upon it, we admire the painting much. We admire the receding hills, the expanse of water that loses itself among them, and the bold sky above. We admire, above all, the fine sunny effect of the whole picture. There is some rich colour in Paris Bordone's "Lady at her Toilet;" but it is any thing but a good picture. The unfeminine coarseness of the principal figure, and the decided ugliness of her companion, almost incline us to be sceptical as to the worth of the documents subscribed by certain "persons of honour" in Piedmont, and now in the hands of the Directors, bearing testimony to the authenticity of this, and some of the other pictures. We apply the same remark to that brick-dust coloured, inanimate-looking gentleman, who has been christened "A Portrait, by Titian,” (No. 6.) The "Bacchus and Ariadne," by Sebastian del Piombo, (No. 7,) is not likely to find many admirers, and perhaps does not deserve them. But as we feel a sneaking kindness for the work, we must be allowed to say a word in its defence. The Bacchus is a lumpish commonplace mortal—the Cupid is a Dutchman—the colours of the landscape are unnatural. But regard the deep slumbrous look of the Ariadne; mark the fine feeling with which the painter has brought a sleepy shadow over her head, while on the other side of the picture the small white waves laugh in the sun. There is true poetry in this sentiment, and that makes amends for a world of faults. The only other picture deserving a particular notice is a" Saint Jerome," by Franceschini, (No. 16.) It is a fine bold picture. The "Architectural Subject," by Delen, (No. 10,) is good of its kind, but too much of the porcelain style of painting for our taste. "Christ driving the sellers from the Temple," by Benvenuto Garafalo, (No. 9,) and "The Adoration of the Shepherds," by Palmo Vecchio, (No. 15,) neither need nor deserve com ment. We shall resume this subject as soon as the remainder of these pictures arrive. Judging by those which are already here, we should augur well of them as the commencement of a National Gallery, were we only secure that the undertaking was in the hands of adequate managers. THE GOOD OLD TIMES. We owe the following curious illustration of the moral sense of our ancestors to the kindness of the erudite editor of the "Criminal Trials." We believe it is the first time that any of our readers have seen a bill in which the value received was the life of a man. It is a curious question before what tribunal its payment could have been enforced.-Ed. Lit. Jour.] In my Collection of Criminal Trials, and also in the Historical and Genealogical Account of the principal Families of the Name of Kennedy, recently published, all the incidents then discovered relative to the accumulated acts of villainy perpetrated by THE LAIRD OF AUCHINDRAYNE and his son have already been disclosed. As the public are, moreover, already in possession of the leading features of this extraordinary case, from the graphic pen of Sir WALTER SCOTT, who has prefixed an introductory notice to his dramatic poem, " Auchindrain, or the Ayrshire Tragedy," it seems unnecessary to attempt a sketch of their lives and crimes. The historical account and the collection above referred to, contain a great variety of documents, which have been brought forward, alike to illustrate the Trials of the Lairds of Auchindrayne, and the extraordinary state of society and manners in the important district of Carrick. But no papers hitherto discovered appear to afford so striking a picture of the savage state of barbarism into which that country must have been sunk, as the following BOND by the Earl of Cassillis to his brother and heir apparent, Hew, Master of Cassillis. The uncle of these young men, Sir Thomas Kennedy of Culzean, Tutor of Cassillis, &c., was murdered, May 11th, 1602, by Auchindrayne's accomplices. The Master of Cassillis had for many years previous to that event been living in terms of open enmity with his brother; but during all that period he had maintained habits of the closest intimacy with Auchindrayne, and actually joined him in various hostile enterprises against the Earl. The occurrence of the Laird of Culzean's murder was embraced by their mutual friends as a fitting opportunity to effect a permanent reconciliation between the brothers; "bot (as the Historie' quaintly informs us) the cuntry thocht that he wald not be eirnist in that cause, for the auld luiff betuix him and Auchindrayne."* The unprincipled Earl, (whose sobriquet, and that of some of his ancestors, was King of Carrick, to denote the boundless sway he exercised over his own vassals in that district,) relying on his brother's necessities, held out the infamous bribe contained in the bond, to induce the Master to murder his former friend, the Laird of Auchindrayne. Though there be honour among thieves, it would seem that there is none among assassins; for the younger brother insisted upon having the price of blood assured to him by a written document. Judging by the Earl's former and subsequent history, he probably thought that, in either event, he would "kill two dogs with one stone;" and it is but doing justice to the Master's acuteness, and the experience acquired under his preceptor Auchindrayne, to conjecture, that, on his part, he would hold his bond to be used as a check-mate against his brother, should he think fit afterwards to turn his heel upon him. The following is a correct copy of the bond granted by the Earl, as transcribed from the original: "We, JOHNNE ERLE of CASSILLIS, Lord Kennedy, &c., bindis and oblisis ws, that howsovne our broder, Hew KENNEDY of Brounstoun, with his complices, taikis the LAIRD of AUCHINDRANEIS lyf, that we sall mak guid and thankfull payment to him and thame of the sowme of Tuelff hundreth merkis yeirly, togidder with corne to sex horsis; ay and quhill we ressaw thame in houshald with our self: Beginning the first payment immediatlie efter thair committing of the sad deid. ATTOUR, howsovne we ressaue thame in houshald, we sall pay to the twa serwing gentillmen the feis yeirlie, as our awin houshald serwandis. And heirto we obliss ws vpone our honour. SUBSCRYVIT with our hand, at Maybale, the ferd day of September, 1602. (Signed) "JOHNE ERLE OF CASSILLIS." LONDON GOSSIP ON LITERATURE AND ART. SOUTHEY and Wordsworth have lately visited us. The latter staid a week, the former a month: their company was much in request. There was something of a jubilee among our London bards on the occasion; nevertheless, the great Lakers kept themselves much apart from the thousand-and-one bards of the metropolis, and appeared but to a few. Southey has a poem, the scene of which is laid in Sherwood Forest, more than half finished; and Wordsworth, from a hint which I heard him drop, has been prevailed on by the persuasive Rogers to send a short piece to the press through the hands of Moxon. They were both in good health, and promise to live long. Rogers is much pleased with the success of his Italy, so splendidly illustrated by Stothard and Turner, and thinks of doing the same kind turn to the rest of his poems. I hope he will do it; for you must know that in art he has the best taste of all our poets. He is a fine sample of the old gentlemanly English school-full of fine wit and ready humour, and abounding in anecdotes. The Annuals, like other flowers of the field, are now no more; and the Libraries, some of which are beautifully embellished, are as plentiful as stars in the unclouded sky. Many men of first-rate fame are employed in these • Hist. of the Kennedies, p. 59. periodicals; and our best booksellers are all, more or less, interested in the success and sale. Some seek by skill and activity to advance; others cover their front, like Napoleon, with a cloud of puffing skirmishers, and endeavour to eke out with cunning what they want in strength. Lockhart, whose prudence is equal to his learning and genius, throws no work rashly upon the waters; and I may safely say, the Family Library has not yet sent forth a single indifferent book. It has fared otherwise with some of the other Libraries. I cannot, however, join in the sharp condemnation which some have passed on Galt's Byron, nor can I agree entirely in the censure passed on Sherer's Wellington. A change has come over one of our Magazines—the name of Campbell is away from the New Monthly, and the proprietor has lifted up his voice, and uttered praise, loud and long, on the first number from the hand of the new editor. But puffing won't do alone; indeed, it will not do at all, and cannot fail to annoy sensitive, or rather sensible, contributors, and make them withdraw. Campbell was too fastidious, was coy, and hard, and ill to please; but his name was high, and no doubt beneficial; his absence will likely be felt. A new Magazine is to come into existence on the 31st of March. It has one proprietor and two editors. There is money and talent enough, I hear: but Success is a coy lady; Genius sometimes cannot woo her, neither can money buy her. The editors are William Kennedy and Leitch Ritchie, and the booksellers, Hurst and Chance. Enough of pen and ink; there is, however, but little to be said about art. Wilkie has dipt his brush in Caledonian colours, and is dashing out John Knox preaching one of his fierce sermons to the backsliders of St Andrews. It will be a splendid work. The artist has recovered even more than his original health. I saw him lately engaged in a Scotch reel, and well did he acquit himself. A grand colossal statue of our late King, for your romantic town, is now to be seen in the studio of Chantrey; it is no less than twelve feet high, carries the sceptre of old Caledonia in the right hand, and looks right royally. I saw a bust of Southey, by the same artist-a very fine performance; the head has a kindly, and yet a proud look. Pickersgill has filled his studio with heads of "lords and ladies of high degree;" one unfinished of Sir George Murray-another of Lord Lyndhurst both excellent; and, better still, the portrait of the Countess of Pembroke, of the renowned family of the Sydneys. ORIGINAL POETRY. ADDRESS TO AN INCIPIENT EDITOR. An Excellent New Song, by Allan Cunningham. HERE'S to the critic's taws, Willie mine, Willie mine, Here's to the critic's taws, On learning's pilfering daws, Those who break auld Nature's laws, Lay most sharp and savage claws, Willie mine. Here's to the critic's ink, Willie mine, Willie mine, Here's to the critic's ink, Willie mine; Men wha rhyme and canna think, Those wha canna swoom should sink, Be gentle with your pen, Willie mine, Willie mine, MR BOOTH, author of the " Analytical Dictionary," has in the press, a work on the principles of English Composition. A work is about to appear, entitled "An Outline of Sematology," which, being interpreted, means, an Essay towards establishing a new Theory of Grammar, Logic, and Rhetoric. A Series of eight Views in Kensington Gardens, including the Royal Palace, and other picturesque points, engraved from drawings by Mr J. Sargeant, with Historical Illustrations, is on the eve of publication. We understand that Mr John Surenne has been appointed organist to St Mark's Chapel, Portobello. LITERARY CRITICISM. Lives of the Italian Poets. By the Rev. Henry Stebbing. With twenty Medallion Portraits. In three volumes 12mo. Pp. 343, 365, 361. London: Edward Bull. Edinburgh Bell and Bradfute. : 1831. THE roll of Italian poets begins with Dante, and we would say closed with Tasso, had not Alfieri arisen, a lonely and fiercely blazing star, after a long age of mere versifiers. The themes of which the bards of Italy sung, are those which have chiefly employed their compeers in every quarter of the world" fierce wars and faithful loves." But the national, and still more the individual character of the Italians, has lent to their poems graces peculiar and unrivalled. The features common to all are voluptuous sentiment, borne up by a buoyant and cheerful temperament. They are a set of practical Epicureans. They enjoy, with a high relish, all the beauties of nature -they drink deep of the intoxicating draught of love but if they do turn their thoughts to serious reflection, it is to lose themselves in the luxurious dreams of a mystical philosophy, most seductive, as it allows full scope to the revels of the imagination. A turn of mind, such as we have attempted to describe, may be traced in all the Italian poets, but more or less modified and varied. The difference is extreme between Dante, the stern and active political partisan, and the dreamer Tasso. Not less wide is the gulf between Petrarch, concentrating with the self-will of passion all the wealth of his fancy upon one theme, and making all his poems one long-drawn sigh, and Ariosto, ever gay, ever laughing-whose muse, if it ever look demure, is like the girl trembling at the pressure of her lover's hand, and the next moment breaking the tell-tale silence by an affectation of redoubled mirth. Yet these differences are all of them what logicians would term accidental, not essential. The nerves of Dante and Ariosto were of a firmer tone than those of their two lacrymose countrymen; the fancy of the latter was more versatile than that of the former-that was all. In Dante we find warm and glowing passion; Ariosto's laughter is half bypocritical of that kind which is used to cloak deep feeling; the other two, although like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, broke down from excess of those feelings, which temper and give a charm to the more manly characters of those we have named. The poets we have here selected for the purpose of illustrating our position are fair specimens of all. They possessed among them the peculiar excellencies of all the others, wedded to more powerful and loftier minds. Nor is the likeness the mere similarity of kindred; their acknowledged superiority enabled them, in some measure, to stamp their image upon the rest. We agree entirely with Mr Stebbing, that the lives of such a race of men afford a noble subject for the pen of the biographer. A history of their public and private life, recording all the outbreaks and flashes of their spirit, provoked by cross, or won by gentle incidents-notices of their great contemporaries in arts and arms—their roman Price 6d. tic adventures, and the light which they throw upon the state of society in which they lived, afford a theme worthy of an author uniting to the most susceptible imagination, of others, and an unerring judgment in appreciating what a mind that can read with accuracy the inmost thoughts is really worthy in human nature. The reader will see that we entertain high notions respecting the genius requisite for the proper execution of such a work, and will be ready to allow Mr Stebbing considerable merit, even though he should only approximate to our standard. One qualification which the reverend author has shown himself possessed of in a high degree, is patient research. His work is not hastily got up, in consequence of a superficial perusal of one or two second-hand authoritiesthe fashionable practice of the day. He has laboured like (no very new simile) the bee, bringing day by day her drops of honey to swell the winter store, carefully refusing every thing nauseous or worthless. His taste is no less conspicuous, in his selection, than his industry. There is nothing offensive in his volume, and much that gives pleasure. His judgments too, although we may sometimes dissent from them, are always those of a man of sound sense. And there is a vein of amiable, ingenuous candour running through the whole book. But there is a want of nerve and power, We have no felicitous expressions suggesting a whole mine of thought. The author does not vary his style to suit the varying character of the incidents and characters he describes; he is deficient in liveliness and graphic talent. He is always correct, and sometimes insipid. From what we have said, our readers will easily infer that Mr Stebbing is less successful in grappling with the characters of Dante, Boiardo, and Ariosto, than with those of Petrarch and Tasso. In his narrative of the latter, indeed, he has outdone himself. He has entered with full sympathy, and generous feeling, and exquisite tact, into the wayward feelings of this gentle, but wayward genius-this bruised and broken reed. As giving the fairest specimen of Mr Stebbing's powers, and at the same time as communicating a unity of interest to our extracts, we select them exclusively from the biography of Tasso. The outlines of the poet's history, perhaps more generally known in England than that of any of his great countrymen, free us from the task of a narrative. Tasso's boyhood foreboded his future character. "To this seminary Portia sent her Torquato, soon after completing his sixth year, and such was the ardour with which he attended to the lessons of the fathers, that he was Before the day dawned he would leave his bed, and wait so never happy except when listening to their instructions. anxiously for the hour of school, that his mother, in the winter time, was obliged to send him with a servant and a lighted torch to show him along the neighbouring street. "By the time he was ten years old, he had not only made himself master of Latin, but was far advanced in Greek, and composed orations and verses, which he recited to the satisfaction and surprise of all who heard them. His progress also well were his tutors satisfied with his thoughtful and devout in other kinds of knowledge was equally remarkable, and so disposition, that they admitted him to the communion when he was only nine years of age, and before he understood th in the host was the real body of Christ.' In the let which records this circumstance, he says, that notwithstanding his ignorance of the mysterious union, he was 'moved by a secret feeling of elevation, which the sanctity and reverence of the place, and the habits and the manner of the congregation, and the beating of the breast had contributed to awaken,' and that having received the elements, or, according to the erroneous doctrine of his teachers, the real body of Christ, he felt within himself he knew not what of new and unknown delight.' His tendency to reverie, and the exclusive cultivation of his taste, was encouraged by his father. "His company, it is said, was all his father required to complete the comfort he then enjoyed; and he lost no time in associating him in his favourite occupations, frequently employing him in copying and correcting parts of his manuscripts, but chiefly in the perusal of the best Italian works, both prose and verse. The wisdom of Bernardo, in this respect, is worthy of notice. It was his opinion that nothing could be more absurd than to employ the attention of youths in the study of the classics to the neglect of their own language, making them, he said, citizens abroad and strangers at home. In the study of Italian authors he made Torquato follow the same plan as is usually confined to the perusal of the ancients, teaching him to remark all the delicacies of which the language is capable, the peculiar beauties of the different writers, and by what means the most admired had arrived at the art of constructing such sweet and harmonious periods. Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, formed the principal companions of Torquato at this period; but as his father wished to make him eminent for general learning, and a man of business rather than a poet, he sent him, in November 1560, to Padua, in the hope that he would there become a proficient in the civil law. Had he reflected more carefully on the subject, it is not unlikely that he would have seen how improbable it was that a youth, who had hitherto been almost solely employed in the study of the poets, and who had shown the most decided inclination to follow their example, would become a very assiduous student of a science so contrary in its nature both to his taste and previous pursuits." But it was only his imagination and passions that were infected with this sickly taint-his mind at an early period showed its ambition and daring. to the opinion of Pythagoras, Plato, Marcus Tullius, its bias, is a painful subject of contemplation. "No part of Tasso's life is more melancholy than the period at which we are now arrived. He was on the point of ushering into the world a work which was destined to crown him with the greenest laurels the Muse ever wore, and thus obtain a rich and ample reward for all his labours. But before he could receive this precious fruit of his toil, he was becoming the victim of the direst evil to which humanity is liable-while the morning of his glory was dawning around him, darkness was gathering in his soul, and we see him become more dependent and helpless than ever, in the first hour the world paid universal homage to his genius. "He now reverted to the idea of his epic poem, of which he had drawn out the plan at the latter University. His studies in philosophy and criticism were all directed to this great purpose, and he collected from the works of the most celebrated writers whatever might assist him in the accomplishment of his grand design. His ideas on the subject subject, assumed, shortly after his return to Ferrara, a more "The melancholy to which he had now been sometime were as yet undetermined-his taste had been formed on the best models of classic composition, but his imagination many annoyances, and probably injuries, from his rivals at alarming character. There is no doubt that he suffered was captivated by the romance writers of his own and other Court, but it also seems likely that his nervous excitement countries. To fix, therefore, his thoughts on the subject had greatly magnified the idea of danger, and led him to which required such serious consideration, he wrote his dread an enemy in the most indifferent observer of his accelebrated Discourses on Poetry,' in which he examines the various theories of the critics, and the methods best cal- and he wrote to the Marchese del Monte, beseeching him tions. Even his servants at last became objects of his fear, culated to insure the proper objects of the art. The treatise on epic poetry was written expressly with a view to the the Duke of Urbino in threatening the servant with the to send him one, and to join to his own authority that of Gerusalemme,' and both that and the others were address-weightiest punishment, if he should ever be guilty of any ed to Scipione Gonzaga, as a testimony of the author's respect and gratitude.' The objections of his confidential critics must have been peculiarly annoying to so susceptible a mind. They were captious enough. "The assistance and inspection of the judicious friends, to whom Tasso makes allusion in the above letter, proved a source of the greatest uneasiness to him. His critics, it would appear, disagreed among themselves in all points, but that of discovering defects in the execution of the work. His replies to their objections are often very curious and ingenious; and we know not which to regard with greater wonder, the subtleties of his metaphysical reviewers, or the keen scholarship with which he answers them. One or two instances will serve to illustrate this subject. The Abate, Niccolò degli Oddi, began his objections with the Invocation: It does not appear to me correct that Urania should be addressed under the name of Muse, and placed in heaven-the name of Muse signifying nothing but a sound or song, which, according to Aristotle, cannot be in heaven; and sound not being there, the Muses are not there, and, therefore, the Invocation is not correct. It would be sufficient,' says Tasso, 'to reply, that, according treachery against him. Shortly after this letter was writtime before, that he had allowed himself to indulge heretiten, the idea recurred, which had troubled his mind some cal opinions while studying philosophy, and that he was subject to the wrath of the Inquisition, which he imagined therefore, set out for Bologna, as he had done from similar his enemies were endeavouring to excite against him. He, motives two years since, and presented himself before the fathers of the Inquisition, who, finding nothing in him deserving of punishment, dismissed him with some profit able counsel. acquittal. He now determined to preserve a perfect silence, "But his fears were not in any way diminished by this lest his adversaries should take advantage of some incautious word, and indulged a notion that he had been only suffered means might be found to ruin him utterly. He also began to escape the Inquisition this time, that some more effectual to think that some violent death was preparing for him, and that he must certainly fall a victim either to poison or power to cure him of these gloomy imaginations, and had the dagger. The Duke and the Princesses did all in their him frequently with them; but one evening, the 16th of June, 1577, when in the apartment of the Duchess of Urbino, he suddenly seized a knife, and aimed a stroke at the back of one of the attendants. The alarm occasioned by this circumstance was extreme, and as it was now concluded that he must be labouring under insanity, he was arrested, and placed in confinement in one of the apartments of the palace court," The state into which he was reduced by ill-judged rigour is awful. "It is easy to imagine what an effect these continual alternations of hope and despair must have had on the weakened frame and irritable mind of the more than ever unfortunate Tasso. Terrified at one time with the gloom of his solitude, and at another provoked by the insolence of his keepers, and the neglect with which he was treated by the Duke-now suffering all the anxiety of an ill-treated author, then agitated with sudden intelligence of fame and success-conversing during the day with the great men, who expressed their highest veneration for the powers of his intellect, and left in the full glow of thought as soon as night began to fall, to be locked up, a maniac among maniacs,-what a fearfully mingled stream of ideas must have passed through the mind of this noble, broken-hearted being! The wonder is, not that his reason sometimes wandered, but that it was not wholly lost and if we consider for a moment the terrible trial he had to endure, disposed as be constitutionally was to melancholy, we shall see greater cause than ever to admire the original strength of his intellect, all the powers of which were, no doubt, instinctively and constantly combating with the terrors which assailed the very life and being of his spirit. "He had been now for seven years a captive, and during the best part of the time, had been confined in a small and unhealthy cell. Though latterly removed to a somewhat less loathsome chamber, and allowed, for a brief period, to enjoy the free air of the country, he was still treated with rigorous austerity, and the hope that solaced him one day only served to deepen the despair of the next. Thus oppressed, his mind grew more and more willing to indulge in the reveries of a disordered fancy; his thoughts became visions; the terror of solitude, long suffered, was changed into a belief that the air was rife with beings of another world; all was confusion in his mind-splendid dreams-a resentful [sense of injury-a consciousness of power that scarce another human being possessed-and a knowledge forced upon him, at the same time, that not another could be found more dependent, more afflicted, or bowed nearer to the earth-with all these contradictory emotions in his soul, it is little to be wondered at that he every day became less capable of distinguishing between the suggestions of imagination and the real objects of sense, feverishly strong and active as was the former, and little as there was in the things around him to awaken any interest or keep alive any natural sympathy-the only principle in our being that can prevent the imagination from gaining dominion over the reason. "Tasso yielded himself a willing victim to his disordered fancy, and about the period at which we are arrived began to believe that he was haunted night and day by a malicious spirit, whose sole occupation it was to annoy him. We are fortunately able to give his own account of this strange matter, as he did not neglect to mention the new source of affliction to his friend Cataneo, to whom he thus writes:- I have received two letters from you, but one of them vanished as soon as I had read it, and I believe the goblin has stolen it, as it is the one in which he is spoken of, and this is another of those wonders which I have often seen in this hospital. I am sure they are effected by some magician, as I could prove by many arguments, but particularly from the circumstance of a loaf having been visibly taken from me, while my eyes were wide open, and from a plate of fruit having been taken away in a similar manner the other day, when the amiable young Polacco came to visit me. I have been also served thus with other viands when no one has entered the prison, and with letters and books which were locked up in cases, but which I have found scattered about the floor in the morning, and others I have never found.' "Nor was this the only torment he experienced from the feverish state of his imagination. Besides the miracles of the goblin I suffer many nocturnal terrors; I have thought I saw flames in the air, and sometimes my eyes have sparkled to such a degree that I feared I should lose my sight, and sparks have visibly flown from me. I have also seen amid the spars of the bed, shadows of rats which could not naturally be in that place; I have heard fearful noises, and have felt a whistling in my ears, and a jingling of bells and tolling of clocks for an hour together. And I have thought in my sleep that I was on horseback, and ready to fall and suffer some grievous hurt. I have had pains of the head, but not excessive; of the intestines, the side, and the legs and thighs, but not great; I am greatly weakened by vomits, a flux of the blood, and fevers; but amid so many terrors, and such great afflictions, there appeared to me in the air an image of the glorious Virgin with her Son in her arms, in the midst of a circle of colours and vapours; wherefore, I ought not to despair of her grace. And although it is possible that this was a mere fantasm, as I am phrenetic, and am almost continually disturbed by various fantasies, and am filled with an infinite melancholy; nevertheless, am able, by the grace of God, to limit my assent, which, according to Cicero, is the work of a wise man; I ought rather to believe, therefore, that this was a miracle of the Virgin.' "In writing to Eneas Tasso, he says, The devil, with whom I have slept and passed my time, not being able to find that peace with me which he desired, has become a regular robber, and, coming behind me when I am asleep, opens the closets which I am unable to keep a watch over; but as he has robbed me thus cunningly, I shall not trust to his not pilfering me again, and therefore I transmit to your Excellency the money given me by the Princes of Molfetta and Mantua, and by Signor Paulo Grillo, and the Marquis of, Este, making in all twenty-four scudi of gold, ten zecchini, and forty ducats di piastre. I beg you to acknowledge the receipt of this, and to use your exertions that I may escape from the hand of the devil with my books and writings, which are not more secure than my money.' Mr Stebbing's appreciation of Alfonso's conduct to the poet is just and discriminative. "Alfonso was not long in discovering how Tasso was vilifying him; and it is at this period of the poet's memoirs that the memory of his patron begins to wear the shade that has rendered it so unamiable in the eyes of posterity. Hitherto, the conduct of Alfonso appears to have been such, that, had he continued it, he would have merited being placed among the most respected benefactors of genius. He had left nothing undone to soothe the irritated mind of Tasso; had taken him with him to his favourite villa, reasoned with him on the folly of his apprehensions, written letters for him when he was distressed respecting the pirated edition of his poem, and borne both his melancholy humours and even violence with the utmost patience and forbearance; so that, up to the present time, he seems to have had a very fair claim to the gratitude of the unfortunate poet. The severity he was now about to exercise, afforded a terrible contrast to his previous kindness. Highly angered at the expressions which Tasso had used against him, or else regarding them as an additional evidence of his insanity, he ordered him to be secured, and immediately conveyed to the Hospital of St Anna, an institution for lunatics. In whichever light he considered the conduct of the poet, this procedure was unjustifiable. He had allowed him to return to Ferrara, and, sensible as he was of the weak and irritable condition of his mind, he was bound, by the common law of humanity, to do nothing to increase the disposition to malady. Instead of which, he treated him in a manner that would have inflamed a much sounder intellect than poor Tasso's had been for a long time past. To the destruction of his hopes, he had added the wounds inflicted by a cold and haughty contempt, and he had every reason to expect that the feelings of the injured man would show themselves, in words or actions, different to those of a calm and cunning courtier. But even supposing that the conduct of Tasso was more the effect of lunacy than of passion, which certainly ought not to have been punished so severely, he surely deserved a milder treatment than to be seized and conveyed to a common madhouse. He had, it is true, no claims upon the kindness of Alfonso, except those which genius has on all men, and especially on princes; but those claims are sacred, and Alfonso sinned against the noblest feelings that inspire the human soul, by immuring Tasso in a dungeon. His thoughts were dark and bewildered, but 'the light from heaven' was still in his soul, and that ought to have rendered his person as inviolable and sacred as that of a sovereign-genius being at least as plainly the gift of God as a crown." On the whole, we can recommend this book to the reading public, as one which will never lead them astray; although the author may sometimes fail to convey to u in their full force the strong characters of old It: |
