University of Virginia Library

NOTES.

And in this cry they were joined by Goethe. Introductory Notice.—Page vi.

When Oehlenschläger, then a young man of twenty-seven, visited Germany in 1806, Goethe was among the first to recognise his genius, and to encourage the young poet to pursue the career which had opened so gloriously in his brilliant drama of ‘Aladdin.’ He incited him to be his own translator into German, and acting upon this instigation Oehlenschläger subsequently published his ‘Aladdin’ and all his best dramatic works in German as well as in Danish, writing the former language with a vigour and freshness which few natives have surpassed. A cloud, how arising Oehlenschläger himself never ascertained, obscured Goethe's affection for him in future years, but Oehlenschläger's enthusiastic regard for the poet of Weimar burned to the last as warmly as in the days when he dedicated to him his German version of ‘Aladdin’ in the following beautiful poem, which Jean Paul, in his own happy style, called ‘the inclination of a sun-flower towards its god.’

To Goethe.

Ah, so! A sweet repentant Magdalen.—Page 6.

The picture here suggested by the poet is manifestly the famous Magdalen of the Dresden Gallery, familiar in Longhi's engraving, and of which fine replicas exist in the Palazzo Borghese in Rome, and also in Lord Ward's collection. As a specimen of the extravagance to which the cant of criticism will lead even great men, it may be noted, that Tieck found great fault with the poet for making Silvestro hang up this picture in his chapel in the forest, in the Fifth Act, as a piece of barbarism shocking to the nerves of a dilettante. In the same spirit, he first maintains that the picture spoken of is the Dresden picture, and then proves elaborately that it could not be so. Of all men in the world, Tieck, whose fancy is erratic to a vice, should have been the last to blame the excusable license in Oehlenschläger, of indicating, as he has done in this scene, a picture which is familiar to every lover of art, and was therefore best of all fitted for dramatic reference.

You make the infant like a glowworm shine.—Page 11.

The allusion here is to the famous picture, ‘La Notte,’ in the Dresden Gallery, where the light, in accordance with the old legend, proceeds from the new-born babe, an effect which Correggio seems to have been the first to attempt, and in which he has never been surpassed. Vasari speaks with enthusiasm of this

picture as something ‘quite wonderful.’ But with all its excellence, the absence of the feeling, in the Mary and the other figures, of the divinity of the child on which they are gazing, makes this picture by no means so satisfactory as many others of Correggio's pictures of sacred subjects.

And artists now are held in such repute, That even the nieces of the cardinals Scarce serve them for their wives.—Page 16.

Here, and in a subsequent passage (p. 96), the poet alludes to the betrothal of Raphael to Maria Bibbiena, the niece of Bernardo Divizio, Cardinal of Bibbiena. This alliance was postponed for some cause which is not known, and she died before Raphael, as we learn from the inscription placed in the Pantheon, in accordance with the painter's testamentary injunction. It seems very clear from a letter by Raphael to his uncle Simone di Battista di Ciarla, dated 1st July, 1514, quoted by Passavant, in which the subject is mentioned, that on his side considerations of prudence and friendship rather than love prevailed. The delay in celebrating the marriage has been conjectured by Passavant and others to have been occasioned by the lady's ill health; but, where all is conjecture, it seems quite as likely that Raphael was in no hurry to break the connexion with the mistress who held control over his heart to the last, for a marriage in which his feelings were in no way interested. —(See Passavant's Raphael. Leipzig. 1839. Erster Theil, pp. 235–237. And Vasari's Lives. Bohn. 1851. Vol. 3, p. 59.)

There at the tombs I stood of Julius, and Lorenzo, and those forms immortal saw, The Day, the Night, the Twilight, and the Dawn Of Michael Angelo, in pure white marble.—Page 48.

Most English readers will remember the fine lines in Rogers' Italy, devoted to these celebrated tombs, where

‘From age to age,
Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.’

These are the two famous statues, one of Lorenzo de' Medici, grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and father of Catharine de' Medici, and the other of Giuliano de' Medici, third son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Both tombs are of the same character, each consisting of a sarcophagus, surmounted by a statue, and supported by colossal reclining figures, one male and the other female, those called Day and Night being on Giuliano's monument, and those called Dawn and Twilight on Lorenzo's. There is no apparent

reason why these names might not be interchanged, or, indeed, why the figures should bear these names at all. The purpose of these allegorical figures is difficult to divine. They seem inappropriate, as they certainly are unpleasing, the attitudes being constrained, and wanting the repose which the mind expects in monumental sculpture. But however we may feel disposed to question their fitness, they bear the impress of a mind habituated to grand conceptions, and form a noble basement for the matchless statues which surmount them. Of these the finest is Lorenzo, which is thus admirably described by a recent American writer,— ‘He is seated, and in armour, the face resting on the hand. The figure is so full of character and expression, that all the details are unobserved. It has the dignity and repose of sculpture, and the individuality of a portrait. The mind is too much moved to stoop to the contemplation of a fold of drapery or the position of a limb. The air of the figure is thoughtful and contemplative. It is that of a man meditating some great design, and not without a dash of the formidable. There is something dangerous in that deep, solemn stillness, and intense self-involution. Deadly will be the spring that follows the uncoiling of those folds.’—Hillard's Six Months in Italy. Murray. 1853. Vol. 1, p. 105.

Of the many glorious works of art, which the Crystal Palace will be the means of showing for the first time in adequate copies to the untravelled Englishman, none are finer than these famous tombs, of which casts have been obtained of the size of the original.

You have seen many of his pieces there In the saloon; his Leda, Danaë.—Page 68.

Correggio's Leda is now in the Berlin Museum, along with another of his pictures of the same class, Io embraced by Jupiter. The heads in both pictures are new, that of the Io being by Prudhon. The Duke of Orleans, in a squeamish fit at the warmth of the expression of the originals, had them cut out. His sensitiveness, to be consistent, should not have stopped where it did.—(See Kugler's Handbook of Painting in Italy.) Both pictures are masterly in their kind; but that kind is not of the best. The Leda is particularly admirable. Goethe must have had this picture in his mind, when writing the famous passage in the Second Part of ‘Faust,’ where his hero, in the search for Helen, has a waking vision of that incident which led to Helen's birth.

The Danaë is in the Palazzo Borghese in Rome. Correggio has done the most with a subject, which no skill can ever reconcile with pure taste. Danaë lies half reclining on a sumptuous couch, at the end of which sits Love, catching the golden rain-drops in her drapery. In front of the couch are two amorini intent on sharpening an arrow. We cannot agree with Kugler in thinking that

Danaë's figure ‘is modelled with exquisite softness.’ On the contrary it is rather meagre, as if by this characteristic, and the unattractive expression of her face, the artist had meant to indicate a hard and mercenary nature, in which true passion had no place. The Cupids are in his most exquisite manner. They are not like the Cupid of Horace's ode to Barine:—

‘Ferus et Cupido
Semper ardentes acuens sagittas
Cote cruenta,’

but playful urchins, full of the rosy life of childhood, crowing in anticipation over the bewilderment of heart and the odd contrarieties likely to arise from the sweet venom of their shafts. The despair, and madness, and death of the fiercer Amor are quite beyond their sphere. Of all Correggio's children, we know none more admirable than these.

And I—although the Pope would make me paint, &c.—Page 72.

The allusion here is to the circumstances under which the frescoes on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel were executed. Michael Angelo, who had no previous experience in fresco painting, and had returned to Rome, expecting to complete the sculpture for the magnificent tomb contemplated by Julius II. for himself, (of which the Moses, in San Pietro in Vincoli, and the figures of the Captives, now in the Louvre, were to form a part,) was greatly disappointed to find the idea of the tomb abandoned, and his imperious Holiness determined to have the ceiling of the Chapel painted by the hand which had shown its supremacy in sculpture. ‘The labour,’ says Vasari, ‘was great and difficult, and our artist, aware of his own inexperience, did all he could to excuse himself from undertaking the work, proposing, at the same time, that it should be confided to Raphael. But the more he refused, the more Pope Julius insisted; impetuous in all his desires, and stimulated by the competitors of Michelagnolo, more especially by Bramante, he was on the point of making a quarrel with our artist, when the latter, finding His Holiness determined, resolved to accept the task.’— (Vasari's Lives. Translated by Mrs. J. Foster. Bohn. 1852. Vol. 5, p. 254.) Michelagnolo summoned to his assistance several Florentine artists, including Granacci, Giuliano Bugiardini, Jacopo di Sandro, the elder Indaco, Agnolo da Donnino, and Aristotile da Sangallo, who were all versed in the processes of fresco painting. Their work, however, was so unsatisfactory to their master, that he determined to destroy all that they had done. ‘He then,’ says Vasari, ‘shut himself up in the Chapel, and not only would he never again permit the building to be opened to

them, but he likewise refused to see any one of them at his house. Finally, therefore, and when the jest appeared to them to be carried too far, they returned, ashamed and mortified, to Florence. Michelagnolo then made arrangements for performing the whole work himself, sparing no care or labour, in the hope of bringing the same to a satisfactory termination, nor would he ever permit himself to be seen, lest he should give occasion for a request to show the work.’

This dislike to allow his work to be seen while in progress gave rise to the incident mentioned in the text, or at all events to the story as told by Vasari. The Pope, finding himself as rigorously excluded as other people, is reported to have bribed Michelagnolo's assistants, and in this way to have obtained admission to the Chapel. Michelagnolo, suspecting what was on foot, had concealed himself, and, to startle the intruder, of whose dignity he was not aware, flung down a plank from the scaffolding.

This is the Saint Cecilia!—Page 90.

This glorious picture, now in the Gallery of the Academy at Bologna, was painted by Raphael, in 1513, to the order of a noble Bolognese lady, Elena Duglioli dall' Oglio, who was inspired to build a chapel to Saint Cecilia in the Church of San Giovanni in Monte, at Bologna. It was on contemplating this picture, that Correggio is said, in the well known anecdote, to have exclaimed, ‘Anch' io son' pittore!’ The anecdote is apocryphal, but no one will deny to Oehlenschläger the praise of having turned it to excellent account. Nor is Antonio's apostrophe to the picture more beautiful than true. Criticism before this consummate work gives place to an enthusiasm of emotion, for which no fitter words could be found than those which the poet has placed in Antonio's mouth. Our attention is fixed by the poet on the Saint Cecilia alone, and the same thing occurs on looking at the picture itself, for the Saint Paul and the Magdalen, though fine in themselves, seem intrusive. The celestial harmony has not reached their ears. This is one of the many great pictures in Italy of which no good engravings exist, and the influence of which is thus in a great measure lost.

The chaplet now is in its proper place.—Page 106.

Oehlenschläger mentions in his Autobiography, that the incident of crowning Antonio was suggested to him by his being caught by a branch in the manner described by Celestina in the text, in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, while meditating how to

compensate Correggio for the wound caused to his feelings by the unworthy project of Ottavio. ‘Never shall I forget,’ he says, ‘how, when I was reading the play to my Danish friends in Rome, and Christel Riepenhausen at the passage where Celestina crowns Correggio said, in a cool and indifferent way—‘Hm, that is pretty!’ Thorwaldsen started up, looked at him with flashing eyes, and exclaimed, ‘No, that is grand!’—Selbst-Biographie, Vol. ii., p. 151. Breslau. 1839.

What gain to thee the charming Fornarina?—Page 96.

The universal adoption of this name as applied to Raphael's mistress is a curious instance, among many, how a bold invention comes in time to be adopted as fact. Of Raphael's mistress nothing is known beyond what is recorded by Vasari, who in matters of this kind is not always to be relied on, that Raphael had a mistress, who lived with him in Rome, and for whom he made liberal provision on being seized by the sudden and rapid illness which carried him off. The name ‘La Fornarina,’ according to Passavant (vol. i. p. 227), is used for the first time in the middle of the last century by T. Puccini (‘Real Galleria di Firenze,’ p. 6.) and yet this name is repeated as confidently now-a-days, as though it had been regularly transmitted from Raphael's own time. Who the lady was, or what were her peculiar fascinations, is merely a matter of conjecture; but that she possessed qualities of a rare and noble order no one can doubt who has felt the elevation and sweetness, unequalled by any other artist, which distinguish Raphael's women. Such a man could never have loved ignobly, and the intercourse with a spirit so gloriously endowed as his must have developed all the latent womanly excellence, which, in the first instance, had attracted Raphael towards her. Of the many portraits, scattered through the galleries of Italy, which bear her name, Passavant, in his ‘Life of Raphael,’ (vol. i. p. 244, et seq.) satisfactorily shows, that the only one which can be genuine is that in the Pitti Palace in Florence. The portrait in the Barberini Palace in Rome, which is generally received as the likeness of Raphael's mistress, speaks forcibly against the claim set up for it, in the cold and unintellectual characteristics of the face, and the absence of every quality calculated to attract, or at least to hold under the spell of years, a man of refined tastes and thoughtful habits. But the historical evidences are conclusive against both this and the more agreeable female portrait in the tribune of the Uffizi in Florence. It must gratify all who have lingered over the winning, and noble, and most womanly fear tures of the portrait in the Pitti Palace, shaping a history for he-

who so looked and smiled with such ‘serious sweetness,’ to be informed, upon grounds which place the question almost beyond a doubt, that this picture preserves for us the lineaments on which Raphael gazed with the growing fondness of years of intimacy, and that the arguments in favour of this conclusion are confirmed by the fact, that it is the same face which we see idealised in his Saint Cecilia and in the Madonna di San Sisto. This portrait is thus spoken of by the eloquent American writer quoted in a previous note:—‘The face is not one of rare beauty, nor is it in the earliest bloom of youth, but it is a winning and cordial face, breathing gentleness, warmth of heart, and resolute firmness of purpose, were it needed. It is, too, a domestic countenance, suggesting a happy wife and mother, and a home brightened by an active spirit and a loving nature. There is so much character and such marked individuality in the countenance, that we cannot pass it by as a mere ‘Portrait of a Lady.’ We are constrained to pause and speculate, and to say to ourselves, ‘Who were you that look out of the canvas with that loving, sensible, animated face?’ But we ask in vain. It is a fragment of the past, telling no story, and linked to no associations. It is a face without a history.’— (Six Months in Italy, Vol. i., p. 121). Learn from Passavant that this is indeed the portrait of Raphael's mistress, and what better history can be desired for such a face?

Thou from thy mother didst inherit them, And she from hers, &c.—Page 123.

Oehlenschläger probably refers in this passage to the desperate resolution of the Cimbrian women after the great defeat by Marius of the Cimbrian army, at the Adige (B. C. 102.) ‘The first act of the wives of the Cimbri,’ says Michelet, in his History of France, ‘was to set their children at liberty by death; they strangled them, or cast them under the wheels of their waggons. They then hanged themselves; fastening themselves by a running knot to the horns of their oxen, and goading them on so as to ensure their being trampled to pieces.’

How gladsomely the green smiles forth on me, Like hope from out the blue eternity.—Page 124.

Green, among the northern nations, is regarded as the colour of hope. The whole of this passage, like many others in Oehlenschläger's writings, was suggested by an incident in his own life, when in Germany in 1806. ‘In order to enjoy Goethe's society

for other eight days,’ he writes, ‘I went to Jena, where he passed some time previously to making his usual summer trip to Carlsbad. It was a sultry day when I walked from Weimar to Jena; I was warm, and slaked my thirst hurriedly at an ice-cold spring by the wayside. When I reached Jena, I felt a contraction at the chest, which at first caused me some uneasiness, and I thought,—‘How if you should have done yourself harm by the draught of cold water when you were over-heated?’ I was along with Goethe in the house of Fromman, the bookseller, but the spasms were so violent that I could not fully enjoy his society. Still I did not mention to any one what I was suffering. Looking out of the window, I beheld a large brilliant rainbow, in which the line of green, the colour of hope, was particularly bright. As I gazed upon it, my alarm vanished; and two days afterwards my pain was gone. But the feeling of that day and the image of the rainbow hovered before my mind's eye, when, three years afterwards, I composed the fifth act of Correggio.’—Meine Lebens-Erinnerungen, Vol. ii., p. 62.