PETRARCH

Francesco Petrarca was of Florentine extraction, and sprung from a

respectable family. His progenitors had been notaries. His great

grandfather has been distinguished for his integrity, benevolence, and

long life: his youth had been active, his old age was serene; he died in

his sleep when more than 100 years old, an age scarcely ever heard of in

Italy. His father exercised the same profession as those who had gone

before him; and, being held in great esteem by his fellow citizens, he

had filled several public offices. When the Ghibellines were banished

Florence in 1302, Petraccolo was included in the number of exiles; his

property was confiscated, and he retired with his wife, Eletta

Canigiani, whom he had lately married, to the town of Arezzo in Tuscany.

Two years after, the Ghibelline exiles endeavoured to reinstate

themselves in their native city by force of arms, but they failed in

their enterprise, and were forced to retreat. The attempt took place on

the night of the 20th of July, 1304; and, on returning discomfited on

the morrow, Petraccolo found that during the intervening hours his wife

had, after a period of great difficulty and danger, given birth to a

son. The child was baptized Francesco, and the surname of di Petracco

was added, as was the custom in those days, to distinguish him as the

son of Petracco. Orthography, at that time, was very inexact; and the

poet's ear for harmony caused him to give a more euphonious sound to his

patronymic: he wrote his name Petrarca, and by this he was known during

his life, and to all posterity.

When the child was seven months old his mother 1305. was permitted to

return from banishment, and she established herself at a country house

belonging to her husband near Ancisa, a small town fifteen miles from

Florence. The infant, who, at his birth, it was supposed, would not

survive, was exposed to imminent peril during this journey. In fording a

rapid stream, the man who had charge of him, carried him, wrapped in his

swaddling clothes, at the end of a stick; he fell from his horse, and

the babe slipped from the fastenings into the water; but he was saved,

for how could Petrarch die until he had seen Laura? His mother remained

for seven years at Ancisa. Petraccolo meanwhile wandered from place to

place, seeking to earn a subsistence, and endeavouring to forward the

Ghibeline cause. He visited his wife by stealth on various occasions,

and she gave birth during this period to two sons; one of whom died in

infancy, and the other, Gherardo, or Gerard, was the companion and

friend of Francesco for many years.

[Sidenote: 1312.

Ætat.

8.]

When Petrarch was eight years of age, his parents removed to Pisa, and

remained there for nearly a year; when, finding his party entirely

ruined, Petraccolo resolved to emigrate to Avignon; for, the pope having

fixed his residence in that city, it became a resort for the Italians,

who found it advantageous to follow his court.

[Sidenote: 1313.

Ætat.

9.]

Petraccolo embarked with his wife and two children at Leghorn, and

proceeded by sea to Marseilles. They were wrecked and exposed to great

danger when not far from port; but landing at last in safety, they

proceeded to Avignon. The eyes of the young Petrarch had become familiar

with the stately cities of his native country: for the last year he had

lived at Pisa, where the marble palaces of the Lung' Arno, and the free

open squares surrounded by majestic structures, were continually before

him. The squalid aspect of the ill-built streets of Avignon were in

painful contrast; and thus that veneration for Italy, and contempt for

transalpine countries, which exercised a great influence over his future

life, was early implanted in Petrarch's heart.

The papal court, and consequent concourse of strangers, filled Avignon

to overflowing, and rendered it an expensive place of residence.

[Sidenote: 1315.

Ætat.

55.]

Accordingly Petraccolo quitted it for Carpentras, a small rural town

twelve miles distant. A Genoese named Settimo, lately arrived at Avignon

with his wife and young son, had formed an intimacy with Petraccolo, and

joined him in this fresh migration.

The youth of Petrarch was obscure in point of fortune, but it was

attended by all the happiness that springs from family concord, and the

excellent character of his parents. His father was a man of probity and

talent, attentive to his son's education and improvement, and, at the

same time, kind and indulgent. His mother was distinguished for the

virtues that most adorn her sex; she was domestic, and affectionate in

her disposition; and he had two youthful friends, in his brother Gerard

and Guido Settimo, whom he tenderly loved. Add to this, he studied under

Convennole, a kind-hearted man, to whom he became warmly attached. Under

his care, and during several visits to Avignon, Petrarch learned as much

of grammar, dialectics, and rhetoric, as suited his age, or was taught

in the schools which he frequented; and how little that was, any one

conversant with the learning of those times can readily divine.[27]

[Sidenote: 1319.

Ætat.

15.]

At the age of fifteen Petrarch was sent to study at the university of

Montpellier, then frequented by a vast concourse of students. Petraccolo

intended his son to pursue the study of the law, as the profession best

suited to insure his reputation and fortune; but to this pursuit

Francesco was invincibly repugnant. "It was not," he tells us, in the

account he wrote for the information of Posterity, "that I was not

pleased with the venerable authority of the laws, full, as they

doubtless are, of the spirit of ancient Rome, but because their use was

depraved by the wickedness of man; and it was tedious to learn that by

which I could not profit without dishonour." Petraccolo was alarmed by

the dislike shown by his son for the career for which he destined him,

and by the taste he displayed for literature. He made a journey to

Montpellier, reproached him for his idleness, and seizing on the

precious manuscripts, which the youth vainly endeavoured to hide, threw

them into the fire: but the anguish and cries of Petrarch moved him to

repent his severity: he snatched the remnants of Virgil and Cicero from

the flames, and gave them back, bidding him find consolation in the one,

and encouragement in the other, to pursue his studies.

[Sidenote: 1323.

Ætat.

19.]

He was soon after sent to Bologna. The chairs of this university were

filled by the ablest professors of the age; and, under them, Petrarch

made considerable progress in the study of the law, moved to this

exertion, doubtless, by the entreaties of his excellent father. He

proved that indolence was not the cause of his aversion to this

profession. His master of civil law, Cino da Pistoia, gives most

honourable testimony of his industry and talents. "I quickly discovered

and appreciated your genius," he says, in a letter written some time

after, "and treated you rather like a beloved son than as a pupil. You

returned my affection, and repaid me by observance and respect, and thus

gained a reputation among the professors and students for morality and

prudence. Your progress in study will never be forgotten in the

university. In the space of four years you learned by heart the entire

body of civil law, with as much facility as another would have acquired

the romance of Launcelot and Ginevra."

[Sidenote: 1326.

Ætat.

22.]

After three years spent at Bologna, Petrarch was recalled to France by

the death of his father. Soon after his mother died also, and he and his

brother were left entirely to their own guidance, with very slender

means, and those diminished by the dishonesty of those whom their father

had named as trustees to their fortune. Under these circumstances

Petrarch entirely abandoned law, as it occurred to both him and his

brother that the clerical profession was their best resource in a city

where the priesthood reigned supreme. They resided at Avignon, and

became the favourites and companions of the ecclesiastical and lay

nobles who formed the papal court, to a degree which, in after-times,

excited Petrarch's wonder, though the self-sufficiency and ardour of

youth then blinded him to the peculiar favour with which he was

regarded. His talents and accomplishments were, of course, the cause of

this distinction; besides that his personal advantages were such as to

prepossess every one in his favour. He was so handsome as frequently to

attract observation as he passed along the streets: his complexion was

between dark and fair; he had sparkling eyes, and a vivacious and

pleasing expression of countenance. His person was rather elegant than

robust; and he increased the gracefulness of his appearance by a

sedulous attention to dress. "Do you remember," he wrote to his brother

Gerard, many years after, "our white robes; and our chagrin when their

studied elegance suffered the least injury, either in the disposition of

their folds, or in their spotless cleanliness? do you remember our tight

shoes and how we bore the tortures which they inflicted, without a

murmur? and our care lest the breezes should disturb the arrangement of

our hair?"

Such tastes befit the season of youth, which, always in extremes, is apt

otherwise to diverge into negligence and disorder. But Petrarch could

not give up his entire mind to frivolity and the pleasures of society:

he sought the intercourse of the wise, and his warm and tender heart

attached itself with filial or fraternal affection to his good and

learned friends. Among these was John of Florence, canon of Pisa, a

venerable man, devoted to learning, and passionately attached to his

native country. With him Petrarch could recur to his beloved studies and

antique manuscripts. Sometimes, however, the young man was seized with

the spirit of despondency. During such a mood, he had one day recourse

to his excellent friend, and poured out his heart in complaints. "You

know," he said, "the pains I have taken to distinguish myself from the

crowd, and to acquire a reputation for knowledge. You have often told me

that I am responsible to God for the use I make of my talents; and your

praises have spurred me on to exertion: but I know not why, even at the

moment when I hoped for success in my endeavours, I find myself

dispirited, and the sources of my understanding dried up. I stumble at

every step; and in my despair I have recourse to you. Advise me. Shall I

give up my studies? shall I enter on another career? Have pity on me, my

father: raise me from the frightful condition into which I have fallen."

Petrarch shed tears as he spoke; but the old man encouraged him with

sagacity and kindness. He told him that his best hopes for improvement

must be founded on the discovery he had made of his ignorance. "The veil

is now raised," he said, "and you perceive the darkness which was before

concealed by the presumption of youth. Embark upon the sea before you:

the further you advance, the more immense it will appear; but do not be

deterred. Follow the course which I have counselled you to take, and be

persuaded that God will not abandon you."

These words re-assured Petrarch, and gave fresh strength to his good

intentions. The incident is worthy of record, as giving a lively picture

of an ingenuous and ambitious mind struggling with and overcoming the

toils of learning.

At this period commenced his friendship with Giacomo Colonna, who had

resided at Bologna at the same time with him, and had even then been

attracted by his prepossessing appearance and irreproachable conduct,

though he did not seek to be acquainted with him till their return to

Avignon.

The family of Colonna was the most illustrious of Rome: they had fallen

under the displeasure, and incurred the interdict, of pope Boniface

VIII. who confiscated their estates and drove them into exile. The head

of the family was Stefano, a man of heroic and magnanimous mind. He

wandered for many years a banished man in France and Germany, and a

price was set on his head. On one occasion, a band of armed men,

desirous of earning the ill reward attendant on delivering him up to his

enemies, seized on him, and asked his name, under the belief that he

would fear to acknowledge himself. He replied, "I am Stefano Colonna, a

citizen of Rome;" and the mercenaries into whose hands he had fallen,

struck by his majesty and resolution, set him free. On another occasion,

he appeared suddenly in Italy, on a field of battle, to aid his own

party against the papal forces. Being surrounded and pressed upon by his

foes, one of his friends exclaimed, "O, Stefano, where is your

fortress?" He placed his hand upon his heart, and with a smile replied,

"Here!" This illustrious man had a family of ten children, all

distinguished by their virtues and talents. The third among them was

Giacomo. Petrarch describes his friend in glowing colours. "He was," he

says, "generous, faithful, and true; modest, though endowed with

splendid talents; handsome in person, yet of irreproachable conduct: he

possessed, moreover, the gift of eloquence to an extraordinary degree;

so that he held the hearts of men in his hands, and carried them along

with him by force of words." Petrarch was readily ensnared in the net of

his fascinations. Giacomo introduced his new friend to his brother, the

cardinal Giovanni Colonna, under whose roof he subsequently spent many

years, and who acted towards him, not as a master, but rather as a

partial brother.[28] Petrarch records the kindness of his patrons, in

the language of enthusiastic gratitude. Doubtless, they deserved the

encomiums of his free spirit, a spirit to be subdued only by the power

of affection. We must, however, consider them peculiarly fortunate in

being able to command the society of one whose undeviating integrity,

whose gentleness, and fidelity, adorned talents which have merited

eternal renown. The peculiar charm of Petrarch's character is warmth of

heart, and a native ingenuousness of disposition, which readily laid

bare his soul to those around: there was nothing factitious, nothing put

on for show, in the temper of his mind; he desired to be great and good

in God's eyes, and in those of his friends, for conscience sake, and as

the worthy aim of a Christian man. He did not, therefore, wish to hide

his imperfections; but rather sought them out, that he might bring a

remedy; and betrayed the uneasiness they occasioned, with the utmost

simplicity and singleness of mind. When to this delightful frankness

were added splendid talents, the charm of poetry, so highly valued in

the country of the Troubadours, an affectionate and generous

disposition, vivacious and engaging manners, and an attractive exterior;

we cannot wonder that Petrarch was the darling of his age, the associate

of its greatest men, and the man whom princes delighted to honour.

Hitherto the feelings of friendship had engrossed him: love had not yet

robbed him of sleep, nor dimmed his eyes with tears; and he wondered to

behold such weakness in others.[29] Now at the age of twenty-three,

after the fire of mere boyhood had evaporated, he felt the power of a

violent and inextinguishable passion.

[Sidenote:1327.

Ætat.

23.]

At six in the morning, on the 6th of April, A. D. 1327 (he often fondly

records the exact year, day, and hour), on occasion of the festival of

Easter, he visited the church of Sainte Claire at Avignon, and beheld,

for the first time, Laura de Sâde. She was just twenty years of age,

and in the bloom of beauty,--a beauty so touching and heavenly, so

irradiated by purity and smiling innocence, and so adorned by gentleness

and modesty, that the first sight stamped the image in the poet's heart,

never hereafter to be erased.

Laura was the daughter of Audibert de Noves, a noble and a knight: she

lost her father in her early youth; and at the age of seventeen, her

mother married her to Hugh de Sâde, a young noble only a few years

older than his bride. She was distinguished by her rank and fortune, but

more by her loveliness, her sweetness, and the untainted purity of her

life and manners in the midst of a society noted for its

licentiousness.[30] Now she is known as the subject of Petrarch's

verses; as the woman who inspired an immortal passion, and, kindling

into living fire the dormant sensibility of the poet, gave origin to the

most beautiful and refined, the most passionate, and yet the most

delicate, amatory poetry that exists in the world.

Petrarch beheld the loveliness and sweetness of the young beauty, and

was transfixed. He sought acquaintance with her; and while the manners

of the times prevented his entering her house[31], he enjoyed many

opportunities of meeting her in society, and of conversing with her. He

would have declared his love, but her reserve enforced silence. "She

opened my breast," he writes, "and took my heart into her hand, saying,

'Speak no word of this.'" Yet the reverence inspired by her modesty and

dignity was not always sufficient to restrain her lover: being alone

with her, and she appearing more gracious than usual, Petrarch, on one

occasion, tremblingly and fearfully confessed his passion, but she, with

altered looks, replied, "I am not the person you take me for!" Her

displeasure froze the very heart of the poet, so that he fled from her

presence in grief and dismay.[32]

No attentions on his part could make any impression on her steady and

virtuous mind. While love and youth drove him on, she remained

impregnable and firm; and when she found that he still rushed wildly

forward, she preferred forsaking, to following him to the precipice down

which he would have hurried her. Meanwhile, as he gazed on her angelic

countenance, and saw purity painted on it, his love grew as spotless as

herself. Love transforms the true lover into a resemblance of the object

of his passion. In a town, which was the asylum of vice, calumny never

breathed a taint upon Laura's name: her actions, her words, the very

expression of her countenance, and her slightest gestures were replete

with a modest reserve combined with sweetness, and won the applause of

all.[33]

The passion of Petrarch was purified and exalted at the same time. Laura

filled him with noble aspirations, and divided him from the common herd.

He felt that her influence made him superior to vulgar ambition; and

rendered him wise, true, and great. She saved him in the dangerous

period of youth, and gave a worthy aim to all his endeavours. The

manners of his age permitted one solace; a Platonic attachment was the

fashion of the day. The troubadours had each his lady to adore, to wait

upon, and to celebrate in song; without its being supposed that she made

him any return beyond a gracious acceptance of his devoirs, and the

allowing him to make her the heroine of his verses. Petrarch endeavoured

to merge the living passion of his soul into this airy and unsubstantial

devotion. Laura permitted the homage: she perceived his merit, and was

proud of his admiration; she felt the truth of his affection, and

indulged the wish of preserving it and her own honour at the same time.

Without her inflexibility, this had been a dangerous experiment: but she

always kept her lover distant from her: rewarding his reserve by smiles,

and repressing by frowns all the overflowings of his heart.

By her resolute severity, she incurred the danger of ceasing to be the

object of his attachment, and of losing the gift of an immortal name,

which he has conferred upon her. But Petrarch's constancy was proof

against hopelessness and time. He had too fervent an admiration of her

qualities, ever to change: he controlled the vivacity of his feelings,

and they became deeper rooted. The struggle cost him his peace of mind.

From the moment that love had seized upon his heart, the tenor of his

life was changed. He fed upon tears, and took a fatal pleasure in

complaints and sighs; his nights became sleepless, and the beloved name

dwelt upon his lips during the hours of darkness. He desired death, and

sought solitude, devouring there his own heart. He grew pale and thin,

and the flower of youth faded before its time. The day began and closed

in sorrow; the varieties of her behaviour towards him alone imparted joy

or grief, he strove to flee and to forget; but her memory became, and

for ever remained, the ruling law of his existence.[34]

From this time his poetic life is dated. He probably composed verses

before he saw Laura; but none have been preserved except such as

celebrate his passion. How soon, after seeing her, he began thus to pour

forth his full heart, cannot be told; probably love, which turns the man

of the most prosaic temperament into a versifier, impelled him, at its

birth, to give harmonious expression to the rush of thought and feeling

that it created. Latin was in use among the learned; but ladies,

unskilled in a dead language, were accustomed to be sung by the

Troubadours in their native Provençal dialect. Petrarch loved Italy, and

all things Italian--he perceived the melody, the grace, the earnestness,

which it could embody. The residence of the popes at Avignon caused it

to be generally understood; and in the language of his native Florence,

the poet addressed his lady, though she was born under a less favoured

sky. His sonnets and canzoni obtained the applause they deserved: they

became popular: and he, no doubt, hoped that the description of his

misery, his admiration, his almost idolatry, would gain him favour in

Laura's heart.

Petrarch had always a great predilection for travelling: the paucity of

books rendered this a mode,--in his eyes, almost the only mode,--for the

attainment of the knowledge for which his nature craved. The first

journey he made after his return from Bologna, was to accompany Giacomo

Colonna on his visit to the diocese of Lombes, of which he had lately

been installed bishop. Lombes is a small town of Languedoc, not far from

Thoulouse; it had been erected into a bishopric by pope John XXII., who

conferred it on Giacomo Colonna, in recompence of an act of intrepid

daring successfully achieved in his behalf.

[Sidenote: 1330.

Ætat.

26.]

It was the summer season, and the travellers proceeded through the most

picturesque part of France, among the Pyrenees, to the banks of the

Garonne. Besides Petrarch, the bishop was accompanied by Lello, the son

of Pietro Stefani, a Roman gentleman; and a Frenchman named Louis. The

friendship that Petrarch formed with both, on this occasion, continued

to the end of their lives: many of his familiar letters are addressed to

them under the appellations of Lælius and Socrates; for Petrarch's

contempt of his own age gave him that tinge of pedantry which caused him

to confer on his favourites the names of the ancients. Lello was a man

of education and learning; he had long lived under the protection of the

Colonna family, by the members of which he was treated as a son or

brother. The transalpine birth of Louis made Petrarch call him a

barbarian; but he found him cultivated and refined, endowed with a

lively imagination, a gay temper, and addicted to music and poetry. In

the society of these men, Petrarch passed a divine summer; it was one of

those periods in his life, towards which his thoughts frequently turned

in after-times with yearning and regret.[35]

On his return from Lombes, Petrarch became an inmate in the house of

cardinal Colonna. He had leisure to indulge in his taste for literature:

he was unwearied in the labour of discovering, collating, and copying

ancient manuscripts. To him we owe the preservation of many Latin

authors, which, buried in the dust of monastic libraries, and endangered

by the ignorance of their monkish possessors, had been wholly lost to

the world, but for the enthusiasm and industry of a few learned men,

among whom Petrarch ranks pre-eminent. He thought no toil burthensome,

however arduous, which drew from oblivion these monuments of former

wisdom. Often he would not trust to the carelessness of copyists, but

transcribed these works with his own hand. His library was lost to the

world, after his death, through the culpable negligence of the republic

of Venice, to which he had given it; but there still exists, in the

Laurentian library of Florence, the orations of Cicero, and his letters

to Atticus in Petrarch's handwriting.

His ardour for acquiring knowledge was unbounded,--the society of a

single town, and the few hooks that he possessed, could not satisfy him.

He believed that travelling was the best school for learning. His great

desire was to visit Rome; and a journey hither was projected by him and

the bishop of Lombes. Delays intervening, which prevented their

immediate departure, Petrarch made the tour of France, Flanders, and

Brabant:

[Sidenote: 1331.

Ætat.

27.]

"For which journey," he says, "whatever cause may have been alleged, the

real motive was a fervent desire of extending my experience."[36] He

first visited Paris, and took pleasure in satisfying himself of the

truth or falsehood of the accounts he had heard of that city. His

curiosity was insatiable; when the day did not suffice, he devoted the

night to his enquiries. He found the city ill built and disagreeable,

but he was pleased with the inhabitants; describing them, as a traveller

might of the present day, as gay, and fond of society; facile and

animated in conversation, and amiable in their assemblies and feasts;

eager in their search after amusement, and driving away care by

pleasure; prompt to discover and to ridicule the faults of others, and

covering their own with a thick veil.[37]

From Paris, Petrarch continued his travels through Liege,

Aix-la-Chapelle, and Cologne. In all places he searched for ancient

manuscripts. At Liege he discovered two orations of Cicero, but could

not find any one capable of copying them in the whole town: it was with

difficulty that he procured some yellow and pale ink, with which he

transcribed them himself.[38] From Cologne he turned his steps homeward,

passing through Ardennes on his way to Lyons. His heart warmed at the

expectation of returning to his friends; and the image of Laura took

possession of his imagination. Whilst wandering alone through the wild

forest, which armed men feared to traverse, no idea of danger occurred

to him; love occupied all his thoughts: the form of Laura flitted among

the trees; and the waving branches, and the song of birds, and the

murmuring streams, made her movements and her voice present to his

senses with all the liveliness of reality. Twilight closed in, and

imparted a portion of dismay, till, emerging from the dark trees, he

beheld the Rhone, which threaded the plains towards the native town of

the lady of his love; and at sight of the familiar river, a joyous

rapture took place of gloom. Two of the most graceful of his sonnets

were written to describe the fantastic images that haunted him as he

traversed the forest, and the kindling of his soul when, emerging from

its depths, he was, as it were serenely welcomed by the delightful

country and beloved river which appeared before him.[39]

At Lyons a disappointment awaited him: he met, on his arrival, a servant

of the Colonna family, whom he eagerly questioned concerning his

friends; and heard, to his infinite mortification, that Giacomo had

departed for Italy, without waiting for his return. Deeply hurt by this

apparent neglect, he wrote a letter to the bishop, full of bitter

reproaches, which he enclosed to cardinal Colonna, to be forwarded to

his brother; while he delayed somewhat his homeward journey, spending

some weeks at Lyons. He was absent from Avignon, on this occasion,

scarcely more than three months.

On his return, he found that Giacomo Colonna was not to blame; he having

repaired to Rome by command of the pope, that he might pacify the

discontented citizens, and quell the disturbances occasioned by the

insurgent nobles. Petrarch did not immediately join his friend: he had a

duty to perform towards cardinal Colonna; and the chains which Laura

threw around him, made him slow to quit a city which she inhabited.

[Sidenote: 1335.

Ætat.

31.]

At length he embarked, and proceeded by sea to Cività Vecchia. The

troubled state of the country around Rome rendered it unsafe for a

solitary traveller. Petrarch took refuge in the romantic castle of

Capranica, and wrote to his friends, announcing his arrival. They came

instantly to welcome and escort him. Petrarch at length reached the city

of his dreams. His excited imagination had painted the fallen mistress

of the world in splendid colours; and, warned by his friends, he had

feared disappointment. But the sight of Rome produced no such effect: he

was too real a poet, not to look with awe and reverence on the mighty

and beautiful remains which meet the wanderer's eye at every turn in the

streets of Rome. Petrarch's admiration grew, instead of diminishing. He

found the eternal city greater and more majestic in her ruins than he

had before figured; and, instead of wondering how it was that she had

given laws to the whole earth, he was only surprised that her supremacy

had not been more speedily acknowledged.[40]

He found inexhaustible gratification in contemplating the magnificent

ruins scattered around. He was accompanied in his researches by Giovanni

da San Vito, brother of Stefano Colonna, who, enveloped in the exile of

his family, had wandered for many years in Persia, Arabia, and Egypt.

Stefano Colonna himself resided in the capital; and Petrarch found in

him an image of those majestic heroes who illustrated the annals of

ancient Rome.

On leaving Italy, Petrarch gratified his avidity for travel by a long

journey through Spain to Cadiz, and northward, by the sea-shore, as far

as the coasts of England. He went to escape from the chains which

awaited him at Avignon; and, seeking a cure for the wounds which his

heart had received, he endeavoured to obtain health and liberty by

visiting distant countries. It is thus that he speaks of this tour in

his letters. But, though he went far, he did not stay long; for, on the

l6th of August of the same year, he returned to Avignon.

He came back with the same feelings; and grew more and more dissatisfied

with himself, and the state of agitation and slavery to which the

vicinity of Laura reduced him. The young wife was now the mother of a

family, and more disinclined than ever to tarnish her good name, or to

endanger her peace, by the sad vicissitudes of illicit passion.

Disturbed, and struggling with himself, Petrarch sought various remedies

for the ill that beset him.

[Sidenote: April 20.

1336.

Ætat.

32.]

Among other attempts to divert his thoughts, he made an excursion to

Mont Ventoux, one of the highest mountains Europe; which, placed in a

country where every other hill is much lower, commands a splendid and

extensive view. There is a letter of his to his friend and spiritual

director, father Dionisio Robertis, of San Sepolcro, whom he knew in

Paris, giving an account of the expedition. It was a work of labour to

climb the precipitous mountain; with difficulty, and after many

fatiguing deviations from the right road, he reached its summit. He

gazed around on the earth, spread like a map below; he fixed his eyes on

the Alps, which divided him from Italy; and then, reverting to himself,

he thought--"Ten years ago you quitted Bologna: how are you changed

since then!" The purity of the air, and the vast prospect before him,

gave subtlety and quickness to his perceptions. He reflected on the

agitation of his soul, but not yet arrived in port, he felt that he

ought not to let his thoughts dwell on the tempests that shook his

nature. He thought of her he loved, not, as before, with hope and

animation, but with a sad struggling love, for which he blushed. He

would have changed his feeling to hate; but such an attempt were vain:

he felt ashamed and desperate, as he repeated the verse of Ovid--

"Odero, si potero; si non, invitus amabo."

For three years this passion had reigned over him without control: he

now combated it; but his struggles saddened, while they sobered him.

Again he turned his eyes from his own heart to the scene around. As the

sun declined, he regarded the vast expanse of the distant Mediterranean,

the long chain of mountains which divides France from Spain, and the

Rhone which flowed at his feet. He feasted his eyes long on this

glorious spectacle, while pious emotions filled his bosom. He had taken

with him (for Petrarch was never without a book) the volume of St.

Augustin's Confessions: he opened it by chance, and his eyes fell on the

following passage:---"Men make journeys to visit the summits of

mountains, the waves of the sea, the course of rivers, and the immensity

of ocean, while they neglect their own souls." Struck by the

coincidence, Petrarch turned his thoughts inward, and prayed that he

might be enabled to vanquish himself. The moon shone upon their descent

from the mountain (he was accompanied by his brother Gerard, whom he had

selected from among his friends to join him in his excursion); and

arriving at Maulaçene, a town at the foot of Mont Ventoux, Petrarch

relieved his mind by pouring out his heart in a letter to Dionisio

Robertis.

The immediate result of the reflections thus awakened, was his

retirement to Vaucluse. When a boy, he had visited this picturesque

valley and its fountain, in company with his father, mother, and

brother. He had then been charmed by its beauty and seclusion: and now,

weary of travelling, and resolved to fly from Laura, he took refuge in

the solitude he could here command.

He bought a small house and field, removed his books, and established

himself. Since then Vaucluse has been often visited for his sake; and he

who was enchanted by its loneliness and beauty, has described, in

letters and verses, with fond and glowing expressions, the charm that it

possessed for him. The valley is narrow, as its name testifies--shut in

by high and craggy hills; the river Sorgue traverses its depth; and on

one side, a vast cavern in the precipitous rock presents itself, from

which the fountain flows, that is the source of the river. Within the

cave, the shadows are black as night; the hills are clothed by

umbrageous trees, under whose shadow the tender grass, starred by

innumerable flowers, offers agreeable repose. The murmur of the torrent

is perennial: that, and the song of the birds, are the only sounds

heard. Such was the retreat that the poet chose. He saw none but the

peasants who took care of his house and tended his little farm. The only

woman near was the hard-working wife of the peasant, old and withered.

No sounds of music visited his ears: he heard, instead, the carolling of

the birds, and the brawling waters. Often he remained in silence from

morning till night, wandering among the hills while the sun was yet low;

and taking refuge, during the heat of the day, in his shady garden,

which, sloping down towards the Sorgue, was terminated on one side by

inaccessible rocks. At night, after performing his clerical duties (for

he was canon of Lombes), he rambled among the hills; often entering, at

midnight, the cavern, whose gloom, even during the day, struck the soul

with awe.

The peasantry about him were poor and hard-working. His food was usually

black bread; and he was so abstemious, that the servant he brought with

him from Avignon quitted him, unable to endure the solitude and

privations of his retreat. He was then waited on by the neighbouring

cottager, a fisherman, whose life had been spent among fountains and

rivers, deriving his subsistence from the rocks. "To call this man

faithful," says Petrarch, "is a tame expression: he was fidelity

itself." Without being able to read, he revered and cherished the books

his master loved; and, all rude and illiterate, his pious regard for the

poet raised him almost to the rank of a friend. His wife was yet more

rustic. Her skin was burned by the sun till it resembled nothing human.

She was humble, faithful, and laborious; passing her life in the fields,

working under the noonday sun; while the evening was dedicated to indoor

labour. She never complained, nor ever showed any mark of discontent.

She slept on straw: her food was the coarsest black bread; her drink

water, in which she mingled a little wine, as sour as vinegar.

It was here that Petrarch hoped to subdue his passion, and to forget

Laura. "Fool that I was!" he exclaims in after-life, "not to have

remembered the first schoolboy lesson--that solitude is the nurse of

love!" How, with his thoughts for his sole companions, preying

perpetually on his own heart, could he forget her who occupied him

exclusively in courts and cities? And thus he tells, in musical and

thrilling accents, how, amidst woods, and hills, and murmuring waves,

her image was painted on every object, and contemplated by him till he

forgot himself to stone, more dead than the living rocks among which he

wandered. It is almost impossible to translate Petrarch's poetry; for

his subtle and delicate thoughts, when generalised, seem common-place;

and his harmony and grace, which have never been equalled, are

inimitable. The only translations which retain the spirit of the

original, are by lady Dacre; and we extract her version of one of the

canzoni, as a specimen of his style, and as affording a vivid picture of

his wild melancholy life among the solitary mountains.

"From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,

With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,

For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:

If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,

Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,

In its calm shade my trembling heart is still;

And there, if Love so will,

I smile, or weep, or fondly hope or fear,

While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,

The wild emotions roll,

Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;

That whosoe'er has proved the lover's state

Would say, 'He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.'

"On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,

I find repose, and from the throng'd resort

Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside;

At each lone step thoughts ever new arise

Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport

Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;

Yet e'en these ills I prize,

Though bitter, sweet--nor would they were removed;

For my heart whispers me, 'Love yet has power

To grant a happier hour:

Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved.'

E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,

Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

"Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave,

I stay my footsteps; and on some rude stone,

With thought intense, her beauteous face engrave:

Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find

With tears, and cry, 'Ah! whither thus alone

Hast thou far wander'd? and whom left behind?'

But as with fixed mind

On this fair image I impassion'd rest,

And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,

Love my rapt fancy fills;

In its own error sweet the soul is blest,

While all around so bright the visions glide;

O! might the cheat endure,--I ask not aught beside.

"Her form portray'd within the lucid stream

Will oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,

Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleam

So lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,

Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawn

A star when cover'd by the solar ray:

And, as o'er wilds I stray,

Where the eye nought but savage nature meets,

There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;

But when rude truth destroys

The loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,

I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,

Less cold, less dead than I, and think and weep alone.

"Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,

On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,

Led by desire intense the steep I climb;

And tracing in the boundless space each woe,

Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings.

Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow.

While viewing all below,

From me, I cry, what worlds of air divide

The beauteous form, still absent and still near!

Then chiding soft the tear,

I whisper, low, haply she, too, has sigh'd

That thou art far away; a thought so sweet

Awhile my labouring soul will of its burden cheat.

"Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,

Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene:

There, by a murmuring stream, may I be found,

Whose gentle airs around

Waft grateful odours from the laurel green;

Nought but my empty form roams here unblest.

There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast."[41]

Petrarch's Italian poetry, written either to please his lady or to

relieve the overflowing of his hearty bears in every line the stamp of

warm and genuine, though of refined and chivalric, passion. It has been

criticised as too imaginative, and defaced by conceits: of the latter

there are a few, confined to a small portion of the sonnets. They will

not be admired now, yet, perhaps, they are not those of the poems which

came least spontaneously from the heart. Those have experienced little

of the effects of passion, of love, grief, or terror, who do not know

that conceits often spring naturally from such. Shakspeare knew this;

and he seldom describes the outbursts of passion unaccompanied by

fanciful imagery which borders on conceit. Still more false is the

notion, that passion is not, in its essence, highly imaginative. Hard

and dry critics, who neither feel themselves nor sympathise in the

feelings of others, alone can have made this accusation: these people,

whose inactive and colourless fancy naturally suggests no new

combination nor fresh tint of beauty, suppose that is a cold exercise of

the mind, when

"The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven."

As they with difficulty arrive at comprehending poetic creations, they

believe that they were produced by dint of hard labour and deep study.

The truth is the opposite of this. To the imaginative, fanciful imagery

and thoughts, whose expression seems steeped in the hues of dawn, are

natural and unforced: when the mind of such is calm, their conceptions

resemble those of other men; but when excited by passion, when love, or

patriotism, or the influence of nature, kindles the soul, it becomes

natural, nay, imperative to them to embody their thoughts, and to give

"a local habitation and a name" to the emotions that possess them. The

remarks of critics on the overflowings of poetic minds remind one of the

traveller who expressed such wonder when, on landing at Calais, he heard

little children talk French.

Petrarch, on the other hand, would deceive us, or rather deceived

himself, when he alludes depreciatingly to his Italian poetry. Latin was

the language of learned men: he deemed it degrading to write for the

people; and, fancying that the difficulty of writing Latin was an

obstacle glorious to overcome, he treated with disdain any works

expressed in the vulgar tongue. Yet even while he said that these

compositions were puerile, he felt in his heart the contrary. He

bestowed great pains on correcting them, and giving them that polished

grace for which they are remarkable. Still his reason (which in this

instance, as in others, is often less to be depended upon than our

intuitive convictions,) assured him that he could never hold a high

place among poets till he composed a Latin poem.

While living in solitude at Vaucluse, yet ambitious that the knowledge

of his name should pass beyond the confines of his narrow valley, and be

heard even in Italy, he meditated some great work worthy of the genius

he felt within him. He at first contemplated writing a history of Rome;

from Romulus to Titus; till one day the idea of an epic poem; on the

subject of his favourite hero. Scipio Africanus, struck him. He

instantly commenced it with all the ardour of a first conception, and

continued for some time to build up cold dull Latin hexameters. It is

curious to mark how ill he succeeded: but the structure and spirit of

the language he used was then totally unknown; so that, while we lament

the mis-spending of his time, we cannot wonder at his failure.

He passed several years thus almost cut off from society: his books were

his great resource; he was never without one in his hand. He relates in

a letter, how, as a playful experiment, a friend locked up his library,

intending to exclude him from it for three days; but the poet's misery

caused him to restore the key on the first evening:--"And I verily

believe I should have become insane," Petrarch writes, "if my mind had

been longer deprived of its necessary nourishment." The friend who thus

played with his passion for reading, was Philip de Cabassoles, bishop of

Cavaillon. Cavaillon is a pretty but insignificant town, situated on the

slope of a mountain near the Durance, twelve miles distant from Avignon,

and six from Vaucluse. He became intimate with Petrarch here, and they

cemented a friendship which lasted his life. Sometimes Petrarch visited

Cabassoles at Cabrières, where he resided; often the bishop came to the

poet's cottage. They frequently passed the livelong day together in the

woods, without thinking of refreshment, or whole nights among their

books, when morning often dawned upon them unawares. After two years'

residence in this seclusion, Petrarch continued so pleased with it, that

he wrote to Giacomo Colonna, who had endeavoured, by promises of

preferment and advantage, to entice him from it, imploring him to let

him remain in a position so congenial to his disposition. "You know," he

says, "how false and vain are the enticements of a court; and that the

men most in favour there are the fools and rogues who attain dignities

and places through adulation and simony. Why, then, should you, a man of

honour, desire that I should return to a court? And even if it were

possible that I should obtain any thing from the munificence of the

pope, the detestable vices of the court are horrible to me. When I

quitted the papal residence, know that I sang the psalm 'In exitu Israel

ex Ægypto.' I enjoy, in the delightful solitude of Vaucluse, a sweet

and imperturbable tranquillity, and the placid and blameless leisure of

study. Any spare time I may have I go to Cabrières to amuse myself. Ah!

if you were permitted to take up your abode in this valley, you would

assuredly be disgusted, not only with the pope and cardinals, but the

whole world. I am firmly resolved never to behold the court again."

In this letter, however, he but half expresses the cause of his hatred

to Avignon; for he does not allude to Laura, while it was the memory of

her that not only made him fly the city in which she lived, but tremble

at the mere thought of how near he still was. And while he describes the

heavenly tranquillity of his seclusion, and the beauty that adorned it,

he exclaims, "But the vicinity of Avignon poisons all." So deep was his

fear of reviving his passion by seeing its object, that he never even

visited that city for a few days. On one occasion, hearing that his

friend, William da Pastrengo, had arrived there, he repaired thither

instantly to see him: but, on his arrival within the precincts of the

fatal walls, he felt his chains fall so heavily around him, that,

resolved to cast them off at once, without tarrying an hour, without

seeing his friend, the same night he returned to Vaucluse, and then

wrote to excuse himself; alleging, as his motive, his desire to escape

from the net of passion that enveloped him in that town. At the same

time, with the contradictory impulses of a lover, he entreated the

painter, Simon Memmi, a pupil of Giotto, just arrived in Provence, and

in high esteem with the pope and cardinals, to execute for him a small

portrait of Laura.[42] Simon consented; and was so pleased with the

model thus presented him, that he frequently afterwards introduced her

face into his pictures of saints and angels. Petrarch repaid his

friend's complaisance by two sonnets of praise and commendation.

In the imaginary conversations which Petrarch pictures himself to have

held with St. Augustin, the saint tells him that he is bound by two

adamantine chains--love and glory. To free himself from the first of

these he had retreated to Vaucluse, and found the attempt vain. The

second passion of his soul became even more strong, allying itself to

the first, for he wished Laura's lover to be renowned. This was also

more successful, as, beside the honour in which he was held by all who

knew him, it proved that his name was heard in distant countries, and

his merit acknowledged.

[Sidenote: 1340.

Ætat.

36.]

He had before entertained a vague wish for the laurel crown of poetry;

but it was beyond his hopes, when, on the same day, the 24th of August,

1340, while at Vaucluse, he received letters from the Roman senate, and

from the chancellor of the university of Paris, inviting him to receive

it. Hesitating to which city to yield the preference, he wrote to ask

the advice of cardinal Colonna; and, counselled by him, as well as

following his own predilection, decided in favour of Rome.

Another circumstance influenced Petrarch in this choice. Not long

before, his friend Dionisio Robertis had visited him at Vaucluse on his

way to the court of Robert king of Naples. From him Petrarch heard of

the literary tastes and liberal disposition of this amiable monarch. He

had already meditated a visit to him, and letters had been interchanged

between them. The circumstance of his coronation gave him a fair excuse

for paying him a visit. In the ardour of an age scarcely yet mature; he

believed himself worthy of the honour conferred on him; but he tells us

that he felt ashamed of relying only on his own testimony and that of

the persons who invited him. Perhaps the desire of display, and of

proving to the world that he was no illiterate pretender, was the

stronger motive. However this might be; he made choice of the king of

Naples; more illustrious in his eyes for his learning than his crown, to

examine his claim to distinction, and be the judge of his deserts.[43]

[Sidenote: 1341.

Ætat.

37.]

He lost no time in repairing to the court of king Robert, who received

him with a warmth of friendship that excited his deepest gratitude.

Hearing the object of the poet's visit, he expressed great delight, and

considered the choice made of him, among all mortals, to be the judge of

his merits, as glorious to himself. During the many conversations they

held together, Petrarch showed the monarch the commencement of his poem

on Africa. Robert, highly delighted, begged that it might be dedicated

to him: the poet gladly assented, and kept his promise, though the king

died before it could be fulfilled. The examination of his acquirements

lasted three days, after which the king declared him worthy of the

laurel, and sent an ambassador to be present on his part when the crown

was conferred.

[Sidenote: April

17.

1341.]

Petrarch repaired to Rome for the ceremony, and was crowned in the

capitol with great solemnity, in presence of all the nobles and

high-born ladies of the city. "I then," writes Petrarch, "thought myself

worthy of the honour: love and enthusiasm bore me on. But the laurel did

not increase my knowledge, while it gave birth to envy in the hearts of

many."[44]

Leaving Rome soon after his coronation, Petrarch intended to return to

Avignon, but passing t through Parma he was detained by his friend Azzo

Correggio, who ruled the city, governing it with incomparable wisdom and

moderation. The friendship between Azzo and Petrarch had commenced at

Avignon, where, for the first and only time, Petrarch had been induced

to take on himself the office of a barrister, and pleaded the cause of

the Correggii against their enemies the Rossi before the pope, and

succeeded in obtaining a decision in their favour. This, as is

mentioned, is the only occasion on which Petrarch played the advocate;

and he boasts of having gained the cause for his clients without using

towards their adversaries the language of derision and sarcasm.

Petrarch, meanwhile, remembering the honour he had received, was

solicitous not to appear unworthy of it; and, on a day, wandering among

the hills and crossing the river Ensa, he entered the wood of Selva

Piana: struck by the beauty of the place, he turned his thoughts to his

neglected poem of Africa; and, excited by an enthusiasm for his subject

which had long been dormant, he composed that day, and on each following

one, some verses. On returning to Parma he sought and found a tranquil

and fit dwelling: buying the house that thus pleased him, he fixed

himself at Parma, and continued to occupy himself with his poem with so

much ardour, that he brought it to a conclusion with a speed that

excited his own surprise.[45]

At this time Petrarch suffered the first of those losses which

afterwards cast such gloomy shadows over his life, in the death, first

of Thomas of Messina, and then of a dearer friend, Giacomo Colonna.

Tommaso Caloria of Messina had studied with Petrarch at Bologna, and

many of his letters are addressed to him. There existed a strict

friendship between them, both loving and cultivating literature. His

early death deeply affected the warm-hearted poet. The impression he

received was so melancholy and bitter, that he desired to die also; and

a fever, the consequence of his grief, made him imagine that in reality

his end was approaching. To add to his disquietude, he heard of the

illness of Giacomo Colonna. The bishop was at that time residing at

Lombes, apart from all his family, and Petrarch was about to join him to

fulfil his duties as canon. At this time he one night dreamt that he saw

Giacomo Colonna, in his garden at Parma, crossing the rivulet that

traversed it. He went to meet him, asking him, with surprise, whence he

came? whither he was going in such haste? and wherefore unattended? The

bishop replied, smiling, "Do you not remember when you visited the

Garonne with me, how you disliked the thunder-storms of the Pyrenees?

They now annoy me also, and I am returning to Rome." So saying he

hastened on, repelling with his hand Petrarch, who was about to follow

him, saying, "Remain, you must not now accompany me." As he spoke, his

countenance changed, and it was overspread with the hues of death.

Nearly a month after, Petrarch heard that the bishop had died during the

night on which this dream had occurred. The poet was a faithful and

believing son of the church of Rome, but he was not superstitious, and

saw nothing supernatural in this affecting coincidence. The loss of his

friend and patron grieved him deeply, and his mourning was renewed soon

after by the death of Dionisio Robertis. These reiterated losses made so

profound an impression, that he trembled and turned pale on receiving

any letter, and feared at each instant to hear of some new disaster.

Satisfied with the tranquillity which he enjoyed at Parma, he resisted

the frequent and earnest solicitations of his friends at Avignon to

return among them. He did not forget Laura. Her image often occupied

him. It was here we may believe that he wrote the canzone before quoted,

and many sonnets, which showed with what lively and earnest thoughts he

cherished the passion which had so long reigned over him. He could not

write letters; but as it is a lover's dearest solace to make his

mistress aware that his attachment survives time and absence, Petrarch,

we may easily suppose, was glad, by the medium of his heartfelt poetry,

to communicate with her who, he hoped, prized his affection, even if she

did not silently return it. Still love, while far from her, did not so

pertinaciously and cruelly torment, and he was unwilling to trust

himself within the influence of her presence. It required a powerful

motive to induce him to pass the Alps; but this occurred after no long

period of time. Italy, and especially Rome, was torn by domestic faction

and the lawlessness of the nobles. Petrarch saw in the secession of the

popes to Avignon the cause of these disasters. His patriotic spirit

kindled with indignation, that the head of the church and the world

should desert the queen of cities, and inhabit an insignificant

province. He had often exerted all his eloquence to induce successive

popes to return to the palaces and temples of Italy. Pope Benedict XII.

died at this time, and Clement VI. was elected to fill the papal chair.

One of the first incidents of his reign was the arrival of an embassy

from Rome, soliciting the restoration of the papal residence. Petrarch,

having been already made citizen of that city, was chosen one of the

deputies.[46]

[Sidenote: 1342.

Ætat.

38.]

He and Rienzi (who afterwards played so celebrated a part) addressed the

pope. Their representations were of no avail; but Clement rewarded the

poet by naming him prior of Migliarino in the diocese of Pisa.

Petrarch remained at Avignon. The sight of Laura gave fresh energy to a

passion which had survived the lapse of fifteen years. She was no longer

the blooming girl who had first charmed him. The cares of life had

dimmed her beauty. She was the mother of many children, and had been

afflicted at various times by illnesses. Her home was not happy. Her

husband, without loving or appreciating her, was ill-tempered and

jealous. Petrarch acknowledged that if her personal charms had been her

sole attraction he had already ceased to love her. But his passion was

nourished by sympathy and esteem; and above all, by that mysterious

tyranny of love, which, while it exists, the mind of man seems to have

no power of resisting, though in feebler minds it sometimes vanishes

like a dream. Petrarch was also changed in personal appearance. His hair

was sprinkled with grey, and lines of care and sorrow trenched his face.

On both sides the tenderness of affection began to replace, in him the

violence of passion, in her the coyness and severity she had found

necessary to check his pursuit. The jealousy of her husband opposed

obstacles to their seeing each other.[47] They met as they could in

public walks and assemblies. Laura sang to him, and a soothing

familiarity grew up between them as her fears became allayed, and he

looked forward to the time when they might sit together and converse

without dread. He had a confidant in a Florentine poet, Sennucio del

Bene, attached to the service of cardinal Colonna, to whom many of his

sonnets are addressed, now asking him for advice, now relating the

slight but valued incidents of a lover's life.

He had another confidant into whose ear to pour the history of his

heart. This was the public. In those days, when books were rare, reading

was a luxury reserved for a few, and it was chiefly by oral

communication that a poet's contemporaries became acquainted with his

productions; and there was a class of men, not poets themselves, who

chiefly subsisted by repeating the productions of others:--"men," writes

Petrarch, "of no genius, but endowed with memory and industry. Unable to

compose themselves, they recite the verses of others at the tables of

the great, and receive gifts in return. They are chiefly solicitous to

please their audience by novelty. How often have they importuned me with

entreaties for my yet unfinished poems! Often I refused. Sometimes,

moved by the poverty or worth of my applicants, I yield to their

desires. The loss is small to me, the gain to them is great. Many have

visited me, poor and naked, who, having obtained what they asked,

returned, loaded with presents, and dressed in silk, to thank me." These

were the booksellers of the middle ages. It was thus that the Italian

poetry of Petrarch became known; and he, finding that it was often

disfigured in repetition, took pains at last to collect and revise it.

He performed the latter task with much care; and afterwards said, that

though he saw a thousand faults in his other works, he had brought his

Italian poetry to as great a degree of perfection as he was capable of

bestowing.

He applied himself to Greek at this time under Bernardo Barlaam, a

Calabrian by birth, but educated at Constantinople. He had come to

Avignon as ambassador from the Greek emperor Andronicus, for the purpose

of reconciling the Greek and Roman churches. They read several of the

Dialogues of Plato together. The hook entitled "The Secret of Francesco

Petrarca" was written at this period. This work is in the form of

dialogues with St. Augustin. Petrarch, assisted by the questions and

remarks of the saint, examines the state of his mind, laying bare every

secret of his soul, its weaknesses and its fears, with the utmost

ingenuousness. He relates the struggles of his passion for Laura, and

accuses himself of that love of glory which was the spur of so many of

his actions. He speaks of the constitutional melancholy of his

disposition, which often rendered him gloomy and almost despairing; and

he is hid by the saint to seek a remedy for his sorrows, and make

atonement for his faults, by dedicating hereafter all his faculties to

God.

His literary pursuits were interrupted by a public duty. His friend

Robert, king of Naples, died, and was succeeded by his daughter

Giovanna, married to Andrea, prince of Hungary.

[Sidenote: 1343.

Ætat.

39.]

The greatest dissension reigned between the royal pair; besides which,

the young queen was not of an age to govern, and the pope had

pretensions to supremacy during her minority. Petrarch was sent as

ambassador to establish the papal claim; and he was commissioned, also,

by cardinal Colonna, to obtain the release of some prisoners of rank

unjustly detained at Naples.

During this mission he became attached to the party of queen Giovanna,

who inherited her father's love of letters; so that afterwards, when her

husband was murdered, he believed her to be innocent of all share in the

crime. He was displeased, however, with the court and the gladiatorial

exhibitions in fashion there. Having obtained the liberty of the

prisoners, and brought his mission from the pope to a successful

conclusion, he returned to Parma. This part of Italy was in a state of

dreadful disturbance, arising from the wars carried on by the various

lords of Parma, Verona, Ferrara, Bologna, and Padua. Petrarch, besieged,

as it were, in the first-named town, was obliged to remain. He had still

the house he had bought, and the books he had collected and left in

Italy. He loved his cisalpine Parnassus, as he named his Italian home,

in contradistinction to his transalpine Parnassus at Vaucluse; and,

occupying himself with his poem of Africa, he was content to prolong his

stay in his native country.

[Sidenote: 1345.

Ætat.

41.]

At length the roads became safe, and he returned to Avignon.

And now an event occurred which electrified Italy, and filled the papal

court with astonishment and disquietude. Nicola di Rienzi, inspired by a

desire to free his townsmen from the cruel tyranny of the nobles, with

wonderful promptitude and energy, seized upon the government of Rome,

assumed the name of tribune, and reduced all the men of rank, with

Stefano Colonna at their head, to make public submission to his power.

The change he produced in the state of the country was miraculous.

Before, travellers scarcely ventured, though armed and in bodies, to

traverse the various states: under him the roads became secure; and his

emissaries, bearing merely a white wand in their hands, passed

unmolested from one end of Italy to the other. Order and plenty reigned

through the land. The pope and cardinals were filled with alarm; while

Petrarch hailed with glowing enthusiasm the restoration of peace and

empire to his beloved country. He wrote the tribune letters full of

encouragement and praise. His heart swelled with delight at the prospect

of the renewed glories of Rome; and such was his blind exultation, that

he scarcely mourned the death of several of the most distinguished

members of the Colonna family, who fell in the straggle between the

nobles and Rienzi.

He desired to return to Italy to enjoy the triumph of liberty and law

over oppression and licence. More and more he hated Avignon. Pope

Clement VI. was a man of refinement, and a munificent prince: but he was

luxurious and dissolute; so that the vices of the court, which filled

the poet with immeasurable abhorrence, increased during his reign. He

had offered Petrarch the dignity of bishop, and the honourable and

influential post of apostolic secretary; but the poet declined to accept

the proferred rank. Love of independence was strong in his heart; and he

desired no wealth beyond competence, which was secured to him by the

preferment he already enjoyed. He was at this time archdeacon of Parma,

as well as canon of various cathedrals. He obtained with difficulty the

consent of his friends to abandon Avignon for Italy. Cardinal Colonna

reproached him bitterly for deserting him; and Laura saw him depart with

regret. When he went to take leave of her, he found her (as he describes

in several of his sonnets) surrounded by a circle of ladies. Her mien

was dejected; a cloud overcast her face, whose expression seemed to say,

"Who takes my faithful friend from me?" Petrarch was struck to the heart

by a sad presentiment: the emotion was mutual; they both seemed to feel

that they should never meet again.

Yet, restless and discontented, he would not stay. He had no ties of

home. His brother Gerard had taken vows, and become a Carthusian monk:

he invited Petrarch to follow his example; but the poet's love of

independence prevented this, as well as every other servitude. Belonging

to the Romish church, he could not marry; and though he had two children

he was not attached to their mother, of whom nothing more is known

except the declaration, in the letters of legitimacy obtained afterwards

for her son, that she was not a married woman. Of these two children the

daughter was yet an infant. The boy, now ten years of age, he had placed

at Verona, under the care of Rinaldo da Villafranca.

[Sidenote: 1347.

Ætat.

43.]

Leaving Avignon, Petrarch passed through Genoa, where he heard of the

follies and downfall of Rienzi; instead, therefore, of proceeding to

Rome, he repaired to his house at Parma.

[Sidenote: 1348.

Ætat.

44.]

The fatal year now began which cast mourning and gloom over the rest of

his life. It was a year fatal to the whole world. The plague, which had

been extending its ravages over Asia, entered Europe. As if for an omen

of the greater calamity, a disastrous earthquake occurred on the 25th of

January. Petrarch was timid: he feared thunder--he dreaded the sea; and

the alarming concussion of nature that shook Italy filled him with

terror. The plague then extended its inroads to increase his alarm. It

spread its mortal ravages far and wide: nearly one half of the

population of the world became its prey. Petrarch saw thousands die

around him, and he trembled for his friends: he heard that it was at

Avignon, and his friend Sennucio del Bene had fallen its victim. A

thousand sad presentiments haunted his mind. He recollected the altered

countenance of Laura when he last saw her; he dreamed of her as dead;

her pale image hovered near his couch, bidding him never expect to see

her more. At last, the fatal truth reached him: he received intelligence

of her death on the 19th of May. By a singular coincidence, she died on

the anniversary of the day when he first saw her. She was taken ill on

the 3d of April, and languished but three days. As soon as the symptoms

of the plague declared themselves, she prepared to die: she made her

will, which is dated on the 3d of April[48], and received the sacraments

of the church. On the 6th she died, surrounded to the last by her

friends and the noble ladies of Avignon, who braved the danger of

infection to attend on one so lovely and so beloved. On the evening of

the same day on which she died, she was interred in the chapel of the

Cross which her husband had lately built in the church of the Minor

Friars at Avignon. With her was buried a leaden box, fastened with wire,

which enclosed a medal and a sealed parchment, on which was inscribed an

Italian sonnet. If the sonnet were the composition of Petrarch, as the

sense of it would intimate, although its want of merit renders it

doubtful, this box must have been placed in the grave at a subsequent

period.

The sensitive heart of Petrarch had often dwelt on the possibility of

Laura's death. Although she was only three years his junior, he

comforted himself by the reflection that as he had entered life first so

he should be the first to quit it.[49] This fond hope was

disapappointed: he lost her who, for more than twenty years, had

continually been the object of all his thoughts: he lost her at a period

when he began to hope that, while time diminished the violence of his

passion, it might draw them nearer as friends. The sole melancholy

consolation now afforded him was derived from the contemplation of the

past. That at each hour of the day her memory might be more vividly

present to his thoughts, he fixed to the binding of his copy of Virgil a

record of her death, written in Latin, of which the following is a

translation:--

"Laura, illustrious through her own virtues, and long celebrated by my

verses, first appeared to me in my youth, in the year of our Lord 1327,

on the sixth day of April, in the church of Ste. Claire, at Avignon, at

the ninth hour[50] of the morning. And in the same city, during the same

month of April, on the same day of the month, and at the same early

hour, but in the year 1348, this light was withdrawn from the world;

while I, alas! ignorant of my fate, chanced to be at Verona. The unhappy

intelligence reached me through the letters of my friend Louis, at

Parma, in the same year, on the morning of the nineteenth of May. Her

chaste and beautiful body was deposited, on the evening of her death in

the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon.[51] Her soul, as Seneca says

of Africanus, I believe to have returned to the heaven whence it came.

To mingle some sweetness with the bitter memory of this miserable event,

I have selected this place to record it, which often meets my eyes; so

that by frequent view of these words, and by due estimation of the swift

passage of time, I may be reminded that nothing henceforth can please me

in life, and that, my chief tie being broken, it is time that I should

escape from this Babylon; and, by the grace of God, I shall find this

easy, while I resolutely and boldly reflect on the vain cares of years

gone by, on my futile hopes, and on their unexpected downfall."[52]

Death consecrates and deepens the sentiment with which we regard a

beloved object; it is no wonder, therefore, that Petrarch, whose

sensibility and warmth of feeling surpassed that of all other men,

should have gone beyond himself in the poems he wrote subsequent to

Laura's death. Nothing can be more tender, more instinct with the spirit

of passionate melancholy, and, at the same time, more beautiful, than

the sonnets and canzoni which lament her loss. It was his only

consolation to recur to all the marks of affection he had ever received

from her, and to believe that she regarded him with tender interest from

her place of bliss in heaven. He indulged, also, in another truly

catholic mode of testifying his affection, by giving large sums in

charity for the sake of her soul, and causing so many masses to be said

for the same purpose, that, as a priest who was his contemporary,

informed his congregation, in a sermon, "they had been sufficient to

withdraw her from the hands of the devil, had she been the worst woman

in the world; while, on the contrary, her death was holy."[53]

The death of Laura, overwhelming as it was, was but a prelude to

numerous others. Petrarch had lived among many dear friends; but the

plague appeared, and their silent graves were soon all that remained to

him of them. Cardinal Colonna died in the course of this same year. He

was the last surviving son of the hero Stefano, who lived to become

childless in his old age. Petrarch relates in a letter, that during his

first visit to Rome, he was walking one evening with Stefano in the wide

street that led from the Colonna palace to the Capitol, and they paused

in an open place formed by the meeting of several streets. They both

leant their elbows on an antique marble, and their conversation turned

on the actual condition of the Colonna family: after other observations

that fell from Stefano, he turned to Petrarch with tears in his eyes,

saying, "With regard to the heir of my possessions, I desire and ought

to leave them to my sons; but fate has ordered otherwise. By a reversal

of the order of nature, which I deplore, it is I--decrepit old man as I

am--who will inherit from all my children." As he spoke, grief seized

upon his heart, and interrupted further speech. Now this singular

prophecy was fulfilled; and Petrarch, in his letter of condolence,

reminds the unhappy father of this scene. The old man, however, survived

but a few months the last of his sons.

Petrarch, during the autumn, visited Giacomo da Carrara, lord of Padua,

who had often invited him with a warmth and pertinacity, which he found

it at length impossible to resist. Pie passed many months in that town,

visiting occasionally Parma, Mantua, and Ferrara, being much favoured

and beloved by the various lords of these cities.

[Sidenote: 1350.

Ætat.

46.]

On occasion of the jubilee, he went to Rome in pilgrimage, to avail

himself of the religious indulgences afforded on that occasion. On his

way through Florence, which he visited for the first time, he saw

Boccaccio, with whom he had lately entered into a correspondence.

Continuing his journey, he met with a serious injury from the kick of a

horse on his knee, on the road near Bolsena, which occasioned him great

pain, and on his arrival at Rome confined him to his bed for some days.

As soon as he was able to rise, he performed his religious duties, and,

with earnest prayers and good resolutions, dedicated his future life to

the practices of virtue and piety.

Returning from Rome, he passed through his native town of Arezzo. The

inhabitants received him with every mark of honour: they showed him the

house in which he was born, which they had never permitted to be pulled

down nor altered, and attended on him during his visit with zealous

affection. On his arrival at Padua he was afflicted by hearing of the

death of his friend and protector Giacomo da Carrara; who, but a few

days before, had been assassinated by a relative. The son of Giacomo

succeeded to him, and though the difference of age prevented the same

intimacy of friendship, the young lord loved and honoured Petrarch as

his father had done; so that he continued to reside in the city, over

which the youth ruled. Sometimes he visited Venice, to which beautiful

and singular town he was much attached. The doge, Andrea Dandolo, was

his friend; and he exerted his influence to put an end to the

destructive war carried on between Venice and Genoa, writing forcible

and eloquent letters to the doge. His endeavours were without success;

but the injuries which the republics mutually inflicted and received

might make them afterwards repent that they had not listened to the

voice of the peace-maker.

Nor was the poet's heart wholly closed against the feelings of love; nor

could the image of the dead Laura possess all the empire which had been

hers, cold and reserved as she was, during her life. His sonnets give

evidence that passion had spread fresh nets to ensnare him, when the new

object of his admiration died, and death quenched and scattered once

again the fire which he was unable to resist.[54] Again, he could think

only of Laura; and, on the third anniversary of her death, exclaimed,

"How sweet it had been to die three years ago!"

[Sidenote: 1351.

Ætat.

47.]

It was on this anniversary that Boccaccio arrived at Padua, bringing the

decree of the Florentine republic, which reinstated him in his paternal

inheritance, together with letters inviting him to accept of a

professor's chair in their new university.

Such an employment scarcely suited one, who, for the sake of freedom,

had declined the highest honours of the catholic church. Petrarch

testified great gratitude for the restitution of his property, but

passed over their offered professorship in silence. Instead of

repairing, as he had been invited, to Florence, he set out to revisit

Avignon and Vaucluse. "I had resolved," he writes, "to return here no

more; but my desires overcame my resolution, and, in justification of my

inconstancy, I have nothing to allege but the necessity I felt for

solitude. In my own country I am too well known, too much courted, too

greatly praised. I am sick of adulation; and that place becomes dear to

me, where I can live to myself alone, abstracted from the crowd,

unannoyed by the voice of fame. Habit, which is a second nature, has

rendered Vaucluse my true country." His son accompanied him on this

occasion. The boy was now fourteen years of age: he was quiet and

docile; but invincibly repugnant to learning, to the ne slight

mortification of his father, who vainly tried, by reprehension,

raillery, and sarcasm, to awaken emulation in his mind.

When Petrarch arrived at Avignon, Clement VI, was very ill, and expected

to die. He asked the poet's opinion concerning his disorder; and

Petrarch wrote him a letter to give him his advice with regard to the

choice of a physician, entreating him to adhere to one, as affording a

better prospect, where all was chance, of having his malady understood.

The learned body of medical men was highly offended by this letter: they

attacked the writer with acrimony; and Petrarch replied in a style of

vituperation, little accordant with his usual mild manner. He was highly

esteemed in the papal court, and consulted by the four cardinals,

deputed to reform the government of Rome; and was again solicited to

accept the place of apostolic secretary, which he again refused. "I am

content," he said, in reply to his friend the cardinal Talleirand: "I

desire nothing more. My health is good; labour renders me cheerful; I

have every kind of book; and I have friends, whom I consider the most

precious blessing of life, if they do not seek to deprive me of my

liberty."

This letter was written from Vaucluse, Petrarch's heart had opened to a

thousand sad and tender emotions, when he returned to the valley which

had so frequently heard his laments: his sonnets on his return to

Provence breathe the softest spirit of sadness and devoted love. He

gladly took refuge in his former home from the vices and turbulence of

Avignon. He renewed the wandering lonely life he had lived twelve years

before. The old peasant still lived with his aged wife; and the poet

amused himself with improvements in his garden, which an inundation of

the Sorgue overwhelmed and destroyed.

On the death of Clement VI. he was succeeded by Innocent VI. He was an

ignorant man; and, from Petrarch's perpetual study of Virgil (who was

reputed to be an adept in the art magic), he fancied that the poet was a

magician also.

[Sidenote: 1352.

Ætat.

48.]

Petrarch was now most anxious to return to Italy, yet still lingered at

Vaucluse. He made an excursion to visit the Carthusian convent, where

his brother Gerard had taken the vows. Gerard had acted an admirable and

heroic part during the visitation of the plague, and survived the

dangers to which he fearlessly exposed himself. Petrarch was received in

his monastery with respect and affection; and, in compliance with the

request of the monks, wrote his treatise "On Solitary Life."

Winter advanced, and he was most anxious to cross the Alps. He visited

his old friend, the bishop of Cavaillon, at Cabrières, and was entreated

by him to remain "one day more." Petrarch consented with reluctance; and

on that very night such storms came on, as impeded his journey for

several weeks.

[Sidenote: 1353.

Ætat.

49.]

At length he crossed the Alps, and arrived at Milan, on his way

southward, not having determined in his own mind in what town he should

fix his residence, wavering between Parma, Padua, Verona, and Venice.

While in this state of indecision, the hospitable reception and earnest

invitation of Giovanni Visconti, lord and bishop of Milan, induced him

to remain in that city.

Louis of Baviere, emperor of Germany, had been deposed by pope John

XXII., and each succeeding pontiff confirmed the interdict. Clement VI.

raised Charles, the son of John of Luxembourg, king of Bohemia, to the

imperial throne, imposing on him, at the same time, rigorous and

disgraceful conditions with regard to his rights over Italy, forcing him

into an engagement never to pass a single night at Rome, but enter it

merely for the ceremony of his coronation. Charles and his father had

visited Avignon in the year 1346, to arrange the stipulations.[55] Some

time after, Petrarch wrote a long and eloquent letter to the emperor,

imploring him to enter Italy, and to deliver it from the disasters that

oppressed it. It is singular that two such lovers of their country, as

Dante and Petrarch, should both have invited German emperors to take

possession of it: but the emperor was then the representative of the

sovereigns of the Western empire, and they believed that, crowned and

reigning at Rome, that city would again become the capital of the world,

and Germany sink into a mere province. For though Petrarch earnestly

implores the emperor to enter Italy, various imprecations against the

Germans are scattered through his poems.

[Sidenote: 1354.

Ætat.

50.]

Charles did not answer the poet's letter immediately, but he entertained

a profound admiration for him; and when he entered Italy, being at

Mantua, he sent one of his esquires to Milan, to invite Petrarch to come

to him. The poet immediately obeyed, though frost and snow rendered his

journey slow and difficult. The emperor received him with the greatest

kindness and distinction. Petrarch used the utmost freedom of speech in

his exhortations to the emperor to deliver Italy. He made him a present

of a collection of antique medals, among which was an admirable one of

Augustus, saying to him, "These heroes ought to serve you as examples.

The medals are dear to me: I would not part with them to any one but

you. I know the lives and acts of the great men whom they represent:

this knowledge is not enough for you; you ought to imitate them."

Petrarch's admonitions were vain. After a progress through Italy, and

the ceremony of his coronation at Rome; after having made a mere traffic

of his power and prerogatives, Charles hastened to repass the Alps, and

returned to Germany, as a contemporary historian observes "with a full

purse, but shorn of honour."

After the death of the bishop-lord Giovanni Visconti, Petrarch continued

to reside at Milan under the protection of his nephew Galeazzo: he was

sent by him at one time to Venice to negotiate a peace, and on another

to Prague, on an embassy to the emperor Charles.

[Sidenote: 1355.

Ætat.

51.]

Afterwards he was sent to Paris to congratulate king John on his return

from his imprisonment in England: he was shocked, in travelling through

France, to find that it had been laid waste by fire and sword.

[Sidenote: 1360.

Ætat.

56.]

The invasion of the English had reduced the whole land to a frightful

state of solitude; the fields were desolate, and no house was left

standing, except such as were fortified. Paris presented a yet more

painful spectacle; grass grew in the deserted streets; the sounds of

gaiety and the silence of learning were exchanged for the tumult of

soldiery and the fabrication of arms. Petrarch was well received,

especially by the dauphin, Charles, who cultivated letters and loved

literary men. Here, as in every other court he visited, the poet was

solicited to remain; but he found the barbarism of Paris little

congenial to his habits, and he hastened back to Italy.

When not employed on public affairs, Petrarch lived a life of peace and

retirement at Milan. In the summer, he inhabited a country-house three

miles from the city, near the Garignano, to which he gave the name of

Linterno: when in the city, he dwelt in a sequestered quarter near the

church of St. Ambrose. "My life," he says in a letter to the friend of

his childhood, Guido Settimo, "has been uniform ever since age tamed the

fervour of youth, and extinguished that fatal passion which so long

tormented me; and though I often change place, my mode of spending my

time is the same in all. Remember my former occupations, and you will

know what my present ones are. It seems to me that you ought not only to

know my acts, but even my dreams."

"Like a weary traveller, I quicken my steps as I proceed. I read and

write day and night, one occupation relieving another. This is all my

amusement and employment: my eyes are worn out with readings my fingers

weary with holding the pen. My health is so good and robust that I

scarcely feel the advance of years. My feelings are as warm as in my

youth, but I control their vivacity, so that my repose is seldom

disturbed by them. One thing only is the source of disquietude: I am

esteemed more than I deserve, so that a vast concourse of people come to

see me. Not only am I honoured and loved by the prince of this city and

his court, but the whole population pays me respect: yet, living in a

distant quarter of the city, the visits I receive are infrequent, and I

am often left in solitude. I am unchanged in my habits as to sleep and

food. I remain in bed only to sleep, for slumber appears to me to

resemble death, and my bed the grave, which renders it hateful. The

moment I awake I hurry to my library. Solitude and quiet are dear to me;

yet I appear talkative to my friends, and make up for the silence of a

year by the conversation of a day. My income is increased, I confess,

but my expenditure increases with it. You know me, and that I am never

richer nor poorer: the more I have, the less I desire, and abundance

renders me moderate: gold passes through my fingers, but never sticks to

them."

The literary work on which his busy leisure was employed, was "De

Remediis utriusque Fortunæ," which he dedicated to Azzo di Coreggio.

Azzo, who had formerly protected him, had been driven into exile, and,

alternately a prisoner and an outcast, was reduced to a state of the

heaviest adversity. Petrarch never ceased to treat him with respect; and

for his comfort and consolation composed this treatise, of how to bring

a remedy to the evils consequent on both prosperous and adverse fortune.

Honoured by all men, beloved by his friends, with whom he kept up a

constant and affectionate correspondence, courted by monarchs, and

refusing the offers made him of the highest preferment in the church,

Petrarch spent his latter years in peace and independence. His chief

source of care was derived from his son. The youth was at first modest

and docile, but his disinclination to literature was so great, that he

abhorred the very sight of books. As he grew older he became rebellious,

and a separation ensued between him and his father, soon made up again

on the submission of the young man and his promises of amendment. The

poet's tranquillity was at last broken in upon by the wars of the

Visconti, and the plague, which again ravaged Italy. It had spared Milan

by a singular exemption in the year 1348, but during its second

visitation it was more fatal to this city than to any other. Petrarch

had to mourn the loss of many friends; and his son, who died at this

time, was probably one of its victims. Petrarch records his death in his

Virgil, in these words:--"He who was born for my trouble and sorrow, who

while he lived was the cause of heavy care, and who dying, inflicted on

me a painful wound, having enjoyed but few happy days in the course of

his life, died A. D. 1361, at the age of twenty-five."[56]

[Sidenote: 1361.

Ætat.

57.]

These combined causes induced Petrarch to take up his abode at Padua, of

whose cathedral he was a canon. During the remainder of his life he

usually spent the period of Lent there, and the summer at Pavia; which,

belonging to Galeazzo Visconti, he visited as his guest. A great portion

of his time also was passed at Venice: he had made the republic a

present of his library, and a palace was decreed to him for its

reception, in which he often resided. Andrea Dando was dead; his heart

had been broken by the reverses which the republic suffered in its

struggle with Genoa. Marino Faliero, who succeeded to him, had already

met his fate; but the new doge, Lorenzo Celsi, was Petrarch's warm

friend.

During this year he gave his daughter Francesca, who was scarcely twenty

years of age, in marriage to Francesco Brossano, a Milanese gentleman.

She was gentle and modest, attached to her duties, and averse to the

pleasures of general society: in person she resembled her father to a

singular degree. Her husband had a pleasing exterior; his physiognomy

was remarkably placid, his conversation was unassuming, and his manners

mild and obliging. Petrarch was much attached to his son-in-law: the new

married pair inhabited his house at Venice, and the domestic union was

never disturbed to the end of his life.

One of his principal friends at this period was Boccaccio. Boccaccio, in

the earnestness of his admiration and the singleness of his heart, sent

him a copy of Dante, transcribed by his own hand, with a letter inviting

him to study a poet whose works he neglected and depreciated. Petrarch,

in answer, endeavoured to exculpate himself from the charge of envying

or despising the father of Italian poetry. But his very excuses betray

a latent feeling of irritation; and he asks, how he could be supposed to

envy a man whose highest flights were in the vulgar tongue, while such

of his own poems as were composed in that language he regarded as mere

pastime. The poetry of Dante and Petrarch is essentially different.

There is more refinement in Petrarch, and more elegance of

versification, but scarcely more grace of expression. The force, beauty,

and truth, with which Dante describes the objects of nature, and the

sympathetic feeling that vivifies his touches of human passion, is of a

different style from the outpouring of sentiment, and earnest dwelling

on the writer's own emotions, which form the soul of Petrarch's verses.

The characters of the poets were also in contrast.[57] Dante was a

proud, high-spirited, unyielding man: his haughty soul bent itself to

God and the sense of virtue only; he loved deeply, but it was as a poet

and a boy; and his after-life, spent in adversity, is tinged only with

sombre colours. He possessed the essentials of a hero. Petrarch was

amiable and conciliating: he was incapable of venality or baseness; on

the contrary, his disposition was frank, independent, and generous; but

he was vain even to weakness; and there was a touch of almost feminine

softness in his nature, which was even accompanied by physical timidity

of temper. His ardent affections made him, to a degree, fear his

friends; he was versatile rather than vigorous in his conceptions; and

it was easier for him to plan new works, than to execute one begun, and

to persevere to the end.

He wrote for the learned in Latin; he was averse to communicate with the

ignorant in Italian verse, yet he never made Laura the subject of poetry

except in his native tongue. Even to the last he wrote of her; and one

of his latest productions, chiefly in her honour, were the "Triumphs."

One of these, "The Triumph of Death," is among the most perfect and

beautiful of his productions. His description of Laura's death; the

assemblage of her friends who came to witness her last moments, and

asked what would become of them when she was gone; her own calmness and

resignation; her life fading as a flame that consumes itself away, not

that is violently extinguished; her countenance fair, not pale; her

attitude, reposing like one fatigued, a sweet sleep closing her

beautiful eyes; all is told with touching simplicity and grace. The

second part relates the imagined visit of her spirit to the pillow of

her bereaved lover on the night of her death. She approached him, and,

sighing, gave him her hand: delight sprung up in his heart at taking the

desired hand in his. "Recognise her," she said, "who abstracted you from

the beaten path when your young heart first opened itself to her." Then,

with a thoughtful and composed mien, she sat, and made him sit on a bank

shaded by a laurel and a beech. "How should I fail to know my sweet

deity!" replied the poet, weeping, and doubtful whether he spoke to one

alive or dead. She comforted and exhorted him to give up those mundane

thoughts which made death a pain. "To the good," she said, "death is a

delivery from a dark prison. I had approached near the last moment; the

flesh was weak, but my spirit ready, when I heard a low sad voice

saying, 'O miserable is he who counts the days; and one appears to

endure a thousand years--and who lives in vain--who wanders over earth

and sea, thinking only of her--speaking only of her!' Then," continues

Laura, "I turned my languid eyes, and saw the spirit who had impelled me

and checked you; I recognised her aspect; for in my younger days, when I

was dearest to you, she made life bitter, and death, which is seldom

pleasant to mortals, sweet; so that at that sad moment I was happy,

except for the compassion I felt for you."--"Ah! lady," said the poet,

"tell me, I beseech you, did love never inspire you with a wish to pity

my sufferings, without detracting from your own virtuous resolves? For

your sweet anger and gentle indignation, and the soft peace written in

your eyes, held my soul in doubt for many years." A smile brightened the

lady's countenance as she hastily replied, "My heart never was, nor can

be, divided from yours; but I tempered your fire with my coldness, for

there was no other way of saving our young names from slander,--nor is a

mother less kind because she is severe. Sometimes I said, 'He rather

burns than loves, and I must watch;' but she watches ill who fears or

desires. You saw my outward mien, but did not discern the inward

thought. Often anger was painted on my countenance, while love warmed my

heart;--but reason was never in me conquered by feeling. Then, when I

saw you subdued by grief, I turned my eyes tenderly on you, and saved

your life, and our honour. These were my arts, my deceits, my kind or

disdainful treatment; and thus, either sad or gay, I have led you to the

end, and rejoice, though weary."--"Lady," replied the poet, "this were

reward for all my devotion, could I believe you."--"Never will I say

whether you pleased my eyes in life," answered his visitant; "but the

chains which your heart wore pleased me, as well as the name which, far

and near, you have conferred on me. Your love needed moderation only;

our mutual affection might be equal; but you displayed yours, I

concealed mine. You were hoarse with demanding pity, while I continued

silent,--for shame or fear made much suffering appear slight in my eyes.

Grief is not decreased by silence, nor is it augmented by complaints;

yet every veil was riven "when alone I listened to you singing, 'Dir

più non osa il nostro amore.' My heart was with you, while my eyes were

bent to earth. But you do not perceive," she continued, "how the hours

fly, and that dawn is, from her golden bed, bringing back day to

mortals. We must part--alas! If you would say more, speak briefly."--"I

would know, lady," said the poet, "whether I shall soon follow you, or

tarry long behind." She, already moving away, replied, "In my belief,

you will remain on earth without me many years."

Thus fondly, in age, and after the many years which Laura had prophesied

had gone over his head, Petrarch dwelt on the slight variations and

events that checkered the history of his love. It may be remarked, also,

that he grew to hold in slight esteem his Latin poetry; he could never

be prevailed upon to communicate his "Africa," and begged that after his

death it might be destroyed.

To the last he interested himself deeply in the political state of his

country. He exceedingly exulted when, on the death of Innocent VI., pope

Urban V. removed his court to Rome. At the same time that he refused the

reiterated offer of the place of apostolic secretary, he asked his

friends to solicit church-preferment for him--he cared not what, so that

it did not demand the sacrifice of his liberty, nor include the

responsibility attendant on the care of souls. It would seem that his

income had become diminished at this time, for he often said that it was

not in old age that he should seek to increase his means; doubtless his

expenses increased on his daughter's account, and he had given up

several of his canonicates to his friends, lie was a generous man, and

had many dependents always about him; so that it is no wonder that he

wished not to find his capacity of benefiting others inconveniently

straitened.

[Sidenote: 1363.

Ætat.

59.]

Boccaccio became warmly attached to Petrarch; at one time he spent the

three summer months of June, July, and August, with him at Venice, in

company with a Greek named Leonzio Pilato--a singular man, of a sombre,

acid, and irritable disposition, but valuable to the friends as an

expounder of the Greek language. Pilato left them to return to

Constantinople; but his restless gloomy spirit quickly prompted him to

wish to revisit Italy. He wrote Petrarch a letter, "as long and dirty,"

says the poet, as his own hair and beard. "This Greek," he continues, in

a letter to Boccaccio, "would be useful to us in our studies, were he

not an absolute savage; but I will never invite him here again. Let him

go, if he will, with his mantle and ferocious manners, and inhabit the

labyrinth of Crete, in which he has already spent many years."

[Sidenote: 1365.

Ætat.

61.]

This severity was tempered afterwards, when he heard of the death of

Pilato, who was struck by lightning during a storm on board ship, while

returning by sea to Italy. "This unhappy man," writes Petrarch, "died as

he lived, miserably. I do not think he ever enjoyed a tranquil hour: I

cannot imagine how the spirit of poetry contrived to enter his

tempestuous soul."

[Sidenote: 1367.

Ætat.

63.]

When Urban V. arrived at Rome, Petrarch wrote him a long letter,

expressive of the transport he felt on this auspicious event. He praised

his courage in having vanquished every obstacle; adding, "Permit me to

praise you; I shall not be suspected of flattery, for I ask nothing

except your benediction." The pope replied to this letter by an eulogium

on its eloquence; declaring, at the same time, that he had the greatest

desire to see and be of service to him.

But old age had advanced on Petrarch. He had for several years suffered,

each autumn, the attacks of a tertian fever, probably the effect of the

climate of Lombardy, where that malady is prevalent; and this tended

rapidly to diminish his strength.

[Sidenote: 1369.

Ætat.

65.]

When Urban V. wrote to him with his own hand to reproach him for not

having come to Rome, and urging his instant journey, his letter found

Petrarch at Padua, recovering slowly from an attack of this kind. He was

unable to mount a horse, and was obliged to defer obeying the mandate.

Somewhat recovered during the following winter, he prepared for his

journey, making his will, which he wrote with his own hand.

[Sidenote: April

4.

1370.

Ætat.

66.]

He then set out, but got no further than Ferrara; he there fell into a

sort of swoon, in which he continued for thirty hours without giving any

sign of life. The most violent remedies were administered, and he felt

them no more than a marble statue. The report went abroad that he was

dead, and the city was filled with mourning and lamentation. As soon as

he was somewhat recovered, he would have proceeded on his journey,

notwithstanding the representations of the physicians, who declared that

he would not arrive at Rome alive: but he was too weak to get on

horseback; so he was carried back to Padua in a gondola, and was

received, on his unexpected arrival, with the liveliest demonstrations

of joy, by Francesco da Carrara, the lord of the town, and by its

inhabitants.

For the sake of tranquillity, and to recover his health, he sought a

house in the country, and established himself at Arquà, a village

situated north of Padua, among the Euganean hills, not far from the

ancient and picturesque town of Este. The country around, presenting the

vast plains of Lombardy in prospect, and the dells and acclivities of

the hills in the immediate vicinity, is charming beyond description.

There is a luxuriance of vegetation, a richness of produce, which

belongs to Italy, while the climate affords a perpetual spring. Petrarch

built a small but agreeable house at the end of the village, surrounded

by vineyards and gardens.

He busied himself in this retreat by finishing a work begun three years

before, which he had better have left wholly undone. It was founded on a

curious incident, of which he has preserved the knowledge, and which

otherwise would have sunk into oblivion. There were a set of young men

at Venice, disciples of Aristotle, or rather of his Arabian translator,

Averroes, who set up his philosophy as the law of the world, who

despised the Christian religion, and turned the apostles and fathers of

the church into ridicule: there was an open war of opinion between these

men and the pious Petrarch. Four among them, in the presumption and

vivacity of youth, instituted a kind of mock tribunal, at which they

tried the merits of their amiable and learned countryman; and pronounced

the sentence, that "Petrarch was a good sort of a man, but exceedingly

ignorant." He relates this incident in his treatise, "On my own

Ignorance and that of others," which he commences by pretending to be

satisfied with the decision. "Be it so," he says, "I am content; let my

judges be wise, while I am virtuous!" and then he goes on to prove the

fallacy of their judgment by a great display of erudition.

[Sidenote: May

7.

1371.

Ætat.

67.]

He continued to get weaker, and his illnesses were violent, though

transient. On one occasion he was attacked by a fever, and the physician

sent to him by Francesco da Carrara, declared that he could not survive

the night. The next morning he was found, apparently well, risen from

his bed and occupied by his books. "This," he says, "has happened to me

ten times in the course of ten years." The vital powers were thus

exhausted, and it was not likely that he could live to extreme age.

[Sidenote: Padua,

Jan.

5.

1372.

Ætat.

68.]

"You ask me how I am," he writes to a friend: "I am tranquil, and

liberated from the passions of youth. I enjoyed health for a long

time--during the last two years I am grown infirm. My life has been

declared to be in imminent danger, yet I am still alive. I am at present

at Padua, fulfilling my duties as canon. I have quitted Venice, and

rejoice to have done so, on account of the war between the republic and

the lord of this city. In Venice I should have been suspected; here I am

beloved. I pass a great part of my time in the country, which I always

prefer to town. I read, I write, I think. I neither hate nor envy any

man. During the early season of youth, I despised every one except

myself--in maturer years I despised myself only--in my old age I despise

almost all--and myself more than any. I fear only those whom I love, and

my desires are limited to the ending my life well. I try to avoid my

numerous visiters, and have a small agreeable house among the Euganean

hills, where I hope to pass the rest of my days in peace--with the

absent or the dead, perpetually in my thoughts. I have been invited by

the pope, the emperor, and the king of France, who have often and

earnestly solicited me to take up my abode at their several courts; but

I have constantly refused, preferring my liberty before all things."

It is a singular circumstance that one of the last acts of Petrarch was,

to read the "Decameron." Notwithstanding his intimate friendship with

the author during twenty years, Boccaccio's modesty prevented his

speaking of the work, and it fell into Petrarch's hands by chance.

[Sidenote: June

8.

1374.

Ætat.

70.]

"I have not had time," he writes to his friend, "to read the whole, so

that I am not a fair judge; but it has pleased me exceedingly. Its great

freedom is sufficiently excused by the age at which you wrote it, the

lightness of the subject, and of the readers for whom it was destined.

With many gay and laughable things, are mingled many that are serious

and pious. I have read principally at the beginning and end. Your

description of the state of our country during the plague, appears to me

very true and very pathetic. The tale at the conclusion made so lively

an impression on me that I committed it to memory, that I might

sometimes relate it to my friends."

This is the story of Griselda. Petrarch translated it into Latin for the

sake of those who did not understand Italian, and often read it and had

it read to him. He relates, that frequently the friend who read it broke

off, interrupted by tears. Among others to whom he communicated this

favourite tale was our English poet Chaucer, who in his prologue to the

story of Griselda says that he

"Learned it at Padowe of a worthy clerke,

Francis Petrarch."

Chaucer had been sent ambassador to Genoa just at this time.

The letter to Boccaccio accompanying the Latin translation of the story

was probably the last that Petrarch ever wrote. The life of this great

and good man had nearly arrived at its conclusion. On the morning of the

19th of July, 1374, he was found by his attendants in his library, his

head resting on a book. As he often passed whole hours and even days in

this attitude, it at first excited no peculiar attention; but the

immovability of his posture at length grew alarming, and on inspection

it was found that he was no more.

The intelligence of his death spread through Arquà, the Euganean hills,

and Padua, and occasioned general consternation: people flocked from far

and near to attend his funeral. Francesco da Carrara, with all the

nobility of the city of Padua, was present. The bishop, with the chapter

and clergy, performed the ceremony. The funeral oration was pronounced

by Bonaventura da Peraga, of the order of the hermits of St. Augustin.

The body was first interred in a chapel of the church at Arquà,

dedicated to the Virgin, which Petrarch had himself built. A short time

after, his son-in-law, Francesco Brossano, erected a marble monument

opposite the church, and caused the body to be transferred to it;

inscribing on the tomb four bad Latin verses, which it is said that

Petrarch himself composed, ordering that no epitaph of greater

pretension should record his death.

Petrarch directed in his will that none should weep his death. "Tears,"

he says, "are useless to the dead, and they injure the living:" he

requested only that alms should be given to the poor, that they might

pray for his soul. He continues, "Let them do what they will with my

body; it imports nothing to me." He left Francesco Brossano his heir,

and begs him, as his beloved son, to divide the money he should find

into two parts; to keep one himself, and to give the other to the person

he has mentioned to him. This is said to mean his daughter. He left

several legacies to hospitals and religious houses. He bequeathed his

good lute to Thomas Barbari, wherewith to sing the praises of God; and

to Boccaccio he left fifty golden florins, to buy a robe lined with fur,

for his winter studies; apologising at the same time for leaving so

trifling a sum to so great a man.

This is a brief and imperfect sketch of Petrarch's life--drawn from the

ample materials which his Latin prose works afford, and the careful

researches of various biographers, particularly of the Abbé de Sâde,

who ascertained, by infinite labour and perseverance, several doubtful

facts concerning the persons with whom the poet's life is chiefly

connected. Much more might be said of one whose history is pregnant with

profound and various interest. It will be enough if these pages contain

a faithful portrait, and impress the reader with a just sense, of his

honest worth, his admirable genius, his high-toned feelings, and the

many virtues that adorned his long career.

[Footnote 27: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 28: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 29: Canzone IV.]

[Footnote 30: Secretum Francaci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 31: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 32: Canzone IV. In this, one of the most beautiful of his

canzoni, Petrarch narrates the early story of his love. In it occur the

following lines:--

"I' seguii tanto avanti il mio desire,

Ch' un dì cacciando siccom' io solea,

Mi mossi; e quella fera bella e cruda

In una fonte ignuda

Si stava, quanto 'l Sol più forte ardea.

Io, perchè d' altra vista non m' appago,

Stetti a mirarla: ond' ella ebbe vergogna,

E per farne vendetta, o per celarse,

L' acqua nel viso con le mane mi sparse,

Vero dirò, forse e' parrà menzogna:

Ch' i, sentii trarmi della propria immago;

Ed un cervo solitario, e vago,

Di selva in selva ratto mi transformo;

Ed ancor de' miei can' fuggo lo stormo."

The abbé de Sâde, commenting on this poem with true French dryness of

fancy, supposes that the scene actually occurred, and would point out

the very spot in the environs of Avignon; not perceiving that the poet,

in an exquisite allegory, founded on the story of Acteon, describes the

wanderings of his mind, and the reveries in which he indulged concerning

her he loved; and that both lady and fountain are the creations of his

imagination, which so duped and absorbed him; that passion changed him

to a solitary being, and his thoughts became the pursuers that

perpetually followed and tormented him.]

[Footnote 33: I adopt Petrarch's own words, here and elsewhere,

translated from the "Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ."]

[Footnote 34: Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 35: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 36: Ibid.]

[Footnote 37: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 38: Epist. Fam.]

[Footnote 39: Sonnets 53, 54. The Abbé de Sâde notices these sonnets.

They prove that the order of time is not preserved in the arrangement of

his sonnets; as his letters prove that this journey through the forest

of Ardennes preceded many events recorded in poems which are represented

as if of an earlier date.]

[Footnote 40: Epist. Fam.]

[Footnote 41: The envoy shows that this canzone was written in Italy,

probably when Petrarch was residing at Parma, a few years after. Yet

being able to quote only a poem of which there exists a worthy

translation, I could not refrain from extracting it; and though alluding

to another country, and finished there, it is almost impossible not to

believe that it was conceived at Vaucluse, and that it breathes the

spirit that filled him in that solitude.]

[Footnote 42: This was not a painting, but a small marble medallion. It

has been, since the fourteenth century, in possession of the Peruzzi

family at Florence. Behind the portrait of Laura are four Italian

verses, not inserted in any editions of Petrarch:--

"Splendida luce cui chiaro se vede

Quel bel che può mostrar nel mondo amore,

O vero exemplo del sopran valore

E d'ogni meraviglia intiera fede."

There is a medallion also of Petrarch, similar in form to the other,

behind which is inscribed--

"Simion de Senis me fecit,

Sub Anno Domini MCCCXLIII."

The authenticity of these bas-reliefs is acknowledged in Italy; a

pamphlet, giving an account of them, was published in Paris, 1821,

written by one of the Peruzzi family.]

[Footnote 43: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 44: Ibid.]

[Footnote 45: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 46: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 47: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 48: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 49: Secretimi Francisci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 50: Petrarch uses church time, in which the ninth hour

answers to six A. M.]

[Footnote 51: The perfect accord between this record in Petrarch's

handwriting, and the inscription on the coffin of Laura de Sâde,

discovered in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon, puts the

identity of the lady beyond all doubt. This seems to have taken place

for the very purpose of informing posterity of who she was whom the poet

had celebrated, yet whose actual name he never mentioned.]

[Footnote 52: "The Virgil to which this note is appended is preserved in

the Ambrosian library at Milan. In 1795, a part of the leaf on which it

was written became detached from the cover, and the librarians perceived

other writing beneath. Curiosity engaged them to take off the entire

leaf, in which process, the parchment being tightly glued, the writing,

nearly effaced, remained on the wood of the binding. They found beneath

a note in the handwriting of Petrarch, containing the dates of the loss

he had once suffered of the book itself, and its restitution. There is,

in addition, a record of the dates of the death of various of his

friends, mingled with exclamations of regret and sorrow, and complaints

of the increasing solitude to which he finds himself reduced through

these reiterated bereavements."--_Ginguene._]

[Footnote 53: Tiraboschi.]

[Footnote 54: "Morte m'ha liberato un'altra volta,

E rotto 'l nodo, e'l foco ha spento, e sparso,

Contra la qual non vai forza nè 'ngegno."

_Part II, Sonnet III._]

[Footnote 55: The Abbé de Sâde attributes to this prince the kiss

bestowed on Laura at a ball, by one of royal blood. The prince with his

hand beckoned aside every other elder or more noble lady, and kissed her

on her brow and eyelids. Petrarch, who was present, was filled at once

with envy and triumph (Sonnet CCI.). If her beauty, and not the

celebrity conferred on her by the poet, was the occasion of this

compliment, it is difficult not to believe that it was bestowed before

she had lost the bloom of youth, especially as it is mentioned that the

prince put aside all ladies older than herself.]

[Footnote 56: Ugo Foscolo.]

[Footnote 57: Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo.]