Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

Res Literaria: Bibliographical and Critical, for October 1820. Naples.
The plan of the following work is at pre-
sent so much in use, that it requires no ex-
planation.

Sir Egerton Brydges is a gentleman well known to be devoted to literature, and now a traveller, who may emphatically be said to drag at each remove a lengthening chain. It has also happened to us lately to be travellers, and wherever we went we found vestiges of Sir Egerton,-remnants of his mind, in the shape of English books, printed in foreign parts, for the benefit, we presume, of the natives. At Geneva, early last year, we encountered Sir Egerton's volume on political economy, with Packhoud's imprint-drawn from our countryman, no doubt, by his breathing the same air with Sismondi. At Florence, he had dropped a volume of tales and poetry. In the autumn, we were at Rome, and heard from our valet de place, as his first piece of news, that Sir Brydges had established a printing press in the eternal city, under the protection of a cardinal. At Naples, almost the first book we met with was the work, the title of which stands at the head of this notice, and which is the commencing number of a series, which the Chevalier Du Pont (as Sir Egerton Brydges was called at Paris) intends perseveringly to continue, unless he should be stopped by an invasion, or an eruption. Every man has his hobby, says Sterne; a printing press seems to be Sir Egerton's:

but that he should go abroad to print and publish English books, is surely strange! His ambition once was to "witch the world," with smart volumes, "from the private press at Lee Priory;" but, as if a private press in his own country was not sufficiently secluded from the interference of the impertinent curiosity of readers, he has now allowed his love of obscurity as an author, to carry him away to strangers altogether, amongst whom he may reasonably hope to be able to print and publish once a month, or oftener, without running any very imminent hazard of having his modest pages rumpled or fluttered by the eagerness of perusal.

Res Literaria is a sort of retrospective review, published in English, in face of the island of Caprea! The author's preface is succinct.

Reviews and journals of modern books are numerous. There is, at least, as much

necessity for bringing into notice what has been thrown aside into oblivion, by the operation of time, as what is new. There never was a period when it was more desirable to retrace our steps, and to come back again to the period of more sound and sober times.

Only seventy-five copies have been taken of this work.

Naples, Dec. 6, 1820.

The first article is on the life and writings of Petrarch; of whom our worthy Baronet, much to his honour, is a passionate admirer: his reasons for choosing this subject may be deduced-from his first paragraph.

Notwithstanding all that has been written about Petrarch, in the last three hundred years, a good life of him, and an adequate criticism upon him, are yet wanting. This does not arise from the paucity, but from the abundance of the materials for them. Nor are they materials such as They require a taste cultivated, enlarged, mere industry and labour will master. tender, refined, exalted: they require an intimate knowledge of the cotemporary history of the principal nations of Europe: they require a profound and philosophic insight into the movements of cabinets: but, what they most of all require, (next to taste) is an erudition, familiar with all the details of the revival of learning, which, at this time, was in the full vigour of the new of its wings.

expanse

Of all these required qualities, the Baronet well knows (and the world ought to know) that he is possessed! Our admiration of Petrarch is almost as warm as his; we think with him that " in finished grace, tenderness, and sweetness of expression, Petrarch has no rival;" but when he seems unwillingly to give the palm of preference to Dante, and asserts that, in some respects, the merits of Pe trarch's genius are more extraordinary, our brows drop, and our hearts refuse conviction, for we have been accustomed to consider Dante, as we consider Shakspeare, a holy star, with whose pure rays, the rays of no other planet can assimilate, and with whom to affect rivalry, or comparison, is to be guilty of sacrilege.

The following eulogium we think just.

To dwell for ever on the same subject; to give endless variety to that which appears to common eyes always the same; to find language for the most transient and hidden movements of the heart; to reflect these images with a clearness, in which not a speck disturbs the transparency; seems to be a proof, (if any proof of this can be admitted) that poetry is really inspiration! This will appear, to the taste of many, extravagant praise! But it is not said without long and leisurely consideration. The French have no sympathy for these simple effusions of what is properly called pure poetry; and they, and threir followers, will more especially deny it the merit of purity, on account of the occasional conceits with which some of the least excellent of the poems are deformed. (Page 4.)

We are pleased to see our author support the reality of Laura, and the reality and purity of Petrarch's passion: we have always been inclined to savoir mauvais gré to that cold earth-levelling spirit, which has attempted to throw doubt and ridicule on these subjects: they have a favourite romantic corner in our hearts, from which we should with sorrow see them expelled. To divide the name of Laura from Petrarch, would be like dividing the names of Hero and Leander, of Abelard and Eloise, names which, from our infancy, we have been accustomed to hear together, and which are rendered sacred, in their union, by long and delightful association. To disclose to us that Petrarch's love had no higher character than a common amour, would be to destroy one of our most cherished romantic feelings of which, alas! at present not many remain.*

We wish the worthy Baronet had, in his black letter researches, found more supporting arguments, for we would defend these subjects with a triple wall of brass: what he says, however, has its value. Our Baronet, though not Hercules, triumphs, on these points, over Mr. Hobhouse, whose notions are always grovelling.

"Mr. Hobhouse next attacks, in harsh terms, De Sade's interpretation of the word "ptubs into par tubus, instead of perturbationibus, as the printed copies have it. But

Baldelli has since found an ancient MS. in the Laurentian Library, which decides this question in De Sade's favour: for the MS. writes the word "patubs:" which must be taken to be "partubus," and not "perturbationibus." The passage is in the third dialogue between St. Augustime and Petrarch, De Contemptu Mundi, written in 1343."

we

Sir Egerton gives ample extracts to gratify the curious reader: must, however, content ourselves with the single one, so often given― ›

"A. Non hoc quæritur, quantum tibi lachrymarum mors illius formidata, quantumve doloris invexerit; sed hoc agitur, ut, intelligas, quæ semel concussit, posse formidinem reverti, eoque facilius quod et omnis dies ad mortem propius accedit, et corpus illud egregium, morbis ac crebris patubs exaustum,nullum pristini vigoris amisit.”

"It seems to me (continues the Baronet, after giving the extracts) most strange, that the account given by the poet, of his passion for Laura, should leave any reader in doubt of its existence; or of its purity, as well as of its force. The birth of two natural children, of whom the name of the mother has not been preserved

and one of them (— a daughter,—) apparently, a few months prior to the date of these Dialogues, is oppos ed by some critics to the sincerity of this attachment. But Petrarch insists on the unblemished and impregnable virtue of Laura: he admits that he has not been himself blameless. "Cum lorifragum et præcipitem" (me Laura) viderit, deserere maluit, quam sequi."- -" Incautus in laqueum offendi: amor, ætasque coegerunt. Firmavi jam tandem animum labentem," etc.

[ocr errors]

"Others represent this love to have been Platonic, because, in their

We have talked with many French people about Petrarch and Laura, and Petrarch's poetry; and we cannot call to mind a single instance in which the poetry was not ridiculed, and the passion disbelieved. The fair sex we have found particularly sceptical on the latter subject. We remember talking with a lady about Petrarch's passion, shortly after the appearance of Mad. de Genlis' Petrarque et Laure; she finished the conversation with this declaration: "Oui-oui! c'est beau, c'est tres beau! mais il y a une chose de certaine, qu'une telle passion n'ait jamais existée, et n'existera jamais!-c'est tout-a-fuit hors de nature.”

opinion, such a passion is a ridiculous chimera. Without admitting this presumption, a reader of fancy and sensibility will find both in these extracts, and in numerous passages of the poetry of Petrarch, signs of a temperament sufficiently earthly. Yet a mind gifted by nature, like Petrarch's, and trained as his faculties were, could easily give itself up to that visionary enthusiasm, which appears so improbable to vulgar opinion," &c. (P. 78.)

On the works of Petrarch our au thor has advanced nothing new. To account for the inferiority of his Latin works, he extracts the following well known passage from "L'Elogio del Petrarca," by Bettinelli.

"Che se dimandassi come fosse il Petrarca si elegante in volgare, e si poco in latino, altro dir non saprei, se non che nel primo fu creator del suo stile da Cino soltanto delineato; ma nel secondo fu educato dal suo secolo, e dall'esempio de' rozzi suoi costumi, che non distinguevano ne' latini l'oro dali altri metalli."

The objects of this article, the Baronet tells us, are to give the English reader some knowledge of Petrarch, "because (says he) I cannot refrain from thinking, that in the present day, he knows but very little of this great poet: and that little, upon very superficial and tasteless authorities." He would recall the literary world to the study of that great author, and conduct them to the original sources by which his character may be judged of. The biographers and critics of Petrarch he treats rather harshly; the Memoir of Lord Wodehouselee (he says) does the author little honour: Tiraboschi, he says, is dry; Ginguenè retains a French taste; and Sismondi " judges like a Frenchman of Petrarch's Sonnets." Mrs. Dobson's work, he styles," a bungling, gossipping, uneducated abridgement of De Sade,

De

that does not deserve notice.” Sade's Memoirs he esteems highly, and regrets that the book is become scarce. The best modern work concerning Petrarch, he affirms to be a life of the poet, by Baldelli + (a Flo rentine nobleman still living) a book little known in England.

This long, curious, and unconnected article, after insisting on the ne-cessity of recalling the public taste to good old established models, concludes thus:

should be taken as a conclusive, or even as It is astonishing that living popularity a strong proof of merit. In my own time, in the forty years that I have been old enough to make observations, I have seen the poetical taste and fashion change, in England, at least eight times. The two living poets, who held the sway when first became capable of judging, were Mason and Beattie. Soon after, the reign of Hayley commenced. Then came Cowper, and Burns. Even the Della Crusca school

glittered for its little day. Then came Darwin, whose dominion was as short as it was brilliant. The rest I leave the reader to fill up, lest I should offend those whom I name, or those whom I omit. Of all things I hate literary warfare the most. I resort to literature as a balm to the mind; as a peaceful refuge from the troubles of the world. To introduce angry and contentious passions here, would be to pour poison into the cup of gentleness, harmony, and delight.

We admire and respect the sentiment contained in the last lines; and we hope Sir Egerton may long continue to enjoy that "balm," "peaceful refuge," on which he places so great and so just a value.

and

The article contains literal prose translations of twenty-seven of the most admired Sonnets of Petrarch, and of two of his fine Canzoni, made (as we are informed in a note) by a young lady, the daughter of the writer: they certainly prove all that they were intended to prove, viz. "translate his Sonnets in plain prose, and a high degree of the poetical

Cino was a celebrated lawyer, of Pistoia, of a noble family. His Rime were published by Nicolo Ricci, at Rome, 1559; and again by Faustino Tasso, at Venice, 1589. Crescimbeni pronounces him the most sweet and graceful 'poet before Petrarch. The Italians consider him the first who gave a grace to Lyric Poetry. His style is now a little antiquated, but his thoughts are just. He died at Bologna in 1336, with the reputation of a learned man.

+ We coincide with Sir Egerton in this opinion, and recommend the work in question to the lovers of Italian literature.

Mr. Hazlitt makes a similar assertion-we forget, however, the number he mentions.

character remains: which" (continues the Baronet,)" is the most powerful of all signs, that, in him, the primary ingredient of the poetry is in the matter. It is in the sentiment or the image, not in the metaphorical

dress." There are also three poetical translations by the author; we are, however, quite of his opinion, "that they are far more delicious even in the simplest prose."

TIME'S TELESCOPE.

OUR attention has been attracted by a little work, which, though not of sufficient importance to call for a regular article, is still far from being unworthy of notice and attention. The title of it introduces this notice, and is, by the bye, the only part of the book that we do not like, for it does not at all explain the nature of the work to which it is affixed. We shall do this office for it. Time's Telescope, is an annual publication, blending something of the character which belongs to the Literary Pocket-book, (noticed in our last) with that of a general Almanack; but at the same time possessing features different from either of these, and peculiar to itself; and being altogether much more useful and compendious than both. Each annual Volume contains, first, an Introduction, consisting of a clear, and popular exposition of the elements of some one of the useful and interesting sciences. That which occupies the first part of this year's volume, just published, is British Ornithology. To the class of persons for whom this work is intended, nothing can be more attractive than the study of the natural history of English birds. The subject is treated in a popular manner; yet, without wholly neglecting the scientific part of it: and it is rendered doubly agreeable by the introduction of short and well-selected extracts from English Poetry, in illustration of the various matter as it comes forward. The treatise is closed, as in the preceding volumes, by a select list of books which treat of the subject at large.

The second, and chief part of this little work, has twelve divisions, dedicated to anticipatory notices of the twelve coming months, with indications of all the remarkable days of each month,-the origin of the different holidays, and saints' days, and a notice of the birth days of celebrated persons of all ages and nations. These latter are occasionally accompanied by short biographical hints, for they profess to be nothing more. As a specimen of this part of the work, we give the first that occurs.

"Jan. 17. 1756.-MOZART BORN. "When only three years old, his great amusement was finding concords on the piano; and nothing could equal his delight when he had discovered a harmonious interval. At the age of four, his father began to teach him little pieces of music, which he always learnt to play in a very short time; and, before he was six, he had in

vented several small pieces himself, and even attempted compositions of some extent and intricacy.

"The sensibility of his organs appears to have been excessive. The slightest false note or harsh tone was quite a torture to him; and, in the early part of his childhood, he could not hear the sound of a trumpet without growing pale, and almost falling into convulsions. His father, for many years, carried him and his sister about to different cities for the purpose of exhibiting their talents. In 1764 they came to London, and played before the late King. Mozart also played the organ at the Chapel Royal; and with this the King was more pleased than with his performance on the harpsichord. During this visit he composed six sonatas, which he dedicated to the Queen. He was then only eight years old. A few years after this, he went to Milan; and, at that place, was performed in 1770 the opera of Mithridates, composed by Mozart, at the age of fourteen, and performed twenty nights in succession. From that time till he was nineteen, he continued to be the musical wonder of Europe, as much from the astonishing extent of his abilities, as from the extreme youth of their possessor.

"Entirely absorbed in music, this great man was a child in every other respect. His hands were so wedded to the piano, that he could use them for nothing else: at table, his wife carved for him; and, in every thing relating to money, or the management of his domestic affairs, or even the choice and arrangement of his amusements, he was entirely under her guidance. His health was very delicate; and during the latter part of his too short life, it declined rapidly. Like all weak-minded people, he was extremely apprehensive of death; and it was only by incessant application to his favourite study, that he prevented his spirits sinking totally under the fears of approaching dissolution. At all other times, he laboured under a profound melancholy, which unquestionably tended to accelerate the period of his existence. In this melancholy state of spirits, he composed the Zauber Flöte, the Clemenza di Tito, and his celebrated mass in D minor, commonly known by the name of his Requiem. The circumstances which attended the composition of the last of these works are so remarkable, from the effect they produced upon his mind, that

we shall detail them; and, with the account, close the life of Mozart.

“One day, when his spirits were unusually oppressed, a stranger of a tall, dignified appearance, was introduced. His manners were grave and impressive. He told Mozart, that he came from a person who did not wish to be known, to request he would compose a solemn mass, as a requiem for the soul of a friend whom he recently lost, and whose memory he was desirous of commemorating by this solemn service. Mozart undertook the task, and engaged to have it completed in a month. The stranger begged to know what price he set upon his work, and immediately paid him one hundred ducats, and departed. The mystery of this visit seemed to have a very strong effect upon the mind of the musician. He brooded over it for some time; and then suddenly calling for writing materials, began to compose with extraordinary ardour. This application, however, was more than his strength could support; it brought on fainting fits; and his increasing illness obliged him to suspend his work. I am writing this Requiem for myself!' said he abruptly to his wife one day; it will serve for my own funeral service;' and this impression never afterwards left him. At the expiration of the month, the mysterious stranger appeared, and demanded the Requiem. I have found it impossible,' said Mozart, to keep my word; the work has interested me more than I expected, and I have extended it beyond my first design. I shall require another month to finish it.' The stranger made no objection; but observing, that for this additional trouble it was but just to increase

[ocr errors]

6

the premium, laid down fifty ducats more, and promised to return at the time appointed. Astonished at his whole proceedings, Mozart ordered a servant to follow this singular personage, and, if possible, to find out who he was: the man, however, lost sight of him, and was obliged to return as he went. Mozart, now more than ever persuaded that he was a messenger from the other world sent to warn him that his end was approaching, applied with fresh zeal to the Requiem; and, in spite of the exhausted state both of his mind and body, completed it before the end of the month. At the appointed day, the stranger returned;-but Mozart was no more!"

These kinds of notices, slight as they may be, are far from being without utility, if they awaken the young reader's curiosity, and induce him to search for more copious details.

The part allotted to each month, includes an account of the astronomical phenomena of the month, and an explanation of them; and is closed, by what is called the Naturalist's Diary, which points out the usual state of the season, rural scenery, &c. at the particular period to which it refers; notices the habits of the animal world at that season; and also the particular pursuits and amusements to which the season gives rise, either in the fields, the garden, or within doors. This part of the book, as well as the rest, is lightened and illustrated by neat and apt quotations, and occasionally by original communications, both in prose and verse. Time's Telescope is, altogether, a very pleasant and useful little work.

COVENT GARDEN.

THE DRAMA. No. XIII.

Mirandola. The appearance of this tragedy has well sustained the interest excited by its announcement. Nothing possibly could be more complete than its success, and, what is better, the success, in this case, is as merited as it has been complete. Mirandola is a drama essentially of passion: the heart is in every phrase; there is a race between feelings and words all the way through, and the former keep always first. The author has been evidently at work in a noble, and now too rare, spirit of sincerity he does not trifle with emotion; his agonies do not stand upon ceremony; he does not formally summon us to surrender our souls, but takes them by surprise, and we

of

are won before we knew we were attacked. He offers passages of particular beauty for our admiration; but we like him better for leading us on, through the "nice conduct the scene, amidst woe and anger, and doubt, and love, and despair,-subdued altogether to an humble obedience to the course of the history,agitated, trembling, sympathising with the agents, breathlessly regarding the situations,-impelled by every change of interest, and at length echoing with an involuntary groan the fatal knell of the catastrophe. To effect this, shows the wizard power of genius,—which is to be estimated far above the herculean strength of talent.

The real force of intellect, we ap

« AnteriorContinuar »