increasing years, and the Divine Comedy is a proof that it survived the death of its object. "Though we are not told so expressly," remarks our author, "it is impossible to doubt, on a consideration of all those passages and poems which relate to Beatrice, that his love was approved and returned, and that his character was understood and appreciated by a woman too generous, too noble minded, to make him the sport of her vanity." The imperious Florentine could have asked no worthier accompaniment to the gift of genius. Wretched indeed would the very possession of those gloomy energies have rendered him, had not Beatrice excited an unceasing current of passionate and kindly feeling, and thus tempered the bitter with sweet. It is true, had she never existed, he would have dreamed his terrible visions; he would have descended to the City of Woe, and wandered amidst sighs and lamentations, through regions "where the air is pierced by no star;" he would have listened to the moaning of the fiery surge; and taken the gauge of hitherto immeasurable torment; and we should then as now, have recoiled from the dreadful reality that glows through his descriptions. Yet his imagination would have been detained there, had not Beatrice, beloved and lost, allured his strong affections to the splendours of Paradise. She sustained his genius in its flight through the Empyrean. It may be observed in the latter part of his work, that whenever her immediate influence is withdrawn, his mind sinks from its elevation, and takes refuge in the metaphysical and tedious discourse of some saint or patriarch, more suitable to the homily of an ancient father, than the deep dream of the poet, surrounded with the visible glory of Heaven. Dante's life, as we have already intimated, was embittered with persecution and exile. He was born at Florence in 1265, and applied himself to liberal studies under Brunetto Latini, to whom he addressed a sportive sonnet, yet extant, enclosing his Vita Nuova. His earlier commentators relate, that he studied in the Universities of Padua and Bologna, and some have asserted that his thirst for knowledge led him as far as Paris, and even Oxford; a great effort in those days. At an early age he distinguished himself in the battle of Campaldino, and in 1291, after the death of Beatrice, from political considerations, he espoused Gemma, a lady of the noble family of the Donati; "who" says a quaint biographer, "through untowardness and evil temper, was but a sharpe thorne among the few flowers of life." His public calamities commenced soon after. Having been elected chief of the Priors, he gave offence in that capacity to one of the two factions by which Florence was at this time convulsed. The predominant power passing into their hands, in 1301 or 1302, they effected a decree of banishment against him, and confiscated his possessions. The rest of his career is involved in great ob 66 scurity; he has been traced to Padua and Verona, and writes of himself at this period, wandering over almost every part to which this our language extends, I have gone about like a mendicant, showing against my will the wound with which fortune has smitten me." He at last found a permanent refuge at Ravenna, with Guido Novella da Polenta, a prince who should be immortalized for this single act. His writings had at this time. gained him so great a renown, that he acknowledges it had in some degree reconciled him to banishment. He died in July or September 1321, of grief, induced by the rejection of an embassy he had undertaken for his benefactor Guido, to the Venetians, and was buried with great pomp at Ravenna. Florence repeatedly claimed his dust, but was uniformly refused, and the city which sheltered him while living, is still rendered sacred by his relics. We subjoin our author's translation of a fragment of a canzone, composed shortly after the death of Beatrice; it is happily rendered, and is a fine example of the devotion with which he afterwards traced her to the very throne of God. "Ascended is our Beatrice to the highest Heaven, to those realms where angels dwell in peace, and you, her fair companions, and Love, and me, she has Jeft, alas! behind. It was not the frost of winter that chilled her, nor was it the heat of summer that withered her; it was the power of her virtue, her humility, and her truth; that ascending into Heaven, moved the ETERNAL FATHER to call her to himself, seeing that this miserable life was not worthy of any thing so fair, so excellent!" We close our notice of this highly finished article upon Dante, with the succeeding extract, exhibiting the peculiar enthusiasm of his attachment: "Dante concludes the collection of his rime, his miscellaneous poems on the subject of his early love, with this remarkable note:-'I beheld a marvellous vision, which has caused me to cease from writing in praise of my blessed Beatrice, until I can celebrate her more worthily; which that I may do, I devote my whole soul to study, as she knoweth well; insomuch, that if it please the Great Disposer of all things to prolong my life for a few years upon this earth, I hope hereafter to sing of my Beatrice, what never yet was said or sung of woman.' And in this transport of enthusiasm, Dante conceived the idea of his great poem, of which Beatrice was destined to be the heroine. It was to no muse, called by fancy from her fabled heights, and feigned at the poet's will; it was not to ambition of fame, nor literary leisure seeking a vent for overflowing thoughts, nor to the wish to aggrandize himself, or to flatter the pride of a patron; but to the inspiration of a young, beautiful, and noble-minded woman, we owe one of the grandest efforts of human genius." Chaucer, and his wife Philippa Picard, next claim our attention; but it is Chaucer unaccompanied with those facts and associations which a little disfigure the memory of England's earliest poet. She has with much tact elucidated the history of his sentimental courtship, by extracts from his writings. We know not how it may be, but some other chronicles inform us that Chaucer was induced by John of Gaunt, on a promise of patronage and assistance, to marry the sister of the noble Duke's mis tress; and it is certain that this union had a most benign influence upon his worldly advancement. Some years after, treading in the steps of his patron, he espoused the cause of the Reformer Wickliffe, and was thrown into prison, whence he purchased a release by betraying his party, and revealing whatever he knew of its designs. He then retired to Woodstock, where he reviewed his writings, and composed, after his sixtieth year, the celebrated Canterbury Tales; which have been deemed," says a distinguished critic, "one of the most extraordinary specimens of active genius, and various talent, that England has produced." He died at Westminster in 1400, at the age of seventy-two. Lorenzo de Medici, to whom we proceed, for our auther does not strictly regard unity of place or succession of time, is not, she tells us, "Lorenzo the Magnificent-the statesman and the chief of a great republic," who finds a place in her pages, "but Lorenzo the lover and the poet, round whose memory hover a thousand bright recollections connected with the revival of arts and literature, and the golden age of Italy." Yet we are scarcely able to separate the idea of magnificence from any efforts of this extraordinary man. He appears to have assumed the inspiration of love and poetry, rather as a contrast to his graver pursuits, than as if it had been an original endowment of his mind." It is not to be wondered at," he remarks, "if I have endeavoured to alleviate my anxiety by turning to more agreeable subjects of meditation, and in celebrating the charms of my mistress, sought a temporary refuge from my cares." Every one, through the medium of Roscoe's elegant history, is intimately acquainted with his career. The name of his poetical mistress was Lucretia Donati, a lady of the same illustrious family that more than a century before gave a wife to Dante. Our author tells us,— "The engraving prefixed to Roscoe's life of him does not do justice to his countenance. I remember the original picture in the gallery of Florence, on which I have looked day after day for many minutes together, with an interest that can only be felt on the spot where the memory of Lorenzo is wherever we look, wherever we move. In spite of the stoop in the shoulders, the unbecoming dress, and the harsh features, I was struck by the grand simplicity of the head, and the mingled expression of acuteness, benevolence, and earnest thought in the countenance; the imagination filled with the splendid character of the man, might possibly have perceived more than the eye,-but such was my impression." Merely noticing a pleasant chapter treating of the Earl of Surrey, who has left some beautiful transcripts of the devotion attendant upon old-fashioned love affairs, we pass on to the absurd, wild, and fascinating Ariosto; he, whose inimitable production, the Orlando, has bewildered all its critics, and remains as a contradiction to the dogma that would try the productions of an authentic genius by established and unbending axioms. But for one so heedless of rule in his compositions, Ariosto was a most discreet lover; by temperament an ardent admirer of the sex, and secured from repulse by the attractions of intellect and person, throughout all his poems, with, we believe, but one exception, he has preserved inviolate the names and dignity of those who favoured his suit. His delicacy has been counteracted in some instances by the curiosity of biographers. His first serious attachment, our author tells us, was to Genevra, a young Florentine girl, of the family of Lapi. He appears to have remained long faithful to her influence; and four years after their first interview, he declares to her "she was then dearer to him than his soul, and fairer than ever to his eyes." We find him afterwards, in about his fortieth year, the passionate lover of Alessandra Strozzi, a beautiful and noble lady of Florence, with whom he afterwards consummated a private marriage. This connexion was kept secret during his life, on account of some ecclesiastical benefices, which would have been incompatible with the married state. Ariosto was distinguished rather for fertility of invention than a discriminating power of mind, and "his rose unfolding its paradise of leaves," as he terms Alessandra, is celebrated by him more for her personal than mental accomplishments: there is none of that exquisite development of spiritual loveliness with which Dante from his earliest sonnets portrays Beatrice. We may observe the same inequality in the enjoyment of renown, that prevails in the meaner blessings of life. Some individuals, endowed like angels, have walked from the cradle to the grave beneath a perpetual cloud. Enthusiasts and dreamers, they endured in silence, but also in pride. They could at will assume a more passionate existence; they could mould the harsh elements around them into a thousand bright creations, and thus privileged they passed through the world, excluded from its honours, perhaps despised by their cotemporaries. Years even centuries might elapse, before the imperishable relics of mind overcame obscurity and neglect, and then men would marvel that their ancestors had been so blind as to disregard the splendid intellect that was present with them; but such was not the fortune of Ariosto. His Orlando, with its brilliancy of expression, and rich imagery and adventure, not only gratified the natural craving for mental excitement, but it recalled that age of chivalry in which the nation scarcely dared, though they wished, to believe; and to this twofold charm its unparalleled success may be attributed. The prince and the mechanic, the virtuous and the profligate, were alike fascinated. They beheld their dreams and airy legends compelled by the subtle master into a poetical reality, and he received the reward of immediate fame from every rank in society. It is related of him, that having been appointed governor of a wild district among the Appenines, he was made prisoner when wandering alone, by a party of freebooters. The ruffians were proceeding to violence, when one of them recognised and proclaimed him as the author of Orlando. Respect at once took the place of outrage; he was conducted in safety to the vicinity of his guards, and told at parting that the poet had saved the governor. He died at Ferrara, in 1533. Our author has devoted a very agreeable chapter to Ariosto; the conception of character is, throughout, spirited and correct; and although she is too apt to build theories upon slight foundations, as they are always harmless and entertaining, we are scarcely disposed to blame her. We subjoin an extract from her enthusiastic article: "I can understand the self-congratulation, the secret enjoyment, with which Ariosto dwelt on the praises of Alessandra, celebrated her charms, and exulted in her love, while her name remained an impenetrable secret, Nor passed his lips in holy silence sealed. "But when he had introduced her into the Orlando, he must have had a very modest idea of his own future renown, not to anticipate the consequences. A famous passage in the 42d Canto, is now universally admitted to be a description of Alessandra. This is very strikingly introduced, and yet with the usual characteristic mystery, so that while nothing is omitted that can excite interest and curiosity, every means are taken to baffle and disappoint both. "Rinaldo, while travelling in Italy, arrives at a splendid palace on the banks of the Po. It is minutely described, with all the prodigal magnificence of the Arabian Nights, and all the taste of an architect; and among other riches is adorned with the statues of the most celebrated women of that age, all of whom are named at length; but among them stands the effigy of one so pre-eminent in majesty, and beauty, and intellect, that though she is partly veiled and habited in modest black, alluding to her recent widowhood, though she wears neither jewels, nor chains of gold, she eclipses all the beauties around her, as the evening star outshines all others. At her side stands the image of one, who, in humble strains had dared to celebrate her virtues and her beauty, (meaning himself.) But, adds the poet, modestly, 'I know not why he alone should be placed there, nor what he had done to be so honoured; of all the rest the names were sculptured; but of these two, the names remained unknown.' No, not so! for those whom Love and Fame have joined together, who shall henceforth sunder?" Spencer, so abounding in proofs of the influence of women, has a neat article in the work before us. His rich and antique verse displays him in the early fever of his passion, exclaiming in an agony of admiration for the whole sex "Demi Gods they be, and first did spring, From Heaven, though graft in frailness feminine." We trace him through the anguish to which he was long doomed by coquetry, to the vivid and rapturous consummation, when he calls upon the world to witness his happiness; "Behold while she before the altar stands, |