No More Learning

But Orlando no sooner saw him dead, than he felt as if he was left alone
on the earth; and he was quite willing to leave it; only he wished that
Charles at St. John Pied de Port should hear how the case stood before
he went; and so he took up the horn, and blew it three times with such
force that the blood burst out of his nose and mouth. Turpin says, that
at the third blast the horn broke in two.

In spite of all the noise of the battle, the sound of the horn broke
over it like a voice out of the other world. They say that birds fell
dead at it, and that the whole Saracen army drew back in terror. But
fearfuller still was its effect at St. John Pied de Port. Charlemagne
was sitting in the midst of his court when the sound reached him; and
Gan was there. The emperor was the first to hear it.

"Do you hear that? " said he to his nobles. "Did you hear the horn, as I
heard it? "

Upon this they all listened; and Gan felt his heart misgive him.

The horn sounded the second time.

"What is the meaning of this? " said Charles.

"Orlando is hunting," observed Gan, "and the stag is killed. He is at
the old pastime that he was so fond of in Aspramonte. "

But when the horn sounded yet a third time, and the blast was one of so
dreadful a vehemence, every body looked at the other, and then they all
looked at Gan in fury. Charles rose from his seat. "This is no hunting
of the stag," said he. "The sound goes to my very heart, and, I confess,
makes me tremble. I am awakened out of a great dream. O Gan! O Gan! Not
for thee do I blush, but for myself, and for nobody else. O my God, what
is to be done! But whatever is to be done, must be done quickly. Take
this villain, gentlemen, and keep him in hard prison. O foul and
monstrous villain! Would to God I had not lived to see this day! O
obstinate and enormous folly! O Malagigi, had I but believed thy
foresight! 'Tis thou went the wise man, and I the grey-headed fool. "

Ogier the Dane, and Namo and others, in the bitterness of their grief
and anger, could not help reminding the emperor of all which they had
foretold. But it was no time for words. They put the traitor into
prison; and then Charles, with all his court, took his way to
Roncesvalles, grieving and praying.

It was afternoon when the horn sounded, and half an hour after it when
the emperor set out; and meantime Orlando had returned to the fight that
he might do his duty, however hopeless, as long as he could sit his
horse, and the Paladins were now reduced to four; and though the
Saracens suffered themselves to be mowed down like grass by them and
their little band, he found his end approaching for toil and fever,
and so at length he withdrew out of the fight, and rode all alone to a
fountain which he knew of, where he had before quenched his thirst.

His horse was wearier still than he, and no sooner had its master
alighted, than the beast, kneeling down as if to take leave, and to
say, "I have brought you to your place of rest," fell dead at his feet.
Orlando cast water on him from the fountain, not wishing to believe him
dead; but when he found it to no purpose, he grieved for him as if he
had been a human being, and addressed him by name in tears, and asked
forgiveness if ever he had done him wrong. They say, that the horse at
these words once more opened his eyes a little, and looked kindly at his
master, and so stirred never more.

They say also that Orlando then, summoning all his strength, smote a
rock near him with his beautiful sword Durlindana, thinking to shiver
the steel in pieces, and so prevent its falling into the hands of the
enemy; but though the rock split like a slate, and a deep fissure
remained ever after to astonish the eyes of pilgrims, the sword remained
unhurt.

"O strong Durlindana," cried he, "O noble and worthy sword, had I known
thee from the first, as I know thee now, never would I have been brought
to this pass. "

And now Rinaldo and Ricciardetto and Turpin came up, having given chase
to the Saracens till they were weary, and Orlando gave joyful welcome to
his cousin, and they told him how the battle was won, and then Orlando
knelt before Turpin, his face all in tears, and begged remission of his
sins and confessed them, and Turpin gave him absolution; and suddenly a
light came down upon him from heaven like a rainbow, accompanied with
a sound of music, and an angel stood in the air blessing him, and then
disappeared; upon which Orlando fixed his eyes on the hilt of his sword
as on a crucifix, and embraced it, and said, "Lord, vouchsafe that I may
look on this poor instrument as on the symbol of the tree upon which
Thou sufferedst thy unspeakable martyrdom! " and so adjusting the sword
to his bosom, and embracing it closer, he raised his eyes, and appeared
like a creature seraphical and transfigured; and in bowing his head he
breathed out his pure soul. A thunder was then heard in the heavens,
and the heavens opened and seemed to stoop to the earth, and a flock of
angels was seen like a white cloud ascending with his spirit, who were
known to be what they were by the trembling of their wings. The white
cloud shot out golden fires, so that the whole air was full of them; and
the voices of the angels mingled in song with the instruments of their
brethren above, which made an inexpressible harmony, at once deep and
dulcet. The priestly warrior Turpin, and the two Paladins, and the
hero's squire Terigi, who were all on their knees, forgot their own
beings, in following the miracle with their eyes.

It was now the office of that squire to take horse and ride off to
the emperor at Saint John Pied de Port, and tell him of all that had
occurred; but in spite of what he had just seen, he lay for a time
overwhelmed with grief. He then rose, and mounted his steed, and left
the Paladins and the archbishop with the dead body, who knelt about it,
guarding it with weeping love.

The good squire Terigi met the emperor and his cavalcade coming towards
Roncesvalles, and alighted and fell on his knees, telling him the
miserable news, and how all his people were slain but two of his
Paladins, and himself, and the good archbishop. Charles for anguish
began tearing his white locks; but Terigi comforted him against so
doing, by giving an account of the manner of Orlando's death, and how
he had surely gone to heaven. Nevertheless, the squire himself was
broken-hearted with grief and toil; and he had scarcely added a
denouncement of the traitor Gan, and a hope that the emperor would
appease Heaven finally by giving his body to the winds, than he said,
"The cold of death is upon me;" and so he fell dead at the emperor's
feet.

Charles was ready to drop from his saddle for wretchedness. He cried
out, "Let nobody comfort me more. I will have no comfort. Cursed be Gan,
and cursed this horrible day, and this place, and every thing. Let us go
on, like blind miserable men that we are, into Roncesvalles; and have
patience if we can, out of pure misery, like Job, till we do all that
can be done. "

So Charles rode on with his nobles; and they say, that for the sake of
the champion of Christendom and the martyrs that died with him, the sun
stood still in the sky till the emperor had seen Orlando, and till the
dead were buried.

Horrible to his eyes was the sight of the field of Roncesvalles. The
Saracens, indeed, had forsaken it, conquered; but all his Paladins but
two were left on it dead, and the slaughtered heaps among which they lay
made the whole valley like a great dumb slaughter-house, trampled up
into blood and dirt, and reeking to the heat. The very trees were
dropping with blood; and every thing, so to speak, seemed tired out, and
gone to a horrible sleep.

Charles trembled to his heart's core for wonder and agony. After dumbly
gazing on the place, he again cursed it with a solemn curse, and wished
that never grass might grow within it again, nor seed of any kind,
neither within it, nor on any of its mountains around with their proud
shoulders; but the anger of Heaven abide over it for ever, as on a pit
made by hell upon earth.

Then he rode on, and came up to where the body of Orlando awaited him
with the Paladins, and the old man, weeping, threw himself as if he had
been a reckless youth from his horse, and embraced and kissed the dead
body, and said, "I bless thee, Orlando. I bless thy whole life, and all
that thou wast, and all that thou ever didst, and thy mighty and holy
valour, and the father that begot thee; and I ask pardon of thee for
believing those who brought thee to thine end. They shall have their
reward, O thou beloved one! But, indeed, it is thou that livest, and I
that am worse than dead. "

And now, behold a wonder. For the emperor, in the fervour of his heart
and of the memory of what had passed between them, called to mind that
Orlando had promised to give him his sword, should he die before him;
and he lifted up his voice more bravely, and adjured him even now to
return it to him gladly; and it pleased God that the dead body of
Orlando should rise on its feet, and kneel as he was wont to do at the
feet of his liege lord, and gladly, and with a smile on its face, return
the sword to the Emperor Charles. As Orlando rose, the Paladins and
Turpin knelt down out of fear and horror, especially seeing him look
with a stern countenance; but when they saw that he knelt also, and
smiled, and returned the sword, their hearts became re-assured, and
Charles took the sword like his liege lord, though trembling with wonder
and affection: and in truth he could hardly clench his fingers around
it.

Orlando was buried in a great sepulchre in Aquisgrana, and the dead
Paladins were all embalmed and sent with majestic cavalcades to their
respective counties and principalities, and every Christian was
honourably and reverently put in the earth, and recorded among the
martyrs of the Church.

But meantime the flying Saracens, thinking to bury their own dead, and
ignorant of what still awaited them, came back into the valley, and
Rinaldo beheld them with a dreadful joy, and shewed them to Charles. Now
the emperor's cavalcade had increased every moment; and they fell upon
the Saracens with a new and unexpected battle, and the old emperor,
addressing the sword of Orlando, exclaimed, "My strength is little, but
do thou do thy duty to thy master, thou famous sword, seeing that he
returned it to me smiling, and that his revenge is in my hands. " And so
saying, he met Balugante, the leader of the infidels, as he came borne
along by his frightened horse; and the old man, raising the sword with
both hands, cleaved him, with a delighted mind, to the chin.

O sacred Emperor Charles! O well-lived old man! Defender of the Faith!
light and glory of the old time! thou hast cut off the other ear of
Malchus, and shown how rightly thou wert born into the world, to save it
a second time from the abyss.

Again fled the Saracens, never to come to Christendom more: but Charles
went after them into Spain, he and Rinaldo and Ricciardetto and the good
Turpin; and they took and fired Saragossa; and Marsilius was hung to the
carob-tree under which he had planned his villany with Gan; and Gan was
hung, and drawn and quartered, in Roncesvalles, amidst the execrations
of the country.

And if you ask, how it happened that Charles ever put faith in such a
wretch, I shall tell you that it was because the good old emperor, with
all his faults, was a divine man, and believed in others out of the
excellence of his own heart and truth. And such was the case with
Orlando himself.



APPENDIX.

No. I.

STORY OF PAULO AND FRANCESCA.

Poscia ch' i' ebbi il mio dottore udito
Nomar le donne antiche e i cavalieri,
Pietà mi vinse, e fui quasi smarrito.

I' cominciai: Poeta, volentieri
Parlerei a que' duo the 'nsieme vanno,
E pajon sì al vento esser leggieri.

Ed egli a me: Vedrai, quando saranno
Più presso a noi: e tu allor gli piega,
Per quell' amor ch' ei mena; e quei verranno.

Si tosto come 'l vento a noi gli piega,
Mossi la voce: O anime affannate,
Venite a not parlar, s' altri nol niega.

Quali colombe dal disio chiamate,
Con l' ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido
Volan per l' aer dal voter portate:

Cotali uscir de la schiera ov' è Dido,
A noi venendo per l' aer maligno,
Si forte fu l' affettuoso grido.

O animal grazioso e benigno,
Che visitando vai per l' aer perso
Noi che tignemmo it mondo di sanguigno;
Se fosse amico il Re de l'Universo,
Noi pregheremmo lui per la tua pace,
Poich' hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.

Di quel ch'udire e che parlar ti piace,
Noi udiremo, e parleremo a vui,
Mentre che 'l vento, come fa, si tace.

Siede la terra, dove nata fui,
Su la marina, dove 'l Pò discende,
Per aver pace co' seguaci sui.

Amor ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende,
Prese costui de la bella persona
Che mi fu tolta, e 'l modo ancor m'offende

Amer ch'a null'amato amar perdona,
Mi prese del costui piacer si forte,
Che come vedi ancor non m'abbandona

Amor condusse noi ad una morte
Caina attende chi 'n vita ci spense.
Queste parole da lor ci fur porte.

Da ch'io 'ntesi quell'anime offense,
Chinai 'l viso, e tanto 'l tenni basso,
Finchè 'l poeta mi disse: Che pense?

Quando risposi, cominciai: O lasso,
Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
Menò costoro al doloroso passo!

Po' mi rivolsi a loro, e parla' io,
E cominciai: Francesca, i tuoi martiri
A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pie.

Ma dimmi: al tempo de' dolci sospiri,
A che, e come concedette amore
Che conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?

Ed ella a me: Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Ne la miseria; e ciò sa 'l tuo dottore.
Ma s'a conoscer la prima radice
Del nostro amor to hai cotanto affetto,
Farò come colui the piange e dice.

Noi leggiavamo tin giorno per diletto
Di Lancilotto, come amor to strinse
Soli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto.

Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse
Quella lettura, e scolorocci 'l viso
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
Questi che mai da me non sia diviso,

La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante:
Galeotto fu il libro, e chi to scrisse:
Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.

Mentre the l'uno spirto questo disse,
L'altro piangeva si, che di pietade
I' venni men cosi com' io morisse,

E caddi come corpo morto cade.

* * * * *

_Translation in the terza rima of the original. _

Scarce had I learnt the names of all that press
Of knights and dames, than I beheld a sight
Nigh reft my wits for very tenderness.

"O guide! " I said, "fain would I, if I might,
Have speech with yonder pair, that hand in hand
Seem borne before the dreadful wind so light. "

"Wait," said my guide, "until then seest their band
Sweep round. Then beg them, by that lose, to stay;
And they will come, and hover where we stand. "

Anon the whirlwind flung them round that way;
And then I cried, "Oh, if I ask nought ill,
Poor weary souls, have speech with me, I pray. "

As doves, that leave some bevy circling still,
Set firm their open wings, and through the air
Sweep homewards, wafted by their pure good will;

So broke from Dido's flock that gentle pair,
Cleaving, to where we stood, the air malign;
Such strength to bring them had a loving prayer.

The female spoke. "O living soul benign! "
She said, "thus, in this lost air, visiting
Us who with blood stain'd the sweet earth divine;

Had we a friend in heaven's eternal King,
We would beseech him keep thy conscience clear,
Since to our anguish thou dost pity bring.

Of what it pleaseth thee to speak and hear,
To that we also, till this lull be o'er
That falleth now, will speak and will give ear.

The place where I was born is on the shore,
Where Po brings all his rivers to depart
In peace, and fuse them with the ocean floor.

Love, that soon kindleth in a gentle heart,
Seized him thou look'st on for the form and face,
Whose end still haunts me like a rankling dart.

Love, which by love will be denied no grace,
Gave me a transport in my turn so true,
That to! 'tis with me, even in this place.

Love brought us to one grave. The hand that slew
Is doom'd to mourn us in the pit of Cain. "
Such were the words that told me of those two.

Downcast I stood, looking so full of pain
To think how hard and sad a case it was,
That my guide ask'd what held me in that vein.

His voiced aroused me; and I said, "Alas
All their sweet thoughts then, all the steps that led
To love, but brought them to this dolorous pass. "

Then turning my sad eyes to theirs, I said,
"Francesca, see--these human cheeks are wet--
Truer and sadder tears were never shed.

But tell me. At the time when sighs were sweet,
What made thee strive no longer? --hurried thee
To the last step where bliss and sorrow meet? "

"There is no greater sorrow," answered she,
"And this thy teacher here knoweth full well,
Than calling to mind joy in misery.

But since thy wish be great to hear us tell
How we lost all but love, tell it I will,
As well as tears will let me. It befel,

One day, we read how Lancelot gazed his fill
At her he loved, and what his lady said.
We were alone, thinking of nothing ill.

Oft were our eyes suspended as we read,
And in our cheeks the colour went and came;
Yet one sole passage struck resistance dead.

'Twas where the lover, moth-like in his flame,
Drawn by her sweet smile, kiss'd it. O then, he
Whose lot and mine are now for aye the same,

All in a tremble, on the mouth kiss'd _me_.
The book did all. Our hearts within us burn'd
Through that alone. That day no more read we. "

While thus one spoke, the other spirit mourn'd
With wail so woful, that at his remorse
I felt as though I should have died. I turned

Stone-stiff; and to the ground fell like a corse. ]


No. II.

ACCOUNTS GIVEN BY DIFFERENT WRITERS OF THE CIRCUMSTANCES RELATING TO
PAULO AND FRANCESCA; CONCLUDING WITH THE ONLY FACTS ASCERTAINED.

BOCCACCIO'S ACCOUNT

Translated from his Commentary on the Passage.

"You must know, that this lady, Madonna Francesca, was daughter of
Messer Guido the Elder, lord of Ravenna and of Cervia, and that a long
and grievous war having been waged between him and the lords Malatesta
of Rimini, a treaty of peace by certain mediators was at length
concluded between them; the which, to the end that it might be the more
firmly established, it pleased both parties to desire to fortify by
relationship; and the matter of this relationship was so discoursed,
that the said Messer Guido agreed to give his young and fair daughter
in marriage to Gianciotto, the son of Messer Malatesta. Now, this being
made known to certain of the friends of Messer Guido, one of them
said to him, 'Take care what you do; for if you contrive not matters
discreetly, such relationship will beget scandal. You know what manner
of person your daughter is, and of how lofty a spirit; and if she see
Gianciotto before the bond is tied, neither you nor any one else will
have power to persuade her to marry him; therefore, if it so please you,
it seems to me that it would be good to conduct the matter thus: namely,
that Gianciotto should not come hither himself to marry her, but that a
brother of his should come and espouse her in his name. '

"Gianciotto was a man of great spirit, and hoped, after his father's
death, to become lord of Rimini; in the contemplation of which event,
albeit he was rude in appearance and a cripple, Messer Guido desired him
for a son-in-law above any one of his brothers. Discerning, therefore,
the reasonableness of what his friend counselled, he secretly disposed
matters according to his device; and a day being appointed, Polo, a
brother of Gianciotto, came to Ravenna with full authority to espouse
Madonna Francesca. Polo was a handsome man, very pleasant, and of a
courteous breeding; and passing with other gentlemen over the court-yard
of the palace of Messer Guido, a damsel who knew him pointed him out to
Madonna Francesca through an opening in the casement, saying, 'That is
he that is to be your husband;' and so indeed the poor lady believed,
and incontinently placed in him her whole affection; and the ceremony of
the marriage having been thus brought about, and the lady conveyed to
Rimini, she became not aware of the deceit till the morning ensuing
the marriage, when she beheld Gianciotto rise from her side; the which
discovery moved her to such disdain, that she became not a whit the less
rooted in her love for Polo. Nevertheless, that it grew to be unlawful
I never heard, except in what is written by this author (Dante), and
possibly it might so have become; albeit I take what he says to have
been an invention framed on the possibility, rather than any thing
which he knew of his own knowledge. Be this as it may, Polo and Madonna
Francesca living in the same house, and Gianciotto being gone into
a certain neighbouring district as governor, they fell into great
companionship with one another, suspecting nothing; but a servant of
Gianciotto's noting it, went to his master and told him how matters
looked; with the which Gianciotto being fiercely moved, secretly
returned to Rimini; and seeing Polo enter the room of Madonna Francesca
the while he himself was arriving, went straight to the door, and
finding it locked inside, called to his lady to come out; for, Madonna
Francesca and Polo having descried him, Polo thought to escape suddenly
through an opening in the wall, by means of which there was a descent
into another room; and therefore, thinking to conceal his fault either
wholly or in part, he threw himself into the opening, telling the lady
to go and open the door. But his hope did not turn out as he expected;
for the hem of a mantle which he had on caught upon a nail, and the
lady opening the door meantime, in the belief that all would be well by
reason of Polo's not being there, Gianciotto caught sight of Polo as
he was detained by the hem of the mantle, and straightway ran with his
dagger in his hand to kill him; whereupon the lady, to prevent it, ran
between them; but Gianciotto having lifted the dagger, and put the whole
force of his arm into the blow, there came to pass what he had not
desired--namely, that he struck the dagger into the bosom of the lady
before it could reach Polo; by which accident, being as one who had
loved the lady better than himself, he withdrew the dagger, and again
struck at Polo, and slew him; and so leaving them both dead, he hastily
went his way and betook him to his wonted affairs; and the next morning
the two lovers, with many tears, were buried together in the same
grave. "

The reader of this account will have observed, that while Dante assumes
the guilt of all parties, and puts them into the infernal regions, the
good-natured Boccaccio is for doubting it, and consequently for sending
them all to heaven. He will ignore as much of the business as a
gentleman can; boldly doubts any guilt in the case; says nothing of the
circumstance of the book; and affirms that the husband loved his wife,
and was miserable at having slain her. There is, however, one negative
point in common between the two narrators; they both say nothing of
certain particulars connected with the date of Francesca's marriage, and
not a little qualifying the first romantic look of the story.

Now, it is the absence of these particulars, combined with the tradition
of the father's artifice (omitted perhaps by Dante out of personal
favour), and with that of the husband's ferocity of character (the
belief in which Boccaccio did not succeed in displacing), that has
left the prevailing impression on the minds of posterity, which is
this:--that Francesca was beguiled by her father into the marriage with
the deformed and unamiable Giovanni, and that the unconscious medium of
the artifice was the amiable and handsome Paulo; that one or both of
the victims of the artifice fell in love with the other; that their
intercourse, whatever it was, took place not long after the marriage;
and that when Paulo and Francesca were slain in consequence, they were
young lovers, with no other ties to the world.

It is not pleasant in general to dispel the illusions of romance, though
Dante's will bear the operation with less hurt to a reader's feelings
than most; and I suspect, that if nine out of ten of all the implied
conclusions of other narratives in his poem could be compared with the
facts, he would be found to be one of the greatest of romancers in a new
and not very desirable sense, however excusable he may have been in his
party-prejudice. But a romance may be displaced, only to substitute
perhaps matters of fact more really touching, by reason of their greater
probability. The following is the whole of what modern inquirers have
ascertained respecting Paulo and Francesca. Future enlargers on the
story may suppress what they please, as Dante did; but if any one of
them, like the writer of the present remarks, is anxious to speak
nothing but the truth, I advise him (especially if he is for troubling
himself with making changes in his story) not to think that he has seen
all the authorities on the subject, or even remembered all he has seen,
until he has searched every corner of his library and his memory. All
the poems hitherto written upon this popular subject are indeed only to
be regarded as so many probable pieces of fancy, that of Dante himself
included.

* * * * *

THE ONLY PARTICULARS HITHERTO REALLY ASCERTAINED RESPECTING THE HISTORY
OF PAULO AND FRANCESCA.

Francesca was daughter of Guido Novello da Polenta, lord of Ravenna.

She was married to Giovanni, surnamed the Lame, one of the sons of
Malatesta da Verrucchio, lord of Rimini.

Giovanni the Lame had a brother named Paulo the Handsome, who was a
widower, and left a son.

Twelve years after Francesca's marriage, by which time she had become
mother of a son who died, and of a daughter who survived her, she and
her brother-in-law Paulo were slain together by the husband, and buried
in one grave.

Two hundred years afterwards, the grave was opened, and the bodies found
lying together in silken garments, the silk itself being entire.

Now, a far more touching history may have lurked under these facts than
in the half-concealed and misleading circumstances of the received
story--long patience, long duty, struggling conscience, exhausted hope.

On the other hand, it may have been a mere heartless case of intrigue
and folly.

But tradition is to be allowed its reasonable weight; and the
probability is, that the marriage was an affair of state, the lady
unhappy, and the brothers too different from one another.

The event took place in Dante's twenty-fourth year; so that he, who
looks so much older to our imaginations than his heroine, was younger;
and this renders more than probable what the latest biographers have
asserted--namely, that the lord of Ravenna, at whose house he finished
his days, was not her father, Guido da Polenta, the third of that name,
but her nephew, Guido the Fifth.

* * * * *

No. IIII

STORY OF UGOLINO.

Non eravam partiti già da ello,
Ch' i' vidi duo ghiacciati in una buca
Si, che l'un capo a l'altro era capello:

E come 'l pan per fame si manduca,
Così 'l sovran li denti a l'altro pose
Là've 'l cervel s'aggiunge con la nuca.

Non altrimenti Tideo sì rose
Le tempie a Menalippo per disdegno,
Che quei faceva 'l teschio e l'altre cose.

O tu che mostri per sì bestial segno
Odio sovra colui che tu ti mangi
Dimmi 'l perchè, diss' io, per tal convegno,

Che se tu a ragion di lui ti piangi,
Sappiendo chi voi siete, e la sua pecca,
Nel mondo suso ancor io te ne cangi,

Se quella con ch' i' parlo non si secca.

La bocca sollevò dal fiero pasto
Quel peccator, forbendola a' capelli
Del capo ch' egli avea diretro guasto:

Poi cominciò: tu vuoi ch' i' rinnovelli
Disperato dolor the 'l cuor mi preme
Già pur pensando, pria ch' i' ne favelli.

Ma se le mie parole esser den seme,
Che frutti infamia al traditor ch' i' rodo,
Parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme.

I' non so chi tu sei, nè per che modo
Venuto se' qua giù: ma Fiorentino
Mi sembri veramente, quand' i' t' odo.

Tu de' saper ch' i' fu 'l Conte Ugolino,
E questi l' Arcivescovo Ruggieri:
Or ti dirò perch' i' son tal vicino.

Che per l' effetto de' suo' ma' pensieri,
Fidandomi di lui, io fossi preso,
E poscia morto, dir non è mestieri.

Però quel che non puoi avere inteso,
Cioè, come la morte mia fu cruda,
Udirai e saprai se m' ha offeso.

Breve pertugio dentro da la muda,
La qual per me ha 'l titol da la fame,
E 'n che conviene ancor ch' altrui si chiuda,

M' avea mostrato per lo suo forame
Più lone già, quand' i' feci 'l mal sonno,
Che del futuro mi squarciò 'l velame.

Questi pareva a me maestro e donno,
Cacciando 'l lupo e i lupicirui al monte,
Perchè i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno.

Con cagne magre studiose e conte
Gualandi con Sismondi e con Lanfranchi
S' avea messi dinanzi da la fronte.

In picciol corso mi pareano stanchi
Lo padre e i figli, e con l' agute scane
Mi parea lor veder fender li fianchi.

Quando fui desto innanzi la dimane,
Pianger senti' fra 'l sonno miei figliuoli
Ch' eran con meco, e dimandar del pane.

Ben se' crudel, se uo già non ti duoli
Pensando ciò ch' al mio cuor s' annunziava
E se non piangi, di che pianger suoli?

Già eram desti, e l'ora s'appressava
Che 'l cibo ne soleva essere addotto,
E per suo sogno ciascun dubitava,

Ed io senti' chiavar l'uscio di sotto
A l'orribile torre: ond' io guardai
Nel viso a miei figliuoi senza far motto:

I' non piangeva, sì dentro impietrai:
Piangevan' elli; ed Anselmuccio mio
Disse, Tu guardi sì, padre: che hai?

Però non lagrimai nè rispos' io
Tutto quel giorno nè la notte appresso,
Infin che l'altro sol nel mondo uscío.

Com' un poco di raggio si fu messo
Nel doloroso carcere, ed io scorsi
Per quattro visi il mio aspetto stesso,

Ambo le mani per dolor mi morsi:
E quei pensando ch' i 'l fessi per voglia
Di manicar, di subito levorsi

E disser: Padre, assai ci sia men doglia,
Se tu mangi di noi: tu ne vestisti
Queste misere carni, e tu le spoglia.

Quetàmi allor per non fargli più tristi:
Quel dì e l'altro stemmo tutti muti:
Ahi dura terra, perchè non t'apristi?

Posciachè fummo al quarto di venuti,
Gaddo mi si gittò disteso a' piedi,
Dicendo: Padre mio, che non m' ajuti?

Quivi morì: e come tu mi vedi,
Vid' io cascar li tre ad uno ad uno
Tra 'l quinto di, e 'l sesto: ond' i' mi diedi

Già cieco a brancolar sovra ciascuno,
E tre di gli chiamai poich' e 'fur morti:
Poscia, più che 'l dolor, pote 'l digiuno.

Quand' ebbe detto ciò, con gli occhj torti
Riprese 'l teschio misero co' denti,
Che furo a l'osso come d' un can forti.
Ahi Pisa, vituperio de le genti,
Del bel paese là dove 'l sì suona;
Poiche i vicini a te punir son lenti,

Muovasi la Capraja e la Gorgona,
E faccian siepe ad Arno in su la foce,
Si ch' egli annieghi in te ogni persona:

Che se 'l Conte Ugolino aveva voce
D'aver tradita te de le castella,
Non dovei tu i figliuoi porre a tal croce.

Innocenti facea 'l eta novella;
Novella Tebe, Uguccione, e 'l Brigata,
E gli altri duo che 'l canto suso appella.

* * * * *

_Translation in the heroic couplet. _

Quitting the traitor Bocca's barking soul,
We saw two more, so iced up in one hole,
That the one's visage capp'd the other's head;
And as a famish'd man devoureth bread,
So rent the top one's teeth the skull below
'Twixt nape and brain. Tydeus, as stories show,
Thus to the brain of Menalippus ate:--
"O thou! " I cried, "showing such bestial hate
To him thou tearest, read us whence it rose;
That, if thy cause be juster than thy foe's,
The world, when I return, knowing the truth,
May of thy story have the greater ruth. "

His mouth he lifted from his dreadful fare,
That sinner, wiping it with the grey hair
Whose roots he had laid waste; and thus he said:--
"A desperate thing thou askest; what I dread
Even to think of. Yet, to sow a seed
Of infamy to him on whom I feed,
Tell it I will:--ay, and thine eyes shall see
Mine own weep all the while for misery.
Who thou may'st be, I know not; nor can dream
How thou cam'st hither; but thy tongue doth seem
To skew thee, of a surety, Florentine.
Know then, that I was once Count Ugoline,
And this man was Ruggieri, the archpriest.
Still thou may'st wonder at my raging feast;
For though his snares be known, and how his key
He turn'd upon my trust, and murder'd me,
Yet what the murder was, of what strange sort
And cruel, few have had the true report.
Hear then, and judge. --In the tower, called since then
The Tower of Famine, I had lain and seen
Full many a moon fade through the narrow bars.
When, in a dream one night, mine evil stars
Shew'd me the future with its dreadful face.
Methought this man led a great lordly chase
Against a wolf and cubs, across the height
Which barreth Lucca from the Pisan's sight.
Lean were the hounds, high-bred, and sharp for blood;
And foremost in the press Gualandi rode,
Lanfranchi, and Sismondi. Soon were seen
The father and his sons, those wolves I mean,
Limping, and by the hounds all crush'd and torn
And as the cry awoke me in the morn,
I heard my boys, the while they dozed in bed
(For they were with me), wail, and ask for bread.
Full cruel, if it move thee not, thou art,
To think what thoughts then rush'd into my heart.
What wouldst thou weep at, weeping not at this?
All had now waked, and something seem'd amiss,
For 'twas the time they used to bring us bread,
And from our dreams had grown a horrid dread.
I listen'd; and a key, down stairs, I heard
Lock up the dreadful turret. Not a word
I spoke, but look'd my children in the face
No tear I shed, so firmly did I brace
My soul; but _they_ did; and my Anselm said,
'Father, you look so! --Won't they bring us bread? '
E'en then I wept not, nor did answer word
All day, nor the next night. And now was stirr'd,
Upon the world without, another day;
And of its light there came a little ray,
Which mingled with the gloom of our sad jail;
And looking to my children's bed, full pale,
In four small faces mine own face I saw.
Oh, then both hands for misery did I gnaw;
And they, thinking I did it, being mad
For food, said, 'Father, we should be less sad
If you would feed on us. Children, they say,
Are their own father's flesh. Starve not to-day. '
Thenceforth they saw me shake not, hand nor foot.
That day, and next, we all continued mute.
O thou hard Earth! --why opened'st thou not?
Next day (it was the fourth in our sad lot)
My Gaddo stretched him at my feet, and cried,
'Dear father, won't you help me? ' and he died.
And surely as thou seest me here undone,
I saw my whole three children, one by one,
Between the fifth day and the sixth, all die.
I became blind; and in my misery
Went groping for them, as I knelt and crawl'd
About the room; and for three days I call'd
Upon their names, as though they could speak too,
Till famine did what grief had fail'd to do. "

Having spoke thus, he seiz'd with fiery eyes
That wretch again, his feast and sacrifice,
And fasten'd on the skull, over a groan,
With teeth as strong as mastiff's on a bone.
Ah, Pisa! thou that shame and scandal be
To the sweet land that speaks the tongue of Sì. [1]

Since Florence spareth thy vile neck the yoke,
Would that the very isles would rise, and choke
Thy river, and drown every soul within
Thy loathsome walls. What if this Ugolin
Did play the traitor, and give up (for so
The rumour runs) thy castles to the foe,
Thou hadst no right to put to rack like this
His children. Childhood innocency is.
But that same innocence, and that man's name,
Have damn'd thee, Pisa, to a Theban fame? [2]

* * * * *

REAL STORY OF UGOLINO,

AND CHAUCER'S FEELING RESPECTING THE POEM.

Chaucer has told the greater part of this story beautifully in his
"Canterbury Tales;" but he had not the heart to finish it. He refers
for the conclusion to his original, hight "Dant," the "grete poete
of Itaille;" adding, that Dante will not fail his readers a single
word--that is to say, not an atom of the cruelty.

Our great gentle-hearted countryman, who tells Fortune that it was

"great cruelty
Such birdes for to put in such a cage,"

adds a touch of pathos in the behaviour of one of the children, which
Dante does not seem to have thought of:

"There day by day this child began to cry,
Till in his father's barme (lap) adown he lay;
And said, 'Farewell, father, I muste die,'
And _kiss'd his father_, and died the same day. "

It will be a relief, perhaps, instead of a disappointment, to the
readers of this appalling story, to hear that Dante's particulars of it
are as little to be relied on as those of the Paulo and Francesca. The
only facts known of Ugolino are, that he was an ambitious traitor, who
did actually deliver up the fortified places, as Dante acknowledges; and
that his rivals, infamous as he, or more infamous, prevailed against
him, and did shut him up and starve him and some of his family. But
the "little" children are an invention of the poet's, or probably his
belief, when he was a young man, and first heard the story; for some of
Ugolino's fellow-prisoners may have been youths, but others were grown
up--none so childish as he intimates; and they were not all his own
sons; some were his nephews.

And as to Archbishop Ruggieri, there is no proof whatever of his having
had any share in the business--hardly a ground of suspicion; so that
historians look upon him as an "ill-used gentleman. " Dante, in all
probability, must have learnt the real circumstances of the case, as he
advanced in years; but if charity is bound to hope that he would have
altered the passage accordingly, had he revised his poem, it is forced
to admit that he left it unaltered, and that his "will and pleasure"
might have found means of reconciling the retention to his conscience.
Pride, unfortunately, includes the power to do things which it pretends
to be very foreign to its nature; and in proportion as detraction is
easy to it, retraction becomes insupportable. [3]

Rabelais, to shew his contempt for the knights of chivalry, has made
them galley-slaves in the next world, their business being to help
Charon row his boat over the river Styx, and their payment a piece of
mouldy bread and a fillip on the nose. Somebody should write a burlesque
of the enormities in Dante's poem, and invent some Rabelaesque
punishment for a great poet's pride and presumption. What should it be?

* * * * *

No. IV.

PICTURE OF FLORENCE IN THE TIME OF DANTE'S ANCESTORS.

Fiorenza dentro da la cerchia antica,
Ond' ella toglie ancora e Terza e Nona,
Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.

Non avea catenella, non corona,
Non donne contigiate, non cintura
Che fosse a veder più che la persona.

Non faceva nascendo ancor paura
La figlia al padre, che 'l tempo e la dotte
Non fuggian quindi e quindi la misura.

Non avea case di famiglia vote
Non v'era giunto ancor Sardanapalo
A mostrar ciò che 'n camera si puote.

Non era vinto ancora Montemalo
Dal vostro Uccellatojo, che com' è vinto
Nel montar su, così sarà nel calo.

Bellincion Berti vid' io andar cinto
Di cuojo e d'osso, e venir da lo specchio
La donna sua sanza 'l viso dipinto:

E vidi quel de' Nerli e quel del Vecchio
Esser contenti a la pelle scoverta,
E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio.

O fortunate! e ciascuna era certa
De la sua sepoltura, ed ancor nulla
Era per Francia nel lotto deserta.

L'una vegghiava a studio de la culla,
E consolando usava l'idioma
Che pria li padri e le madri trastulla:

L'altra traendo a la rocca la chioma
Favoleggiava con la sua famiglia
Di Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.

Saria tenuta allor tal maraviglia
Una Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,
Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.

* * * * *

_Translation in blank verse. _

Florence, before she broke the good old bounds,
Whence yet are heard the chimes of eve and morn.
Abided well in modesty and peace.
No coronets had she--no chains of gold--
No gaudy sandals--no rich girdles rare
That caught the eye more than the person did.
Fathers then feared no daughter's birth, for dread
Of wantons courting wealth; nor were their homes
Emptied with exile. Chamberers had not shown
What they could dare, to prove their scorn of shame.
Your neighbouring uplands then beheld no towers
Prouder than Rome's, only to know worse fall.
I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroad
Girt with a thong of leather; and his wife
Come from the glass without a painted face.
Nerlis I saw, and Vecchios, and the like,
In doublets without cloaks; and their good dames
Contented while they spun. Blest women those
They know the place where they should lie when dead;
Nor were their beds deserted while they liv'd.
They nurs'd their babies; lull'd them with the songs
And household words of their own infancy;
And while they drew the distaff's hair away,
In the sweet bosoms of their families,
Told tales of Troy, and Fiesole, and Rome.
It had been then as marvellous to see
A man of Lapo Salterello's sort,
Or woman like Cianghella, as to find
A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.

* * * * *

No. V.

THE MONKS AND THE GIANTS.

PULCI.

L'abate si chiamava Chiaramonte,
Era del sangue disceso d'Angrante:
Di sopra a la badia v'era un gran monte,
Dove abitava alcun fiero gigante,
De' quali uno avea nome Passamonte,
L'altro Alabastro, e 'l terzo era Morgante:
Con certe frombe gittavan da alto,
Ed ogni di facevan qualche assalto.

I monachetti non potieno uscire
Del monistero, o per legne, o per acque.
Orlando picchia, e non volieno aprire,
Fin che a l'abate a la fine pur piacque:
Entrato drento cominciava a dire,
Come colui che di Maria già nacque,
Adora, ed era cristian battezzato,
E com' egli era a la badia arrivato.

Disse l' abate: Il ben venuto sia:
Di quel ch' io ho, volentier ti daremo,
Poi the tu credi al figliuol di Maria;
E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo,
Acciò che non l'imputi a villania,
Perchè a l'entrar resistenza facemo,
E non ti volle aprir quel monachetto;
Così intervien chi vive con sospetto.

Quando ci venni al principio abitare
Queste montagne, benchè sieno oscure
Come tu vedi, pur si potea stare
Sanza sospetto, ch' ell' eran sicure:
Sol da le fiere t'avevi a guardare:
Fernoci spesso di brutte paure;
Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starci,
Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci.

Queste ci fan piutosto stare a segno:
Sonci appariti tre fiere giganti,
Non so di qual paese o di qual regno,
Ma molto son feroci tutti quanti:
La forza e 'l malvoler giunt' a lo 'ngegno
Sai che può 'l tutto; e noi non siam bastanti:
Questi perturban si l'orazion nostra,
Che non so più che far, s'altri nol mostra.

Gli antichi padri nostri nel deserto,
Se le lor opre sante erano e giuste,
Del ben servir da Dio n'avean buon merto:
Nè creder sol vivessin di locuste:
Piovea dal ciel la manna, guesto è certo;
Ma qui convien che spesso assaggi e gust
Sassi, che piovon di sopra quel monte,
Che gettano Alabastro e Passamonte.

E 'l terzo ch' è Morgante, assai più fiero,
Isveglie e pini e faggi e cerri e gli oppi,
E gettagli infin quì; questo è pur vero:
Non posso far che d'ira non iscoppi.
Mentre che parlan così in cimitero,
Un sasso par che Rondel quasi sgroppi;
Che da' giganti giù venne da altro
Tanto, ch' e' prese sotto il tetto un salto.

Tirati drento, cavalier, per Dio,
Disse l'abate, che la manna casca.
Rispose Orlando: Caro abate mio,
Costui non vuol che 'l mio caval più pasca:
Veggo che lo guarebbe del restio:
Quel sasso par che di buon braccio nasca.
Rispose il santo padre: Io non t' inganno;
Credo che 'l monte un giorno gitteranno.

* * * * *

No. VI.

PASSAGES IN THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES.

THE SAME.

_Orlando and Bujaforte. _

La battaglia veniva rinforzando,
E in ogni parte apparisce la morte:
E mentre in quà e in là, combatte Orlando,
Un tratto a caso trovò Bujaforte,
E in su la testa gli dette col brando:
E perchè l'elmo è temperato e forte,
O forse incantato era, al colpo ha retto:
Ma de la testa gli balzò di netto.

Orlando prese costui per le chiome,
E disse: Dimmi, se non ch' io t'uccido.
Di questo tradimento appunto e come:
E se tu il di', de la morte ti fido,
E vo' che tu mi dica presto il nome.
Onde il pagan rispose con gran grido,
Aspetta: Bujaforte io te lo dico,
De la montagna del Veglio tuo amico.

Orlando, quando intese il giovinetto,
Subito al padre suo raffigurollo:
Lasciò la chioma, e poi l'abbracciò stretto
Per tenerezza, e con l'elmo baciollo;
E disse: O Bujaforte, il vero hai detto
Il Veglio mio: e da canto tirollo:
Di questo tradimento dimmi appunto,
Poi the così la fortuna m' ha giunto.

Ma ben ti dico per la fede mia,
Che di combatter con mie genti hai torto;
E so che 'l padre tuo, dovunque e' sia,
Non ti perdona questo, così morto.
Bujaforte piangeva tuttavia;
Poi disse: Orlando mio, datti conforto;
Il mio signore a forza quà mi manda;
E obbedir convien quel che comanda.

Io son de la mia patria sbandeggiato:
Marsilio in corte sua m' ha ritenuto,
E promesso rimettermi in istato:
Io vo cercando consiglio ed ajuto,
Poi ch' io son da ognuno abbandonato:
E per questa cagion quà son venuto:
E bench' i mostri far grande schermaglia.
Non ho morto nessun ne la battaglia.

Io t' ho tanto per fama ricordare
Sentito a tutto il mondo, che nel core
Sempre poi t' ebbi: e mi puoi comandare:
E so del padre mio l'antico amore:
Del tradimento tu tel puoi pensare:
Sai che Gano e Marsilio è traditore:
E so per discrezion tu intendi bene,
Che tanta gente per tua morte viene.

E Baldovin di Marsilio ha la vesta;
Che così il vostro Gano ba ordinato:
Vedi che ignun non gli pon lancia in resta:
Che 'l signor nostro ce l'ha comandato.
Disse Orlando: Rimetti l'elmo in testa,
E torna a la battaglia al modo usato:
Vedrem che segnirà: tanto ti dico,
Ch' io t'arò sempre come il Veglio amico.

Poi disse: Aspetta un poco, intendi saldo,
Che non ti punga qualche strana ortica:
Sappi ch' egli è ne la zuffa Rinaldo:
Guarda che il nome per nulla non dica:
Che non dicesse in quella furia caldo,
Dunque tu se' da la parte nimica:
Si che tu giuochi netto, destro e largo:
Che ti bisogua aver quì gli occhi d'Argo.

Rispose Bujaforte: Bene hai detto:
Se la battaglia passerà a tuo modo,
Ti mostrerò che amico son perfetto,
Come fu il padre mio, ch' ancor ne godo.

The poor youth takes his way through the fight, and unfortunately meets
with Rinaldo.

Rinaldo ritrovò quel Bujaforte,
Al mio parer, che sarebbe scoppiato,
Se non avesse trovato la morte:
E come egli ebbe a parlar cominciato
Del re Marsilio, e di stare in suo corte.
Rinaldo gli rispose infuriato:
Chi non è ineco, avverso me sia detto;
E cominciogli a trassinar l'elmetto.
E trasse un mandiretto e due e tre
Con tanta furia, e quattro e cinque e sei,
Che non ebbe agio a domandar merzè,
E morto cadde sanza dire omei.

_Orlando and Baldwin. _

Orlando, poi che lasciò Bujaforte,
Pargli mill'anni trovar Baldovino,
Che cerca pure e non truova la morte:
E ricognobbe il caval Vegliantino
Per la battaglia, e va correndo forte
Dov' era Orlando, e diceva il meschino:
Sappi ch' io ho fatto oggi il mio dovuto;
E contra me nessun mai e venuto.

Molti pagani ho pur fatti morire;
Però quel che ciò sia pensar non posso,
Se non ch' io veggo la gente fuggire.
Rispose Orlando: Tu ti fai ben grosso;
Di questo fatto stu ti vuoi chiarire,
La soppravvesta ti cava di dosso:
Vedrai che Gan, come tu te la cavi,
Ci ha venduti a Marsilio per ischiavi.

Rispose Baldwin: Se il padre mio
Ci ha qui condotti come traditore,
S' i' posso oggi campar, pel nostro Iddio
Con questa spada passerogli il core:
Ma traditore, Orlando, non so io,
Ch' io t' ho seguito con perfetto amore:
Non mi potresti dir maggiore ingiuria. --
Poi si stracciò la vesta con gran furia,

E disse: Io tornerò ne la battaglia,
Poi che tu m' hai per traditore scorto:
Io non son traditor, se Dio mi vaglia:
Non mi vedrai più oggi se non morto.
E in verso l'oste de' pagan si scaglia
Dicendo sempre: Tu m' hai fatto torto.
Orlando si pentea d'aver cio detto,
Che disperato vide il giovinetto.

Per la battaglia cornea Baldovino,
E riscontrò quel crudel Mazzarigi,
E disse: Tu se' qui, can Saracino,
Per distrugger la gente di Parigi?
O marran rinnegato paterino,
Tu sarai presto giù ne' bassi Stigi:
E trasse con la spada in modo a questo,
Che lo mandò dov' egli disse presto.

Orlando meets again with Baldwin, who has kept his word.

Orlando corse a le grida e 'l romore,
E trovò Baldovino il poveretto
Ch' era gia presso a l'ultime sue ore,
E da due lance avea passato il petto;
E disse. Or non son io più traditore--
E cadde in terra morto così detto:
De la qual cosa duolsi Orlando forte,
E pianse esser cagion de la sua morte.


[Footnote 1: Sì, the Italian _yes_. A similar territorial designation is
familiar to the reader in the word "Languedoc," meaning _langue d'oc_,
or tongue of Oc, which was the pronunciation of the _oui_ or _yes_ of
the French in that quarter. ]

[Footnote 2: Alluding to the cruel stories in the mythology of Boeotia. ]

[Footnote 3: The controversial character of Dante's genius, and the
discordant estimate formed of it in so many respects by different
writers, have already carried the author of this book so far beyond his
intended limits, that he is obliged to refer for evidence in the cases
of Ugolino and Francesca to Balbo, _Vita di Dante_ (Napoli, 1840), p.
33; and to Troya, _Del Vettro Allegorico di Dante_ (Firenze, _1826), pp.
28, 32, and 176. ]




STORIES FROM THE ITALIAN POETS:

WITH

LIVES OF THE WRITERS.


BY LEIGH HUNT.


IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.



MDCCCXLVI.


CONTENTS

OF

THE SECOND VOLUME.


BOIARDO.

CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA

THE DEATH OF AGRICAN

THE SARACEN FRIENDS
Part the Second

SEEING AND BELIEVING


ARIOSTO.

CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS

THE ADVENTURES OF ANGELICA Part
I. Angelica and her Suitors
II. Angelica and Medoro
III. The Jealousy of Orlando

ASTOLFO'S JOURNEY TO THE MOON

ARIODANTE AND GINEVRA

SUSPICION

ISABELLA


TASSO.

CRITICAL NOTICE OF HIS LIFE AND GENIUS

OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA

TANCRED AND CLORINDA

RINALDO AND ARMIDA;

WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED FOREST:
Part I. Armida in the Christian Camp
II. Armida's Hate and Love
III. The Terrors of the Enchanted Forest
IV. The Loves of Rinaldo and Armida
V. The Disenchantment of the Forest, and the Taking of
Jerusalem, &c.


APPENDIX.

I. The Death of Agrican
II. Angelica and Medoro Translation
III. The Jealousy of Orlando
IV. The Death of Clorinda
V. Tancred in the Enchanted Forest



BOIARDO:

Critical Notice of his Life and Genius.

Critical Notice

OF BOIARDO'S LIFE AND GENIUS. [1]

While Pulci in Florence was elevating romance out of the street-ballads,
and laying the foundation of the chivalrous epic, a poet appeared in
Lombardy (whether inspired by his example is uncertain) who was destined
to carry it to a graver though still cheerful height, and prepare the way
for the crowning glories of Ariosto. In some respects he even excelled
Ariosto: in all, with the exception of style, shewed himself a genuine
though immature master.

Little is known of his life, but that little is very pleasant. It
exhibits him in the rare light of a poet who was at once rich, romantic,
an Arcadian and a man of the world, a feudal lord and an indulgent
philosopher, a courtier equally beloved by prince and people.

Matteo Maria Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, Lord of Arceto, Casalgrande,
&c. , Governor of Reggio, and Captain of the citadel of Modena (it is
pleasant to repeat such titles when so adorned), is understood to have
been born about the year 1434, at Scandiano, a castle at the foot of the
Apennines, not far from Reggio, and famous for its vines.

He was of an ancient family, once lords of Rubiera, and son of Giovanni,
second count of Scandiano, and Lucia, a lady of a branch of the Strozzi
family in Florence, and sister and aunt of Tito and Erole Strozzi,
celebrated Latin poets. His parents appear to have been wise people, for
they gave him an education that fitted him equally for public and private
life. He was even taught, or acquired, more Greek than was common to the
men of letters of that age. His whole life seems, accordingly, to have
been divided, with equal success, between his duties as a servant of the
dukes of Modena, both military and civil, and the prosecution of his
beloved art of poetry,--a combination of pursuits which have been idly
supposed incompatible. Milton's poetry did not hinder him from being
secretary to Cromwell, and an active partisan. Even the sequestered
Spenser was a statesman; and poets and writers of fiction abound in
the political histories of all the great nations of Europe. When a
man possesses a thorough insight into any one intellectual department
(except, perhaps, in certain corners of science), it only sharpens his
powers of perception for the others, if he chooses to apply them.

In the year 1469, Boiardo was one of the noblemen who went to meet the
Emperor Frederick the Third on his way to Ferrara, when Duke Borso of
Modena entertained him in that city. Two years afterwards, Borso, who had
been only Marquis of Ferrara, received its ducal title from the Pope; and
on going to Rome to be invested with his new honours, the name of our
poet is again found among the adorners of his state. A few days after his
return home this prince died; and Boiardo, favoured as he had been by
him, appears to have succeeded to a double portion of regard in the
friendship of the new duke, Ercole, who was more of his own age.

During all this period, from his youth to his prime, our author varied
his occupations with Italian and Latin poetry; some of it addressed to a
lady of the name of Antonia Caprara, and some to another, whose name is
thought to have been Rosa; but whether these ladies died, or his love was
diverted elsewhere, he took to wife, in the year 1472, Taddea Gonzaga, of
the noble house of that name, daughter of the Count of Novellara. In the
course of the same year he is supposed to have begun his great poem. A
popular court-favourite, in the prime of life, marrying and commencing
a great poem nearly at one and the same time, presents an image of
prosperity singularly delightful. By this lady Boiardo had two sons and
four daughters. The younger son, Francesco Maria, died in his childhood;
but the elder, Camillo, succeeded to his father's title, and left an heir
to it,--the last, I believe, of the name. The reception given to the
poet's bride, when he took her to Scandiano, is said to have been very
splendid.

In the ensuing year the duke his master took a wife himself. She was
Eleonora, daughter of the King of Naples; and the newly-married poet was
among the noblemen who were sent to escort her to Ferrara. For several
years afterwards, his time was probably filled up with the composition
of the _Orlando Innamorato_, and the entertainments given by a splendid
court. He was appointed Governor of Reggio, probably in 1478. At the
expiration of two or three years he was made Captain of the citadel of
Modena; and in 1482 a war broke out, with the Venetians, in which he took
part, for it interrupted the progress of his poem. In 1484 he returned
to it; but ten years afterwards was again and finally interrupted by the
unprincipled descent of the French on Italy under Charles the Eighth; and
in the December following he died. The _Orlando Innamorato_ was thus left
unfinished. Eight years before his decease the author published what he
had written of it up to that time, but the first complete edition was
posthumous. The poet was writing when the French came: he breaks off with
an anxious and bitter notice of the interruption, though still unable to
deny himself a last word on the episode which he was relating, and a hope
that he should conclude it another time.

"Mentre che io canto, o Dio redentore,
Vedo l'Italia tutta a fiamma e foco,
Per questi Galli, che con gran valore
Vengon, per disertar non so che loco:
Però vi lascio in questo vano amore
Di Fiordespina ardente poco a poco
Un' altra volta, se mi fia concesso,
Racconterovvi il tutto per espresso. "

But while I sing, mine eyes, great God! behold
A flaming fire light all the Italian sky,
Brought by these French, who, with their myriads bold,
Come to lay waste, I know not where or why.
Therefore, at present, I must leave untold
How love misled poor Fiordespina's eye.