No More Learning

Homer's poem is that of action; Dante's, of passion; Virgil's, of
judgment; Milton's, of religion; Spenser's, of poetry itself; Ariosto's,
of animal spirits (I do not mean as respects gaiety only, but in strength
and readiness of accord with the whole play of nature); Tasso looked
round with an ultra-sensitive temperament, and an ambition which required
encouragement, and his poem is that of tenderness. Every thing inclines
to this point in his circle, with the tremulousness of the needle. Love
is its all in all, even to the design of the religious war which is
to rescue the sepulchre of the God of Charity from the hands of the
unloving. His heroes are all in love, at least those on the right side;
his leader, Godfrey, notwithstanding his prudence, narrowly escapes the
passion, and is full of a loving consideration; his amazon, Clorinda,
inspires the truest passion, and dies taking her lover's hand; his
Erminia is all love for an enemy; his enchantress Armida falls from
pretended love into real, and forsakes her religion for its sake. An old
father (canto ix. ) loses his five sons in battle, and dies on their
dead bodies of a wound which he has provoked on purpose. Tancred cannot
achieve the enterprise of the Enchanted Forest, because his dead mistress
seems to come out of one of the trees. Olindo thinks it happiness to be
martyred at the same stake with Sophronia. The reconciliation of Rinaldo
with his enchantress takes place within a few stanzas of the close of
the poem, as if contesting its interest with religion. The _Jerusalem
Delivered_, in short, is the favourite epic of the young: all the lovers
in Europe have loved it. The French have forgiven the author his conceits
for the sake of his gallantry: he is the poet of the gondoliers; and
Spenser, the most luxurious of his brethren, plundered his bowers of
bliss. Read Tasso's poem by this gentle light of his genius, and you pity
him twentyfold, and know not what excuse to find for his jailer.

The stories translated in the present volume, though including war and
magic, are all love-stories. They were not selected on that account. They
suggested themselves for selection, as containing most of the finest
things in the poem. They are conducted with great art, and the characters
and affections happily varied. The first (_Olindo and Sophronia_) is
perhaps unique for the hopelessness of its commencement (I mean with
regard to the lovers), and the perfect, and at the same time quite
probable, felicity of the conclusion. There is no reason to believe that
the staid and devout Sophronia would have loved her adorer at all, but
for the circumstance that first dooms them both to a shocking death,
and then sends them, with perfect warrant, from the stake to the altar.
Clorinda is an Amazon, the idea of whom, as such, it is impossible for
us to separate from very repulsive and unfeminine images; yet, under the
circumstances of the story, we call to mind in her behalf the possibility
of a Joan of Arc's having loved and been beloved; and her death is a
surprising and most affecting variation upon that of Agrican in Boiardo.
Tasso's enchantress Armida is a variation of the Angelica of the same
poet, combined with Ariosto's Alcina; but her passionate voluptuousness
makes her quite a new character in regard to the one; and she is as
different from the painted hag of the _Orlando_ as youth, beauty, and
patriotic intention can make her. She is not very sentimental; but all
the passion in the world has sympathised with her; and it was manly and
honest in the poet not to let her Paganism and vehemence hinder him from
doing justice to her claims as a human being and a deserted woman. Her
fate is left in so pleasing a state of doubt, that we gladly avail
ourselves of it to suppose her married to Rinaldo, and becoming the
mother of a line of Christian princes. I wish they had treated her poet
half so well as she would infallibly have treated him herself.

But the singer of the Crusades can be strong as well as gentle. You
discern in his battles and single combats the poet ambitious of renown,
and the accomplished swordsman. The duel of Tancred and Argantes, in
which the latter is slain, is as earnest and fiery writing throughout as
truth and passion could desire; that of Tancred and Clorinda is also
very powerful as well as affecting; and the whole siege of Jerusalem is
admirable for the strength of its interest. Every body knows the grand
verse (not, however, quite original) that summons the devils to council,
"Chiama gli abitator," &c. ; and the still grander, though less original
one, describing the desolations of time, "Giace l'alta Cartago. "[40] The
forest filled with supernatural terrors by a magician, in order that the
Christians may not cut wood from it to make their engines of war, is one
of the happiest pieces of invention in romance. It is founded in as true
human feeling as those of Ariosto, and is made an admirable instrument
for the aggrandizement of the character of Rinaldo. Godfrey's attestation
of all time, and of the host of heaven, when he addresses his army in the
first canto, is in the highest spirit of epic magnificence. So is the
appearance of the celestial armies, together with that of the souls of
the slain Christian warriors, in the last canto, where they issue forth
in the air to assist the entrance into the conquered city. The classical
poets are turned to great and frequent account throughout the poem;
and yet the work has a strong air of originality, partly owing to the
subject, partly to the abundance of love-scenes, and to a certain
compactness in the treatment of the main story, notwithstanding the
luxuriance of the episodes. The _Jerusalem Delivered_ is stately,
well-ordered, full of action and character, sometimes sublime, always
elegant, and very interesting-more so, I think, as a whole, and in
a popular sense, than any other story in verse, not excepting the
_Odyssey_. For the exquisite domestic attractiveness of the second
Homeric poem is injured, like the hero himself, by too many diversions
from the main point. There is an interest, it is true, in that very
delay; but we become too much used to the disappointment. In the epic
of Tasso the reader constantly desires to learn how the success of the
enterprise is to be brought about; and he scarcely loses sight of any of
the persons but he wishes to see them again. Even in the love-scenes,
tender and absorbed as they are, we feel that the heroes are fighters, or
going to fight. When you are introduced to Armida in the Bower of Bliss,
it is by warriors who come to take her lover away to battle.

One of the reasons why Tasso hurt the style of his poem by a manner too
lyrical was, that notwithstanding its deficiency in sweetness, he was one
of the profusest lyrical writers of his nation, and always having his
feelings turned in upon himself. I am not sufficiently acquainted with
his odes and sonnets to speak of them in the gross; but I may be allowed
to express my belief that they possess a great deal of fancy and feeling.
It has been wondered how he could write so many, considering the troubles
he went through; but the experience was the reason. The constant
succession of hopes, fears, wants, gratitudes, loves, and the necessity
of employing his imagination, accounts for all. Some of his sonnets, such
as those on the Countess of Scandiano's lip ("Quel labbro," &c. ); the one
to Stigliano, concluding with the affecting mention of himself and his
lost harp; that beginning

"Io veggio in cielo scintillar le stelle,"

recur to my mind oftener than any others except Dante's "Tanto gentile"
and Filicaia's _Lament on Italy_; and, with the exception of a few of the
more famous odes of Petrarch, and one or two of Filicaia's and Guidi's, I
know of none in Italian like several of Tasso's, including his fragment
"O del grand' Apennino," and the exquisite chorus on the _Golden Age_,
which struck a note in the hearts of the world.

His _Aminta_, the chief pastoral poem of Italy, though, with the
exception of that ode, not equal in passages to the _Faithful
Shepherdess_ (which is a Pan to it compared with a beardless shepherd),
is elegant, interesting, and as superior to Guarini's more sophisticate
yet still beautiful _Pastor Fido_ as a first thought may be supposed to
be to its emulator. The objection of its being too elegant for shepherds
he anticipated and nullified by making Love himself account for it in a
charming prologue, of which the god is the speaker:

"Queste selve oggi ragionar d'Amore
S'udranno in nuova guisa; e ben parassi,
Che la mia Deità sia quì presente
In se medesma, e non ne' suoi ministri.
Spirerò nobil sensi à rozzi petti;
Raddolcirò nelle lor lingue il suono:
Perchè, ovunque i' mi sia, io sono Amore
Ne' pastori non men che negli eroi;
E la disagguaglianza de' soggetti,
Come a me piace, agguaglio: e questa è pure
Suprema gloria, e gran miracol mio,
Render simili alle più dotte cetre
Le rustiche sampogne. "

After new fashion shall these woods to-day
Hear love discoursed; and it shall well be seen
That my divinity is present here
In its own person, not its ministers.
I will inbreathe high fancies in rude hearts;
I will refine and render dulcet sweet
Their tongues; because, wherever I may be,
Whether with rustic or heroic men,
There am I Love; and inequality,
As it may please me, do I equalise;
And 'tis my crowning glory and great miracle
To make the rural pipe as eloquent
Even as the subtlest harp.

I ought not to speak of Tasso's other poetry, or of his prose, for I
have read little of either; though, as they are not popular with his
countrymen, a foreigner may be pardoned for thinking his classical
tragedy, _Torrismondo_, not attractive--his _Sette Giornate_ (Seven
Days of the Creation) still less so--and his platonical and critical
discourses better filled with authorities than reasons. Tasso was a
lesser kind of Milton, enchanted by the Sirens. We discern the weak parts
of his character, more or less, in all his writings; but we see also the
irrepressible elegance and superiority of the mind, which, in spite of
all weakness, was felt to tower above its age, and to draw to it the
homage as well as the resentment of princes.


[Footnote 1: My authorities for this notice are, Black's _Life of Tasso_
(2 vols. 4to, 1810), his original, Serassi, _Vita di Torquato Tasso_ (do.
1790), and the works of the poet in the Pisan edition of Professor Rosini
(33 vols. 8vo, 1332). I have been indebted to nothing in Black which I
have not ascertained by reference to the Italian biographer, and quoted
nothing stated by Tasso himself but from the works. Black's Life, which
is a free version of Serassi's, modified by the translator's own opinions
and criticism, is elegant, industrious, and interesting. Serassi's was
the first copious biography of the poet founded on original documents;
and it deserved to be translated by Mr. Black, though servile to
the house of Este, and, as might be expected, far from being always
ingenuous. Among other instances of this writer's want of candour is the
fact of his having been the discoverer and suppresser of the manuscript
review of Tasso by Galileo. The best summary account of the poet's life
and writings which I have met with is Ginguéné's, in the fifth volume
of his _Histoire Littéraire_, &c. It is written with his usual grace,
vivacity, and acuteness, and contains a good notice of the Tasso
controversy. As to the Pisan edition of the works, it is the completest,
I believe, in point of contents ever published, comprises all the
controversial criticism, and is, of course, very useful; but it contains
no life except Manso's (now known to be very inconclusive), has got a
heap of feeble variorum comments on the _Jerusalem_, no notes worth
speaking of to the rest of the works, and, notwithstanding the claim
in the title-page to the merit of a "better order," has left the
correspondence in a deplorable state of irregularity, as well as totally
without elucidation. The learned Professor is an agreeable writer, and, I
believe, a very pleasant man, but he certainly is a provoking editor. ]

[Footnote 2: In the beautiful fragment beginning, _O del grand'Apennino:_

"Me dal sen della madre empia fortuna
Pargoletto divelse. Ah! di que' baci,
Ch'ella bagnò di lagrime dolenti,
Con sospir mi rimembra, e degli ardenti
Preghi, che sen portár l'aure fugaci,
Ch'io giunger non dovea più volto a volto
Fra quelle braccia accolto
Con nodi così stretti e sì tenaci.
Lasso! e seguii con mal sicure piante,
Qual Ascanio, o Camilla, il padre errante. "

Me from my mother's bosom my hard lot
Took when a child. Alas! though all these years
I have been used to sorrow,
I sigh to think upon the floods of tears
which bathed her kisses on that doleful morrow:

I sigh to think of all the prayers and cries
She wasted, straining me with lifted eyes:
For never more on one another's face
was it our lot to gaze and to embrace!
Her little stumbling boy,
Like to the child of Troy,
Or like to one doomed to no haven rather,
Followed the footsteps of his wandering father. ]

[Footnote 3: Rosini, _Saggio sugli Amori di Torquato Tasso_, &c. , in the
Professor's edition of his works, vol. xxxiii. ]

[Footnote 4: _Lettere Inedite_, p. 33, in the _Opere_, vol. xvii. ]

[Footnote 5: _Entretiens_, 1663, p. 169 quoted by Scrassi, pp. 175, 182. ]

[Footnote 6: Suggested by Ariosto's furniture in the Moon. ]

[Footnote 7: This was a trick which he afterwards thought he had reason
to complain of in a style very different from pleasantry. ]

[Footnote 8: Alfonso. The word for "leader" in the original, _duce_, made
the allusion more obvious. The epithet "royal," in the next sentence,
conveyed a welcome intimation to the ducal car, the house of Este being
very proud of its connexion with the sovereigns of Europe, and very
desirous of becoming royal itself. ]

[Footnote 9: Serassi, vol i. p. 210. ]

(Footnote 10: "Alla lor magnanimità è convenevole il mostrar, ch'amor
delle virtù, non odio verso altri, gli abbia già mossi ad invitarmi con
invito così largo. " _Opere_, vol. xv. p. 94. ]

[Footnote 11: The application is the conjecture of Black, vol. i. p. 317.
Serassi suppressed the whole passage. The indecent word would have been
known but for the delicacy or courtliness of Muratori, who substituted an
_et-cetera_ in its place, observing, that he had "covered" with it "an
indecent word not fit to be printed" ("sotto quell'_et-cetera_ ho io
coperta un'indecente parola, che non era lecito di lasciar correre alle
stampe. " _Opere del Tasso,_ vol. xvi. p. 114). By "covered" he seems to
have meant blotted out; for in the latest edition of Tasso the _et-cetera
is_ retained. ]

[Footnote 12: Black's version (vol. ii. p. 58) is not strong enough. The
words in Serassi are "una ciurma di poltroni, ingrati, e ribaldi. " ii. p.
33. ]

[Footnote 13: _Opere_, vol xiv. pp. 158, 174, &c. ]

[Footnote 14: "Prego V. Signoria the si contenti, se piace al Serenissimo
Signor Duca, Clementissimo ed Invitissimo, the io stia in prigione, di
farmi dar le poche robicciole mie, the S. A. Invitissima, Clementissima,
Serenissima m' ha promesse tante volte," &c. _Opere_, vol. xiv. p. 6. ]

[Footnote 15: "Altera Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam," &c. ]

[Footnote 16: _Vie du Tasse,_ 1695, p. 51. ]

[Footnote 17: In the Apology _for Raimond de Sebonde_; Essays,
vol. ii. ch. 12. ]

[Footnote 18: In his _Letter to Zeno,--Opere del

Tasso_, xvi. p. 118. ]

[Footnote 19: _Storia della Poesia Italiana_ (Mathias's edition), vol.
iii. part i. p 236. ]

[Footnote 20: Serassi is very peremptory, and even abusive. He charges
every body who has said any thing to the contrary with imposture. "Egli
non v' ha dubbio, che le troppe imprudenti e temerarie parole, che il
Tasso si lasciò uscir di bocca in questo incontro, furone la sola cagione
della sua prigionia, e ch' è mera favola ed _impostura_ tutto ciò, che
diversamente è stato affermato e scritto da altri in tale proposito. "
Vol. ii. p. 33. But we have seen that the good Abbè could practise a
little imposition himself. ]

[Footnote 21: Black, ii. 88. ]

[Footnote 22: _Hist. Litt. d'Italie_, v. 243, &c. ]

[Footnote 23: Vol. ii. p. 89. ]

[Footnote 24: Such at least is my impression; but I cannot call the
evidence to mind. ]

[Footnote 25: _Literature of the South of Europe_ (Roscoe's translation),
vol. ii. p. 165. To shew the loose way in which the conclusions of a
man's own mind are presented as facts admitted by others, Sismondi says,
that Tasso's "passion" was the cause of his return to Ferrara. There is
not a tittle of evidence to shew for it. ]

[Footnote 26: _Saggio sugli Amori_, &c. ut sup p. 84, and passim. As
specimens of the learned professor's reasoning, it may be observed that
whenever the words _humble, daring, high, noble_, and _royal_, occur in
the poet's love-verses, he thinks they _must_ allude to the Princess
Leonora; and he argues, that Alfonso never could have been so angry with
any "versi lascivi," if they had not had the same direction. ]

[Footnote 27: _Opere_, vol. xvii. p. 32. ]

[Footnote 28:

"Padre, o buon padre, che dal ciel rimiri,
Egro e morto ti piansi, e ben tu il sai;
E gemendo scaldai
La tomba e il letto. Or che negli altri giri
Tu godi, a te si deve onor, non lutto:
A me versato il mio dolor sia tutto. "

O father, my good father, looking now
On thy poor son from heaven, well knowest thou
What scalding tears I shed
Upon thy grave, upon thy dying bed;
But since thou dwellest in the happy skies,
'Tis fit I raise to thee no sorrowing eyes
Be all my grief on my own head. ]

[Footnote 29:

" Non posso viver in città, ove tutti i nobili, o non mi
concedano i primi luoghi, o almeno non si contentino the la cosa in
quel the appartiene a queste esteriori dimostrazioni, vada del pari. "
_Opere,_, vol. xiii. p. 153. ]

[Footnote 30: Black, vol. ii. p. 240. ]

[Footnote 31: The world in general have taken no notice of Tasso's
reconstruction of his _Jerusalem_, which he called the _Gerusalemme
Conquistata_. It never "obtained," as the phrase is. It was the mere
tribute of his declining years to bigotry and new acquaintances; and
therefore I say no more of it. ]

[Footnote 32: _In manus tuas, Domine_. One likes to know the actual
words; at least so it appears to me. ]

[Footnote 33: Serassi, ii. 276. ]

[Footnote 34: "Quem _cernis_, quisquis es, procera statura virum,
_luscis_ oculis, &c. hic Torquatus est. "--Cappacio, _Illustrium Literis
Virorum Elogia et Judici_, quoted by Serassi, ut sup. The Latin word
_luscus_, as well as the Italian _losco_, means, I believe, near-sighted;
but it certainly means also a great deal more; and unless the word
_cernis_ (thou beholdest) is a mere form of speech implying a foregone
conclusion, it shews that the defect was obvious to the spectator. ]

[Footnote 35: "Il Signor Duca non crede ad alcuna mia parola. "
_Opere_, xiv. 161.
]

[Footnote 36: "Fui da bocca di lui medesimo rassicurato, che dal tempo
del suo ritegno in sant'Anna, ch'avenne negli anni trentacinque della sua
vita e sedici avanti la morte, egli intieramente fu casto: degli anni
primi non mi favellò mai di modo ch' io possa alcuna cosa di certo qui
raccontare. "
_Opere_, xxxiii. 235. ]

[Footnote 37: It is to be found in the collected works, _ut supra_; both
of the philosopher and the poet. ]

[Footnote 38: It is an extraordinary instance of a man's violating, in
older life, the better critical principles of his youth,--that Tasso, in
his _Discourses on Poetry_, should have objected to a passage in Ariosto
about sighs and tears, as being a "conceit too lyrical," (though it was
warranted by the subtleties of madness, see present volume, p. 219), and
yet afterwards not in the same conceits when wholly without warrant. ]

[Footnote 39: [Greek:

Dardanion aut aerchen, eus pais Agchisao,
Aineias ton hup Agchisae teke di Aphroditae
Idaes en knaemoisi, thea brotps eunaetheisa
Ouk oios hama toge duo Antaenoros uie,
Archilochos t, Akamas te machaes en eidute pasaes.

_Iliad_, ii. 819. ]

It is curious that these five lines should abound as much in _a_'s
Tasso's first stanza does in o's. Similar monotonies are strikingly
observable in the nomenclatures of Virgil. See his most perfect poem, the
_Georgics_:

"Omnià secum
`Armentàrius `Afer àgit, tectumque, Làremque,
`Armaque, `Amyclæumque cànem, Cressàmque pharetràm. "
Lib. iii. 343.

It is clear that Dante never thought of this point. See his Mangiadore,
Sanvittore, Natan, Raban, &c. at the end of the twelfth canto of the
_Paradiso_. Yet in his time poetry was _recitatived_ to music. So it was
in Petrarch's, who was a lutenist, and who "tried" his verses, to see
how they would go to the instrument. Yet Petrarch could allow himself to
write such a quatrain as the following list of rivers

"Non Tesin, Pò, Varo, Arno, Adige e Tebro,
Eufrate, Tigre, Nilo, Ermo, Indo c Gange,
Tana, Istro, Alfeo, Garrona, è 'l mar the frange,
Rodano, Ibero, Ren, Senna, _Albia, Era, Ebro! _"

In Tasso's _Sette Giornate_, to which Black thinks Milton indebted for
his grand use of proper names, the following is the way in which the poet
writes

"Di Silvàni
Di Pàni, e d' Egipàni, e d' àltri errànti,
Ch'empier lè solitariè incultè selvè
D'antichè maravigliè; e quell'accòltò
Esercitò di Baccò in òriente
Ond'egli vinse, e trionfò degl'Indi,
Tornandò glòriòsò ai Greci lidi,
Siccòm'e favòlòsò anticò gridò. "

The most diversified passage of this kind (as far as I an, aware) is
Ariosto's list of his friends at the close of the _Orlando_; and yet such
writing as follows would seem to shew that it was an accident:

"Iò veggiò il Fracastòrò, il Bevazzanò,
Trifòn Gabriel, e il Tassò più lòntanò;
Veggo Niccòlò Tiepoli, e con esso
Niccòlò Amaniò in me affissar le ciglia;
Autòn Fulgòsò, ch'a vedermi appressò
Al litò, mòstra gaudiò e maraviglia.
Il miò Valeriò e quel che là s'è messò
Fuòr de le dònne," &c.

Even Metastasio, who wrote expressly for singers, and often with
exquisite modulation, especially in his songs, forgets himself when he
comes to the names of his dramatis persome,--"`Artaserse, `Artàbàno,
`Arbàce, Màndàne, Semirà, Megàbise,"--all in one play.

"Gran cose io temo. Il mio germàno `Arbàce
Pàrte prià de l'aurorà. Il pàdre armàto
Incontro, e non mi pàrlà. `Accusà il cielo
`Agitàto `Artàserse, e m'àbbàndonà. "

Atto i. se. 6.

I am far from intending to say that these reiterations are not sometimes
allowable, nay, often beautiful and desirable. Alliteration itself may be
rendered an exquisite instrument of music. I am only speaking of monotony
or discord in the enumeration of proper names. ]

[Footnote 40: See them both in the present volume, pp. 420 and 445. ]


OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

Argument.

The Mahomedan king of Jerusalem, at the instigation of Ismeno, a
magician, deprives a Christian church of its image of the Virgin, and
sets it up in a mosque, under a spell of enchantment, as a palladium
against the Crusaders. The image is stolen in the night; and the king,
unable to discover who has taken it, orders a massacre of the Christian
portion of his subjects, which is prevented by Sophronia's accusing
herself of the offence. Her lover, Olindo, finding her sentenced to the
stake in consequence, disputes with her the right of martyrdom. He is
condemned to suffer with her. The Amazon Clorinda, who has come to fight
on the side of Aladin, obtains their pardon in acknowledgment of her
services; and Sophronia, who had not loved Olindo before, now returns his
passion, and goes with him from the stake to the marriage-altar.

OLINDO AND SOPHRONIA.

Godfrey of Boulogne, the leader of the Crusaders, was now in full march
for Jerusalem with the Christian army; and Aladin, the old infidel king,
became agitated with wrath and terror. He had heard nothing but accounts
of the enemy's irresistible advance. There were many Christians within
his walls whose insurrection he dreaded; and though he had appeared to
grow milder with age, he now, in spite of the frost in his veins, felt as
hot for cruelty, as the snake excited by the fire of summer. He longed
to stifle his fears of insurrection by a massacre, but dreaded the
consequence in the event of the city's being taken. He therefore
contented himself, for the present, with laying waste the country round
about it, destroying every possible receptacle of the invaders,
poisoning the wells, and doubly fortifying the only weak point in his
fortifications.

At this juncture the renegade Ismeno stood before him--a bad old man who
had studied unlawful arts. He could bind and loose evil spirits, and draw
the dead out of their tombs, restoring to them breath and perception.
This man told the king, that in the church belonging to his Christian
subjects there was an altar underground, on which stood a veiled image of
the woman whom they worshipped--the mother, as they called her, of their
dead and buried God. A dazzling light burnt for ever before it; and the
walls were hung with the offerings of her credulous devotees. If this
image, he said, were taken away by the king's own hand, and set up in a
mosque, such a spell of enchantment could be thrown about it as should
render the city impregnable so long as the idol was kept safe.

Aladin proceeded instantly to the Christian temple, and, treating the
priests with violence, tore the image from its shrine and conveyed it to
his own place of worship. The necromancer then muttered before it his
blasphemous enchantment. But the light of morning no sooner appeared in
the mosque, than the official to whose charge the palladium had been
committed missed it from its place, and in vain searched every other to
find it. In truth it never was found again; nor is it known to this
day how it went. Some think the Christians took it; others that Heaven
interfered in order to save it from profanation. And well (says the
poet) does it become a pious humility so to think of a disappearance so
wonderful.

The king, who fell into a paroxysm of rage, not doubting that some
Christian was the offender, issued a proclamation setting a price on
the head of any one who concealed it. But no discovery was made. The
necromancer resorted to his art with as little effect. The king then
ordered a general Christian massacre. His savage wrath hugged itself on
the reflection, that the criminal would be sure to perish, perish else
who might.

The Christians heard the order with an astonishment that took away all
their powers of resistance. The suddenness of the presence of death
stupified them. They did not resort even to an entreaty. They waited,
like sheep, to be butchered. Little did they think what kind of saviour
was at hand.

There was a maiden among them of ripe years, grave and beautiful; one who
took no heed of her beauty, but was altogether absorbed in high and holy
thoughts. If she thought of her beauty ever, it was only to subject it to
the dignity of virtue. The greater her worth, the more she concealed it
from the world, living a close life at home, and veiling herself from all
eyes.

But the rays of such a jewel could not but break through their casket.
Love would not consent to have it so locked up. Love turned her very
retirement into attraction. There was a youth who had become enamoured
of this hidden treasure. His name was Olindo; Sophronia was that of the
maiden. Olindo, like herself, was a Christian; and the humbleness of his
passion was equal to the worth of her that inspired it. He desired much,
hoped little, asked nothing. [1] He either knew not how to disclose his
love, or did not dare it. And she either despised it, or did not, or
would not, see it. The poor youth, up to this day, had got nothing by his
devotion, not even a look.

The maiden, who was nevertheless as generous as she was virtuous, fell
into deep thought how she might save her Christian brethren. She soon
came to her resolve. She delayed the execution of it a little, only out
of a sense of virgin decorum, which, in its turn, made her still more
resolute. She issued forth by herself, in the sight of all, not muffling
up her beauty, nor yet exposing it. She withdrew her eyes beneath a veil,
and, attired neither with ostentation nor carelessness, passed through
the streets with unaffected simplicity, admired by all save herself. She
went straight before the king. His angry aspect did not repel her. She
drew aside the veil, and looked him steadily in the face.

"I am come," she said, "to beg that you will suspend your wrath, and
withhold the orders given to your people. I know and will give up the
author of the deed which has offended you, on that condition. "

At the noble confidence thus displayed, at the sudden apparition of so
much lofty and virtuous beauty, the king's countenance was confused, and
its angry expression abated. Had his spirit been less stern, or the look
she gave him less firm in its purpose, he would have loved her. But
haughty beauty and haughty beholder are seldom drawn together. Glances
of pleasure are the baits of love. And yet, if the ungentle king was not
enamoured, he was impressed. He was bent on gazing at her; he felt an
emotion of delight.

"Say on," he replied; "I accept the condition. "

"Behold then," said she, "the offender. The deed was the work of this
hand. It was I that conveyed away the image. I am she whom you look for.
I am the criminal to be punished. "

And as she spake, she bent her head before him, as already yielding it to
the executioner.

Oh, noble falsehood! when was truth to be compared with thee? [2]

The king was struck dumb. He did not fall into his accustomed transports
of rage. When he recovered from his astonishment, he said, "Who advised
you to do this? Who was your accomplice? "

"Not a soul," replied the maiden. "I would not have allowed another
person to share a particle of my glory. I alone knew of the deed; I alone
counselled it; I alone did it. "

"Then be the consequence," cried he, "on your own head! "

"'Tis but just," returned Sophronia. "Mine was the sole honour; mine,
therefore, should be the only punishment. "

The tyrant at this began to feel the accession of his old wrath. "Where,"
he said, "have You hidden the image? "

"I did not hide it," she replied, "I burnt it. I thought it fit and
righteous to do so. I knew of no other way to save it from the hands of
the unbelieving. Ask not for what will never again be found. Be content
with the vengeance you have before you. "

Oh, chaste heart! oh, exalted soul! oh, creature full of nobleness! think
not to find a forgiving moment return. Beauty itself is thy shield no
longer.

The glorious maiden is taken and bound. The cruel king has condemned her
to the stake. Her veil, and the mantle that concealed her chaste bosom,
are torn away, and her soft arms tied with a hard knot behind her. She
said nothing; she was not terrified; but yet she was not unmoved. Her
bosom heaved in spite of its courage. Her lovely colour was lost in a
pure white.

The news spread in an instant, and the city crowded to the sight,
Christians and all, Olindo among them. He had thought within himself,
"What if it should be Sophronia! " But when he beheld that it was she
indeed, and not only condemned, but already at the stake, he made
way through the crowd with violence, crying out, "This is not the
person,--this poor simpleton! She never thought of such a thing; she had
not the courage to do it; she had not the strength. How was she to carry
the sacred image away? Let her abide by her story if she dare. I did it. "

Such was the love of the poor youth for her that loved him not.

When he came up to the stake, he gave a formal account of what he
pretended to have done. "I climbed in," he said, "at the window of your
mosque at night, and found a narrow passage round to the image, where
nobody could expect to meet me. I shall not suffer the penalty to be
usurped by another. I did the deed, and I will have the honour of doing
it, now that it comes to this. Let our places be changed. "

Sophronia had looked up when she heard the youth call out, and she gazed
on him with eyes of pity. "What madness is this! " exclaimed she. "What
can induce an innocent person to bring destruction on himself for
nothing? Can I not bear the thing by myself? Is the anger of one man so
tremendous, that one person cannot sustain it? Trust me, friend, you are
mistaken. I stand in no need of your company. "

Thus spoke Sophronia to her lover; but not a whit was he disposed to
alter his mind. Oh, great and beautiful spectacle! Love and virtue at
strife;--death the prize they contend for;--ruin itself the salvation of
the conqueror! But the contest irritated the king. He felt himself set at
nought; felt death itself despised, as if in despite of the inflictor.
"Let them be taken at their words," cried be; "let both have the prize
they long for. "

The youth is seized on the instant, and bound like the maiden. Both are
tied to the stake, and set back to back. They behold not the face of one
another. The wood is heaped round about them; the fire is kindled.

The youth broke out into lamentations, but only loud enough to be heard
by his fellow-sufferer. "Is this, then," said he, "the bond which I hoped
might join us? Is this the fire which I thought might possibly warm two
lovers' hearts? [3] Too long (is it not so? ) have we been divided, and now
too cruelly are we united: too cruelly, I say, but not as regards me;
for since I am not to be partner of thy existence, gladly do I share thy
death. It is thy fate, not mine, that afflicts me. Oh! too happy were it
to me, too sweet and fortunate, if I could obtain grace enough to be
set with thee heart to heart, and so breathe out my soul into thy lips!
Perhaps thou wouldst do the like with mine, and so give me thy last
sigh. "

Thus spoke the youth in tears; but the maiden gently reproved him.

She said: "Other thoughts, my friend, and other lamentations befit a time
like this. Why thinkest thou not of thy sins, and of the rewards which
God has promised to the righteous? Meet thy sufferings in his name; so
shall their bitterness be made sweet, and thy soul be carried into the
realms above. Cast thine eyes upwards, and behold them. See how beautiful
is the sky; how the sun seems to invite thee towards it with its
splendour. "

At words so noble and piteous as these, the Pagans themselves, who stood
within hearing, began to weep. The Christians wept too, but in voices
more lowly. Even the king felt an emotion of pity; but disdaining to give
way to it, he turned aside and withdrew. The maiden alone partook not of
the common grief. She for whom every body wept, wept not for herself.

The flames were now beginning to approach the stake, when there appeared,
coming through the crowd, a warrior of noble mien, habited in the arms of
another country. The tiger, which formed the crest of his helmet, drew
all eyes to it, for it was a cognizance well known. The people began to
think that it was a heroine instead of a hero which they saw, even the
famous Clorinda. Nor did they err in the supposition.

A despiser of feminine habits had Clorinda been from her childhood. She
disdained to put her hand to the needle and the distaff. She renounced
every soft indulgence, every timid retirement, thinking that virtue could
be safe wherever it went in its own courageous heart; and so she armed
her countenance with pride, and pleased herself with making it stern, but
not to the effect she looked for, for the sternness itself pleased. While
yet a child her little right hand would control the bit of the charger,
and she wielded the sword and spear, and hardened her limbs with
wrestling, and made them supple for the race; and then as she grew up,
she tracked the footsteps of the bear and lion, and followed the trumpet
to the wars; and in those and in the depths of the forest she seemed a
wild creature to mankind, and a man to the wildest creature. She had now
come out of Persia to wreak her displeasure on the Christians, who had
already felt the sharpness of her sword; and as she arrived near this
assembled multitude, death was the first thing that met her eyes, but in
a shape so perplexing, that she looked narrowly to discern what it was,
and then spurred her horse towards the scene of action. The crowd gave
way as she approached, and she halted as she entered the circle round the
stake, and sat gazing on the youth and maiden. She wondered to see the
male victim lamenting, while the female was mute. But indeed she saw that
he was weeping not out of grief but pity; or at least, not out of grief
for himself; and as to the maiden, she observed her to be so wrapt up
in the contemplation of the heavens at which she was gazing, that she
appeared to have already taken leave of earth.

Pity touched the heart of the Amazon, and the tears came into her eyes.