While these things were going on in Europe, the period was gradually
approaching, when the energies of the human mind were to loosen its
shackles, and its independence was ultimately to extinguish those
delusions and that superstition which had so long enslaved it.
Petrarch, born in the year 1304, was deeply impregnated with a passion
for classical lore, was smitten with the love of republican
institutions, and especially distinguished himself for an adoration of
Homer. Dante, a more sublime and original genius than Petrarch, was
his contemporary. About the same time Boccaccio in his Decamerone gave
at once to Italian prose that purity and grace, which none of his
successors in the career of literature have ever been able to excel.
And in our own island Chaucer with a daring hand redeemed his native
tongue from the disuse and ignominy into which it had fallen, and
poured out the immortal strains that the genuine lovers of the English
tongue have ever since perused with delight, while those who are
discouraged by its apparent crabbedness, have yet grown familiar with
his thoughts in the smoother and more modern versification of Dryden
and Pope. From that time the principles of true taste have been more
or less cultivated, while with equal career independence of thought
and an ardent spirit of discovery have continually proceeded, and made
a rapid advance towards the perfect day.
But the dawn of literature and intellectual freedom were still a long
time ere they produced their full effect. The remnant of the old woman
clung to the heart with a tenacious embrace. Three or four centuries
elapsed, while yet the belief in sorcery and witchcraft was alive in
certain classes of society. And then, as is apt to occur in such cases,
the expiring folly occasionally gave tokens of its existence with a
convulsive vehemence, and became only the more picturesque and
impressive through the strong contrast of lights and shadows that
attended its manifestations.