodoma. The only painter who approaches Liiini in what 
 may be called the Lombard, tO' distinguish it from the Venetian 
 idyll, is Sodoma ; and the work of his which comes nearest to 
 Luini's masterpieces is the legend of S. Benedict, at Monte 
 OlivetOy.near Siena. Yet Sodoma had not all Luini's innocence 
 or 7ia'ivete. If he added something slightly humorous which has 
 an indefinite charm, he lacked that freshness as of " cool, meek- 
 blooded flowers " and boyish voices, which fascinates us in Luini. 
 Sodoma was closer to the earth, and feared not to impregnate 
 what he saw of beauty with the fiercer passions of his nature. If 
 Luini had felt passion, who shall say ? It appears nowhere in 
 his work, where life is toned to a religious joyousness. When 
 Shelley compared the poetry of the Theocritean amourists to 
 the perfume of the tuberose, and that of the earHer Greek poets 
 to " a meadow-gale of June, which mingles the fragrance of all 
 the flowers of the field," he supplied us with critical images 
 which may not unfairly be used to point the distinction between 
 Sodoma at Monte Oliveto and Luini at Saronno. 
 
 The Castello of Ferrara. 
 
 Is it possible that the patron saints of cities should mould 
 the temper of the people to their own likeness? S. George, 
 the chivalrous, is champion of Ferrara. His is the marble 
 group above the Cathedral porch, so feudal in its medieval 
 pomp. He and S. Michael are painted in fresco over the south 
 portcullis of the Castle. His lustrous armour gleams with 
 (jiorgionesque brilliancy from Dossi's masterpiece in the 
 Pinacoteca. That Ferrara, the only place in Italy where 
 chivalry struck any root, should have had S. George for patron, 
 is at any rate significant. 
 
 The best preserved relic of princely feudal life in Italy is 
 this Castello of the Este family, with its sombre moat, chained 
 
LOMBARD VIGS'ETTES. 371 
 
 drawbridges, doleful dungeons, and unnumbered tragedies, 
 each one of which may be compared with Parisina's history. 
 I do not want to dwell on these things now. It is enough to 
 remember the Castello, built of ruddiest brick, time-mellowed 
 with how many centuries of sun and soft sea-air, as it appeared 
 upon the close of one tempestuous day. Just before evening 
 the rain-clouds parted and the sun flamed out across the misty 
 Lombard plain. The Castello burned like a hero's funeral 
 pyre, and round its high-built turrets swallows circled in the 
 warm blue air. On the moat slept shadows, mixed with flowers 
 of sunset, tossed from pinnacle and gable. Then the sky 
 changed. A roof of thunder-cloud spread overhead with the 
 rapidity of tempest. The dying sun gathered his last strength 
 against it, fretting those steel-blue arches with crimson ; 
 and all the fierce light, thrown from vault to vault of cloud, 
 was reflected back as from a shield, and cast in blots and 
 patches on the buildings. The Castle towered up rosy-red 
 and shadowy sombre, enshrined, embosomed in those purple 
 clouds ; and momently ran lightning forks like rapiers through 
 the growing mass. Everything around, meanwhile, was quiet 
 in the grass-grown streets. The only sound was a high, clear 
 boy's voice chanting an opera tune. 
 
 Petrarch's Tomb at Arqua, 
 
 The drive from Este along the skirts of the Euganean Hills 
 to Arqua takes one through a country which is tenderly 
 beautiful, because of its contrast between little peaked mountains 
 and the plain. It is not a grand landscape. It lacks all that 
 makes the skirts of Alps and Apennines sublime. Its charm 
 is a certain mystery and repose — an undefined sense of the 
 neighbouring Adriatic, a pervading consciousness of Venice 
 unseen, but felt from far away. From the terraces of Arqua 
 the eye ranges ac ross olive trees, laurels, and pomegranates on 
 
372 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 the southern slopes, to the misty level land that melts into the 
 sea, with churches and tall campanili like gigantic galleys 
 setting sail for fairyland over * the foam of perilous seas forlorn.' 
 Let a blue-black shadow from a thunder-cloud be cast upon 
 this plain, and let one ray of sunlight strike a solitary bell- 
 tower : — it burns with palest flame of rose against the steely 
 dark, and in its slender shaft and shell-like tint of pink all 
 Venice is foreseen. 
 
 The village church of Arqua stands upon one of these 
 terraces, with a full stream of clearest water flowing by. On 
 the little square before the church-door, where the peasants 
 congregate at mass-time — open to the skies with all their stars 
 and storms, girdled by the hills, and within hearing of the 
 vocal stream — is Petrarch's sepulchre. Fit resting-place for 
 what remains to earth of such a poet's clay ! It is as though 
 archangels, flying, had carried the marble chest and set it down 
 here on the hillside, to be a sign and sanctuary for after-men. 
 A simple rectihnear coffin, of smooth Verona mandorlato, 
 raised on four thick columns, and closed by a heavy cippus- 
 cover. Without emblems, allegories, or lamenting genii, this 
 tomb of the great poet, the great awakener of Europe from 
 mental lethargy, encircled by the hills, beneath the canopy of 
 heaven, is impressive beyond the power of words. Bending 
 here, we feel that Petrarch's own winged thoughts and fancies, 
 eternal and aerial, * forms more real than living man, nurslings 
 of immortality,' have congregated to be the ever-ministering 
 and irremovable attendants on the shrine of one who, while 
 he lived, was purest spirit in a veil of flesh. 
 
 On a Mountain. 
 
 Milan is shining in sunset on those purple fields \ and a score 
 of cities flash back the last red light, which shows each in- 
 equality and undulation of Lombardy outspread four thousand 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES. 373 
 
 feet beneath. Both ranges, Alps and Apennines, are clear to 
 view ; and all the silvery lakes are over-canopied and brought 
 into one picture by flame-litten mists. Monte Rosa lifts her 
 crown of peaks above a belt of clouds into light of living fire. 
 The Mischabelhorner and the Dom rest stationary angel-wings 
 upon the rampart, which at this moment is the wall of heaven. 
 The pyramid of distant Monte Viso burns hke solid amethyst 
 far, far away. Mont Cervin beckons to his brother, the gigantic 
 Finsteraarhorn, across tracts of liquid ether. Bells are rising 
 from the villages, now wrapped in gloom, between me and the 
 glimmering lake. A hush of evening silence falls upon the 
 ridges, cliffs, and forests of this billowy hill, ascending into 
 wave-like crests, and toppling with awful chasms over the dark 
 waters of Lugano. It is good to be alone here at this hour. 
 Yet I must rise and go — passing through meadows, where 
 white hlies sleep in silvery drifts, and asphodel is pale with 
 spires of faintest rose, and narcissus dreams of his own beauty, 
 loading the air with fragrance sweet as some love-music of 
 Mozart. These fields want only the white figure of Persephone 
 to make them poems : and in this twilight one might fancy 
 that the queen had left her throne by Pluto's side, to mourn 
 for her dead youth among the flowers uplifted between earth 
 and heaven. Nay, they are poems now, these fields ; with 
 that unchanging background of history, romance, and human 
 life — the Lombard plain, against whose violet breadth the 
 blossoms bend their faint heads to the evening air. Down- 
 ward we hurry, on pathways where the beeches meet, by silent 
 farms, by meadows honey-scented, deep in dew. The colum- 
 bine stands tall and still on those green slopes of shadowy grass. 
 The nightingale sings now, and now is hushed again. Streams 
 murmur through the darkness, where the growth of trees, heavy 
 with honeysuckle and wild rose, is thickest. Fireflies begin to 
 flit above the growing corn. At last the plain is reached, and 
 all the skies are tremulous with starlight. Alas, that we should 
 
374 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 vibrate so obscurely to these harmonies of earth and heaven ! 
 The inner finer sense of them seems somehow unattainable — 
 that spiritual touch of soul evoking soul from nature, which 
 should transfigure our dull mood of self into impersonal 
 delight. Man needs to be a mytho-poet at some moments, or, 
 better still, to be a mystic steeped through half-unconsciousness 
 in the vast wonder of the world. Cold and untouched to 
 poetry or piety by scenes that ought to blend the spirit in our- 
 selves with spirit in the world without, we can but wonder how 
 this phantom show of mystery and beauty will pass away from 
 us — how soon — and we be where, see what, use all our sensi- 
 bilities on aught or nought ? 
 
 Sic Genius. 
 
 In the picture-gallery at Modena there is a masterpiece of 
 Dosso Dossi. The frame is old and richly carved ; and the 
 painting, bordered by its beautiful dull gold, shines with the 
 lustre of an emerald. In his happy moods Dosso set colour 
 upon canvas, as no other painter out of Venice ever did ; and 
 here he is at his happiest. The picture is the portrait of a 
 jester, dressed in courtly clothes and with a feathered cap 
 upon his head. He holds a lamb in his arms, and carries the 
 legend. Si: Genius. Behind him is a landscape of exquisite 
 brilliancy and depth. His face is young and handsome. 
 Dosso has made it one most wonderful laugh. Even so perhaps 
 laughed Yorick. Nowhere else have I seen a laugh thus 
 painted : not violent, not loud, although the lips are opened 
 to show teeth of dazzling whiteness ; — but fine and delicate, 
 playing over the whole face like a ripple sent up from the 
 depths of the soul within. Who was he? What does the 
 lamb mean ? How should the legend be interpreted ? We 
 cannot answer these questions. He may have been the court- 
 fool of Ferrara ; and his genius, the spiritual essence of the 
 
LOMBARD VIGNETTES, ^ 375 
 
 man, may have inclined him to laugh at all things. That at 
 least is the value he now has for us. He is the portrait of 
 perpetual irony, the spirit of the golden Sixteenth Century 
 which delicately laughed at the whole world of thoughts and 
 things, the quintessence of the poetry of Ariosto, the wit of 
 Berni, all condensed into one incarnation and immortalised by 
 truthfuUest art. With the Gaul, the Spaniard, and the German 
 at her gates^ and in her cities, and encamped upon her fields, 
 Italy still laughed ; and when the voice of conscience sounding 
 through Savonarola asked her why, she only smiled — Sic Genius. 
 One evening in May we rowed from Venice to Torcello, 
 and at sunset broke bread and drank wine together among the 
 rank grasses just outside that ancient church. It was pleasant 
 to sit in the so-called chair of Attila and feel the placid stillness 
 of the place. Then there came lounging by a sturdy young 
 fellow in brown country clothes, with a marvellous -old wide- 
 awake upon his head, and across his shoulders a bunch of 
 massive church-keys. In strange contrast to his uncouth 
 garb he flirted a pink Japanese fan, gracefully disposing it to 
 cool his sun-burned olive cheeks. This made us look at him. 
 He was not ugly. Nay, there was something of attractive in 
 his face — the smooth-curved chin, the shrewd yet sleepy eyes, 
 and finely-cut thin lips — a curious mixture of audacity and 
 meekness blent upon his features. Yet this impression was 
 but the prelude to his smile. When that first dawned, some 
 breath of humour seeming to stir in him unbidden, the true 
 meaning was given to his face. Each feature helped to make 
 a smile that was the very soul's life of the man expressed. It 
 broadened, showing brilliant teeth, and grew into a noiseless 
 laugh ; and then I saw before me Dosso's jester, the type of 
 Shakspere's fools, the life of that wild irony, now rude, now fine, 
 which once delighted Courts. The laughter of the whole world 
 and of all the centuries was silent in his face. What he said 
 need not be repeated. The charm was less in his words than 
 
376 SKETCHES AND STUDIES IN ITALY. 
 
 in his personality ; for Momus-philosophy lay deep in every 
 look and gesture of the man. The place lent itself to irony : 
 parties of Americans and English parsons, the former agape for 
 any rubbishy old things, the latter learned in the lore of obsolete 
 Church-furniture, had thronged Torcello ; and now they were 
 all gone, and the sun had set behind the Alps, while an 
 irreverent stranger drank his wine in Attila's chair, and nature's 
 jester smiled — Sic Genius. 
 
 When I slept that night I dreamed of an altarpiece in the 
 Temple of Folly. The goddess sat enthroned beneath a 
 canopy hung with bells and corals. On her lap was a beautiful 
 winged smiling genius, who flourished two bright, torches. On 
 her left hand stood the man of Modena with his white lamb, a 
 new S. John. On her right stood the man of Torcello with 
 his keys, a new S. Peter. Both were laughing after their all- 
 absorbent, divine, noiseless fashion ; and under both was 
 written, Sic Genius. Are not all things, even profanity,. perr 
 missible in dreams ? 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 BLANK VERSK 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 A SENTENCE in the essay on England's literary debt to ItaTy (see 
 above, p. 177) furnishes me with a pretext for reprinting two sepa- 
 rate studies on Blank Verse. ^ They were composed with a view to 
 illustrating the rhetoric rather than the prosody of this metre, on 
 the conviction that though Blank Verse is aa iambic rhythm, it 
 owes its beauty to the liberties taken with the normal structure. 
 The licences allowed themselves in this metre by great masters of 
 versification may be explained, I think, invariably when we note the 
 accent required by the rhetorical significance of their abnormal 
 lines. 
 
 It can fairly be argued, however, that with this end in view I 
 have paid too little attention to the prosody of Blank Verse, or, in 
 other words, to its scansion by feet. In order to meet this objection, 
 some prefatory remarks may here be offered upon the difficult 
 question of quantity and accent. 
 
 We are accustomed, roughly speaking, to say that ancient metre 
 depends on Quantity and modern metre on Accent. The names 
 Dactyl, Spondee, Trochee, &c., were invented in the analysis of 
 Greek metres to express certain combinations of long and short 
 
 ' I have not attempted to avoid repetitions in this Appendix. Its three 
 parts were written at intervals during the last ten years ; and two of them 
 have been separately published. My purpose will be sufficiently served by 
 a simple reprint, and I trust that the reader will not be fatigued by 
 occasional recapitulation of the points I have sought to establish. 
 
378 APPENDIX. 
 
 syllables, without reference to pitch or emphasis. But when we 
 speak of Quantity in English metre, we mean the more or less 
 accentuation of syllables. Thus an English trochee is a foot in 
 which the first syllable is more accentuated than the second ; an 
 iamb is the contrary. In the transition from the ancient to the 
 modern world the sense of Quantity seems to have been lost, and its 
 values were replaced by Accent. We find, for example, in the watch- 
 song of the Modenese soldiers, which can be referred to a period 
 about the middle of the tenth century, such iambics as the follov/- 
 ing:— 
 
 Divina mundi rex Christe custodia, 
 Sub tua serva haec castra vigilia. 
 
 Both lines have an accentual as well as a quantitative trochee 
 in the fourth place. In the second line the accents on the first 
 syllable of tua, and on the second syllable of vigilia, which would 
 have been too slight to lengthen them for a classical bar, are al- 
 lowed to supply the place of quantity. 
 
 If Latin verses could thus be written without attention to quantity, 
 this shows that the feeling for it had -expired ; and even at a period 
 which may still be called classical, the gradual blunting of the sen- 
 sibility can be traced in the shortening of vowel sounds. It will 
 suffice to quote the following hexameter : — 
 
 Caetera mando focis spernunt quae denies acuti. 
 
 The Pompeian^r^^/"/ prove abundantly that among the common 
 people at any rate it had never been acute ; and we are led to the 
 conclusion that scansion by quantity in Latin was an artificial re- 
 finemtent, agreeable to highly educated ears. When, therefore, we 
 proceed to state that Enghsh lines ignore quantity, we mean that 
 the cultivated feeling for the relative values of long and short syl- 
 lables has never been sufficiently vivid with us to make us par- 
 ticular about preserving them. We are satisfied with the values 
 afforded by accentuation, though there is no doubt tliat verses can 
 be written witli correct accentuation which shall also preserve 
 quantity in tlie classic sense. Tennyson's experiments in Alcaics, 
 Hendecasyllabics, and Sapphics suffice for proof. The difference 
 between us and the cultivated ancients in this respect may, in a 
 measure, be due to our comparatively negligent pronunciation. 
 For instance, we do not pronounce the word mella as the Italians 
 do, so as to give the full value to both /'s. We have not trained 
 
APPENDIX. 379 
 
 our ear to require, or our vocal organs to make, that delicate differ- 
 entiation of syllables according to their spelling— in other words, 
 to separate instead of slurring the component parts of speech — on 
 which quantity depends. These considerations lead to a theory of 
 metrical analysis which may be offered with some diffidence. 
 
 The laws of metre are to be found in the natural rhythm of words ; 
 for each word in every language has its own rhythmical form. This 
 natural rhythm is expressed in pronunciation, and is detennined by 
 the greater or less time consumed in the enunciation of the syllables. 
 Quantity and Accent distinguish two conditions of this expenditure. 
 Quantity, apart from Accent, is the measure of time, lengthened or 
 abbreviated, necessary for the due articulation of the component 
 parts of language. Thus, generally speaking, a long, syllable is one 
 in which double vowels or a vowel before accumulated consonants 
 demand a full time for their utterance ; a short syllable is one in 
 which a single vowel or a vowel before a simple consonant may be 
 uttered in a half time. Me (double e) and Time are long : Que 
 (single e) and Sub are short. It is agreed, apparently, in European 
 metres to take account only of full and half times ; yet much of 
 the more subtle rhythmical effects depends upon the relative values 
 of syllables which can only be conventionally regarded as not ex- 
 ceeding or falling short of one of the two limitations. Not every 
 long is of exactly equal length. Not every short is of exactly equal 
 brevity. Accent is indifferently used to indicate two separate con- 
 ditions. It is either the measure of intonation, heightened or 
 lowered, or else it is enforced utterance. Of the former sort of 
 accent, or pitch, which probably played an important part in Greek 
 versification, no account need at present be taken. The latter, or 
 ictus^ has the effect of quantity, inasmuch as it renders more time 
 needful for the stress laid upon the syllable — the accumulated 
 volume of sound requiring a greater effort of the vocal organs, and 
 consequently a retarded utterance. Every word, then, in articu- 
 lation is subject to conditions of time, implying what we call 
 Quantity and Accent ; and in many words quantity is hardly dis- 
 tinguishable from accent. Thus, in the line : — 
 
 Tityre tu patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi, 
 
 the quantity of Tityre can be represented either as a double vowel 
 followed by two simple vowels, requiring a time and two half times 
 for enunciation, or else as an ante-penultimate accent. Without 
 
38o APPENDIX. 
 
 pursuing this analysis into further details, it may be possible to 
 define Quantity as enunciation retarded or accelerated by the 
 greater or less simplicity of the sound to be formed by the vocal 
 organs ; Accent as the retardation of a simple sound by the in- 
 creased effort of the vocal organs needed for marking the ictus. 
 They are both, so to speak, in the category of time ; and though it 
 is necessary to distinguish them, it should not be forgotten that 
 their importance in prosody is due to the divisions and subdivisions 
 of time they represent. 
 
 The consideration of Pause and Elision will help to illustrate these 
 definition?. When two strong consonants have to be pronounced 
 together, there must always be a pause between them, and with the 
 pause an expenditure of time. That is the secret of the quantity 
 ascribed to the preceding vowel. Thus amor in a7nor est has the 
 value of ^^, because no pause is needed, no second consonantal 
 sound being produced after its pronunciation ; in amor dans it has 
 the value of ^~ , because a fresh consonant has to be formed. 
 The English do not mark this pause clearly. In other words, they 
 do not give full value to each consonant, especially when the same 
 letter is repeated. The Italians do : the first syllable of mellifltw, 
 for instance, must be articulated mel'-lifiuo ; and so jealous is the 
 spirit of the language on this point that in words like accento the 
 value of the double cc is preserved by a t'-ch sound. It may be 
 asserted that in proportion as the pronunciation of syllables in a 
 language is more or less perfect, in the same proportion will the 
 sense for quantity be vivid, and quantitative versification be easy. 
 
 Elision can be explained on the same principles. Since no 
 fresh effort, no pause, no new expenditure of time is needed when 
 two vowels come together, they are suffered to pass as one. How 
 true a law this is may be perceived when we remember that vulgar 
 persons introduce an r between two ^'s, owing to the difficulty of 
 otherwise articulating them separately. The Lucretian elision of 
 the final s in words like moenibus, before a consonant, probably 
 shows that this final sibilant was on the point of becoming mute ; 
 and the recognised elision of m in words like mecum before a 
 vowel may in like manner indicate that this liquid had become 
 practically mute, mecum tending toward the modern meco. 
 
 The main drift of the foregoing analysis has been to show that 
 both Quantity and Accent have a common element of Time. It 
 consequently follows that metres which, hke the English, prac- 
 
APPEN-DIX. 381 
 
 tically ignore quantity, can be scanned in feet, or divided into bars, 
 by accent. Yet the result will never be so accurate as in the case 
 of quantitative rhythms, chiefly because accent itself is variable 
 with us ; and the same combinations of syllables, by a slight shifting 
 of accents, may appear to one observer a dactyl, to another an ana- 
 paest, and so forth. 
 
 An instance may be furnished by the following line, which is a 
 passable hendecasyllabic Blank Verse : — 
 
 She in her hands held forth a cup of water. 
 
 If we accentuate the first syllable, the rhythm would most na- 
 turally be marked thus : 
 
 But this does not yield even a * licentiate iambic' Therefore, 
 in order to bring it within the rule of the metre, we must shift the 
 accent and scan : — 
 
 It is of no use to complain that the line is a bad one, and ought 
 to be re-written, because similar lines are of plentiful occurrence in 
 our best dramatic writers. Without such irregularities, Blank Verse 
 would be monotonous. 
 
 Licences which would have been intolerable to a Gfeek ear, 
 such as successive trochees in the third and fourth places, of 
 which there are several specimens in Milton, or a trochee in the 
 second place, which is a favourite expedient of Shelley's, are 
 far from disagreeable in the English iambic. Indeed, so variable 
 is its structure that it is by no means easy to define the minimum 
 of metrical form below which a Blank Verse ceases to be a recog- 
 nisable line. It is possible that the diminution of the English, iambic 
 by one foot less than the Greek renders its licences more tolerable, 
 and facilitates that interweaving of successive lines by which so 
 many discords are resolved in a controlling harmony. Lastly, it 
 may be observed that, being an accentual metre, blank verse owes 
 much of its rhythmical quality to emphasis. For emphasis is but 
 enforced accent; and when the proper emphasis has been dis- 
 covered in a line, the problem of its rhythmical structure has almost 
 always been solved. It is thus that close attention to the rhetoric of 
 Blank Verse becomes absolutely necessary. 
 
 It will be seen from the foregoing observations that I am neither 
 
382 APPENDIX. 
 
 for nor against the method of scanning Blank Verse by the tra- 
 ditional feet of Greek and Latin metres. The terms of ancient 
 prosody represent permanent relations between syllables, nor is 
 there anything merely arbitrary in their definitions. Indeed, they 
 must still be used, for want of a more modern system of notation, 
 when the legitimacy of a line has to be tested ; for, after all, the 
 English 'licentiate iambic' has a form, although the deflections 
 from that form constitute its beauties. I only contend that it is 
 impossible to apply with rigour rules deduced from the analysis of 
 quantitative metres, to versification based upon accent and em- 
 phasis ; and also that when such application has been made, and 
 the scansion has been determined, we have still to seek the aesthetic 
 value of the lines in question. It may of course be answered that 
 the same difficulty meets us in classic poetry — that the finest 
 passages of y^schylus and Virgil do not owe their beauty to their 
 scansion, and that in reading them we habitually ignore it.^ That 
 is true ; but it is none the less true that they strictly obey the rules of 
 quantitative scansion, whereas it cannot be proved that our Blank 
 Verse is bound by the like limitations. This constitutes a decisive 
 difference ; and the obstinate search for quantitative scansion, even 
 when we have agreed to substitute accents for proper longs and 
 shorts, leads to such misconceptions of the genius of Blank Verse as 
 rendered Johnson's essay on the versification of Milton ridiculous. 
 
 The remarks expressed in the foregoing paragraphs, together 
 with the two following studies on the history and the mechanism of 
 Blank Verse, are not published without misgivings. The whole 
 subject of metre is so complex, so entangled with questions of pro- 
 nunciation, elocution, musical analogy, and proportional values of 
 concatenated syllables, varying in the case of each language, yet 
 probably capable of being scientifically reduced to simple rules 
 under laws as yet but dimly apprehended, that a prudent critic 
 might well hesitate before exposing his crude speculations to the 
 world.^ The conviction that as yet no congruity of doctrine has 
 
 ' The matter is further complicated by the fact that we are quite 
 ignorant how the Greeks read their verse, and that we are not sure about 
 the pronunciation of Latin. 
 
 '^ As instances of these difficulties, I might point out the choice of 
 hendecasyllabic iambic lines by the Italians, and the loose structure of the 
 French Alexandrine, which seems to defy scansion, depending on caesura, 
 pause, and rhyme. 
 
APPENDIX. 383 
 
 been arrived at — that we are still forced to adapt the nomenclature 
 of a prosody deduced from the analysis of the most highly perfected 
 Greek metres to rhythmical systems based on different principles — 
 that we have not sufficiently distinguished between the metrical 
 substratum and the sesthetical or rhetorical effect — induces me to 
 court censure, in the hope that further progress may be made in a 
 region where each observer is apt to tax his fellow-workers with a 
 want of intelligence. The best craftsmen work by instinct, and 
 the subtlest dilettaitti of their masterpieces are contented with 
 sensation. It still remains for the analyst to discover the laws 
 which have regulated the artistic instinct in the production of ex- 
 quisitely pleasurable combinations. 
 
384 APPENDIX, 
 
 THE HISTORY OF BLANK VERSE, 
 
 English blank verse is, perhaps, more various and plastic than 
 any other national metre. It is capable of being used for the most 
 commonplace and the most sublime utterances ; so that, without 
 any alteration in the vehicle, we pass from merely colloquial dia- 
 logue to strains of impassioned soliloquy, from comic repartee to 
 tragic eloquence, from terse epigrams to elaborate descriptions. 
 Originally instituted for the drama, it received in Milton's hands 
 an epical treatment, and has by authors of our own day been used 
 for idyllic, and even for lyrical compositions. Yet all of these so 
 widely different applications have only served to develop, without 
 exhausting, its resources. Plato mentions a Greek musical instru- 
 ment called panharmonion, which was adapted to express the 
 different modes and systems of melodious utterance. This name 
 might be applied to our blank verse ; there is no harmony of 
 sound, no dignity of movement, no swiftness, no subtlety of 
 languid sweetness, no brevity, no force of emphasis beyond its 
 scope. In hearing good blank verse, we do not long for rhyme ; 
 our ears are satisfied without it; nor does our sense of order 
 and proportion require the obvious and artificial recurrence of 
 stanzas, when the sense creates for itself a melodious structure, 
 and is not forced into the mould of any arbitrary form. So much 
 can hardly be said for any other metre. The Greeks, who were pe- 
 culiarly sensitive to self-imposed canons of fitness in art, reserved 
 the hexameter for epical and idyllic poetry, the iambic for satire 
 and the drama, the elegiac for inscriptions, epigrams, and minor 
 compositions of a more personal character, and other complex 
 structures for lyrical and choral utterances. To have written an 
 epic or an idyll in iambics would to them have seemed inexcusable. 
 And for this reason, the iambic was limited both in its use and its 
 
APPENDIX, 385 
 
 development. Two sorts were recognised-— the one adapted to the 
 loose and flowing style of comic conversation ; the other to the 
 more ceremonious and measured march of tragic dialogue and 
 description. But when the action of the play became animated, 
 instead of accelerating the iambic rhythm, the poet used trochaic 
 or anapaestic measures, obeying the law of variety by adopting a 
 new mode externally fitted to express the change he had in view. 
 
 In the infancy of our drama, rhyme, as the natural accompani- 
 ment of mediaeval poetry, had universally been used, until the 
 courtiers of Elizabeth bethought them of inventing some more 
 solemn and stately metre in imitation of the classic. It will be 
 remembered that attempts to naturalise Greek and Roman rhythms 
 in our language were then fashionable. Sidney and the literati of 
 the Areopagus spent their leisure hours in fashioning uncouth 
 hexameters, and Roger Ascham, though he recognised the in- 
 capacity of English for scansion, was inclined to welcome an 
 unrhymed metre like the classical iambic. Surrey first solved the 
 problem practically by translating parts of the * ^neid ' into verses 
 often syllables without rhyme. But his measure has not much 
 A^ariety or ease. It remained for two devoted admirers of classical 
 art, Sackville and Norton, to employ what Surrey called his 
 * strange metre ' in the drama. Their ' Gorboduc,' acted before 
 the Queen in 1 561-2, is the first tragedy written in blank verse. 
 The insufferable monotony and dreariness of this play are well 
 known to all students of our early literature. Yet respect for its 
 antiquity induces me to give a specimen of its quaint style. We 
 must remember in reading these lines that they are the embryon of 
 Marlowe's, Shakspere's, and Milton's verse. 
 
 O mother, thou to murder thus thy child 1 
 
 Even Jove with justice must with lightning flames 
 
 From heaven send down some strange revenge on thee. 
 
 Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld 
 
 Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed. 
 
 Shining in armour bright before the tilt, 
 
 And with thy mistress sleeve tied on thy helm, 
 
 And charge thy staff — to please thy lady's eye — 
 
 That bowed the headpiece of thy friendly foe 1 
 
 I have purposely chosen the most animated apostrophe in the 
 whole play, in order that its venerable authors might appear to the 
 best advantage. It will be noticed that notwithstanding much 
 
 C C 
 
386 APPENDIX. 
 
 stiffness in the movement of the metre, and some embarrassment 
 in the grammatical construction, we yet may trace variety and 
 emphasis in the pauses of these hnes beyond what would at that 
 epoch have been possible in sequences of rhymed couplets. Mr. 
 Collier, in his ' History of Dramatic Poetry,' mentions two other 
 plays written in blank verse, but not performed on the public stage, 
 before the appearance of Marlowe's ' Tamburlaine.' It is to this 
 tragedy that he assigns the credit of having once and for all 
 established blank verse as the popular dramatic metre of the 
 English. With this opinion all students who have examined the 
 origin of our theatrical literature will, no doubt, agree. But 
 Marlowe did not merely drive the rhymed couplet from the stage 
 by substituting the blank verse of his contemporaries : he created a 
 new metre by the melody, variety, and force which he infused into 
 the iambic, and left models of versification, the pomp of which 
 Shakspere and Milton alone can be said to have surpassed. The 
 change which he operated was so thorough and so novel to the 
 playwrights as well as the playgoers of his time, that he met with 
 some determined opposition. Thomas Nash spoke scornfully of 
 Mdiot art masters, that intrude themselves to our ears as the 
 alchemists of eloquence, who (mounted on the stage of eloquence) 
 think to attract better pens with the swelling bombast of bragging 
 blank verse.' In another sneer he described the new measure as 
 * the spacious volubility of a drumming decasyllabon ; ' while 
 Robert Greene, who had written many wearisome rhymed dramas, 
 talked of making ' verses jet on the stage in tragical buskins, every 
 word filling the ear like the fa-burden of Bow bell, daring God out 
 of heaven with that atheist, Tamburlan, or blaspheming with the mad 
 priest of the Sun.' But our licentiate iambic' was destined to 
 triumph. Greene and Nash gave way before inevitable fate, and 
 wrote some better plays in consequence. 
 
 Let us inquire what change Marlowe really introduced, and 
 what was his theory of dramatic versification. He found the ten- 
 syllabled heroic line monotonous, monosyllabic, and divided into 
 five feet of tolerably regular alternate short and long. He left it 
 various in form and structure, sometimes redundant by a syllable, 
 sometimes deficient, enriched with unexpected emphases and 
 changes in the beat. He found no sequence or attempt at periods ; 
 one line succeeded another with insipid regularity, and all were 
 made after the same model. He grouped his verse according to 
 
APPENDIX. 387 
 
 the sense, obeying an internal law of melody, and allowing the 
 thought contained in his words to dominate their form. He did 
 not force his metre to preserve a fixed and unalterable type, but 
 suffered it to assume most variable modulations, the whole beauty 
 of which depended upon their perfect adaptation to the current of 
 his ideas. By these means he was able to produce the double 
 effect of variety and unity, to preserve the fixed march of his chosen 
 metre, and yet, by subtle alterations in the pauses, speed, and 
 grouping of the syllables, to make one measure represent a thou- 
 sand. Used in this fashion, blank verse became a Proteus. It 
 resembled music, which requires regular time and rhythm ; but, by 
 the employment of phrase, induces a higher kind of melody to rise 
 above the common and despotic beat of time. Bad writers of 
 blank verse, like Marlowe's predecessors, or like those who in all 
 ages have been deficient in plastic energy and power of harmonious 
 modulation, produce successions of monotonous iambic lines, 
 sacrificing the poetry of expression to the mechanism of their art. 
 Metre with them ceases to be the organic body of a vital thought, 
 and becomes a mere framework. And bad critics praise them for 
 the very faults of tameness and monotony which they miscall 
 regularity of numbers. It was thus that the sublimest as well as 
 the most audacious of Milton's essays in versification fell under the 
 censure of Johnson. 
 
 It is not difficult to support these eulogies by reference to 
 Marlowe's works ; for some of his finest blank verse passages allow 
 themselves to be detached without any great injury to their in- 
 tegrity. The following may be cited as an instance of his full- 
 voiced harmony. Faustus exclaims — 
 
 Have I not made blind Homer sing to me 
 Of Alexander's love and CEnon's death ? 
 And hath not he who built the walls of Troy 
 With ravishing sound of his melodious harp 
 Made music with my Mephistophiles ? 
 
 We feel at once that a new spirit has been breathed into the metre — 
 a spirit of undefinable melody. Something is owing to the choice 
 of long-resounding and fuU-vowelled words ; something to the use 
 of monosyllables, as in the third line; something to alliteration; 
 but more than all to the passion of the author, and to the ' plastic 
 stress ' of his creative genius. This tragedy is full of fine passages, 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 APPENDIX. 
 
 and the soliloquy in which Faustus watches his last moments ebb 
 away, might be quoted as a perfect instance of variety and sustained 
 effect in a situation which could only be redeemed from monotony 
 by consummate art. 'Edward the Second ' is not less rich in versi- 
 fication. In order to prove that Marlowe could temper his blank 
 verse to different moods and passions, take this speech, in which 
 the indignant Edward first gives way to anger, and then to 
 misery — 
 
 Mortimer ! who talks of Mortimer, 
 
 "Who wounds me with the name of Mortimer, 
 
 That bloody man ? Good father, on thy lap 
 
 Lay I this head laden with mickle care. 
 
 O, might I never ope these eyes again, 
 
 Never again lift up this drooping head, 
 
 O, never more lift up this dying heart f 
 
 The didactic dignity of Marlowe's verse may be gathered from 
 these lines in ' Tamburlaine,' — 
 
 Gur souls whose faculties can comprehend 
 The wondrous architecture of the world. 
 And measure every wandering planet's course. 
 Still climbing after knowledge infinite. 
 And always moving as the restless spheres, 
 Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest 
 Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, 
 That perfect bliss and sole felicity, 
 The sweet fruition of an earthly crown. 
 
 Again, as if wishing to prove what liberties might be taken with 
 the iambic metre without injury to its music, Marlowe wrote these 
 descriptive lines in the ' Jew of Malta : ' — 
 
 Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts. 
 
 Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, 
 
 Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds. 
 
 And seld seen cosily stones of so great price, 
 
 As one of them, indifferently rated, 
 
 May serve, in peril of calamity, 
 
 To ransom great kings from captivity. 
 
 The hcence of the first and third line is both daring and successful. 
 The second departs less from the ordinary rhythm, while the four 
 last carry back the period into the usual flow of Marlowe's verse. 
 The four passages which I have quoted are, perhaps, sufificient 
 
APPENDIX. 389 
 
 to prove that blank verse was not only brought into existence, but 
 also perfected by Marlowe. It is true that, like all great poets, he 
 left his own peculiar imprint on it, and that his metre is marked by 
 an almost extravagant exuberance, impetuosity, and height of 
 colouring. It seems to flow from him with the rapidity of impro- 
 visation, and to follow a law of melody rather felt than studied by 
 its author. We feel that the poet loved to give the rein to his 
 ungovernable fancy, forgetting the thought with which he started, 
 revelling in sonorous words, and pouring forth a stream of images, 
 so that the mind receives at last a vague and various impression of 
 sublimity. 
 
 Marlowe's contemporaries soon caught the trick of sonorous 
 versification. The obscure author of a:play which has sometimes 
 been attributed to Marlowe, wrote these lines in the true style of his 
 master : — 
 
 Chime out your softest strains of harmony:, 
 
 And on delicious music's silken wings 
 
 Send ravishing delight to my love's ears. 
 
 Peele contented himself with repeating his more honeyed cadences. 
 Shakspere, next to Marlowe, had more influence than any poet 
 on the formation of our blank verse. Coleridge has maintained 
 that his diction and metre were peculiarly his own,.unimitated and 
 inimitable. But I believe that a careful comparison of his style 
 with that of his contemporaries will make it evident that he began 
 a period in which versification was refined and purified from Mar- 
 lowe's wordiness. Shakspere has more, than Marlowe's versatility 
 and power ; but his metre is never so extravagant in its pomp of 
 verbal grandeur. He restrains his own luxuriance, and does not 
 allow himself to be seduced by pleasing sounds. His finest 
 passages owe none of their beauty to alliteration, and yet he knew 
 most exquisitely how to use that meretricious handmaid of melody. 
 Nothing can be mare seductive than .the charm of repeated liquids 
 and vowels .in the following lines : — 
 
 On such a night 
 .Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love 
 To come again to Carthage. 
 
 Nor again did Shakspere employ big sounding words so profusely 
 as Marlowe, but reserved them for effects of especial solemnity, as 
 in the speech of Timon : — 
 
390 • APPENDIX. 
 
 Come not to me again : but say to Athens, 
 Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 
 Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ; 
 Whom once a day with his embossed froth 
 The turbulent surge shall cover : thither come. 
 And let my gravestone be your oracle. 
 
 But Shakspere did not always, or indeed often, employ these 
 somewhat obvious artifices of harmonious diction. The character- 
 istic of his verse is that it is naturally, unobtrusively, and en- 
 duringly musical. We hardly know why his words are melodious, 
 or what makes them always fresh, whereas the more apparent 
 charms of Fletcher and of Marlowe pall upon our ears. Through- 
 out his writings there is a subtle adjustment of sound to sense, of 
 lofty thoughts to appropriate words ; the ideas evolve themselves 
 with inexhaustible spontaneity, and a suitable investiture of 
 language is never wanting, so that each cadenced period seems 
 made to hold a thought of its own, and thought is linked to 
 thought and cadence to cadence in unending continuity. Inferior 
 artists have systems of melody, pauses which they repeat, favourite 
 terminations, and accelerations or retardations of the rhythm, 
 which they employ whenever the occasion prompts them. But 
 there is none of this in Shakspere. He never falls into the com- 
 monplace of mannerism. Compare Oberon's speeches with Pros- 
 pero's, or with Lorenzo's, or with Romeo's, or with Mark Antony's ; 
 under the Shaksperian similarity there is a different note in all of 
 these, whereas we know beforehand what form the utterances of 
 Bellario, or Philaster, or Memnon, or Ordella in Fletcher must 
 certainly assume. As a single instance of the elasticity, self- 
 restraint, and freshness of the Shaksperian blank verse ; of its 
 freedom from Marlowe's turgidity, or Fletcher's languor, or Milton's 
 involution ; of its ringing soimd and lucid vigour, the following 
 celebrated passage from ' Measure for Measure ' may be quoted. 
 It illustrates the freedom from adventitious ornament and the 
 organic continuity of Shakspere's versification, while it also ex- 
 hibits his power of varying his cadences and suiting them to the 
 dramatic utterance of his characters. 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; 
 To lie in cold obstruction and to rot ; 
 This sensible warm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit 
 
APPENDIX. 391 
 
 To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
 
 In thrilling regions of thick ribbed^ice ; 
 
 To be imprisoned in the viewless winds, 
 
 And blown with restless violence about 
 
 The pendent world ; or to be worse than worst 
 
 Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts 
 
 Imagine howling ; — 'tis too horrible ! 
 
 The weariest and most loathed worldly life, 
 
 That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 
 
 Can lay on Nature, is a paradise 
 
 To what we fear of death. 
 
 Each of Shakspere's contemporaries and successors among the 
 dramatists commanded a style of his own in blank verse com- 
 position. It was so peculiarly the function of the stage and of the 
 playwrights at that particular epoch to perfect this metre, that I do 
 not think some detailed examination of the language of the drama 
 will be out of place. Coleridge observes that ' Ben Jonson's blank 
 verse is very masterly and individual.' To this criticism might be 
 added that it is the blank verse of a scholar — pointed, polished, and 
 free from the lyricisms of his age. It lacks harmony and is often 
 laboured : but vigorous and solid it never fails to be. This pane- 
 gyric of poetry from the Italianised version of ' Every Man in his 
 Humour,' may be taken as a specimen of his most animated 
 
 style : — 
 
 I can repell opinion and approve 
 
 The state of poesy, such as it is, 
 
 Blessed, eternal, and most true divine j 
 
 Indeed, if you will look on poesy. 
 
 As she appears in many, poor and lame. 
 
 Patched up in remnants and old worn-out rags. 
 
 Half starved for want of her peculiar food, 
 
 Sacred invention ; then I must confess 
 
 Both your conceit and censure of her merit : 
 
 But view her in her glorious ornaments, 
 
 Attired in the majesty of art, 
 
 Set high in spirit with the precious taste 
 
 Of sweet philosophy ; and which is most, 
 
 Crowned with the rich traditions of a soul 
 
 That hates to have her dignity profaned 
 
 With any relish of an earthly thought — 
 
 Oh ! then how proud a presence does she bear ! 
 
 Then she is like herself, fit to be seen 
 
 Of none but grave and consecrated eyes. 
 
392 APPENDIX. 
 
 After a complete perusal of his works I find very little of the 
 fluent grace which belonged in so large a measure to Fletcher and 
 to Shakspere. Yet the first lines of the '■ Sad Shepherd ' have a 
 very deUcate music ; they are almost unique in Ben Jonson : — 
 
 Here was she wont to go ! and here ! and here ! 
 
 Just where these daisies, pinks, and violets grow : 
 
 The world may find the spring by following her ; 
 
 For other print her airy steps ne'er left. 
 
 Her treading would not bend a blade of grass, 
 
 Or shake the downy blue bell from his stalk ! 
 
 But like the soft west wind she shot along, 
 
 And where she went, the flowers took thickest root, 
 
 As she had sowed them with her odorous foot. 
 
 The melody which gives so chaste and elegant a beauty to these 
 lines is invariable in the verse of Beaumont and Fletcher. We 
 have too much of it there, and surfeit on sweets ; for in a very short 
 time we discover the trick of these great versifiers and learn to 
 expect their luxurious alliterations, and repeated caesuras at the end 
 of the fifth syllable. Their redundant and deficient lines, the 
 sweetness long drawn out of their delicious cadences, become well 
 known. Then the movement of their verse is not, like that of 
 Shakspere, self-evolved and thoroughly organic ; it obeys a rule ; 
 luxury is sought for its own sake, and languor follows as a direct 
 consequence of certain verbal mannerisms. Among these may be 
 mentioned a decided preference for all words in which there is a 
 predominance of liquids and of vowels. For instance, in this 
 line : — 
 
 Showers, hails, snows, frosts, and two-edged winds that prime 
 
 The maiden blossoms, 
 
 there is no unlicensed redundancy of syllables ; but the labour of 
 getting through so many accumulated sounds produces a strange 
 retardation of the movement. Another peculiarity is the substitu- 
 tion of hendecasyllabic lines for the usual decasyllable blank verse 
 through long periods of dialogue. In one scene of ' Valentinian ' 
 there are fifty-five continuous lines, of which only five are decasyl- 
 labic verses, the rest being hendecasyllables ; so that the licence 
 of the superfluous syllable, which is always granted in dramatic 
 writing for the sake of variety, becomes, in its turn, far more cloy- 
 ing than a" strict adherence to the five-footed verse. It is also 
 
APPENDIX. 393 
 
 noticeable that this weak ending is frequently constructed by the 
 addition of some emphatic monosyllable. Thus : — 
 
 I do remember him ; he was my guardian, 
 Appointed by the senate to preserve me : 
 What a full majesty sits in his face yet. 
 
 Or:— 
 
 The desolations that this great eclipse works. 
 
 The natural consequence of these delays and languors in the 
 rhythm is that the versification of Beaumont and Fletcher has 
 always a meandering and rotary movement. It does not seem to 
 leap or glide straight onward, but to return upon itself and wind 
 and double. The following passage may be quoted as illustrative 
 of its almost lyrical voluptuousness : — 
 
 I do her wrong, much wrong : she's young and blessed, 
 Fair as the spring, and as his blossoms tender ; 
 But I a nipping North-wind, my head hung 
 With hails and frosty icicles : are the souls so too 
 When they depart hence, lame and old and loveless ? 
 Ah, no ! 'tis ever youth there : Age and Death 
 Follow our flesh no more, and that forced opinion 
 That spirits have no sexes, I believe not. 
 
 The speech of Aspatia among her maidens is an excellent 
 example of the more careful verse of Fletcher : — 
 
 Fie, you have missed it here, Antiphila, 
 
 You are much mistaken, wench ; 
 
 These colours are not dull and pale enough, 
 
 To shew a soul so full of misery 
 
 As this sad lady's was; do it by me, 
 
 Do it again by me the lost Aspatia, 
 
 And you shall find all true but the wild island. 
 
 I stand upon the sea beach now, and think 
 
 Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, 
 
 Wild as that desert, and let all about me 
 
 Tell that I am forsaken ; do my face 
 
 (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow,) 
 
 Thus, thus, Antiphila, strive to make me look 
 
 Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me, 
 
 Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks 
 
 Groan with continual surges, and behind me 
 
 Make all a desolation ; look, look, wenches, 
 
 A miserable life of this poor picture ! 
 
394 APPENDIX, 
 
 There is enough variety and subtle melody in this without the usual 
 effeminacy of Fletcher's style. What makes it most effective is 
 that it is written so as to represent the natural inflections of tone, 
 the pauses, and the emphases of the character who speaks it. One 
 more specimen of this most musical of poets may be allowed me. 
 It is from ' Thierry and Theodoret.' Thierry speaks and Ordella 
 answers : — 
 
 Th.. 'Tis full of fearful shadows. 
 
 Ord. So is sleep, sir, 
 
 Or any thing that's merely ours and mortal ; 
 We were begotten gods else : but these fears, 
 Feeling but once the fires of noble thoughts, 
 Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing. 
 Th. Suppose it death. 
 
 Ord. I do. 
 Th. And endless parting 
 
 "With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, 
 
 With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason. 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 
 No careful father's counsel ; nothing's heard, 
 
 Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 
 Dust, and an endless darkness, and dare you, woman. 
 
 Desire this place ? 
 
 Ord. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest ; 
 
 Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, 
 And kings from height of all their painted glories 
 Fall like spent exhalations to this centre. 
 
 There the poet should have stopped, for exquisite thoughts have 
 hitherto been rendered in exquisite language. He continues, how- 
 ever, for five lines of inferior beauty. 
 
 Turning from the more celebrated to the less distinguished 
 playwrights, we find almost universally the power of writing forcible 
 blank verse. Marston condensed much thought into his lines, and 
 made such epigrams as these : — 
 
 Can man by no means creep out of himself 
 And leave the slough of viperous grief behind ? 
 
 or such addresses of concentrated passion as this prologue — 
 
 Therefore we proclaim 
 If any spirit breathes within this round, 
 
APPENDIX. 395 
 
 Uncapable of weighty passion 
 
 (As from his birth being hugged in the arms 
 
 And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness), 
 
 Who winks and shuts his apprehension up 
 
 From common sense of what men were, and are ; 
 
 "Who would not know what men must be : let such 
 
 Hurry amain from our black -visaged shows ; 
 
 We shall afright their eyes. But if a breast, 
 
 Nailed to the earth with grief, if any heart, 
 
 Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring ; 
 
 If there be any blood whose heat is choked 
 
 And stifled with true sense of misery — 
 
 If aught of these strains fill this consort up — 
 
 They do arrive most welcome. 
 
 We find both quaintness of language and roughness of rhythm in 
 these lines ; but how weighty, how eloquently solemn, is the apo- 
 strophe to those of the spectators whose own sorrows render them 
 participant of tragic woes. It is clear that a large and broad style^ 
 a sense of rhythm, and a freedom in the use of blank verse as a 
 natural vehicle of thought, were epidemic in that age. 
 
 Facility for expressing every shade of sentiment or reflection in 
 clear and simple lines belonged peculiarly to Decker, Hey wood, 
 Middleton, and Rowley, poets who made but little pretension to 
 melodious charms and flowers of fancy, but whose native ear main- 
 tained such flowing periods as the following : — 
 
 D. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never 
 Was ravished with a more celestial sound. 
 Were every servant in the world like thee. 
 So full of goodness, angels would come down 
 To dwell with us. Thy name is Angelo, 
 And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest ; 
 Thy youth with too much watching is oppressed. 
 
 A. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars, 
 
 And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, 
 
 By my late watching ; but to wait on you, 
 
 When at your prayers you kneel before the altar, 
 
 Methinks I'm singing with some choir in heaven. 
 
 So blest I hold me in your company. 
 
 Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 
 
 Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; ^ 
 
 For then you break his heart. 
 
396 APPENDIX. 
 
 The same praise belongs to Massinger, who was, indeed, 
 associated with Decker in the production of the play from which 
 these lines are quoted. Coleridge remarks that he has reconciled 
 the language of everyday life with poetical diction more thoroughly 
 than any other writer of dramatic blank verse, and for this reason 
 he recommends him as a better model for young writers than 
 Shakspere, who is far too individual, and Fletcher, who is too 
 monotonously lyrical. 
 
 If it is the case with all our dramatists that the melody of their 
 versification depends entirely upon the sense of their words, this is 
 particularly true of Massinger. It will be noticed that all the 
 changes in his rhythm are accounted for by changes in the thought, 
 or answer to supposed alterations of the actor's gestures and of his 
 voice. In hghter moods, Massinger could use hendecasyllabic 
 periods with much of Fletcher's melody. This is a specimen : — 
 
 Not far from where my father lives, a lady, 
 
 A neighbour by, blest with as great a beauty 
 
 As nature durst bestow without undoing, 
 
 Dwelt, and most happily, as I thought then, 
 
 And blessed the house a thousand times she dwelt in. 
 
 This beauty, in the blossom of my youth. 
 
 When my first fire knew no adulterate incense, 
 
 Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, 
 
 In all the bravery my friends could show me. 
 
 In all the faith my innocence could give me. 
 
 In the best language my tnie tongue could tell me, 
 
 And all the broken sighs my sick heart lent me, 
 
 I sued and served. Long did I love this lady, 
 
 Long was my travail, long my trade, to win her ; 
 
 With all the duty of my soul I served her. 
 
 There is no need to call attention to the alliterative structures of 
 this period. They are strongly marked. Massinger represents a 
 whole class of the later EUzabethan playwrights, who used a flow- 
 ing blank verse, perfected by long practice for the purpose of the 
 stage. Shirley was one of this set ; he wrote evenly and with due 
 attention to the meaning of .his words. But there were oth«- 
 ambitious versifiers, like Ford, who sought for more recondite and 
 elaborate graces. It has been thought that Ford imitated Shak- 
 spere in his style as much as in the situations of his dramas. I 
 cannot myself perceive much trace of Shakspere in the verse of 
 
APPENDIX. 397 
 
 Ford ; but these two specimens will enable the reader to judge 
 fairly of his rhetoric : — 
 
 Hie to thy father's house, there lock thee fast 
 
 Alone within thy chamber ; then fall down 
 
 On both thy knees, and grovel on the ground ; 
 
 Cry to thy heart, wash every word thou utterest 
 
 In tears, and (if 't be possible) of blood : 
 
 Beg heaven to cleanse the leprosy of lust 
 
 That rots thy soul ; acknowledge what thou art, 
 
 A wretch, a worm, a nothing : weep, sigh, pray 
 
 Three times a day, and three times every night ; 
 
 For seven days' space do this ; then, if thou findest 
 
 No change in thy desires, return to me, 
 
 I'll think on remedy. Pray for thyself 
 
 At home, whilst I pray for thee here ; away — 
 
 My blessing with thee — we have need to pray. 
 
 The lines are much more broken up than is usual with our 
 dramatists. They sparkle with short sentences and quick succes- 
 sions of reiterated sounds. The same effect is noticeable in 
 Calantha's dying speech, where the situation is quite different : — 
 
 Forgive me. Now I turn to thee, thou shadow 
 
 Of my contracted lord : bear witness all, 
 
 I put my mother's wedding-ring upon 
 
 His finger; 'twas my father's last bequest : 
 
 Thus I now marry him whose wife I am ! 
 
 Death shall not separate us. O, my lords, 
 
 I but deceived your eyes with antick gesture, 
 
 "When one news straight came huddling on another, 
 
 Of death, and death, and death ; still I danced forward. 
 
 But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. 
 
 Be such mere women, who with shrieks and outcries, 
 
 Can vow a present end to all their sorrows ; 
 
 Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outlive them. 
 
 They are the silent griefs which cut the heart strings ; 
 
 Let me die smiling. 
 
 This is a sculptured and incisive style. Even the largo (to 
 borrow a term from music) of Calantha's address to her nobles, 
 though it assumes hendecasyllabic stateHness, maintains the crisp 
 and pointed motion of the lines that had preceded it. While 
 speaking of Ben Jonson or of Marston would have been the 
 proper time to mention the blank verse of George Chapman, a very 
 
398 APPENDIX. 
 
 manly and scholarlike author. He expressed philosophical ideas 
 in elevated language. This eulogy of honourable love is vigorous 
 in thought as well as metre : — 
 
 'Tis nature's second sun, 
 Causing a spring of virtues where he shines ; 
 And as without the sun, the world's great eye, 
 All colours, beauties, both of art and nature, 
 Are given in vain to man ; so without love 
 All beauties bred in women are in vain, 
 All virtues born in men lie buried ; 
 For love informs them as the sun doth colours ; 
 And as the sun, reflecting his warm beams 
 Against the earth, begets all fruits and flowers, 
 So love, fair shining in the inward man. 
 Brings forth in him the honourable fruits 
 Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts, 
 Brave resolution, and divine discourse. 
 
 There is nothing in this passage which can be termed highly 
 poetical. It is chiefly interesting as showing the plasticity of language 
 and of metre in the hands of our Elizabethan authors. They fixed 
 their mind upon their thoughts, as we should do in writing prose, 
 and turned out terse and pregnant lines not unadorned with melody. 
 I have hitherto purposely abstained from speaking about Webster, 
 a poet of no ordinary power, whose treatment of blank verse is 
 specially illustrative of all the licences which were permitted by the 
 playwrights of that time. His language is remarkably condensed, 
 eUiptical, and even crabbed. His verse is broken up into strange 
 blocks and masses, often reading like rhythmical prose. It is hard, 
 for instance, to make a five-footed line out of the following : — 
 
 To be executed again ; who must despatch me ? 
 
 Yet close analysis will always prove that there was method in the 
 aberrations of Webster, and that he used his metre as the most 
 delicate and responsive instrument for all varieties of dramatic ex- 
 pression. Avoiding the sing-song of Greene and Peele, the lyrical 
 sweetness of Fletcher, the prosaic gravity of Jonson, the limpid 
 fluency of Heywood and Decker, the tumid magniloquence of 
 Marlowe, and the glittering regularity of Ford, he perfected a style 
 which depends for its effect upon the emphases and pauses of the 
 reciter. One of the most striking lines in his tragedy of the 
 
APPENDIX. 399 
 
 * Duchess of Malfi ' proves how boldly and how successfully 
 Webster sacrificed metre to expression. A brother is looking for 
 the first time after death on the form of a sister whom he has 
 caused to be murdered : — 
 
 Cover her face : mine eyes dazzle : she died young. 
 
 There is no caesura, no regular flow of verse, in this line, though in 
 point of syllables it is not more redundant than half of Fletcher's. 
 Each sentence has to be said separately, with long intervals and 
 sighs, that indicate the working of remorseful thought. The 
 powerful collocation of his words may be illustrated by such a line 
 as — 
 
 Other sins only speak ; murder shrieks out ! 
 
 where the logical meaning can hardly fail to be emphasized by the 
 reader. Scansion in the verse ot Webster is subordinate to the 
 purpose of the speaker : in writing it he no doubt imagined his 
 actors declaiming with great variety Tof intonation, with frequent 
 and lengthy pauses, and with considerable differences in the rapidity 
 of their utterances. The dialogue ot the duchess with her waiting- 
 maid on the subject of the other world and death is among the 
 finest for its thoughts and language. As far as rhythm contributes 
 to its excellences, they depend entirely upon the pauses, emphases, 
 and irregularities of all sorts which are used. The duchess 
 begins : — 
 
 O, that it were possible we might 
 
 But hold some two days' conference with the dead. 
 
 From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure, 
 
 I never shall know here. 
 
 Up to this point the verses have run smoothly for Webster. But 
 the duchess has exhausted one vein of meditation. Her voice 
 sinks, and she falls into a profound reverie. When she rouses 
 herself again to address Cariola, she starts with a new thought, and 
 the line is made redundant : — 
 
 I'll tell thee a miracle ; 
 I am not mad yet to my cause of sorrow : 
 The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, 
 The earth of flaming sulphur ; yet I am not mad. 
 
 To eke out the second line the voice is made to dwell with emphasis 
 upon the word * mad,' while the third and fourth have each twelve 
 
400 APPENDIX. 
 
 syllables, which must be pronounced with desperate energy and 
 distinctness — as it were rapidly beneath the breath. But again her 
 passion changes. It relents, and becomes more tender. And for 
 a space we have verses that flow more evenly : — 
 
 I am acquainted with sad misery ; 
 As the tanned galley-slave is with his oar j 
 Necessity makes me suffer constantly, 
 And custom makes it easy. 
 
 At this point she sinks into meditation, and on rousing herself again 
 with a fresh thought, the verse is broken and redundant ; — 
 
 What do I look like now ? 
 
 Cariola answers plainly, and her lines have a smooth rhythm ; — 
 
 Like to your picture in the gallery, 
 A deal of life in show, but none in practice j 
 Or rather like some reverend monument, 
 Whose ruins are even pitied. 
 
 The duchess takes up this thought : — 
 
 Very proper ; 
 And fortune seems only to have her eyesight 
 To behold my tragedy. 
 
 Here her contemplation is broken by the approach of a messenger, 
 and she exclaims, without completing the line : — - 
 
 How now I 
 What noise is that ? 
 
 It might seem almost hypercritical to remark, that when the train 
 of thought is broken from without, the verse is deficient ; when 
 broken by the natural course of the speaker's reflection, it is redun- 
 dant. Yet this may be observed in the instances which I have 
 quoted, and there is a real reason for it. The redundant line 
 indicates the incubation of long-continued reverie ; the deficient 
 very well expresses that short and sudden cessation of thought 
 which is produced by an interruption from without. The remarks 
 which I have made on Webster's style apply with almost equal 
 force to that of his contemporaries. We read in 'Hamlet,' for 
 instance : — 
 
APPENDIX. 401 
 
 This bodily creation ecstasy 
 Is very cunning in. 
 
 Ecstasy ! 
 
 The second line is defective in one syllable. That syllable, to 
 Shakspere's delicate sense of the value of sounds and pauses, was 
 supplied by Hamlet's manner. The prince was meant, no doubt, 
 to startle his audience by the sudden repetition of the word 
 ecstasy,' after a quick gesture of astonishment. 
 
 To those who read the pages of our dramatists with this con- 
 ception, of their metre, its irregularities furnish an unerring index 
 to the inflections which the actors must have used, to the characters 
 which the poets designed, and to the situations which they cal- 
 culated. The want of action is thus in some measure compensated, 
 and it becomes apparent that the true secret of blank verse consists 
 in the proper adaptation of words and rhythms to the sense con- 
 tained in them. On this point I have already more than once 
 insisted. I repeat it because it seems to me that blank verse can- 
 not be properly appreciated, far less properly written, unless it be 
 remembered that thought must always run before expression, and 
 mould language to its own particular uses. Blank verse is indeed 
 a sort of divinised prose. Unlimited by rhyme or stanza, it has 
 the freedom of oratio soluta subject to severe laws of rhythm. In 
 the cunning use of this liberty, in the continual creation of melo- 
 dious form adapted to the ever-varying subtleties of thought and 
 feeling, lies the secret of the versifier's art. 
 
 Having traced the origin and development of blank verse upon 
 the stage, and seen the congruence of liberty and law, the harmony 
 of thought and form, which constitute its beauty, we can under- 
 stand how Milton came to use it as he did. Milton was deeply 
 read in the Elizabethan authors ; he profited by all of them and 
 wore their mantle with a double portion of their power. Nor did 
 he fail to feel the necessity of raising this metre, without altering 
 its essential nature, to the epical dignity of the Virgilian hexa- 
 meter ; so that he added structures of more complex melody than 
 had been used upon the stage, periods more fitted to reading or to 
 recitation than to the rapid utterance of acted character. Yet, 
 while he dignified the metre by epical additions, he never forgot 
 that he was handling the verse of tragedy ; and every one of the 
 * remarkably unharmonious ' hnes which Johnson has collected in 
 his essay on the versification of Milton, was not fashioned, as the 
 
 D D 
 
402 APPENDIX. 
 
 critic hints, in slovenly haste, or in despair of making modem 
 language musical, but was deliberately written in obedience to the 
 highest laws of the metre which Marlowe, Shakspere, Fletcher, 
 Webster, and the other dramatists had used. In suiting blank 
 verse to epic poetry, Milton preserved the elasticity and force with 
 which his predecessors had wielded it ; his so-called harshness 
 resulted from a deliberate or instinctive obedience to the genius of 
 the English tragic metre. It seems hardly necessary to insist upon 
 this view of Milton's versification. Yet the pernicious canons of 
 the eighteenth century, when taste had become habituated to the 
 mechanical regularity and meaningless monotony of the couplet, 
 still prevail, and there are people who cannot read Milton by the 
 sense and by their ear, but who cling blindly to the laws of rigorous 
 scansion. A dispute arose some time ago in one of our leading 
 papers, as to the proper reading of two lines in ' Samson Agonistes ; ' 
 where, by the way, dramatic licence was, to say the least, allow- 
 able. The lines run thus : — 
 
 Yet God hath wrought things as incredible 
 For his people of old : what hinders now ? 
 
 It was suggested that they might be reduced to order by this trans- 
 position : — 
 
 Yet God of old hath for his people wrought 
 Things as incredible : what hinders now ? 
 
 It is clear that the versification according to the second reading is 
 far smoother. But is it more Miltonic, and would it not be very 
 easy by a similar process of transposition to emasculate some of 
 the most vigorous periods in Milton's poetry, and to reduce his 
 music to the five-footed monotony of incompetent versifiers 1 The 
 truth is, that the chorus — or Milton, who speaks in the chorus — 
 does not think about iambic regularity, but is intent on arguing with 
 Manoah. Its words of faith and confidence rush forth : — 
 
 Yet God hath wrought things as incredible 
 For his people of old 
 
 then stop ; and the question follows after a pause : — 
 
 What hinders now ? 
 
 Energy of meaning is thus communicated to the double purpose of 
 their argument. The action of the speech is weakened by the 
 
APPENDIX. 403 
 
 suggested emendation. Take again line 175 of ' Samson Ago- 
 nistes ' — 
 
 Universally crowned with highest praises, 
 and write it — 
 
 Crowned universally with highest praises. 
 
 The first form is anomalous ; the second makes a very decent 
 hendecasyllabic. Johnson, Bentley, and the like, would rejoice in so 
 manipulating a hundred characteristic passages ; but true criticism 
 looks backward and deduces its grounds of judgment from the pre- 
 decessors rather than the successors of a poet. Adopting this 
 standard, we should try Milton by Elizabethan models and not by 
 the versifiers of the eighteenth century. 
 
 But these examples are taken from a tragedy. In ' Paradise 
 Lost ' we find that Milton has varied the dramatic rhythm by a 
 very sparing use of hendecasyllable lines and by introducing far more 
 involved and artificial cadences. In fact the flow of epical language 
 is naturally more sedate and complex than that of the drama : for 
 it has to follow the thoughts of one mind through all its reasonings. 
 Yet the dramatic genius of the metre is for ever asserting itself, as 
 in the following Hnes : — 
 
 Rejoicing but with awe, 
 In adoration at his feet I fell 
 " Submiss ; he reared me, and, * Whom thou soughtest I am,' 
 Said mildly, ' Author of all this thou seest 
 Above, or round about thee, or beneath.' 
 
 Here if we fix our attention upon the lines and try to scan them, 
 we find the third most dissonant. But if we read them by the 
 sense, and follow the grouping of the thoughts, we terminate one 
 cadence at ' submiss,' and after a moment of parenthetical descrip- 
 tion begin another period, which extends itself through the con- 
 cluding lines. To analyse Miltonic blank verse in all its details 
 would be the work of much study and prolonged labour. It 
 is enough to indicate the fact that the most sonorous passages 
 begin and end with interrupted lines, including in one organic 
 structure, periods, parentheses, and paragraphs of fluent melody, 
 that the harmonies are wrought by subtle and most complex allitera- 
 tive systems, by delicate changes in the length and volume of 
 syllables, and by the choice of names magnificent for their mere 
 gorgeousness of sound. In these structures there are many pauses 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 APPENDIX. 
 
 which enable the ear and voice to rest themselves, but none are per- 
 fect, none satisfy the want created by the opening hemistich, until the 
 final and deliberate close is reached. Then the sense of harmony 
 is gratified and we proceed with pleasure to a new and different 
 sequence. If the truth of this remark is not confirmed by the 
 following celebrated and essentially Miltonic passage, it must fall 
 without further justification : — 
 
 And now his heart 
 Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength, 
 Glories ; for never since created man 
 Met such embodied force as named with these 
 Could merit more than that small infantry 
 Warred on by cranes : though all the giant brood 
 Of Phlegra, with the heroic race were joined 
 That fought at Thebes or Ilium, on each side 
 Mixed with auxiliar Gods ; and what resounds 
 In fable or romance of Uther's son, 
 Begirt with English and Armoric knights ; 
 And all who since, baptized or infidel, 
 Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban, 
 Damasco or Morocco or Trebizond, 
 Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore. 
 When Charlemagne M'ith all his peerage fell 
 By Fontarabbia. 
 
 After perusing this quotation, let the reader compare it with 
 Claudio's speech on Death in * Measure for Measure,' and observe 
 the difference between Shaksperian and Miltonic, between 
 dramatic and epical blank verse. The one is simple in construc- 
 tion and progressive, the other is complex and stationary ; but both 
 are musical beyond the possibihty of imitation. The one exhibits 
 a thought, in the process of formation, developing itself from the 
 excited fancy of the speaker. The other presents to us an image 
 crystallised and perfect in the poet's mind ; the one is in time, the 
 other in space — the one is a growing and the other a complete 
 organism. The whole difference between the drama and the epic 
 is implicit in these periods. The one, if we may play upon a fancy, 
 resembles Music, and the other Architecture. 
 
 In this again we find a proof that the structure of blank verse 
 depends upon the nature of the thought which it is meant to clothe. 
 The thoughts of a dramatist — whether his characters converse or 
 soliloquise — are, of necessity, in evolution; the thoughts of an 
 
APPENDIX. 405 
 
 epical poet are before him, as matter which he must give form to. 
 The richness and melody and variety of his versification wilL in 
 either case, depend upon the copiousness of his language, the 
 delicacy of his ear, and the fertility of his invention. We owe 
 everything to the nature of the poet, and very little to the deca- 
 syllables which he is using. 
 
 Milton was the last of the Elizabethans. With him the spirit of 
 our literary renaissance became for the time extinct. Even 
 during his lifetime the taste and capacity for blank verse compo- 
 sition had expired. It is said that Dryden wished to put * Paradise 
 Lost' into couplets, and received from Milton the indifferent 
 answer, * Let the young man tag his rhymes.' Dryden, in his essay 
 on dramatic poetry, defended the use of rhyme, and introduced the 
 habit of writing plays in heroics, to the detriment of sense and 
 character and freedom. Yet there are passages in his later tragedies 
 — '■ All for Love,' ' Cleopatra,' ' King Arthur,' and * The Spanish 
 Friar' — which show that he could use the tragic metre of blank 
 verse with moderate ability. The Elizabethan inspiration still 
 feebly survives in lines like these : — 
 
 The gods are just, 
 But how can finite measure infinite ? 
 Reason, alas ! it does not know itself! 
 Yet man, vain man, will, with this short-lined plummet, 
 Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. 
 Whatever is, is in its causes just. 
 Since all things are by fate. But purblind man 
 Sees but a part of the chain, the nearest links ; 
 His eyes not carrying to that equal beam 
 That poises all above. 
 
 This is average thought expressed in average words. But 
 * Absalom and Achitophel ' is a work of the very highest genius in 
 its kind, written not under the influence and inspiration of another 
 age, but produced as the expression of a different and no less 
 genuine phase of national development. During the period of 
 Dryden's ascendency over English literature, very little blank verse 
 was written of much moment. Yet, it must be remembered that 
 the passage of the ' Mourning Bride,' which Johnson preferred to 
 any single piece of English descriptive poetry, first saw the light in 
 1697. The lines begin — ' How reverend is the face of this tall pile.' 
 They are dignified, melodious, and clear ; but we already trace in 
 
4o6 APPEAWIX. 
 
 the handling of the language more of the effort after neatness and 
 precision, and less of nature, than was common with the elder 
 dramatists. After the death of Otway and Congreve, blank verse 
 held the stage in the miserable compositions of the eighteenth 
 century ; but it had no true vitality. The real works of genius in 
 that period were written in couplets, and it was not until the first 
 dawn of a second renaissance in England, that blank verse began 
 again lo be practised. Meanwhile the use of the couplet had un- 
 fitted poets for its composition. Their acquired canons of regularity, 
 when applied to that loose and flowing metre, led them astray. 
 They no longer trusted exclusively to their ear, but to a mechanism 
 which rendered accuracy of ear almost useless, not to say impos- 
 sible. Hence it followed, that when blank verse began again to be 
 written, it found itself very much at the point where it had stood 
 before the appearance of Marlowe. Even Thomson, who succeeded 
 so well in imitating Spenserian stanza, wrote stiff and languid blank 
 verse with monosyllabic terminations and monotonous cadences — 
 a pedestrian style. 
 
 Cowper, in his translation of Homer, aimed at the Miltonic 
 structure, and acquired a solemn though cumbrous versification. 
 The description of the Russian empress's ice-palace, in ' The Winter 
 Morning Walk,' proves how he had imbued himself with the language 
 of the ' Paradise Lost,' and how naturally he adapted it to his own 
 thoughts. Coleridge's blank verse has a kind of inflated grandeur, 
 but not much of Elizabethan variety of music, subtlety of texture, 
 and lightness of movement. His lines written in the Valley of 
 Chamouni are sonorous ; but they want elasticity, and are inferior 
 in quality to his lyrics. Heaviness of style and turgid rhetoric 
 deface his verse and prose alike. Wordsworth again could not 
 handle blank verse with any certainty of success. Wildernesses 
 of the * Excursion ' extend for pages and pages barren of beauty. 
 We plod over them on foot, sinking knee-deep into the clinging 
 sand ; whereas the true master of blank verse carries us aloft as 
 on a winged steed through cloud and sunshine in a yielding air. 
 Wordsworth mistook the language of prose for that of Nature, and 
 did not understand that natural verse might be written without 
 the tedious heaviness of common disquisitions. One of his 
 highest efforts is the poem on the Simplon Pass, introduced 
 into the ' Prelude.' This owes its great beauty to the perfect 
 delineation which he has succeeded in producing by suggestive 
 
APPENDIX. 407 
 
 images, by reiterated cadences, by solitary lines, by breathless 
 repetitions, by the perfect union, in short, which subsists between the 
 poet's mind and the nature he is representing. 
 
 Byron again is uncertain in his blank verse. The lines on the 
 Coliseum in ' Manfred' are as good as a genuine Elizabethan passage, 
 because they are spoken from the fulness of a poet's hearty and with 
 a continuity of thought and copiousness of language which insured 
 their organic vitality. But they are exceptional. Byron needed 
 rhyme as an assistance to his defective melody. He did not feel 
 that inner music which is the soul of true blank verse and sounding 
 prose. In Keats at last we reach this power. His ' Hyperion ' is 
 sung, not written, governed in all its parts by the controlling force 
 of imagined melody. Its music is fluid, bound by no external 
 measurement of feet, but determined by the sense and intonation 
 of the poet's thought, while like the crotalos of the Athenian flute- 
 player, the decasyllabic beat maintains an uninterrupted under- 
 current of regular pulsations. Keats studied Milton and strove to 
 imitate him. But he falls below the majesty and breadth of 
 Milton's manner. He is too luxuriant in words and images, too 
 loose in rhythm and prone to description. In fact, he produces an 
 Elizabethan poem of even more wanton superfluity than those which 
 he imitates. The entrance of Phoebus into his desecrated palace 
 is a brilliant instance of the plasticity of language in a master's 
 hand. But there is something florid in it which smacks of a 
 degenerating taste in art. Some of Shelley's blank verse is perhaps 
 the best which this century has produced, though it is too hasty and 
 incoherent, especially in * Prometheus Unbound,' to attain the 
 equality of sustained style. In 'Alastor' he shows what he can 
 do both without imitation and by its help. The lines on Egypt are 
 written with a true Miltonic roll and ponderous grandiloquence of 
 aggregated names. But in the last paragraph of the poem we find 
 the vernal freshness, elasticity, and delicacy that are Shelley's own. 
 It is noticeable that both Keats and Shelley make an Elizabethan 
 use of the so-called heroic couplet. * Epipsychidion ' and ^ Lamia ' 
 are written, not in the metre of Dryden, Churchill, Pope, and 
 Crabbe, but in that of Marlowe and Fletcher. Nothing proves 
 more significantly the distance between the Elizabethan spirit and 
 tbe taste of the eighteenth century, than the dissimilarity of these 
 two metres, syllabically, and in point of rhyme identical. The 
 couplets of Marlowe, Fletcher, Shelley, and Keats, follow the laws 
 
4o8 APPENDIX. 
 
 of blank verse, and add rhyme ;— that is to say, their periods and 
 pauses are entirely determined by the sense. The couplets of 
 Dryden and his followers resemble Ovid's elegiacs in the per- 
 manence of their form and the restriction of their thought. Mr. 
 Browning, who is one of the latest and most characteristic products 
 of the Elizabethan revival, has made good use of this loose rhyming 
 metre in ^"Sordello.' Among the most melodious passages of that 
 poem may be found the following : — 
 
 You can believe 
 Sordello foremost in the regal class 
 Nature has broadly severed from the mass 
 Of men, and fi-amed for pleasure, as she frames 
 Some happy lands that have luxurious names 
 For loose fertility j a foot-fall there 
 Suffices to upturn to the warm air 
 Half germinating spices, mere decay 
 Produces richer life, and day by day 
 New pollen on the lily petal grows. 
 And still more labyrinthine buds the rose. 
 
 The whole structure of this period,, in its pauses and studied 
 disregard of the rhymed system, is that of blank verse. The final 
 couplet completes the sense and satisfies the ear with regularity. 
 Browning by fits and starts produces passages of fine blank verse, 
 blowing out bubbles of magnificent sound as glass is blown from 
 red-hot matter by the fierce breath and fiery will. Sv/inburne, 
 when he chooses, sweeps the long purple, blows the golden trumpet, 
 and intones the sacrificial chaunt of the Elizabethan hierarchy. 
 He is a supreme artist in words ; they obey him as the keys obey 
 an organist, and from their combination he builds up melodious 
 palaces of resonant magnificence. Tennyson must be named the 
 most original and greatest hving writer of blank verse. The clas- 
 sical beauty of the ' Idylls of the King,' the luxuriant eloquence of 
 the ' Princess,' the calm majesty of ' Ulysses,' the idyllic sweetness 
 of ^ CEnone,' the grandeur of the ' Mort d' Arthur,' are monuments 
 to the variety and scientific grasp of his genius. Subtle melody 
 and self-restrained splendour are observable throughout his com- 
 positions. He has the power of selection and of criticism, the lack 
 of which makes blank verse tumid or prosaic. It may be noticed 
 that Tennyson has not only created for himself a style in narrative 
 and descriptive blank verse, but that he has also adapted this 
 
. APPENDIX. 4og 
 
 Protean metre to lyrical purposes. Three songs in the ' Princess/ 
 ' Tears, idle tears,' ' Now sleeps the crimson petal,' and ' Come 
 down, O maid,' are perfect specimens of most melodious and com- 
 plete minstrelsy in words. We observe that the first of these songs 
 is divided into periods of five lines, each of which terminates with 
 the words ' days th^t are no more.' This recurrence of sound and 
 meaning is a substitute for rhyme, and suggests rhyme so per- 
 suasively that it is impossible to call the poem mere blank verse. 
 The second song is less simple in its construction : it consists of a 
 quatrain followed by three couplets, and succeeded by a final 
 quatrain, each group of lines ending with the word ' me.' The lines 
 are so managed, by recurrences of sound and by the restriction of 
 the sense to separate lines, that the form of lyric verse is again 
 imitated without aid of rhyme. Theocritus, in his Amoebean Idylls, 
 had suggested this system ; and Shakspere, in the ' Merchant of 
 Venice' (act v. sc. i), had shown what could be made of it in 
 English. But the third song which I have mentioned depends for 
 its effect upon no artificial structure, no reiterated sounds. The 
 poet calls it an idyll : I think it may be referred to as a most con- 
 vincing proof that the English language can be made perfectly 
 lyrical and musical without the need of stanzas or of rhyme. 
 
 I have now passed in brief review the greatest writers of blank 
 verse, and have tried to show that this metre, originally formed for 
 dramatic elocution, became epical, idyllic, lyrical, didactic, accord- 
 ing to the will of the poets who made use of it. In conclusion, I 
 may repeat some of the points which are established with reference 
 to the scope and purpose of the metre. It seems adapted specially 
 for thought in evolution ; it requires progression and sustained 
 effort. As a consequence of this, its melody is determined by the 
 sense which it contains, and depends more upon proportion and 
 harmony of sounds, than upon recurrences and regularities of 
 structure. This being its essential character, it follows that blank 
 verse is better suited for dialogues, descriptions, eloquent appeals, 
 rhetorical declamations, for all those forms of poetry which imply a 
 continuity and development of thought, than for the setting forth of 
 some one perfect and full-formed idea. The thought or ' moment ' 
 which is sufficient for a sonnet would seem poor and fragmentary 
 in fourteen lines of blank verse, unless they were distinctly under- 
 stood to form a part of some continuous poem or dramatic dialogue. 
 When, therefore, blank verse is used lyrically, the poet who mani- 
 
4IO APPENDIX. 
 
 pulates it has to deceive the ear by structures analogous to those 
 of rhymed stanzas. The harmony of our language is such as to 
 admit of exquisite finish in this style ; but blank verse sacrifices a 
 portion of its characteristic freedom, and assimilates itself to ano- 
 ther type of metrical expression, in the process. Another point 
 about blank verse is that it admits of no mediocrity ; it must be 
 either clay or gold. Its writer gains no unreal advantage from the 
 form of his versificatioa, but has to produce fine thoughts in vigor- 
 ous and musical language. Hence, we find that blank verse has been 
 the metre of genius, that it is only used successfully by indubitable 
 poets, and that it is no favourite in a mean, contracted and unima- 
 ginative age. The freedom of the renaissance created it in Eng- 
 land. The freedom of our own century has reproduced it. Blank 
 verse is a type and symbol of our national literary spirit — uncon- 
 trolled by precedent or rule, inclined to extravagance, yet reaching 
 perfection at intervals by an inner force and vivida vis of native 
 inspiration. 
 
APPENDIX. 411 
 
 III. 
 THE BLANK VERSE OF MILTON. 
 
 Among the many points which connect the literature of this century 
 with that of the Ehzabethan age, there is none more marked and 
 striking than the revival of a true feeling for the beauty of blank 
 verse. Blank verse was the creation of our dramatists, from 
 Marlowe to Massinger and Shirley. Milton received it at their 
 hands ; but, in appropriating this metre to the Epic, even Milton 
 thought it necessary to defend the use of unrhymed verse. Milton 
 belonged by education and by disposition to the age which for want 
 of a more accurate title has been called Elizabethan, but which may 
 better be described as the Renaissance in England. That is to 
 say, the spirit which gave form and life to our literature during the 
 sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth centuries, preserved 
 its fullest vigour and manifested itself with the utmost splendour in 
 the genius of Milton. But while he was yet alive, and by the 
 publication of his masterpiece was proving his legitimate descent 
 from the lineage of Spenser, Bacon, and Shakspere, a new and an- 
 tagonistic spirit began to manifest itself. The poets and prose- 
 writers of the Restoration stood no longer in a close relation to 
 Italy and the classics, nor did they continue the tradition of the 
 dramatists of our renaissance. They followed French examples, 
 and introduced another standard of taste. One of the signs of this 
 change was their rejection of blank verse, their exclusive practice 
 of the couplet. To some extent this was a return to old English 
 precedents, to the rhyming metre of Chaucer and the earliest 
 English plays. But the heroic verse, as developed by Dryden, was 
 not a regular continuation of the tradition handed down from 
 Chaucer and from Marlowe. It had less in common with the metre 
 of the ' Canterbury Tales ' and ' Hero and Leander' than with the 
 
412 APFEiVDIX. 
 
 French Alexandrine, and its adoption was one of the signs of the 
 French influence which prevailed throughout the Restoration, and 
 which determined the style of EngUsh literature for the following 
 century. 
 
 The exchange of blank verse for the rhyming couplet was not so 
 insignificant as at first sight it may appear. It was no mere whim 
 of fashion or voluntary preference among the poets for one of two 
 metres, either of which they could have used with equal mastery. 
 On the contrary, it indicated a radical change in the spirit of our 
 literature. With the substitution of heroic for unrhymed verse, the 
 theory and practice of harmony in English composition were 
 altered. What was essentially national in our poetry — the music 
 of sustained periods, elastic in their structure, and governed by the 
 subtlest laws of melody in recurring consonants and vowels — was 
 sacrificed for the artificial elegance and monotonous cadence of the 
 couplet. For a century and a half the summit of all excellence in 
 versification was the construction of neat pairs of lines, smooth 
 indeed and polished, but scarcely varying in their form. The 
 breadth and freedom of style, the organic connection between 
 thought and rhythm, were abandoned for precise and studied regu- 
 larity : and corresponding to this restriction of the form of poetry 
 was an impoverishment in its matter both of thought and fancy. 
 The audacities of Shakspere and the sublimities of Milton were no 
 less unknown and unappreciated than the volume and the grandeur 
 of their metrical effects. We might compare this change in the 
 spirit of our literature to the extinction of all the architectural ori- 
 ginality of the earlier Italian Renaissance in the formal elegance of 
 the Palladian style. Of course it is not to be denied that much was 
 gained as well as lost. Not to speak of the exaggerated conceits, 
 fantastic phraseology, and faults of overstrained imagination, which 
 were eliminated in the age of the Restoration and Queen Anne, it 
 must always be remembered that few literatures can exhibit two 
 types of excellence so great and yet so diverse as those of our 
 Elizabethan and Classic periods. But the fact remains that during 
 this century and a half our authors abandoned the fields in which 
 the earlie ;t and most splendid laurels of the English had been won, 
 and our critics lost the sense for beauties of style peculiarly national. 
 To have written true blank verse during the despotism of the heroic 
 couplet would have been impossible, and to appreciate Shaksperian 
 or Miltonic melody was equally beyond the capacities of cultivated 
 
APPENDIX. 413 
 
 taste. It was not until the spirit of the Ehzabethan age revived in 
 the authors of the commencement of the present century that blank 
 verse began once more to be constructed upon proper principles, 
 and to be accepted at its true value. Even then the habits of 
 several generations had to be laboriously broken, and the metre 
 which every playwright of the sixteenth century commanded with 
 facihty was used with pompous grandiosity or frigid baldness, by 
 poets even of distinguished genius. 
 
 These remarks serve merely as a preface to the following 
 attempt to analyse the structure of Miltonic blank verse, and to 
 explain some of the mistakes which have been made about it. 
 Johnson's essay on the versification of Milton proves the want of 
 intelligence which prevailed in the last century, and shows to what 
 extent the exclusive practice of the couplet had spoiled the ears of 
 critics for all the deeper and more subtle strains of which our 
 language is capable. Johnson lays it down as a fixed canon that 
 the English ten-syllable iambic measure is only pure and regular 
 *when the accent rests upon every second syllable through the 
 whole line.' Thus such lines as these — 
 
 His constant lamp, and waves his purple wings . . . 
 And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss, . . . 
 
 which are not of very common occurrence in Milton, and perhaps 
 are never met with in succession, he admits as pure ; while all the 
 others — those, that is to say, in which we recognise the triumphs of 
 Miltonic art— he condemns as 'more or less licentious with respect 
 to accent.' The tender and pathetic cadence of the last line in the 
 following passage — 
 
 This delicious place 
 For us too large, where thy abundance wants 
 Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground, 
 
 is stigmatised by Johnson as remarkably inharmonious. Cowley's 
 exquisite line — 
 
 And the soft wings of peace cover him round, 
 
 which exhibits a similar cadence, meets with the same condemna- 
 tion, Johnson adding magisterially, with reference to both examples 
 — * In these the law of metre is very grossly violated by mingling 
 combinations of sound directly opposite to each other, as Milton 
 expresses it in his sonnet to Henry 'L^.-wts^hy co?nmilting short afid 
 
414 APPENDIX. 
 
 long, and setting one part of the measiire at variance with the rest/ 
 Johnson's ear, accustomed to the sincf-song of the couplet, and his 
 instinct sophisticated by a too exclusive study of classical metres, 
 exacted an even flow of regular iambics, which might occasionally 
 be broken, for the sake of variety, by lines confessedly discordant. 
 A superfluous syllable at rare intervals, or a trochee instead of an 
 iamb in the first place, would be enough, he thought, to satisfy 
 human weakness petulantly craving after change ; then the metre 
 should resume its calculated melody, and march on without inter- 
 ruption for a score or so of lines. But a trochee in the fourth 
 place ! (for so he scanned the lines), O Milton and Cowley ! shame 
 upon your ears ! The ferule was raised, and down it came with a 
 swinging blow upon the knuckles of the poets who had neglected 
 their prosody. Johnson need not be followed through the details 
 of his analysis. The canon already quoted is enough to prove how 
 far he was from having discerned the true principles of criticism in 
 this case. He attempted to reduce blank verse to rule by setting 
 up the standard of an ideal line, any deviation whatever from which 
 was to be called 'licentious, impure, unharmonious,' remaining 
 ignorant the while that the whole effect of this metre depends upon 
 the massing of lines in periods and on the variety of complicated 
 cadences. Among other things, he had not perhaps considered 
 that the fourth ^lace in a ten-syllabled iambic is not the same as 
 the fourth place in a hne of twelve syllables. 
 
 Todd, commenting on Johnson's essay, shows a truer appre- 
 ciation of Miltonic melody, and is properly indignant with the cool 
 arrogance of Aristarchus. But he, too, is far from having per- 
 ceived the laws which determine the structure of blank verse. 
 After observing that ' Milton was fond of the ancient measures,' 
 which indeed is true, he goes on to settle some of the lines that 
 puzzled Johnson, thus : ' These lines exhibit choriambics in the 
 third and fourth, and in the fourth and fifth places : — 
 
 For us too large, where thy abundance wants 
 Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground.' 
 
 He thinks that he has answered Johnson and established something 
 positive by his erudition in re metricd, whereas he has only attained 
 the negative result of demonstrating that blank verse must not be 
 considered a mere sequence of iambi. It does not really satisfy 
 any one to be told that two-fifihs of each of these lines is what 
 
APPENDIX, 415 
 
 Horace might have called a choriambus, or that three-tenths of 
 some other line is an anapaest. Johnson, to begin with, would not 
 have been satisfied ; for he required iambi or their equivalents, and 
 critics like Todd think nothing of scanning an anapsest in the place 
 of one of Johnson's feet. Nor can the classical scholar be satisfied ; 
 for, even granting that English metrical feet may be classified as 
 tribrachs, dactyls, anapaests, choriambics, and so forth, there is no 
 classical precedent for versification which indiscriminately admitted 
 all these kinds. The Greek comic metre is the only parallel of 
 anything like closeness ; and, even there, limits were fixed beyond 
 which the poet dared not venture. Such licences as Milton allowed 
 himself in his subhme epic would have been inadmissible in the 
 dialogue of the Frogs, and would have been utterly abhorrent to 
 the laws of the Sophoclean Iambic. The unlearned English reader 
 meanwhile will justly condemn this talk about anapaests and cho- 
 riambi as inappropriate. It cannot help him to perceive the melody 
 of a line to be told ' here is a trochee,' or ' there I think I detect an 
 amphibrach ; ' for although these terms may usefully be employed 
 between students accustomed to metrical analysis, they do not solve 
 the problem of blank verse. With classical versification the case 
 is different. Quantity determines every line : a long syllable is 
 unmistakable, and invariably weighs as equal in the scale against 
 two short ones. But nothing so definite can be established in 
 English metre. What one man reads as a dactyl may seem hke 
 an anapaest or a tribrach to another. So little is our language 
 subject to the laws of quantity, that to have produced four stanzas 
 of decently correct English alcaics is one of the proudest toins de 
 force of the most ingenious of our versifiers since Pope. Since 
 therefore quantity forms no part at present of our prosody, and 
 since the licences of quantity in blank verse can never have been 
 determined, it is plainly not much to the purpose to talk about cho- 
 riambs in Milton. They are undoubtedly to be found there. Our 
 daily speech is larded with trochees and cretics and so forth. But 
 these names of classic feet do not explain the secret of the varied 
 melody of Milton. In order to show the uncertainty which attends 
 the analysis of blank verse on these principles, it is enough to 
 mention that Sir Egerton Brydges scans the line already quoted 
 thus — 
 
 ' Parta | kers, and [ fmcropt I falls to the | ground, 
 
 ' first an iambic ; second, an iambic ; third, a spondee ; fourth, a 
 
4i6 APPENDIX. 
 
 dactyl ; fifth, a demifoot.' He makes no mention of the choriamb, 
 which seemed so evident to Todd, while Keightley, who has written 
 learnedly in the same spirit, seems to reject spondees from his 
 system. 
 
 Though the attempt to apply the phraseology of Greek and 
 Latin prosody to the analysis of blank verse is not really satis- 
 factory, yet the principle of substitution of other feet for iambs, as- 
 serted by Todd, Brydges, and Keightley, in opposition to Johnson, 
 was a step forward. They defend Milton's irregularities by saying 
 that in the place of two iambs he uses one choriambus, and 
 that he employs trochees, anapaests, and tribrachs, under certain 
 limitations, as freely as iambs. If these critics had advanced beyond 
 the nomenclature of classic prosody, this principle of substitution 
 would probably have led to a better understanding of the matter. 
 English blank verse really consists of periods of lines, each one of 
 which is made up normally of ten syllables, a stress or accent being 
 thrown upon the final syllable in the line, so that the whole inclines 
 to the iambic rather than to any other rhythm. The ten syllables 
 are, also, if normally cadenced, so disposed that five beats occur in 
 the verse at regular intervals. So far Johnson was right ; but he 
 went wrong the instant he proceeded to declare that deviation 
 from this ideal structure of the line produced an inharmonious 
 result. In truth, it is precisely such deviation that constitutes the 
 beauty of blank verse. When the metre was first practised by 
 Surrey, Sackville, Greene, and Peele, great hesitation was dis- 
 played as to any departure from iambic regularity ; but Marlowe, 
 the earliest poet of creative genius who applied himself to its cul- 
 tivation, saw that in order to save the verse from monotony it was 
 necessary to shift the accent, and, playing freely with feet properly 
 so called, to be only careful to preserve the right proportions and 
 masses of sound. A verse may often have more than ten syllables, 
 and more or less than five accents ; but it must carry so much 
 sound as shall be a satisfactory equivalent for ten syllables, and 
 must have its accents so arranged as to content an ear prepared 
 for five. There are thirteen syllables, and who shall exactly say 
 how many accents, in this line i* — 
 
 Ruining along the illimitable inane ; 
 
 yet it quite fulfils the conditions of a good blank verse. The 
 ponderous 
 
 Showers, hails, snows, frosts, and two-edged winds that prime, 
 
APPENDIX. 417 
 
 which has perhaps seven accents, is as legitimate as the hght and 
 rapid — 
 
 Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts. 
 
 The secret of complex and melodious blank verse lies in pre- 
 serving the balance and proportion of syllables, while varying their 
 accent and their relative weight and volume, so that each line in a 
 period shall carry its proper burden of sound, but the burden shall 
 be differently distributed in the successive verses. This is done 
 by sometimes allowing two syllables to take the time of one, and 
 sometimes extending one syllable to the length of two, by forcing 
 the accentuation of prominent monosyllables and gliding over suc- 
 cessive liquid sounds, by packing one line with emphatic words so 
 as to retard its movement, by winging another with light and 
 hurried polysyllables, and by so adapting words to sense, and sense 
 to rhythm, that pauses, prolongations, and accelerations, absolutely 
 necessary for the understanding of the matter, evoke a cadence of 
 apparently unstudied melody. In this prosody the bars of the 
 musical composer, where different values from the breve to the 
 demi-semiquaver find their place, suggest perhaps a truer basis of 
 measurement than the longs and shorts of classic quantity. The 
 following line from Milton (' Paradise Regained,' iii. 256) — 
 
 The one winding, the other straight, and left between, 
 
 affords a good instance of what is meant by the massing of sounds 
 together, so as to produce a whole harmonious to the ear, but 
 beyond the reach of satisfactory analysis by feet. It is not an 
 Alexandrine, though, if we read it syllabically, it may be made to 
 seem to have six feet. Two groups of syllables — 
 
 The one winding ] the other straight J 
 
 take up the time of six syllables, and the verse falls at the end into 
 the legitimate iambic cadence. At the same time it would no 
 doubt be possible, by the application of a Procrustean method of 
 elisions and forcible divisions, to reduce it to an inexact iambic, 
 thus — 
 
 Th' one win | ding th' oth | er straight. | 
 
 This instance suggests the consideration of another point all- 
 important in the prosody of blank verse. It is clear that in the line 
 
 E E 
 
4i8 APPENDIX. 
 
 just quoted the sense helps the sound, and leads the ear to mass 
 the first eight syllables into the two groups requisite for the rhythm 
 of the verse. And this is not only once or occasionally, but always 
 and invariably the case in all blank verse composed with proper 
 freedom. In this respect the metre is true to its original purpose. 
 It was formed for the drama, where it had to be the plastic vehicle 
 of every utterance, and where a perfectly elastic adaptation of the 
 rhythm to the current of the sense was indispensable. The 
 irregularities in its structure were the natural result of emphasis. 
 This is illustrated by a line of Marlowe, as admirable for its energy 
 of movement as for its imagery — 
 
 See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament. 
 
 That violent stress upon the verb was illegitimate according to 
 iambic scansion ; but the verb required emphasis, and the verse 
 gained rather than lost by the deviation from its even rise and fall. 
 The one sound rule to be given to the readers of dramatic blank 
 verse, written by a master of the art, is this — Attend strictly to the 
 sense and to the pauses ; the lines will then be perfectly melodious ; 
 but if you attempt to scan the lines on any preconceived metrical 
 system, you will violate the sense and vitiate the music. Even the 
 abstruse and fantastic audacities of Webster, who is the veriest 
 Schumann of blank verse, melt into melody when subjected to this 
 simple process. If one does but conceive the dramatic situation, 
 sympathise with the passions of the speaker, allow for the natural 
 inflections of his voice, mark his pauses, and interpolate his inar- 
 ticulate exclamations, the whole apparently disjointed mass of 
 words assumes a proper and majestic cadence. Milton took blank 
 verse from the dramatists, and practised dramatic blank verse in 
 * Comus ; ' nor in his epic did he depart from the rules of compo- 
 sition we have analysed. The movement of the sense invariably 
 controlled the rhythm of the verse ; and most of his amorphous 
 lines take form when treated as the products of dramatic art. The 
 following, for example, is one of those that puzzled Johnson, 
 although it is comparatively regular: — 
 
 'Tis true, I am that Spirit unfortunate. 
 
 Johnson, searching for iambs, had not gazed into the fallen Arch- 
 angel's face — his disguise thrown off, his policy abandoned — nor 
 heard the low slow accents of the two first syllables, the proud 
 
APPENDIX. 419 
 
 emphasis upon the fourth, the stately and melancholy music-roll 
 which closed the line. Yet, in order to understand the rhythm of 
 the verse as the poet wrote it, it was necessary to have heard and 
 seen the fiend as Milton heard and saw. The same may be said 
 about the spasms of intense emotion which have to be imagined in 
 order to give its metrical value to this verse — 
 
 Me, me only, just object of his ire. 
 
 It is obvious here that scansion by feet will be of little use, though 
 we may grant that the line opens with a spondee followed by a 
 trochee. Its intention is understood as soon as we allow the time 
 of two whole syllables to the first emphatic me^ and bring over the 
 next words, me only, in the time of another two syllables, by doing 
 which we give dramatic energy to the utterance. The truth of this 
 method is still more evident when we take for analysis a verse 
 from the eighth book of ' Paradise Lost,' at first sight singularly 
 inharmonious : — 
 
 Submiss; he reared me, and, ' Whom thou soughtest I am.' 
 
 Try to scan the line, and it seems a confusion of uncertain feet. 
 Read it over by itself, and its packed consonants offend the ear. 
 But now supply the context — 
 
 Rejoicing, but with awe, 
 In adoration at his feet I fell 
 
 Submiss ; he reared me, and, * Whom thou soughtest I am,' 
 Said mildly, ' Author of all this thou seest 
 Above, or round about thee, or beneath.' — P. L. viii. 319. 
 
 It is now seen that the word submiss belongs by the sense to the 
 preceding period ; the words, he reared me, are a parenthesis of 
 quick and hurried narration; then another period commences. 
 So dependent is sound on sense, and so inextricably hnked together 
 are the periods in a complex structure of blank verse. It not un- 
 frequently happens that a portion at least of the sound belonging 
 to a word at the commencement of a verse is owed to the cadence 
 of the preceding lines, so that the strain of music which begins is 
 wedded to that which dies, by indescribable and almost impercep- 
 tible interpenetrations. The rhythmic dance may therefore be pro- 
 longed through sequences and systems of melody, each perfect in 
 itself, each owing and lending something to that which foUows and 
 
420 APPENDIX. 
 
 which .went before, through concords and affinities of modulated 
 sound. 
 
 Notwithstanding the pliancy of the method here suggested for 
 the explanation of Miltonic verse, it is not easy to see the right 
 rhythm of some few of his Hnes. The following present peculiar 
 difficulties : since at first they seem like Alexandrines ; and yet 
 Milton's ear cannot be accused of letting an Alexandrine pass, nor 
 again have they the right Alexandrine pause ; while the striking 
 similarity in the endings of these abnormal verses suggests at least 
 some method in their irregularity: — 
 
 Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety. — P. L., viii. 2 1 6. 
 For solitude sometimes is best society. — P. L., ix. 249. 
 Such solitude before choicest society. — P. R., i. 302. 
 And linked itself by carnal sensuality. — * Comus,' 474. 
 
 The last instance, which is at once explained by pronouncing 
 sensual' ty as if it had but three syllables, gives perhaps the key to 
 the others. Though the English usage of words in iety precludes 
 their ehsion to the extent required, we must imagine that Milton 
 sometimes gave to such words as satiety and society the value of 
 three syllables by treating the ie almost as if it were a diphthong. 
 The words would then stand at the end of the lines, each forming a 
 full foot, followed by the licensed redundant syllable. It must, 
 however, be mentioned that, in ' Paradise Lost' at least, Milton does 
 not often make use of the hendecasyllabic line, and also that in 
 two instances (' Paradise Lost,' viii. 383, and ix. 1007) he uses society 
 as a quadrisyllable. The ordinary way of explaining such lines is 
 to say that they have two syllables redundant, which is of course 
 a statement of the fact. But here a difficulty which often meets us 
 in English scansion, owing to the different values given at different 
 times to the same word, has to be faced. Society will play its part 
 as two good feet in one line, and in another will have to do service 
 as a single foot or its equivalent. The phenomenon is common 
 enough in dramatic blank verse, where accelerated and vehement 
 enunciation justifies it. 
 
 It may here be remarked that Milton's familiarity with what he 
 calls the * various-measured verse ' of the ancient poets, and with 
 the hquid numbers of the Italian hendecasyllabic, determined, to 
 some extent, his treatment of our blank verse. The variety of 
 cadence and elaborate structure of Virgil's hexameters no doubt 
 incited him to emulation. He must have felt that the unincum- 
 
APPENDIX. 421 
 
 bered eloquence, which is suited to the drama, where perspicuity is 
 indispensable, would be out of place in the stationary and sonorous 
 epic. Therefore, without seeking to reconstruct in Enghsh the 
 metres of the ancients, he adapted the complex harmonies of the 
 Roman poets to the qualities of our language. Like Virgil, he 
 opened his paragraphs in the middle of a hne, sustaining them 
 through several clauses, till they reached their close in another 
 hemistich at the distance of some half a dozen carefully conducted 
 verses. His pauses, therefore, are of the greatest importance in 
 regulating his music. From the Italians, again, he learned some 
 secrets in the distribution of equivalent masses of sound. Milton's 
 elisions, and other so-called irregularities, have affinities with the 
 prosody of Dante : for while the normal Italian hendecasyllable 
 runs thus — 
 
 Mo su, mo giu, e mo ricirculando, 
 
 the poet of the Inferno dares to write — 
 
 Be«temmiavano Iddio e i lor parenti ; 
 
 which is an audacity on a level with many of Milton's. 
 
 Two elements of harmony in verse remain to be considered, 
 each of which constitutes a large portion of Milton's music, and 
 without which his pompous rhythm would often be hard and frigid. 
 These are alliteration and assonance. Alliteration is the repetition 
 of the same consonant at the beginning of words in a sentence. 
 Assonance is the repetition of the same vowel in words which do 
 not rhyme strictly. It is well known that the northern nations 
 employed alliteration and not rhyme as the element of melody in 
 poetry. The Vision of Piers Ploughman, for example, is written in 
 a metre of which this is a specimen : — 
 
 In habit as a harmot unholy of works 
 "Went wide in the world wonders to hear. 
 
 Assonance, again, is used by the Spanish poets in the place of the 
 fuller rhyme required by our ear. Words like pain and flare are 
 assonantal. The brief mention of these facts proves that alliteration 
 and assonance can satisfy the craving for repeated sounds in poetry 
 to which modern ears are subject ; since each of them has taken the 
 place of rhyme in systematically cultivated literatures. It cannot 
 be denied that the singsong jingle of the alliterative couplet just 
 quoted is intolerable to an educated sense ; and it is on this account 
 
422 APPENDIX. 
 
 that alliteration has fallen into general disrepute. Nothing is 
 easier than to turn it to ridicule. When Shakspere, in * Love's 
 Labour's Lost,' made Master Holofernes say — 
 
 I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility; 
 
 The preyful princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket, 
 
 he threw contempt upon the vulgar and illiterate abusers of an 
 ornament they did not understand. Nothing, again, is easier than 
 to make verses that skip or hobble on alliterative crutches. Our 
 ears are wearied with periods like the following : — 
 
 Creeps through a throbbing light that grows and glows 
 From glare to greater glare, until it gluts, 
 And gulfs him in. 
 
 Yet in spite of all this the lofty muse of Milton owes no small 
 portion of her charm to this adornment. In order to understand 
 the Miltonic use of alliteration, it must be remarked that the faults 
 of the verses just quoted are due to the alliteration being forced 
 upon the ear. It is loud and strident, not flattering the sense by 
 delicate suggestion and subtle echoes of recurring sound, but taking 
 it by storm and strumming, as it were, relentlessly upon one nerve. 
 In good alliterative structures the letters chime in at intervals : two 
 or three consonantal sounds are started together, and their recur- 
 rences are interwoven like the rhymes in terza rima. Here is an 
 
 instance — 
 
 Far off from these a slow and silent stream, 
 
 Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls 
 
 Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks 
 
 Forthwith his former state and being forgets. 
 
 Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain. — P. L. ii. 582. 
 
 Here the letters / and / predominate ; but they are assisted by 
 alliterations of s and r and w and g. Next, it may be shown that 
 really melodious alliteration owes much to medial and final as well 
 as to initial consonants, and also to the admixture of cognate 
 letters, such as / or / in structures where b or d predominate. The 
 first of these points is illustrated by a strongly alliterative passage- 
 in * Paradise Lost ' (v. 322), where, however, it must be admitted 
 that Milton has erred into alliterative monotony: — 
 Small store will serve, where store, 
 All seasons, ripe for use hangs on the stalk ; 
 Save what by frugal storing firmness gains 
 To nourish, and superfluous moist consumes. 
 
APPENDIX. 423 
 
 It will here be noticed that the sibilants, wherever they occur, 
 whether at the beginning, the middle, or the end of the words, are 
 felt. It is rare to find a structure of repeated s in Milton.^ Some 
 letters lend themselves more than others to harmonious alliteration, 
 and Milton shows decided preference for/, /, w, r, and w, D and 
 h are letters which he uses not always with melodious effect, as in 
 the following passage : — 
 
 But, lest his heart exalt him in the harm 
 Already done, to have dispeopled heaven, 
 My damage fondly deemed, I can repair 
 That detriment. —P. L., vii. 150. 
 
 We may compare, with the two examples just given, those in which 
 mere liquid sounds are employed, even though profusely, so as to 
 observe how far more delicate is the music of the verse. Here is a 
 sequence of/ and / — 
 
 Fairer than feigned of old, or fabled since 
 
 Of faery damsels, met in forests wide 
 
 By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, 
 
 Lancelot or Pelleas or Pellenore. — P. R., ii. 358. 
 
 Here is one in which w predominates : — 
 
 Sails between worlds and worlds with steady wing, 
 Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan 
 Winnows the buxom air ; till within soar 
 Of towering eagles to all the fowls he seems 
 A phoenix. — P. L., v. 268. 
 
 Three other instances of very marked alliteration may be pointed 
 out, to prove the frequence of repeated sounds which Milton some- 
 times allowed himself. They are as follows : — 
 
 War wearied hath performed what war can do, 
 And to disordered rage let loose the reins, 
 With mountains as with weapons armed, which makes 
 Wild work in heaven and dangerous to the main. 
 
 P. L., vi. 695 
 But drive far off the barbarous dissonance 
 Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race 
 Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard 
 In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears 
 To rapture. — P. L., vii. 32. 
 
 * See, however, P. L., vii. 295. 
 
424 APPENDIX. 
 
 Moon that now meetest the orient sun, now fliest, 
 With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies ; 
 And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
 In mystic dance not without song. — P. L., v. 175. 
 
 To these may be added * Paradise Lost,' vi. 37-55, a fine instance 
 of interlinked alliterations, yj r, /, m^p, b, determining the structure ; 
 while in ' Paradise Lost ' (vi. 386-405) we find a similar system of 
 d,f, r, p, V. The famous passage at the end of the fifth book, which 
 describes the retirement of Abdiel from the rebel army, exhibits 
 splendid alliterative qualities in combination with Milton's favourite 
 sequence of adjectives beginning with i^Jt. 
 
 Another point, besides the interlacement of sounds and inter- 
 vention of subsidiary letters, which have been already mentioned, 
 characterises the alliteration of Milton. He confines his allitera- 
 tive systems to periods of sense and metrical construction. When 
 the period is closed, and the thought which it conveys has been 
 expressed, the predominant letter is dropped. Thus there subsists 
 an intimate connection between the metrical melody and the 
 alliterative harmony, both aiding the rhetorical development of the 
 sense. It consequently often happens that the alliteration is de- 
 scriptive or picturesque, as in the lines about the Parthian bowmen — 
 
 Flying behind them shot 
 Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face 
 Of their pursuers. — P. R. iii. 323. — (Compare P. L., vi. 211-213.) 
 
 The descriptive pomp of the alliterative system is more remarkable 
 in the passage where Raphael relates the division of earth from 
 water — 
 
 Immediately the mountains huge appear, 
 
 Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave 
 
 Into the clouds ; their tops ascend the sky, 
 
 So high as heaved the tumid hills, so low 
 
 Down sunk a hollow bottom, broad and deep, 
 
 Capacious bed of waters. Thither they 
 
 Hasted with glad precipitance, up-rolled, 
 
 As drops on dust conglobing, from the dry ; 
 
 Part rise in crystal wall, or ridge direct, 
 
 For haste ; such flight the great command impressed 
 
 On the swift floods. As armies at the call 
 
 Of trumpet — for of armies thou hast heard — 
 
 Troop to their standard, so the watery throng, 
 
APPENDIX. 425 
 
 Wave rolling after wave, where way they found ; 
 If steep, with torrent rapture, if through plain, 
 Soft-ebbing : nor withstood them rock or hill ; 
 But they, or underground, or circuit wide 
 With serpent error wandering, found their way, 
 And on the washy ooze deep channels wore. 
 
 P. L , vii. 285-303. 
 
 Here the letters b and ^, not inaptly, mark the firmness and 
 resistance of the earth, while w and r depict the liquid lapse of 
 waters. 
 
 Enough, perhaps, has now been said to prove that the harmony 
 of Milton's verse depends very greatly upon alliteration ; and here 
 it may be observed that he not unfrequently repeats the same word, 
 as much with a view to the recurrence of sound, as with a rhetorical 
 intention. In * Paradise Regained' (iii. 109) there is a period of 
 twelve lines in which we find the word glory eight times repeated, 
 and the alliteration strengthened by five subsidiary^^ 'j-. At the 205th 
 line of the same book, there is a period of six verses containing 
 worse five times, supported by three subsidiary w's. In each of 
 these cases the repetition is of course rhetorically studied. A very 
 remarkable instance of the grandeur resulting from simple reitera- 
 tion is the following : — 
 
 If I foreknew, 
 Foreknowledge had no influence on their fault ; 
 Which had no less proved certain unforeknown.— P. L. iii. 117. 
 
 The assonance of various forms of the o sound adds to the volume 
 of the music in these lines. 
 
 Assonance, though not so obvious as alliteration, is no less 
 potent. Of its place in Milton's versification something must be 
 said.^ To begin with, the poet was himself very sensitive to the 
 harmony of vowel sounds when well pronounced. In his Epistle 
 to Master Hartlib, he lays it down as a rule that, in the education 
 of youths, '■ their speech is to be fashioned to a distinct and clear 
 pronounciation, as near as may be to the Italian, especially in the 
 vowels. For we Englishmen, being far northerly, do not open our 
 mouths in the cold air wide enough to grace a southern tongue,' 
 
 * This also would be the place to discuss the occasional rhymes found 
 in Milton's blank verse. P. L. xi. 853-860 has no less than six assonantal 
 endings. See, too, P. L. iv. 957. P. L. i. 612. 
 
426 APPENDIX. 
 
 &c. His blank verse abounds in open-mouthed, deep-chested d!s 
 and d's. Here is a passage in which their assonance is all the more 
 remarkable from the absence of alliteration — 
 
 Say, Goddess, what ensued when Raphael, 
 
 The affable Archangel, had forewarned 
 
 Adam, by dire example, to beware 
 
 Apostasy, by what befell in Heaven 
 
 To those apostates ; lest the like befall 
 
 In Paradise to Adam or his race, 
 
 Charged not to touch the interdicted tree, &c. — P. L., vii. 40. 
 
 The opening lines of Book ii., the passage about Mulciber at the 
 end of Book i., and the great symphonious period which describes 
 the movement of the fallen angels * to the Dorian mood of flutes 
 and soft recorders/ all serve to illustrate the gorgeousness of Milton's 
 assonance. In attempting to characterise the effect of these deep- 
 toned vowels, it is almost necessary to borrow words from the art 
 of colours, since what colours are to painting vowels are to verse. 
 It would seem, after drinking in draught after draught of these in- 
 toxicating melodies, as if Milton with unerring tact had selected 
 from the English language only such words as are pompous, full- 
 sounding, capable of being wrought into the liquid architecture of 
 articulate music. Discord, who is so busy in the lines of even 
 mighty poets, stands apart and keeps silence here. That tenuity 
 of sound and want of volume from which the periods of otherwise 
 great versifiers occasionally suffer, never occurs in Milton. Like 
 Virgil he is unerringly and unremittingly harmonious. Music iS 
 the element in which his genius lives, just as light is the element 
 of Pindar, or as darkness covers the ' Inferno ' like a pall. 
 
 Having attempted an analysis of the melody of Milton's blank 
 verse, it remains to speak about the changes which may be traced in 
 it from the date of ' Comus ' to that of ' Samson Agonistes.' ' Comus,' 
 as might have been expected both from the time of its composition 
 and its form, is the one of Milton's masterpieces in which he has 
 adhered most closely to the traditions of the Elizabethan drama. 
 His style, it is true, is already more complex and pecuHarly har- 
 monious, more characteristically Miltonic, than that of any of the 
 dramatists. Yet there are passages in Comus which remind us 
 forcibly of Fletcher. Others, like the following — 
 
APPENDIX. 427 
 
 How sweetly did they float upon the wings 
 Of silence, through the empty vaulted night ! 
 At every fall smoothing the raven down 
 Of darkness till it smiled, 
 
 might have been written by Shakspere. Alliteration is used freely, 
 but more after the manner of Fletcher or of Spenser, not with 
 the sustained elaboration of Milton's maturity. The truly Miltonic 
 licences are rare: we find fewer inverted sentences, less lengthy 
 systems of concatenated periods, — in a word, a more fluent and 
 simpler versification. Both in the imagery and the melody of 
 < Comus ' there is youthful freshness, an almost wanton display of 
 vernal bloom and beauty. In the 'Paradise Lost' we reach the man- 
 hood of the art of Milton. His elaborate metrical structure, sup- 
 ported by rich alliteration and assonance, here attains its full 
 development. Already too there is more of rugged and abrupt 
 sublimity in the blank verse of the 'Paradise Lost' than can be found 
 in that of * Comus.' The metre, learned in the school of the Eliza- 
 bethan drama, is being used in accordance with the models of the 
 Roman Epic. Yet the fancy of the poet has not yet grown chill 
 or lost luxuriance, nor has his ear become less sensitive to every 
 musical modulation of which our language is capable. ' Paradise 
 Regained ' presents a marked change. Except in descriptive pas- 
 sages, there is but little alliterative melody ; while all the harsh in- 
 versions and rugged eccentricities of abnormally constructed verses 
 are retained. It is noticeable that hendecasyllabic lines, which are 
 but sparingly used in ' Paradise Lost,' only two occurring in the first 
 book, become frequent in ' Paradise Regained,' and add considerably 
 to the heaviness of its movement. These, for example, are found 
 within a short spaee in the first book : — 
 
 One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading. . . . 
 Awakened in me swarm, while I consider. . . . 
 These gnawing thoughts my mother soon perceiving. , . . 
 A star not seen before in heaven appearing. . . . 
 
 No doubt there are admirers of Milton who would not allow that 
 the metrical changes in ' Paradise Regained' are for the worse. Yet 
 it is hardly to be denied that, in comparison with the * Paradise 
 Lost,' much of richness, variety, sonorousness, and liquid melody 
 has been sacrificed. ' Samson Agonistes ' is a step beyond ' Paradise 
 Regained ' in dryness, ruggedness, and uncompromising severity. 
 
428 APPE^NDIX. 
 
 The blank verse is shorn of alliterative and assonantal harmony, 
 except in the last speech of Manoah, and in a few of the more pensive 
 passages scattered up and down the drama. Still it displays every 
 form of the true Miltonic meter in so far as audacities of accent and 
 accumulations of compacted syllables are concerned. To the lover 
 of the most exalted poetry, ' Samson Agonistes,' even as regards 
 its versification, may possibly offer a pleasure more subtle and more 
 rare than ' Paradise Lost,' with all its full-toned harmonies. It has 
 the grandeur of a play of Sophocles which, after passing through 
 the medium of the Latin genius, has deen committed to Engl sh by 
 the loftiest of modern poets in austere old age. ' Comus ' shows the 
 style of the master in his earliest manhood, with the luxuriance 
 of an untamed youth, the labyrinthine blossoms of an unpruned 
 fancy. * Paradise Lost ' exhibits the same richness, mellowed by 
 age and subordinated to the laws of abstruse and deeply studied 
 proportion. In * Paradise Regained ' the master has grown older, 
 and his taste is more severe. In ' Samson Agonistes ' colour and 
 melody have lost their charm for him, though he preserves 
 his mighty style, restraining it within limits prescribed by ^ 
 taste ascetically grave. In ' Com.us ' we have the glowing hues of a 
 Giorgione, with a comparatively weak design. In ' Paradise Lost' 
 the design of a Michelangelo is added to the colouring of a 
 Titian. In * Paradise Regained ' both colour and design are of the 
 great Florentine. In * Samson Agonistes ' the design is still that 
 of Michelangelo ; but the picture is executed en grisaille, in severest 
 chiaroscuro, careful only of the form. Fortunately we know the 
 dates of Milton's masterpieces. There is therefore no uncertainty 
 or subjectivity of criticism in the analysis of these changes in his 
 manner ; at the same time they are precisely what we might have 
 expected d, priori — the intellectual gaining on the sensual qualities 
 of art as the poet advanced in age. 
 
APPENDIX. 429 
 
 NOTE ON THE ' ORFEO: 
 
 See p. 242. 
 
 POLiziANO's * Orfeo ' was dedicated to Messer Carlo Canale.. the 
 husband of that famous Vannozza who bore Lucrezia and Cesare 
 Borgia to Alexander VI. As first published in 1494, and as re- 
 published from time to time up to the year 1776, it carried the title 
 of ' La Favola di Orfeo,' and was not divided into acts. Frequent 
 stage-directions sufficed, as in the case of Florentine ' Sacre Rap- 
 presentazioni,' for the indication of the scenes. In this earliest 
 redaction of the * Orfeo ' the chorus of the Dryads, the part of 
 Mnesillus, the lyrical speeches of Proserpine and Pluto, and the 
 first lyric of the Maenads are either omitted or represented by 
 passages in ottava rima. In the year 1776, the Padre Ireneo Affo 
 printed at Venice a new version of * Orfeo, Tragedia di Messer 
 Angelo Poliziano,' collated by him from two MSS. This play is 
 divided into five acts, severally entitled ' Pastoricus,' ' Nymphas 
 Habet,' * Heroicus,' ' Necromanticus,' and ' Bacchanalis.' The 
 stage-directions are given partly in Latin, partly in Italian ; and 
 instead of the ' Announcement of the Feast ' by Mercury, a prologue 
 consisting of two octave stanzas is appended. A Latin Sapphic 
 ode in praise of the Cardinal Gonzaga, which was interpolated in 
 the first version, is omitted, and certain changes are made in the 
 last soliloquy of Orpheus. There is httle doubt, I think, that the 
 second version, first given to the press by the Padre Affo, was 
 Pohziano's own recension of his earlier composition. I have, there- 
 fore, followed it in the main, except that I have not thought it neces- 
 sary to observe the somewhat pedantic division into acts, and have 
 preferred to use the original 'Announcement of the Feast,' which 
 proves the integral connection between this ancient secular play 
 and the Florentine Mystery or ' Sacra Rappresentazione.' The 
 last soliloquy of Orpheus, again, has been freely translated by me 
 
430 APPENDIX, 
 
 from both versions for reasons which will be obvious to students of 
 the original I have yet to make a remark upon one detail of my 
 translation. In line 390 (part of the first lyric of the Maenads), 
 the Italian gives us : — 
 
 Spezzata come il fabbro il cribro spezza. 
 
 This means literally : * Riven as a blacksmith rives a sieve or 
 boulter.' Now sieves are made in Tuscany of a plate of iron, 
 pierced with holes ; and the image would therefore be familiar to 
 an Italian. I have, however, preferred to translate thus : — 
 
 Riven as woodmen firtrees rive, 
 
 instead of giving : — 
 
 Riven as blacksmiths boulters rive, 
 
 because I thought that the second and faithful version would be 
 unintelligible as well as unpoetical for English readers. 
 
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