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rogative? Neither the genius of Mr. West, great as I willingly admit it to be, nor that of our great Barry, nor of Michel Angelo himself, the mightiest mind that ever ennobled the art, can render that sublime which is in itself inherently ab surd. And surely if it be absurd to paint a human head upon a horse's neck, with the body of a fowl, ending in a fish's tail, it is not less so to heap heads, tails, horses, fish, lions, and cupids, one upon the other. There will come a time when such gross allegories will be deemed as repugnant to true taste as the gross Anthropomorphism of Catholic church pictures is to true religion. The invi sible world is not within the painter's province; there is a commandment of common sense which forbids him to make unto himself the likeness of any thing that is in Heaven above.

225.

Tirante el Blanco.

What could possibly have induced:

Cervantes to speak of this book in terms which look like praise, or which could possibly be supposed to imply any thing like commendation? I persevered.hrough the Italian translation, and the disgust which it excited was certainly rewarded by many curious passages; but consider ed as a whole, never did I meet with any work which implied so beastly a state of feeling in the author.

It begins with a Count William of Varoich taking leave of his wife, under a pretence of going to the Holy Land, and turning hermit near his own home. So far it is the story of my old friend Guy. This hermit recovers England from the Moors, and then returns to his hermitage. Great feasts are made for his victories, Tirante sees him as he is on. the way to court upon this occasion, and visits him again on his return, when ther history of his exploits there is related by his kinsman Deofebo. Tirante then goes to Rhodes, which the, Genoese

were about to betray to the Soldan, but he saves the island, and destroys the infidels. His next adventure is to make Ricomana, the Princess of Sicily, marry Filippo, a younger son of the King of France who is under his protection. This Filippo is half a fool, and the instances of his ill breeding and want of all princely dignity, and of Tirante's address in concealing them, and interpret ing them in a favourable manner, are not a little whimsical. This done, Ti. rante offers his services to the Emperor of Constantinople, falls in love with hist daughter the Princess Carmesina, and lets her know it by means of a mirror in which he bids her look for the picture of his mistress. His wars with the Turks, and his amours, occupy the remainder of the first book, and a great part of the second. The damsel Piacer de mia vita is his great friend, and a certain Vedova riposata, who is amorous of him herself, his great enemy.

A storm drives him from Constanti nople to Barbary, where he is made a slave, but gradually obtains such power, that at last he conquers and converts all the Kings in that country, and returns with them, as his allies, to relieve the Emperor. Then he defeats the Turks, reconquers all the places which they had taken, and makes a peace for an hundred years. Carmesina is given him in marriage, as the reward of these services; but as he is returning to complete the ceremonies, he is seized with a pleurisy, makes his will, and dies. The Emperor dies next. Carmesina dies a few hours afterwards of grief, and the Empress then marries Hippolito, a cousin. of Tirante, with whom she had long carried on an adulterous intercourse.

The worst romance which I ever before met with is pure when compared with this. Its obscenity, however, is not so extraordinary as the grossness of manners which it represents, and which exceeds

every thing I ever heard of elsewhere. I should like to see how much of it is imputable to the Italian* translator. Nothing can be so strange as the mix. ture of these abominations with the grave theology of the book. In one place there is a is a discourse upon the Trinity, and in another there is a ser mon! The personages write letters, make long speeches, and quote the fathers and the philosophers.

There is no a single adventure of chivalry throughout the whole book; in this it differs from all other romances of its age: but its total want of the spirit of chivalry is still more remarkable, and I am at a loss to conceive where or how

* The King of France (T. 1, P. 139) is said to be superior in dignity to all other Kings in Christendom. From this and other passages of like import, I suspect that the translator, being a partizan of France, has interpolated the book with language which could not have proceeded from a Spaniard. He may therefore very probably have cantharidized it to the taste of the French court,

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