A hundred rivers springing from one well-head upon a mountain-top above the clouds; descending, as the slope broadens, in as many directions; and varying towards the lowlands with such sinuosities, that whoever traces one stream, will find it suddenly disappearing under ground; another emerging at that very point, traversing the surface in a contrary direction for a while, then dipping in like manner; while a third, a fourth, a fifth, and onward to the hundredth, in succession, do the same; each, in the track of the untiring explorer, showing itself and vanishing again and again, till utterly lost;—such are the vagaries of this romance of imagination, yet conducted in such organised confusion, that the mind is bewildered but for a moment, when a fresh "change comes o'er the spirit of the (poet's) dream," and the reader is absorbed, borne away, and contented to float along the tide of the tale, unfinished before, then newly taken up, and never flagging in interest, nor eventually impaired by all its abrupt discontinuances.
Incoherent, however, as the whole tissue of this and every other romance of chivalry must be, there is a moral interest in such fables, that lies deeper than any affected allegory, or the innocent gratification which marvellous stories will ever supply to human minds, loving and grasping at whatever is beyond their reach; an appetite for the great, the glorious, and the unknown, which intimates their spiritual nature, and their immortal destiny, by desires towards things out of the body, independent of the material universe, and contrary to the results of ordinary experience. These fictions, notwithstanding their unnatural and impossible details, picture real manners, characters, and events, such as were peculiar to the transition-age of modern society, in the most civilised regions of the Old World, when the blood of Goths and Vandals from the north, Greeks and Romans from the south of Europe, Moors from the west of Africa, and Arabs from the east of Asia, mingled in confluent streams round the shores of the Mediterranean; when, often engaging in war, commerce, or political alliances, they gradually associated their races, and originated new nations according to their respective localities. Hence the superstitions, customs, languages, and habits of life among the most heterogeneous tribes, bordering on the fallen empire of the Cæsars (their common prey), were engrafted upon those of the refined and intellectual people whom luxury had effeminated and prepared for subjugation by more enterprising and energetic, though at best but semi-barbarian, conquerors. Hence we frequently find, in chivalrous records, the most gross and incongruous stories of Oriental, African, or Scandinavian growth, allied to archetypes in classical mythology, or derived from ancient history; and only modified, enriched, distorted, or aggravated in grandeur, complexity, or terrible beauty, by those who adopted them,—the rhymers and romancers, even in the rudest periods, blending all together, or borrowing from each, according to their fancy. There is scarcely an image, a monster, or an incident in all their raving chronicles—wild as the dreams of lunatics, or beautiful as those of infants are supposed to be—which cannot be traced to Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Lucan, or Statius; so narrow is the range of human invention; and so inextricably connected with what we have heard, and read, and seen, are all the imaginations or the thoughts of the heart of the most original genius.
But the champions and the damsels, the giants and enchanters, nay, the dragons, the hippogriffs, and the demons themselves, in these legends, are but poetical representations of real classes and characters in society, such as existed, or were formed by the circumstances of the times, when war was the business, and gallantry the pastime of life, among the hybrid populations both of Christian and Mohammedan countries. The actors in the dramas of romance were, indeed, masked and buskined to raise them to heroic stature; yet the most disguised of these personages, in principle, passion, taste, and pursuit, were real men and women, magnified into monsters, like flies and spiders when looked upon through the eye-glass of a microscope. Orlando was but an exaggeration of the chevalier Bayard, as was the British Arthur of the English Richard, and Charlemagne himself of Francis I.
Ariosto, in following the fashion of contemporaries, lighted upon a theme to which his wayward and versatile genius was peculiarly adapted, and which gave it an opportunity of displaying all its peculiarities to the utmost advantage. Of these, the most enviable and least imitable is that perfection of art, which he perhaps possessed beyond every other writer, to say things naturally. All his wonders and prodigies are made so easy and probable, that to the most fastidious reader, who does not resolutely resist the spell of the poet, and deprive himself of the pleasure of being beguiled by it, they appear as they would do if they were actual events, from the daylight effect of his truth-telling style; for whenever his delight in the extravagant carries him beyond the legitimately marvellous, he disarms resentment, and prevents the laugh against himself by a quiet pleasantry,—becoming himself the Cervantes of his own Quixotes. Satirists, however, have done little to improve mankind: they have condemned and promoted vice; they have ridiculed and recommended folly. Instead of being the most chaste, severe, and instructive, it is notorious that (with few exceptions) they have been the most profligate, pernicious, and corrupting of all writers. Many of the most illustrious deserve to be crowned and decapitated, and their laurelled heads fixed on poles round the heights of Parnassus, as warnings to others, while they affect to expose sin, not to betray virtue; and while they declaim against lewdness, not to become panders to debauch the young, the innocent, and the unsuspecting. To go no farther than the example before us. If ever man deserved poetical honours, Ariosto did; and if ever poet deserved the curse of posterity for the prostitution of high talents, Ariosto does. Without presuming to judge him, even for his worst offences, beyond the present world, it had been better for many of his readers,—why should we not say, at once, for all of them?—that he had never been born. Whatever be her beauty, his Muse has a cancerous sore upon her face, which cannot be looked upon without loathing by any eye, not wilfully blind, where it ought to be eagle-sighted.
[94]History of Leo X. vol. I. p. 91. 4to.
[95]The lightning did not spare the laurelled bust of Ariosto, on his monument at Ferrara, some years ago; for the wreath (being of iron) was struck off from the marble temples by a flash, which entered the church during a thunderstorm.
[96]"At Bologna, Michel Angelo erected, in front of the church of St Petronio, a statue of Julius II. in bronze, which he is said to have executed so as to express, in the most energetic manner, those qualities for which he was distinguished; giving grandeur and majesty to his person, and courage, promptitude, and ferociousness to his countenance, while even the drapery was remarkable for the boldness and magnificence of its folds. When Julius saw the model, and observed the vigour of the attitude, and the energy with which the right arm was extended, he enquired from the artist, whether he meant to represent him as dispensing his benediction or his curse. Michel Angelo prudently replied, that he meant to represent him in the act of admonishing the citizens of Bologna. In return, the artist requested to know from his holiness, whether he would have a book in his hand. 'No,' replied Julius; 'give me a sword, I am no scholar.'"—Roscoe's Leo X. vol. IV. p. 306. 4to edition.
[97]Leo X. vol. II. p. 52.
[98]Ariosto seems to have had a horror of travelling under any circumstances:—
"Men's tastes are various: one prefers the church,
The camp another; this his native soil,
That foreign countries; as for me, who will
May travel to and fro, to visit France,
Spain, England, Hungary; but I love home.
Lombardy, Rome, and Florence I have seen;
The mountains that divide, and those that gird,
Fair Italy, and either sea that bathes her;
This is enough for me. Without expense
Of innkeepers, I roam with Ptolemy
O'er all the world beside, in peace or war;
I sail on every sea, nor make vain vows
When lightnings flash, for, safe, along the chart,
I see more lands than from the reeling deck."