and the first poets were one and the same. The very name of poet is
proof that he was right. Inquiries have been made into the origin of
that word; and, although the theories have varied somewhat, the most
reasonable view on the whole is this: that in early days, when men
were rude and unformed, but full of a burning desire--which is part
of our very nature--to know the truth, and especially to learn about
God, they began to feel sure that there really is some higher power
that controls our destinies, and to deem it fitting that homage should
be paid to this power, with all manner of reverence beyond that which
is ever shown to men, and also with an august ceremonial. Therefore,
just as they planned for grand abodes, which they called temples, and
for consecrated servants, to whom they gave the name of priests, and
for magnificent statues, and vessels of gold, and marble tables, and
purple vestments, they also determined, in order that this feeling of
homage might not remain unexpressed, to strive to win the favour of
the deity by lofty words, subjecting the powers above to the softening
influences of songs of praise, sacred hymns remote from all the forms
of speech that pertain to common usage and to the affairs of state,
and embellished moreover by numbers, which add a charm and drive tedium
away. It behoved of course that this be done not in every-day fashion,
but in a manner artful and carefully elaborated and a little strange.
Now speech which was thus heightened was called in Greek _poetices_;
so, very naturally, those who used it came to be called _poets._
Who, you will ask, is my authority for this? But can you not dispense
with bondsmen, my brother, and have a little faith in me? That you
should trust my unsupported word, when I tell you things that are true
and bear upon their face the stamp of truth, is nothing more, it seems
to me, than I have a right to ask of you. Still, if you find yourself
disposed to proceed more cautiously, I will give you bondsmen who are
perfectly good, witnesses whom you may trust with perfect safety.
The first of these is Marcus Varro, the greatest scholar that Rome
ever produced, and the next is Tranquillus, an investigator whose
work is characterised always by the utmost caution. Then I can add a
third name, which will probably be better known to you, Isidore. He
too mentions these matters, in the eighth book of his _Etymologies_,
although briefly and merely on the authority of Tranquillus.
But you will object, and say, "I certainly can believe the saint, if
not the other learned men; and yet the fact remains that the sweetness
of your poetry is inconsistent with the severity of my life." Ah! but
you are mistaken, my brother. Why, even the Old Testament fathers made
use of poetry, both heroic song and other kinds: Moses, for example,
and Job, and David, and Solomon, and Jeremiah. Even the psalms, which
you are always singing, day and night, are in metre, in the Hebrew; so
that I should be guilty of no inaccuracy or impropriety if I ventured
to style their author the Christian's poet. Indeed the plain facts
of the case inevitably suggest some such designation. Let me remind
you, moreover, since you are not inclined to take anything that I
say to-day without authority, that even Jerome took this view of the
matter. Of course these sacred poems, these psalms, which sing of the
blessed man, Christ,--of his birth, his death, his descent into hell,
his resurrection, his ascent into heaven, his return to judge the
earth,--never have been, and never could have been, translated into
another language without some sacrifice of either the metre or the
sense. So, as the choice had to be made, it has been the sense that has
been considered. And yet some vestige of metrical law still survives,
and the separate fragments we still call verses, very properly, for
verses they are.
So much for the ancients. Now as regards Ambrose and Augustine and
Jerome, our guides through the New Testament,--to show that they too
employed poetic forms and rhythms would be the easiest of tasks; while
in the case of Prudentius and Prosper and Sedulius and the rest the
mere names are enough, for we have not a single word from them in
prose, while their metrical productions are numerous and well known.
Do not look askance then, dear brother, upon a practice which you
see has been approved by saintly men whom Christ has loved. Consider
the underlying meaning alone, and if that is sound and true accept it
gladly, no matter what the outward form may be. To praise a feast set
forth on earthen vessels but despise it when it is served on gold is
too much like madness or hypocrisy....
But enough of preface, and of apology for form and style. Let me come
to the point, without further explanation. You must know that three
summers ago, when I was in Gaul, the heat drove me to the Fountain of
the Sorgue, which we once fixed upon, you will remember, as the place
where we would pass our life. By the grace of God, however, a far more
safe and tranquil abode was being prepared for you; while I was to be
denied the enjoyment of even the little tranquillity that would have
been possible there, since fortune was planning to raise me to a much
higher station, very little to my liking.
Well, here I was, with my mind divided, afraid to undertake a task of
any magnitude while I was under such a burden of care, and yet quite
unable to be altogether idle, because I have been nourished from my
infancy on activity, an activity which I hope has been praiseworthy,
but which I know has been incessant. So I chose a middle course,
postponing all work that was of much importance but doing little odds
and ends of writing, trifles that would help me pass away the time.
Now the very nature of the region, the forest recesses to which the
coming of dawn made me long to flee and forget my cares, and from
which only the return of night could bring me home, suggested that
I sing a woodland strain. Accordingly I began to compose a pastoral
poem, in twelve eclogues, a thing that I had long had in mind; and you
would scarcely believe me if I told you in how few days I had it all
completed, under the stimulus of the place.
Now the first of these eclogues, in accordance with the intention that
I had all along entertained, was about our two selves. Consequently it
has won the distinction of being chosen to be sent to you; whether with
the result of giving you pleasure or of completely spoiling all your
pleasure I scarcely can decide. But that is neither here nor there.
In either case this kind of poetry is one that cannot be understood
unless a key to it is furnished by the person who constructed it. So,
as I would not have you weary yourself to no purpose, I must give you a
brief outline, first of what I say, then of what I mean by it.
Two shepherds are introduced, for it is of the pastoral style. Pastoral
names are given them, naturally: Silvius and Monicus. Silvius, seeing
Monicus lying all alone in a cave, happy and at his ease, envies him
and speaks to him, expressing amazement at his good fortune, and
lamenting his own estate. Monicus may forget his flocks and fields, and
think of rest alone, while he must make his painful way over the rough
hills. He marvels the more at this great difference in their lot from
the fact that, as he expresses it, one and the same mother bore them
both,--so that we may understand that they are brothers. Monicus, in
response, throws all the blame for this hard life on Silvius himself,
saying that he is under no constraint whatever, but is wandering of
his own free will through the trackless forests and over the mountain
summits. Silvius replies that there is a reason for these wanderings;
the reason is love, nothing less than love of the Muse. To make
this clear he begins a rather long story of two shepherds, who sing
very sweetly. He tells how he heard one of them in his boyhood, and
afterwards the other, and was so captivated by them that he began to
neglect everything else. He has been following them eagerly through the
mountains, and while doing so has learned to sing, with a skill that
others have praised, although he himself is not yet satisfied with it;
and he intends to struggle on toward the summit, and either reach it or
perish in the attempt.
Monicus now begins to urge Silvius to come into the cave, for he
will hear there even sweeter singing. Presently, though, he breaks
off, suddenly, as if he saw signs of agitation in the other's face.
Silvius, however, offers some excuse, and Monicus continues. When he
has finished, Silvius asks who this shepherd is that sings so sweetly;
never before has he heard him mentioned. Thereupon Monicus, in the
roundabout way that would be natural in an artless shepherd, instead
of giving his name describes the land of his birth, making mention,
after the fashion of rustics, who often wander in telling a story, of
two rivers that spring from one source. Then immediately, as if he saw
that he had made a mistake, he turns his words round, and where he had
begun to speak of two rivers he goes on to tell of one, which flows
from two sources. Both of these are in Asia. Silvius declares that
he knows this river, citing in confirmation the fact that a certain
youth who goes clad in hairy raiment bathes Apollo in it. In that
region, continues Monicus, a singer has arisen. Silvius, upon hearing
these words, remembers that he has heard of this man, and proceeds
to speak slightingly of his voice and mode of singing, exalting his
own by comparison. But Monicus objects, and heaps upon the far-away
singer well-deserved praise. Thereupon Silvius after a time pretends to
acquiesce, and says that later he will return and test the sweetness
of these songs; now he must hurry away. Monicus, wondering at this,
begs to know the reason of his haste, and learns that Silvius is intent
upon a song of his own which he has begun to compose, concerning a
certain famous youth whose deeds he is briefly reviewing, and that he
consequently has no leisure now for other things. Monicus accordingly
brings the conversation to an end. He bids Silvius good-bye, concluding
with an earnest exhortation to weigh well the dangers and chances of
such delay. And there you have the sum and substance of the narrative.
Now as to its meaning. The shepherds who converse are ourselves. I am
Silvius, you are Monicus. These names are chosen for the following
reasons: the former, partly because the scene of the eclogue is of a
sylvan character, partly because I always have felt, from my earliest
childhood, a hatred of cities, implanted in me by nature, and a love
of sylvan life, which has led many of our friends to style me Sylvanus
much more frequently than Francesco. Then the other name comes from the
fact that there was one of the Cyclops who was called Monicus, that is
to say, one-eyed, and there seemed a certain fitness in applying the
name to you, since of the two eyes which we mortals all use, one to
behold heavenly things and the other those of the earth, you have cast
away that which looks earthward and are content to employ the nobler
one alone.
The cave, where Monicus dwells in solitude, is Montrieux, where you are
living your life in the midst of grottoes and woods. Or it may be taken
for the very cave of Mary Magdalene, close by your monastery, the place
where she passed her period of penitence, and where God lent the props
of his grace to your vacillating heart and made you steadfast in the
holy purpose which you had so often discussed with me.
For flocks and fields, which you are said to care for no longer,
understand your fellow-men and their haunts, which you abandoned
when you fled away into solitude. The statement that we had one and
the same mother, and father too for that matter, is not allegory but
naked truth. The word sepulchre[2] is to be taken as referring to
our final abode. The meaning is that heaven awaits you, but Tartarus
me, unless divine mercy comes to my rescue. Or the sentence can be
taken literally, just as it reads, for you have now a sure abode,
and consequently a fairly sure hope of sepulture, while I am still
wandering about at random, and everything in my future is quite unsure.
The inaccessible peak, which Monicus upbraids Silvius for struggling
toward, panting and exhausted though he is, is the height of fame,
the rarer sort of fame, which but few succeed in attaining to. The
deserts where Silvius is said to wander are scholarly pursuits.
These to-day are desert places indeed, being in some cases forsaken
outright, through love of money, in others despaired of and neglected,
in consequence of intellectual sluggishness. The mossy rocks are the
rich and great, the moss being their inherited wealth, which has slowly
gathered about them. Murmuring fountains can be used of men of letters
and of those who have the gift of eloquence, inasmuch as little streams
of intellectual influence flow from the well-springs of genius that are
within them, with a sound, so to speak, that charms and delights us.
As for Silvius' swearing by Pales, that is a shepherd oath, for Pales
is the shepherds' goddess. We may understand there Mary, who is not a
goddess, to be sure, but yet is the mother of God. Parthenias is Virgil
himself. It is not a name of my devising. We read in his biography that
he well deserved to be styled Parthenias, or the virgin; so his whole
life showed. That the reader may be sure to understand this reference
the place is added; the region, as I express it, where Benacus, a lake
of Cisalpine Gaul, produces a son that closely resembles himself. This
son is the Mincius, a river that we associate with Mantua, which is
Virgil's native town.
On the other hand, the shepherd of noble blood who has been brought
here from another land signifies Homer. In that passage almost every
word has a meaning. Even the _inde_, which is put for _deinde,_ is used
not without a certain mysteriousness, seeing that I came in contact
with Virgil when I was a boy, but with Homer _afterwards_, when I was
somewhat advanced in years....[3] The epithet _noble_ is of course
Homer's by right, for what is more truly noble than his language or
mind? Again, _I know not from what valley he has come_ was added
because there are varying opinions as to the place of his birth, no
one of which have I accepted in that place in the eclogue. Finally,
that Virgil _drank at the Homeric spring_ is a fact which is known
to everyone who has to do with poetry. The _mistress_ of whom they
both are said to be worthy is Fame, for whose sakes they are poets.
Except for their mistresses lovers would not sing. The _bristling
forest_ and the _mountains that rise into the air_, at which Silvius
is amazed because they do not follow after these sweet singers, are
the uncultivated multitude and the persons who occupy high stations.
The _descent from the mountain-tops_ to the bottom of the valleys,
and the ascent from the valleys into the mountains again, which
Silvius refers to in speaking of himself, are the transition from
the heights of theory to the low and level ground of practice, and,
conversely, the movement in the opposite direction, when our attitude
changes. The _fountain_ which praises the singer is the chorus of
scholars. The _dry and barren crags_ are the ignorant and illiterate,
who, like the rocks where echo dwells, possess mere voice and power
of agreement, without any power of discrimination. The _nymphs_, the
goddesses of the fountains, are the divine minds of scholars. The
_threshold_ over which Monicus invites Silvius to pass is that of the
Carthusian order, into which assuredly no one has ever been lured by
deception, or against his will, as many persons have been into other
religious bodies. The _shepherd_ whose singing Monicus prefers to
Homer and Virgil is no other than David. The mention of _singing to
the psaltery_ is peculiarly appropriate in his case, because of the
psalms, which are his work. _In the middle of the night_, on account
of the singing of the psalms in your churches at early dawn. The _two
rivers from a single source_, as Monicus puts it first by mistake, are
the Tigris and the Euphrates, well-known streams of Armenia. Then the
_single river from a double source_ is the Jordan, in Judæa. For this
fact we have many authorities, among them Jerome, who was a diligent
student of those regions and lived there for a long time. The names
of the two sources are Jor and Dan. By their union both the stream
and its name are formed. The Jordan empties, it is said, into the
Sea of Sodom, where we are told that the fields are strewn with ashes
from the burning of the cities. In this river Christ, we learn, was
baptised by John. So the _hairy youth_ is John the Baptist, who was
but a youth, virgin, pure, innocent, clad in hairy raiment, unkempt,
wearing the skin of a goat, with locks uncombed, with face blackened
by the suns. Then by _Apollo,_ whom I describe as son of Jupiter and
god of intellect, I mean Christ, who is the son of God, and very God
himself, and moreover, as I suggest, our god of intellect and wisdom.
For, as all theologians know, among the attributes of the persons that
constitute the Holy Trinity, one and indivisible, wisdom belongs to the
Son; he is the wisdom of the Father.
Again, the _hoarse voice_ and _never-ceasing tears_ and _oft-repeated
name of Jerusalem_ are intended as a reference to David, because of
his style, which at first seems rough and full of lamentation, and
furthermore because there really is frequent mention of that city in
the psalms, sometimes historical, sometimes allegorical. Now there
follows a brief enumeration of the subjects which the poets whom
Silvius is striving to exalt are wont to sing. To explain all this
would take a long time. Besides it is sufficiently clear already to
those who are proficient in such matters. And then Monicus replies,
excusing this harshness of David, and running with like brevity over
the list of subjects which he has treated.
The youth about whose deeds Silvius has begun to weave his song is
Scipio Africanus, who laid Polyphemus low upon the African shore.
The reference there is to Hannibal, the Carthaginian leader. Hannibal
and Polyphemus were both one-eyed, after Hannibal's loss of an eye in
Italy. The _Libyan lions_, in which we know that Africa abounds, are
the other Carthaginian leaders, who were hurled from power by the same
conqueror. The _sacrifices_ that were consumed are the ships which he
burned, the ships upon which all the hopes of the Carthaginians had
hung. He destroyed five hundred of them before their very eyes, so
Roman history tells us. The designation of _starry youth_ is partly
because of the heroic valour which he possessed above all other men,
and which Virgil characterises as 'burning,' Lucan as 'fiery'; and
partly because the Romans of his day were led by their admiration of
him to credit him with divine origin. The Italians are said to praise
him _from the opposite shore_ because of the fact that the shore of
Italy really was opposed to that of Africa, not alone in temper and
feeling but in situation too. Rome itself is directly across from
Carthage.
However, although this youth is praised so widely, nobody has sung of
him; by which I meant to suggest that although all history is full of
his deeds and his renown, and Ennius has written a great deal about
him, in his rude and unpolished style, as Valerius calls it, there
still is no carefully finished metrical treatment of his achievements
as yet. So I decided long ago to sing of him myself, as best I could.
My poem of _Africa_ is about him. I began it in my youth, with a high
heart. God grant that I may be permitted in my old age to bring it
to the happy conclusion which I then dreamed of. The danger which
always inheres in such postponement of a well-considered plan, and
the mutability and uncertainty of this life of ours, Monicus bids us
ponder upon, in his concluding remarks, which scarcely call for further
explanation. And you will also understand the few sentences at the
close, if you will reflect a little. Farewell.
Written at Padua, on the second day of December, toward evening.
1: _Fam_., x., 4.
2: The fifth line of the eclogue reads:
Una fuit genetrix, at spes non una sepulchri.
[3] The reference here seems to be to lines 13 _sqq_. (Basle edition of
the _Opera_, 1581.) Possibly _inde_ stood originally at the beginning
of line 20, for _ecce_. There is much evidence, throughout the letter,
to the effect that Petrarch either had before him a slightly different
text from that known to us or merely reviewed the eclogue hastily and
then trusted to his memory or impressions while writing.
* * * * *
This next letter gives one some notion of the difficulties of a
scholar's life in Petrarch's day:
_On the Scarcity of Copyists._
_To Lapo da Castiglionchio._[1]
Your Cicero has been in my possession four years and more. There is a
good reason, though, for so long a delay; namely, the great scarcity
of copyists who understand such work. It is a state of affairs that
has resulted in an incredible loss to scholarship. Books that by their
nature are a little hard to understand are no longer multiplied, and
have ceased to be generally intelligible, and so have sunk into utter
neglect, and in the end have perished. This age of ours consequently
has let fall, bit by bit, some of the richest and sweetest fruits that
the tree of knowledge has yielded; has thrown away the results of the
vigils and labours of the most illustrious men of genius, things of
more value, I am almost tempted to say, than anything else in the whole
world....
But I must return to your Cicero. I could not do without it, and the
incompetence of the copyists would not let me possess it. What was
left for me but to rely upon my own resources, and press these weary
fingers and this worn and ragged pen into the service? The plan that I
followed was this. I want you to know it, in case you should ever have
to grapple with a similar task. Not a single word did I read except as
I wrote. But how is that, I hear someone say; did you write without
knowing what it was that you were writing? Ah! but from the very first
it was enough for me to know that it was a work of Tullius, and an
extremely rare one too. And then as soon as I was fairly started I
found at every step so much sweetness and charm, and felt so strong
a desire to advance, that the only difficulty which I experienced in
reading and writing at the same time came from the fact that my pen
could not cover the ground so rapidly as I wanted it to, whereas my
expectation had been rather that it would outstrip my eyes, and that my
ardour for writing would be chilled by the slowness of my reading. So
the pen held back the eye, and the eye drove on the pen, and I covered
page after page, delighting in my task, and committing many and many a
passage to memory as I wrote. For just in proportion as the writing is
slower than the reading does the passage make a deep impression and
cling to the mind.
And yet I must confess that I did finally reach a point in my copying
where I was overcome by weariness; not mental, for how unlikely that
would be where Cicero was concerned, but the sort of fatigue that
springs from excessive manual labour. I began to feel doubtful about
this plan that I was following, and to regret having undertaken a task
for which I had not been trained; when suddenly I came across a place
where Cicero tells how he himself copied the orations of--someone or
other; just who it was I do not know, but certainly no Tullius, for
there is but one such man, one such voice, one such mind. These are his
words: "You say that you have been in the habit of reading the orations
of Cassius in your idle moments. But I," he jestingly adds, with his
customary disregard of his adversary's feelings, "have made a practice
of _copying_ them, so that I might _have_ no idle moments." As I read
this passage I grew hot with shame, like a modest young soldier who
hears the voice of his beloved leader rebuking him. I said to myself,
"So Cicero copied orations that another wrote, and you are not ready to
copy his? What ardour! what scholarly devotion! what reverence for a
man of godlike genius!" These thoughts were a spur to me, and I pushed
on, with all my doubts dispelled. If ever from my darkness there shall
come a single ray that can enhance the splendour of the reputation
which his heavenly eloquence has won for him, it will proceed in no
slight measure from the fact that I was so captivated by his ineffable
sweetness that I did a thing in itself most irksome with such delight
and eagerness that I scarcely knew I was doing it at all.