CABINET CYCLOPÆDIA. (continued 3)

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. 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. 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]

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.

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." 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."

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. 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. 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.

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.

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. 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

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.

BOCCACCIO

The family of Giovanni Boccaccio derived itself originally from the Ardovini and Bertaldi, of the castle of Certaldo, a fortress of Val d'Elsa, ten miles distant from Florence. His progenitors migrated to that town, and became citizens of the republic. His father's name was Boccaccio di Chellino, derived from that of his father Michele, diminished to Michellino or Chellino; such, as in the Highlands of Scotland and other places in the infancy of society, was the mode by which the Italians formed their names; with the exception of a few, who retained the appellation of some illustrious ancestor. The son of Boccaccio was named Giovanni, and he always designated himself at full length, as Giovanni di Boccaccio da Certaldo.

Little is known of the early life of Boccaccio, except the slender and vague details which he has interspersed in his works. His father was a merchant; he was a man in good repute, and had filled several offices under the Florentine government. His commercial speculations caused him to make frequent journeys, and he lived at one time for some years at Paris. Boccaccio was most probably born in that city. His mother was a French girl of highly respectable family, though not noble. It has been disputed whether in the sequel Boccaccio di Chellino married her; but it seems likely that she died soon after the birth of her son, and never became his wife. It is certain that Giovanni was illegitimate; as he was obliged to obtain a bull to legitimise himself, when late in life he entered the ecclesiastical profession.

1313.

Boccaccio was born in the year 1313, and at the age of seven accompanied his father to Florence. He tells us of himself that he gave early tokens of his future inventive and romantic talents. When seven years old a desire of inventing fictions seized him, and he even then fabricated tales, childish and inartificial it is true, though he had never heard any stories or fables, nor frequented the society of literary men; and though he was scarcely acquainted with the first elements of letters.[58] His father had, however, plans with regard to him wholly at variance with these tastes. 1323. Ætat. 10. For a short time he gave him Giovanni da Strada, father of the poet Zenobio, for an instructor in the rudiments of learning, and then placed him under the charge of a merchant, from whom he was to learn arithmetic, and to be initiated in other parts of knowledge appertaining to commerce. In this way, to use his own words, he lost six valuable and irrecoverable years. Some friends then assured his father that he was better fitted for literature than trade, and his parent yielded so far to these remonstrances, as to permit him to enter on the study of the canonical law, placing him under a celebrated professor. 1329. Ætat. 16. It is very uncertain in what country he resided during this time. He travelled a good deal, and we have evidence of his visiting Ravenna, Naples, and Paris, both while he was with his mercantile instructor, and afterwards. It has been conjectured that at the former place he, as a child, knew Dante, who discovered and cherished his infant talents. But this idea rests on a very slender foundation, arising from Boccaccio speaking of him as his guide from whom he derived all good; and Petrarch, alluding to him in a letter to Boccaccio, as "he who was in your youth the first leader, the first torch that led you to study." Dante died in 1321, when Boccaccio was only eight years old; it seems probable, therefore, that Boccaccio looked on Dante as his master and guide from the reasons that made Dante give those names to Virgil; and the works of the Italian poet formed the torch that lighted his countryman in his search after knowledge. Another discussion has arisen concerning who his master of canonical law was; it is known that he passed much time in Paris, and was familiar with the language, manners, and customs of the French; and as he was intimate with Dionisio Robertis, the friend of Petrarch, it is supposed that he studied under him.[59] It is certain, from his own words, that he was at that time at a distance from home, and that his father, discontented with the career he was pursuing, vexed him with reproachful letters. It would seem that Boccaccio di Chellino was a penurious and ill-tempered man.

The project of making him a lawyer did not succeed better than the former one. The imaginative youth was disgusted with the hard dry study; nor could the counsels of his preceptor, nor the continual admonitions of his parent, nor the reproaches of his friends, induce him to pursue his new career with any industry. 1333. Ætat. 20. Displeased by the little progress he made, his father put an end to the experiment, and bringing him back to his commercial pursuits, sent him to Naples, ordering him there to remain; or, as it would appear, from some allusions in his works, recalled him to his home, which was then in that city; as at one time it is certain Boccaccio lived under the paternal roof at Naples; and it is also known that at a later period he continued there, while his father lived at Florence.

Boccaccio describes himself as very happy at this time, associating on equal terms with the young nobles, with whom he practised a system of great reserve, fearing to have his independence infringed upon. But his society was courted, and his disposition and manners were formed by a familiar intercourse with the licentious but refined nobility of king Robert's court. Yet he had better thoughts and more worthy talents dormant in his heart, which only required a slight spark to kindle into an inextinguishable flame. One day, by chance, he visited the tomb of Virgil.[60] The tomb of the Mantuan poet is situated on the height of Pausilippo: it consists of a small structure shaped, like a rude hut, but evidently of ancient date. 1338. Ætat. 25. It is overgrown with rich vegetation; the wild aloe and prickly pear issue from its clefts, and ivy and other parasites climb up its sides and cling thickly to its summit. A dark rock rises immediately before; it is shut in, secluded and tranquil: but at the distance of only a few yards, a short ascent leads to the top of the hill, where the whole of the hay of Naples opens itself to the eye. The exceeding beauty of this scene fills every gazer with delight; the wide-spread sea is adorned by various islands, and by picturesque promontories, which shut in secluded bays; the earth is varied by hills, dells, and lakes, by towering heights and woody ravines; the sky, serenely though darkly blue, imparts matchless hues to the elements beneath. Nature presents her most enchanting aspect; and the voice of human genius breathing from the silent tomb, speaks of the influence of the imagination of man, and of the power which he possesses to communicate his ideas in all their warmth and beauty to his fellow creatures. Such is the tomb of Virgil now—such was it five hundred years ago, when Boccaccio's heart glowed with new-born enthusiasm as he gazed upon it. He remained long contemplating the spot, and calling to mind with admiration the fame of him whose ashes reposed in the structure before him: then he began to lament his evil fortune, which obliged him to give up his faculties to baser pursuits. Touched suddenly and deeply by an ardent desire of cultivating poetry, he, on his return home, cast aside all thoughts of business, and eagerly gave himself up to the Muses. And thus, at nearly mature age, impelled by his own wishes only, excited and led by none, his father averse, and always vituperating literature, he, untaught by any, applied to the cultivation of his understanding, devoting himself to the study of such authors as he could comprehend, with the greatest avidity and delight.[61] His genius and fervour conjoined to facilitate his progress; and his father, become aware of the inutility of opposition, at length consented that he should follow his own inclinations, and gave him the necessary assistance.

Another circumstance occurred not long after to confirm his predilection for literature, and to exalt it in his eyes. He was present when Petrarch was examined by Robert, king of Naples, previous to his coronation in the Capitol. 1341. Ætat. 28. King Robert was a philosopher, a physician, and an astrologer, but hitherto he had despised poetry, being only acquainted with some Sicilian rhymes, and a few of the compositions of the Troubadours. Petrarch, discovering the ignorance of his royal patron, took an opportunity, at the conclusion of his examination, to deliver an oration in praise of poetry, setting forth its magical beauty and its beneficent influence over the minds and manners of men; and so exalted his art, that the king said, in Boccaccio's hearing[62], that he had never before suspected that the foolish rind of verse enclosed matter so lofty and sublime; and declared that now, in his old age, he would learn to appreciate and understand it, asking Petrarch, as an honour which he coveted, to dedicate his poem of Africa to him. From this time the lover of Laura became the Magnus Apollo of the more youthful Boccaccio: he named him his guide and preceptor, and became, in process of time, his most intimate friend.

The liberal tastes and generous patronage of king Robert drew to his court many of the most illustrious men of the age. Boccaccio was exceedingly desirous, from boyhood, of seeing men celebrated for learning[63], and he cultivated a friendship with many of those who lived at Naples. Under the Calabrian Barlaam he studied Greek. Barbato, the chancellor of the king, Dionisio Robertis, bishop of Monopoli, Paolo Perugini, royal librarian, Giovanni Barrili,—these were all his particular friends; conversing with whom, he cultivated the literary tastes to which he entirely devoted himself.

An ardent love of poetry, and an assiduous cultivation of his imagination, made the study of his own nature and its impulses a principal subject of contemplation; and thus softening his heart, opened an easy entrance to the passion of love. He became attached to a lady of high rank at Naples, whom he has celebrated in many of his works.

He relates the commencement of this attachment in various and contradictory ways; on which account a celebrated Italian critic has doubted whether the truth is contained in any of his narrations[64]; it is more credible that they are founded on fact. The object of his passion, as is proved by a variety of circumstances, and by his own express declaration[65], was a natural daughter of Robert king of Naples. To prevent the injury which would have accrued to her mother's name, had her parentage been avowed, her royal father caused her to be adopted by a noble of the house of Achino. She was educated with extreme care, and married, when very young, to a Neapolitan noble. April 7. 1341. Ætat. 28. They first saw each other at the church of San Lorenzo, on a day of high festival. She was in all the bloom of youth and beauty, dressed with splendour, and surrounded by all that rank and prosperity can impart of brilliancy. The passion was sudden and mutual.[66]

But it is in vain that he endeavours to engage our sympathy. In spite of all the interest which he tries to throw over their attachment, it bears the appearance of a mere intrigue. The lady Mary was a wife, and, in all probability, a mother. Her lover makes her relate, in one of his works[67], that she was married to a noble of equal age; that until she saw Boccaccio, they were happy in each other; her husband adoring her, and she affectionately attached to him. A passion which could disturb such an union appears a phrensy as well as a crime. That the lovers suffered great misery, may serve as a warning, as well as an example, of how such attachments, from their very nature, from the separations, suspicions, and violations of delicacy and truth entailed upon them, must, under the most favourable auspices, be fruitful of solicitude and wretchedness. An adherence to truth is the noblest attribute of human nature. The perpetual infringement which results from a secret intrigue degrades in their own eyes those who practise the falsehood. In the details which Boccaccio has given of his passion, we perceive the violation of the most beautiful of social ties; while deceit is substituted for sincerity, and mystery for frankness. The lover perceived a perpetual lie on the lips of her he loved; and, had his attachment been of an ennobling nature, he would rather have given up its gratification, than have sought it in the humiliation and error of its object.

The lady Mary was eminently beautiful. Her hair, of the palest gold, shaded a forehead remarkable for its ample proportion; her brows were black and delicately marked; her eyes bright and expressive; her beautiful mouth was terminated by a small, round, and dimpled chin; her complexion was brilliant, her person well formed and elegant. She excelled in the dance and song, and, above all, in the vivacious, airy spirit of conversation. Her disposition was generous and magnificent. Boccaccio himself was handsome: his good looks were too early injured by plumpness; but, at this time, being only twenty-eight years of age, he was in the pride of life. His eyes were full of vivacity; his features regular; he was peculiarly agreeable and lively in society; his manners were polite and noble; he was proud, taking his origin from a republic where equality of rank prevailed; but, frequenting the society of the Neapolitan nobility, he preserved a dignified independence and courteous reserve, which commanded respect.

Hitherto Boccaccio had been collecting materials, by study, for future composition; but he had written nothing. According to his own declaration, his mind had become sluggish and debased through frivolity and indolence, when his love for the lady Mary awoke him to exertion[68], and incited him to pursue that career which has caused his name to be numbered among the illustrious writers of his country. His first work, written at the request of his fair mistress, in the early days of their passion, was the "Filocopo." The foundation of this tale resembles St. John's tales—those of "The Seven Wise Masters," &c., which were adopted from Arabia, and coloured, in their details, by descriptions of Eastern manners, with which the conquest of Granada by the Moors, and the expeditions of the crusaders, varied the rude chivalry of the North. A Roman noble and his wife make a pilgrimage to Spain. The husband dies fighting against the Mahometan Felix, king of Marmorina. His wife fell into the hands of the victor, and died at the court of Felix, on giving birth to her daughter Biancafiore, on the very day on which Florio, the son of Felix, was born. The children were educated together. The parentage of Biancafiore was unknown, her parents having died without declaring their names and descent from the Scipios and Cæsars; but, despite her obscure origin. Florio becomes enamoured of his lovely companion; and his father, enraged by this ill-assorted attachment, separates them; and, after cruelly persecuting the unfortunate girl, at last sells her to a merchant, who takes her to Alexandria, where she is bought by a noble, who shuts her up in a tower. Florio wanders into various countries to seek her; they go through a variety of disasters, which end in their happy marriage; and, the birth of Biancafiore being discovered, they are converted to the Christian faith. The story is long drawn out and very unreadable; though interspersed by traits of genius peculiar to Boccaccio, natural touches of genuine feeling, and charming descriptions. Florio, during his erratic travels in search of Biancafiore, arrives at Naples: the author introduces him into the company of his lady and himself, under the names of Fiammetta and Caleone.

Having once engaged in writing, Boccaccio became very diligent: his next work was a poem, entitled the "Teseide," or the "Thesiad." The subject is familiar to the English reader, as the "Knight's Tale" in Chaucer, modernised by Dryden, under the title of "Palamon and Arcite." Boccaccio was, if not the inventor of the ottava rima, or octave stanza (some Sicilian and French poets are supposed to have preceded him in the use of it), yet the first to render it familiar to the Italians. It has been duly appreciated by them, and used, as peculiarly adapted to narrative poetry. The ease with which the Italian language lends itself to rhythm and to rhyme, enabled Boccaccio to dress his thoughts in the guise of poetry; but he was, essentially, not a poet. It were too long to enter here into the distinction between the power of the imagination which creates fable and character, and even produces ideal imagery, and the peculiar attributes of poetry, which consists in a greater force and concentration of language, and an ear for the framing poetic numbers. The sublimity, yet delicacy, of Dante, the grace and harmony of Petrarch, are quite unapproached by Boccaccio: nor, indeed, can he compete with even the second and third rate of Italian poets. His style is diffuse and incult, and altogether wanting in the higher graces of poetic diction. Still, there is nature, pathos, and beauty in the narration. The story of the "Thesiad," if unborrowed,—and there is no previous trace of it,—is worthy of the author of the "Decameron:" it is full of passion and variety. He had the merit, also, of discarding the machinery of dreams and visions, then so much in vogue among his countrymen, which took from their compositions all reality and truth of feeling—giving us empty personifications, instead of fellow-creatures, formed of flesh and blood.

1342. Ætat. 29.

Boccaccio had not long enjoyed the favour of his lady, when he was obliged to return to Florence. His father had lost his wife and children, and recalled his son, to be the companion of his declining years. He separated himself from the lady Mary with infinite regret; a feeling which she so fully shared, that he afterwards wrote a work, entitled "La Fiammetta," in which she, as the narratress, gives the history of their attachment, and complains bitterly of the misery they suffered during their separation. There is less of redundancy, and more unaffected nature in this work than in his former; and the commencement calls up forcibly the author of the "Decameron," from the vividness and strength of the language. In one respect, his visit to Florence, at this time, was evidently beneficial: it familiarised him with the pure and elegant language of Tuscany: he does not allude to it; but the barbarous dialect of Naples must have injured his style; and we cannot doubt that he recognised at once, and adopted, the expressive idiom of his native town. The "Decameron" is a model of the Tuscan dialect, if such a name can be given to a tongue differing from the Italian spoken in every other portion of the peninsula, and infinitely superior to all in grace, energy, and conciseness.

He found his home, with his father, sufficiently disagreeable.[69] The house was gloomy and silent; nor was the sound of gaiety ever heard within its walls. His father was far advanced in years, and had grown, if he had not always been, avaricious and discourteous, discontented and reproachful; so that the necessity of seeing him every day, of each evening returning to his melancholy abode, cast a shadow over Boccaccio's life. "Ah!" he exclaims, "how happy are the independent, who possess themselves in freedom!" To add to his dissatisfaction, Florence was suffering under the oppression of Walter de Brienne, duke of Athens; whom the people had, in a moment of despondency, set over themselves, and who proved a cruel and gloomy tyrant; till, unable to endure any longer his sanguinary despotism, the citizens rose against him, and regained their liberty.

Boccaccio's chief amusement was derived from his pen. He wrote the "Ameto," a composition of mingled prose and verse, the first of a kind, since adopted by Sannazaro and sir Philip Sidney. The "Ameto" is a story somewhat resembling "Cymon and Iphigenia," in which he again introduces himself and his lady, as he informs the reader, bidding those attend who have a clear understanding, and they will find a hidden truth disclosed in his verses. But a more agreeable change was at hand, to relieve him from his painful position. His father married again, and he was permitted to return to Naples.

1344. Ætat. 31.

He found great alterations in this city. King Robert was dead. His daughter Jane succeeded to him: her dissentions with her husband produced a violent party spirit among the courtiers, while the pursuit of pleasure was the order of the day. A Court of Love, in imitation of those held in Provence, was instituted, over which the lady Mary presided. The lovers continued fondly attached to each other, though jealousies and trifling quarrels somewhat diversified the otherwise even course of their loves. The lady passed several months each summer at Baiæ, amidst a society given up to amusement, and to the indulgence of the greatest libertinism. From some unknown cause, Boccaccio did not accompany her on these occasions, and he was tormented by a thousand doubts, fearing that the dissolute manners of the court would corrupt her, whom he calls a mirror of chaste love, and injure her faith towards him. During one of these absences he wrote his poem of "Filostrato," on the subject of Troilus and Cressida, which he dedicated as a kind of peace-offering to his lady. He wrote also the "Amorosa Fiammetta," which is her fancied complaint, while he was at Florence, and the "Amorosa Visione," or Vision of Love; which is more poetic in its diction than any of his previous works in verse, though it labours under the disadvantage of being an acrostic; the initial letters of each verse forming a series of sonnets and canzoni, addressed in the same initials to "Madonna Maria."

1345. Ætat. 35.

During the period when the plague desolated the world, Boccaccio occupied himself by writing the "Decameron," to amuse, it is said, queen Jane and her court. He gives a somewhat different account in the preface. He tells us in it: "From my youth until the present time, I have been inflamed by an aspiring love for one more noble perhaps than befitted my obscure birth; for which passion I was praised even by the more discreet among those who knew of it, and held in high repute; and yet it was the cause to me of much trouble and suffering,—not certainly through the cruelty of the lady I loved, but from the pain I endured when separated from her. During which time I enjoyed so much relief from the agreeable conversation and kind consolations of a friend, that I truly believe, that but for them I had died. But it has pleased him, who decreed that all earthly things should have an end, that my attachment, which no fear, shame, nor advice could lessen, has by course of time so abated, that, while I still love, I am no longer the victim of uncontrollable passion. Yet I still remember the benefits I formerly received from those who sympathised in my pains; and I propose to myself, as a mark of gratitude to them, to afford to others, labouring as I once did, the same relief which was before bestowed upon me. And who will deny that this book belongs rather to women than men. Fearfully and with shame they conceal within their tender hearts that flame which is fiercer when hidden; and who, besides this, are so restrained from the enjoyment of pleasure by the will of those around them, that they most frequently struggle with their feelings, and revolve divers thoughts, which cannot be all gay, within the little circuit of their chamber, which must occasion heavy grief and melancholy, if unrelieved by conversation. All which things do not happen to men; who, if afflicted, can frequent society—hunt, shoot, ride, and play—and have a thousand modes of amusing themselves. And, therefore, to counterbalance the unequal award of fortune, who gives most to bear to those who are weakest, I intend to relate, for the amusement and refuge of gentle ladies who love, one hundred stories, fables, parables, or histories, or whatever you please to call them, narrated, during the course of ten days, by seven ladies and three cavaliers, who assembled together at a villa during the late pestilence."

His description of the plague in Florence, in the introduction, is the finest piece of writing that Boccaccio ever composed: it presents a pathetic, eloquent, and vivid picture of the sufferings induced by that remorseless malady. It is a curious fact, that there is every proof that Boccaccio was residing at Naples during the visitation of the plague in 1348; but it required no violent effort of the imagination to paint the disasters of his native city, as Naples itself presented a similar tragedy: nor is there any thing in the description that stamps it as peculiarly belonging to Florence.

The seven young ladies of the tales meet on a Wednesday morning in the church of Santa Maria Novella, and there agree to leave the miserable city, and to betake themselves, with three gentlemen from among their friends, to one of the villas in the environs, and, shutting out all sight and memory of the frightful disasters they had witnessed, to strive, in the enjoyment of innocent pleasures, to escape from danger.—"Nor," the lady says, who proposed this plan, "can we be said to abandon any one, for it is we who are abandoned; and remember, that our innocent flight is less blamable than the guilty remaining of others."

The Italians have taken great pains to discover the exact spots to which the company of the Decameron retreated. They are found not far from Florence.[70] The father of Boccaccio possessed a small villa in the village of Majano, and his son pleased himself by describing the adjacent country; and in particular, the pleasant uplands and fertile valleys of the hills around Fiesole, which are in the neighbourhood. It is said that Villa Gherardi was the first place to which the ladies betook themselves; and Villa Palmieri is recognised in the description of the sumptuous abode to which they afterwards removed, to escape being disturbed by visiters. In the exquisite description of the narrow valley to which Eliza conducts her companions; and where they bathe; we discern the little plain surrounded by hills; through which the Affrico flows; when; after having divided two hills; and descended from the rocky heights, it collects itself into a gentle stream; under the Claustro della Doccia of Fiesole.

The assembly being gathered together in this delightful spot; among other modes of amusing themselves; they agree that each one should narrate a tale every day; and during the ten days which form the "Decameron," a hundred tales are thus related. They give some kind of rule to their amusement; by fixing on a subject for each tale; as for instance, on one day each person is to tell a story in which, after much suffering, the disasters of the hero or heroine come to a happy conclusion. In another, the tale is to end unhappily. The stories vary from gay to pathetic, and in the last, Boccaccio is inimitable in delicacy and tenderness of feeling.

All the other works of Boccaccio would have fallen into oblivion, had he not written the "Decameron:" they are scarcely read, even though bearing his name; they are heavy and uninteresting; his poetry is not poetry; his prose is long-winded; but the "Decameron;" bears the undoubted stamp of genius. His language is a "well of Tuscan undefiled," whence, as from its purest source, all future writers have drawn the rules and examples which form the correct and elegant Italian style. It possesses, to an extraordinary degree, the charm of eloquence. It imports little whence he drew the groundwork of his tales; yet, as far as we know, many of them are original, and the stories of Griselda and Cymon, of the pot of Bazil, and the sorrows of Ghismonda, are unborrowed from any other writer. The tenderness, the passion, the enthusiasm, the pathos, and above all, the heartfelt nature of his best tales, raise him to the highest rank of writers of any age or country. His defects were of the age. Boccaccio's mind was tarnished by the profligacy of the court of Naples. He mirrors the licentious manners of the people about him in his "Decameron:" it were better for human nature, that neither the reality nor the reflection had ever existed.

The faults of the hook rendered it obnoxious, especially to the priests, whom he, in common with all the novelists of his time, treats with galling ridicule. Salvanorola preached against it, and so excited the minds of his fellow citizens, that they brought all their copies of the "Decameron," as well as of, it may be remarked, the blameless poetry of Petrarch and Dante, into the Piazza de' Signori on the last day of the carnival of 1497, and made a bonfire of them: on which account the earlier editions of these books are very rare. After Salvanorola, it continued on the list of prohibited books. This occasioned emended editions to be published,—some of which were so altered as scarcely to retain any thing of the original. It was after many years and with great industry, that the "Decameron" was restored. The first entire edition was published through the care of a society of young Florentines, who were ashamed of the disgraceful condition to which this celebrated work was reduced: this was published in 1527, and goes by the name of the "Ventisettana," or twenty-seventh, and of the "Delphin." After this, however, only mutilated editions were printed, and even now, as it still continues a prohibited book, any perfect edition bears on the title-page the name of some protestant town, London or Amsterdam, as the place where it is printed.

1350. Ætat. 37.

To return to the author. During the year of the jubilee Boccaccio returned to Florence, and the lady Mary was spoken of no more, except in a sonnet, written many years after, on the death of Petrarch, which alludes to her death. He addresses his lost friend as having entered that heavenly kingdom after which he had long aspired, that he might again see Laura, and where his beautiful Fiammetta sat with her before God. Whether the lady died, therefore, before or after his removal to Florence cannot be told; we have his own authority for knowing, that by this time his ardent passion was subdued into calm affection. His father as well as his mother-in-law was dead, and they had left a young son Jacopo, to whom Boccaccio became guardian. His pecuniary resources had been derived through his father from Florence, and it became necessary to take his place in that city. From this time he continued to reside in Tuscany, and to fulfil the duties of a citizen. One of the occurrences that marked his return, was a visit from Petrarch, who passed through Florence on his return from his pilgrimage to Rome, on occasion of the jubilee. They were already in correspondence; and Boccaccio had seen the poet in his glory nine years before at Naples. But now they met for the first time as friends, and that intimacy commenced which lasted till the end of their lives.

Boccaccio, on returning to his native city, entered on a busier scene of life from that which he led among the Neapolitan nobles. He was sent almost immediately on various embassies to the Ordelaffi, to Malalesta, and to Polenta, lords of various towns of Romagna, for the purpose of engaging them in a league against the Visconti, who, being lords of the powerful city of Milan, and having lately acquired the signorship of Bologna, were desirous of extending their princely dominions beyond the Apennines.

He had soon after the happiness of being the bearer to Petrarch of the decree of the republic of Florence, which restored his patrimony, and the letters which invited him to fill a professor's chair in their new university. 1351. Ætat. 38. During this visit they cemented their friendship. Petrarch was then residing at Padua, and his friend remained some weeks in his house. Boccaccio read or copied Petrarch's works, while the other pursued his ordinary studies; and in the evening they sat in the poet's garden, which was adorned with the flowers and verdure of spring, and spent hours in delightful conversation. Their hearts were laid bare to each other, they sympathised in their taste for ancient learning, in their love for their country, and in the views they entertained for the welfare of Italy.[71] Boccaccio brought back to Florence Petrarch's expressed intention to visit his native city. But other feelings interposed—probably the poet was averse to mingle too nearly with the violent factions that agitated the republic. He soon after made a journey to Vaucluse, and never again entered Tuscany.

Boccaccio was more of a citizen than his friend, and he fulfilled several offices intrusted to him by the government. Florence was at that time a little empire in itself, agitated by tumults, divided by intestine quarrels, and disturbed by wars with the neighbouring states. Scarce a day passed without an event. The citizens were full of energy and fire; volatile and rash, sometimes they acted a cowardly, sometimes a magnanimous part. They were restless and versatile—but ambitious, and full of that quick intuitive genius which, even now, in their fallen state, belongs to them. They were at enmity with the Visconti, who incited against them the hostility of the great company, a band of mercenary troops, the off-pourings of the invasion of France by the English, which had entered Italy, and sold their services to different standards, or made war on their own account for booty only. The peasants of the Florentine territory had gone out valiantly against them, and afterwards, assisted by the whole forces of the state, they attacked and destroyed these pernicious bandits. Still the Visconti continued powerful and implacable enemies. 1353. Ætat. 40. Boccaccio was sent to Bohemia to invite Louis of Bavaria, Marquis of Brandenburgh, to come to the assistance of Florence and its league. 1354. Ætat. 41. At another time he was despatched to Avignon, on occasion of the entrance of the emperor Charles into Italy, to discover the intentions of the pope with regard to this monarch.

These political negotiations could not be carried on by Boccaccio without inspiring him with violent party feelings: he hated the Visconti as tyrants, and as disturbers of the peace of Italy. He heard with pain and indignation that Petrarch had taken up his abode at Milan, under the protection of its archbishop and lord, Giovanni Visconti. He wrote to his friend to express his regret and disapprobation. "I would be silent," he wrote, "but I cannot; reverence restrains, but indignation impels me to speak. How has Petrarch forgotten his dignity, the conversations which we have held together concerning the state of Italy, his hatred of the archbishop, his love of solitude and independence, so far as to imprison himself at the court of Milan? As easily could I believe that the wolf fled the lamb, and the tiger became the prey of the fawn, as that Petrarch should act against the dictates of his conscience; and that he who called the Visconti a Polyphemus, and a monster of pride, cruelty, and despotism, should place himself under his yoke. How could Visconti win that which no pontiff, which neither Robert of Naples nor the emperor could obtain? Have you done this because the citizens of your native town have treated you with contempt, and taken back the patrimony which they at one time restored?"[72]

Petrarch's answer was moderate; his habits were peaceful and recluse, and he preferred trusting an absolute prince who was attached to him, with his safety, to confiding to the caprice of a mob. Personal intercourse also had shown him that the man whom he had denounced so bitterly from political animosity, was worthy of private friendship: he Avas unwilling to enter the very focus of dissention, such as Florence then was, and he sacrificed his public hatred to the gentler feelings of personal friendship and gratitude. "It is not likely," he says in his answer, "that I should learn servitude in my old age; but if I become dependent, is it not better to submit to one, than, like you, to a whole people of tyrants?" Petrarch was a patriot in an elevated sense of the word: he exerted himself to civilise his country, and to spread abroad the blessings of knowledge; peace was his perpetual cry; but in the various tyrannies that distracted Italy, he saw the same ambition under different forms; and taking no part with one against the other, but with the general good against them all, he held himself free to select his friends as sympathy and kindness dictated.

Boccaccio continued to correct and add to his Decameron, which it is conjectured was published at this time. It spread rapidly through Italy; its popularity astounded even the author, and must have gratified him, though aware of its errors, and tendency to injure the principles of social life. This sentiment increased in after-times, so that he reproached his friend Mainardo de' Cavalcanti, a Florentine by birth, but living at the court of the queen of Naples, for having promised his wife and other ladies of his house that they should read the Decameron. He entreats him to revoke this promise for his own sake, and theirs, that their minds might not be contaminated by narrations in which delicacy and even decency were forgotten; "and if not for their sake," he continues, "for the sake of my honour. They will, on reading it, think me the most wicked and licentious of men; for who will be near to allege in my excuse that I wrote it while young, and urged to the work by commands not to be disobeyed?"

Worse for the fame of Boccaccio than the blots that slur the beauty of the Decameron, is a work, which it is to be lamented fell from his pen. This was entitled the "Corbaccio." He fell in love with a beautiful and noble widow of Florence, who treated him with scorn and derision, and he revenged himself by this production, in which he vilifies the whole sex in general, and this lady in particular, in a style that prevents any one of the present day from attempting to read it.

While we lament such gross ill taste, it is agreeable to forget it, and to record and remember the vast benefits which Boccaccio bestowed on mankind, through his ardent and disinterested love of letters, and especially his extraordinary efforts to create and diffuse a knowledge of the Greek language and writers. In this labour he far excelled Petrarch, who possessed a Homer, but was unable to read it.

He proved his enthusiasm in the most undeniable manner. He was born poor, even to privation; yet he spent large sums of money in the acquisition of ancient manuscripts: he transcribed many with his own hand. His labours in this way were immense: many volumes of the poets, orators, and historians, were copied by him: among these are mentioned the whole of the works of Tacitus and Livy, Terence and Boetius, with various treatises of Cicero and Varro, besides many of the productions of the fathers. He made journeys in search of manuscripts, and records one anecdote, which shows how often disappointment must have attended his labours. He visited the celebrated convent of Monte Cassino, under the idea that he might find some ancient manuscripts, hitherto unknown. He asked for the library, and was taken up a ladder into a loft, exposed to the weather, where the books were lying on the floor moth-eaten, and covered with damp mould. While he indignantly regarded the materials of learning which lay desolate before him, he was told, to add to his horror, that the monks were in the habit of effacing the writing from their venerable parchments, and of replacing it by scraps from the ritual, for which they found a ready sale among the neighbouring villagers.

Nor was his enthusiasm, like Petrarch's, confined to the ancients. He could not only feel and appreciate the genius of Dante, but exerted himself to inspire others with the admiration with which he was filled. He awoke the Florentines to a just sense of the merits of this sublime poet, and persuaded them to erect a professorship in their university for the explanation of the Divina Commedia. He himself first filled the chair, and wrote a commentary on several of the books, besides a Life of Dante. This has been usually considered unauthentic, but it is difficult to see on what grounds this judgment rests. He takes the account of Dante's love of Beatrice from his own work of the Vita Nuova; and in all other particulars of his life the information he gives is slight; but, as far as we are enabled to form an opinion, correct. His genuine enthusiasm for the beauties of his favourite author led him to regret that Petrarch did not sufficiently admire him. He copied for his use the whole of his poem with care and elegance, and sent it to the laureate, with a poetic epistle, in which he besought him to bestow more attention and admiration on their illustrious countryman. Petrarch was bigoted to the notion that any thing written in the vulgar tongue was beneath the regard of a learned man; and received his present with a coldness that penetrates through his assumed praises. This celebrated manuscript belongs to the Vatican library. The epistle mentioned is addressed "To Francis Petrarch, illustrious and only poet," and is subscribed "thy Giovanni da Certaldo." The manuscript is illuminated, and the arms of Petrarch, consisting of a gold bar in an azure field, with a star, adorns the head of each canto. There are a few notes of emendation, and the whole is written in a clear and beautiful hand. By a strange oversight, no care has been taken to collate any modern edition of Dante with this celebrated copy.

Boccaccio's endeavours to promote the study of Greek were still more eminent and singular. At a time when literature was just struggling into notice, it was not strange that a foreign tongue should be entirely forgotten. The knowledge of Greek had been slightly spread during the crusades, when the inhabitants of the West frequently visited Constantinople; and afterwards the commercial relations of Venice and Genoa prevented it from being wholly extinguished. But the language thus brought into use was merely colloquial, and was to a great degree superseded by the Lingua Franca. Petrarch had read a few of the dialogues of Plato with bishop Barlaam, but his knowledge was very slight. To Boccaccio the praise is due of unwearied and successful labour in the cause of Hellenic literature. He had studied, while at Naples, under Barlaam and Paolo Perugino; but his chief efforts had their date from the period of his establishing himself at Florence. Poor as he was, he spared no expense in collecting manuscripts, so that it is suspected that all the Greek books possessed by the Tuscans, and all the knowledge of them diffused through Europe, before the taking of Constantinople, which was extensive, at least in Italy, was derived from the labours, and procured at the expense, of Boccaccio. When he visited Petrarch at Milan, the laureate mentioned to him incidentally, one Leonzio Pilato, a Calabrian, who, having spent almost all his life in Greece, called himself a native of that country. This man possessed a perfect knowledge of the language: Petrarch had met him at Verona, and they read a few passages of Homer together. Boccaccio saw in this a favourable opportunity for facilitating his laudable attempt to make the Greek language a part of the liberal education of his countrymen. Pilato was at Venice: Boccaccio obtained a decree from the Florentine government for the erection of a Greek professorship in their university, carried it to Venice, and persuaded Pilato to accept the office, and to return with him to Florence, where he lodged him at his own house.[73] They laboured together to make a Latin translation of Homer, which Boccaccio transcribed with his own hand. The total want of lexicons and grammars rendered the undertaking inconceivably arduous; and not least among the difficulties with which Boccaccio had to struggle was the violent, untameable, and morose disposition of his guest. This was the man whom Petrarch supposed could never have smiled, and whose manners were so savage, that he declared that not even his love of Greek could induce him to invite him a second time to his house. His aspect was repulsive, his habits disgusting, his conversation gloomy and unsocial. He was proud and violent, and, detesting the Italians, made no secret of his abhorrence; and, discontented with himself and others, he was always wishing himself elsewhere than where he was. Yet the courteous and amiable Boccaccio, who was accustomed to the refinement of a court, and who loved the elegance and gaiety of society, kept him under his roof for three years, humouring his whims, and studying in his company.

Meanwhile his moral habits underwent a beneficial change, owing to the admonitions and example of Petrarch. 1359. Ætat. 46. He visited this excellent man at Milan, and spent several weeks in an intimate intercourse, which was of the greatest service to him to the end of his days. Petrarch, whose soul was purified by the struggles of his passion for a noble-minded woman, taught him that learning was of small avail to its possessor, unless combined with moral principle and virtuous habits. These conversations awoke in Boccaccio's mind a desire to vanquish his passions. He saw and loved the example of delicacy and honour set him by his friend; and although he could not all at once succeed in imitating him, he became aware of what his duties were: his conscience awoke, and a love of right was engendered, which enabled him, in process of time, to triumph over the habits and vices by which he had hitherto been enslaved.

A singular circumstance achieved the work begun by his inestimable friend. Boccaccio's vivacious and sensitive mind could with difficulty be brought to act from the mere influence of reason. But the change which a love of moral truth and the dictates of good taste were inefficacious to operate, was brought about by the agency of superstition and fear. 1361. Ætat. 48. One day a Carthusian monk arrived at Certaldo, and demanded an interview with Boccaccio, who received him with kindness, and listened to him with attention. The monk first related, that there had lately lived in his convent at Siena a brother named Pietro Petroni, a man of singular piety, who was accustomed to pray with extreme fervour for the conversion of the wicked. On his death-bed he had called his companion, Giovacchino Ciani, to his bedside, and gave him various messages, to be delivered to a number of persons, to the purport that they should change their lives, and study how to be saved. As soon as the monk was dead, Ciani departed to fulfil his commission, and in the first place came to Certaldo. He then made an exposition of Boccaccio's errors, and above all of the wide-spreading evils occasioned by his writings, and which were a snare and a temptation to the young, imploring him to turn his talents, which he had hitherto exerted in the service of the spirit of evil, to the glory of God and the saints; telling him that he had been incited by a vain glory, which made him rather seek the applause of the world than the favour of his Creator; and what reward could he expect, except eternal punishment hereafter? "I do not spare your ears," continued the zealous Ciani, "and am the less scrupulous, because Petroni speaks through me, who is now looking down from heaven upon us. Therefore, in the words of that blessed man, I exhort, entreat, and command you to change your sinful course of life, to cast aside your poetical studies, and to become a disciple and inculcator of divine truth. If you refuse to obey my voice, I predict, in his name, a miserable end to your depravity, and a speedier death than you anticipate; so that your profane studies and life shall at once be brought to an end;" and to add the force of supernatural revelation to his words, he communicated to Boccaccio several events of his life, which he presumed to be only known to himself, but which had been revealed to the monk by Petroni; and then he took his leave, saying, that he was about to fulfil a similar mission to several others, and that among them he should visit Petrarch.

Boccaccio was aghast. Superstitious fear shook his soul; he gave credulous ear to what he was told, and resolved to give himself up to sacred studies and penitence. His first impulse was to sell his library and to abandon poetry altogether: meanwhile he communicated the visit he had received, and the effect that it had on him, to his dear friend and monitor, Petrarch.

Petrarch had subjected himself, during all his life, to moral discipline; he was a self-seeker and a self-reprover. He was not so easily shaken from the calm tenor of his piety and faith by prognostics and denunciations; he replied to his friend in a letter full of good sense and kind feeling. In those days a letter was a treatise; ancient history was ransacked, and the whole learning of the writer poured out in a torrent. But there are passages which deserve to be quoted. "Falsehood and imposture," he wrote, "often disguise themselves in the habit of religion; but I will not pronounce any decided opinion till I have seen the messenger. The age of the man, his countenance, eyes, manners, gestures, his voice and words, and, above all, the sum and purport of what he says, will serve to enlighten me. It is announced to you that you have but a short time to live, and that you must renounce poetry and profane literature. These words at first filled me with consternation and grief. How could I anticipate your death without tears? But, on further reflection, I am led to consider that you look with terror and regret on what ought really to be a matter of rejoicing, for thus you are detached from the world, and brought, as we all ought, to meditate upon death, and to aspire to that height where no worldly temptation intrudes to contaminate the soul. You will learn from these admonitions to control your passions, and to reform your habits of life. But I exhort you not to abandon hooks and learning, which nauseate and injure the weak only, but which invigorate and comfort the strong-minded."

After placing these considerations in various and strong lights, Petrarch concludes by saying, "If you continue to adhere to your purpose, and determine not only to relinquish study, but to cast aside the instruments of learning, I shall be delighted to possess your books; and I would rather buy them, than that the library of so great a man should be scattered abroad in the world.[74] I cannot name a price, not knowing their value nor number. Think of these things, and reflect whether you cannot, as I have long wished, pass the remainder of your days with me. As to your debt to me, I do not know of it, nor understand this foolish scruple of conscience. You owe me nothing except love; nor that, since each day you pay me: except, indeed, that, receiving continually from me, you still continue to owe. You complain of poverty. I will not bring forward the usual consolations, nor allege the examples of illustrious men, for you know them already. I applaud you for having preferred poverty, combined with independence, to the riches and slavery that were offered you; but I do not praise you for refusing the solicitations of a friend. I am not able to enrich you; if I were I should use neither words nor pen, but speak to you in deeds. But what is sufficient for one is enough for two; one house may surely suffice for those who have but one heart. Your disinclination to come injures me, and it is more injurious if you doubt my sincerity."

Boccaccio was convinced by his friend, and the excess of his penitence and zeal died away; but the reform of his moral character was permanent. He adopted the clerical dress, and endeavoured to suppress those writings which scandalised the pious.

He was very poor: his patrimony was slender, and shared with his brother Jacopo, and diminished also by various expenses incurred in his zeal to procure books and advance learning. He had passed a life of freedom, however, and shrunk from servitude. The passage in Petrarch's letter which refers to this, concerns his having refused the honourable and lucrative, but onerous post, of apostolic secretary; nor was he tempted by Petrarch's invitation, being unwilling to burthen one whose means were very limited. He, however, fell into a most painful mistake when he accepted the offer of a wealthy patron, which originated pride, and not affection.

The seneschal Acciajuolo was a Florentine, settled at Naples; he had long been the counsellor and friend of Louis, prince of Tarento, second husband of queen Jane. He had accompanied him in his flight to France, and stood by him during his adversity. When the affairs of Naples were settled, and Jane and Louis restored to the throne, Acciajuolo became the first man in the kingdom: he was made seneschal; but his power and influence were limited by no mere place. 1363. Ætat. 50. He had pretensions to learning, and was the friend and correspondent of Petrarch: he was proud and arrogant, and wished to be esteemed a munificent man. He invited Boccaccio to come and take up his abode in his palace at Naples, and to employ himself in writing a history of the seneschal's life. Boccaccio was seduced, by a belief in the reality of his friendship and the nobleness of his generosity, to accept his offer. He was received by the great man with apparent pleasure, and with many promises of future benefit; but he was undeceived as to the kindness of his welcome, when he was led to the chamber destined for his accommodation. The seneschal lived in a magnificent palace, adorned with all the luxuries known in those days: the room assigned to Boccaccio was mean and squalid; it contained one dirty, ill-furnished bed, for himself and his brother Jacopo, and he was placed at the same table with the stable boys and the lower servants of the house, together with a whole host of needy hangers-on. Boccaccio's necessities were not so great as to force him to endure this unworthy treatment, and his spirit revolted against it. He removed at once to the house of his friend, Mainardo de' Cavalcanti, by whom he was cordially and honourably received; and finding, on a second trial, to which he was urged by the servile advice of some friends, that Acciajuolo was wholly ignorant of the duties of hospitality, and totally deficient in generosity and delicacy, he left Naples and proceeded to Venice.

He here passed three happy months with Petrarch. The Greek, Leonzio Pilato, joined them. Their society consisted of either learned men, or the Venetian nobility; and the friends reaped great enjoyment from the intimacy and unreserve of their intercourse. After the lapse of three months Boccaccio returned to Florence, though the plague was raging there, and Petrarch entertained a thousand fears on his account.

An abode in Florence was nevertheless ill suited to the new course of life which he proposed to himself. The city was perpetually disturbed by domestic strife, or the treachery of the foreign princes, whom they called in to their assistance in time of war. Boccaccio retreated from this scene of discord, and took up his abode at the castle of Certaldo, where he gave himself entirely up to study: his house there is still to be seen. Certaldo is situated on a hill, and looks down on the fertile valley watered by the river Elsa.[75] The country around is picturesque, adorned by various castles and rustic villages. The culture of corn, vines, and olives, adorns the depth of the valley and the uplands; and three successive harvests are brought in by the husbandman. Here Boccaccio composed most of his later works, and the influence of Petrarch is perceptible in his choice of subjects and language. This is to be greatly lamented, since his desertion of Italian was founded upon a mistake, which has given us, instead of works of imagination and genius, heavy treatises and inaccurate histories. Boccaccio's Latin is bald and tame; he knew nothing of the structure, and was unable to clothe his thoughts with the eloquence natural to him: he rattled the dry bones of the skeleton of a dead language, instead of making use of the young and vigorous tongue to which he had given birth.

His first work, under this new direction, was one of great labour and erudition for those times, and was entered upon at the suggestion of Ugo IV., king of Cyprus and Jerusalem. It treats of the genealogy of the gods, and relates the connection between the various deities of the beautiful Greek mythology. For many years it continued to be a standard book, whence the Italians drew all their knowledge of the subject; and it was doubtless a useful production. In pursuance of his plan of being the schoolmaster of his age, and introducing his countrymen to the knowledge of forgotten lore, he afterwards composed a dictionary of ancient rivers, mountains, and forests. His active mind was always finding new subjects for his pen. He discovered that the female sex possessed no historian, and he dedicated himself to their service by writing the lives of illustrious women. In this he describes the ideal of a virtuous matron, and goes to the extreme usual to a reformed libertine. Her conduct must not only be strictly correct, but she must not even look about her; she must speak little, eat little, and avoid singing and dancing. Given up to domestic cares, she must be simple in her dress, and even love her husband moderately. He wrote after this a work entitled, "De Casibus Virorum et Fæminarum Illustrium," in which he records the disasters and adversity which history relates to have befallen royal or noble personages. Thus his time was entirely spent among his books, and he acquired a reputation for learning and purity of life, which raised him high in the opinion of his fellow citizens.

He was, in consequence, appointed, on two occasions, ambassador to pope Urban V. 1365. Ætat. 52. In fulfilment of the first mission, he went to Avignon, where he was honourably received, especially by Philip de Cabassoles, the intimate and beloved friend of Petrarch. On his return, he was very desirous of passing from Genoa to Pavia, to see the laureate; but the duties of his embassy forbade. To indemnify himself, he projected a visit to him at Venice. There is a Latin letter of his extant, which gives an interesting account of this latter journey: it is addressed to Petrarch, whom he missed, as he was again gone to Pavia. Boccaccio did not hear of this circumstance till he reached Bologna; and it almost made him give up his journey. "On my road," he writes, "I encountered Francesco (the son-in-law of Petrarch), to my great delight. After a glad and friendly meeting, I began to observe the person of this man. His placid countenance, measured language, and mild manners pleased me: I praised your choice, as I praise all you do." On his arrival at Venice, "I received," he says, "many invitations, and accepted that of Francesco Allegri. I would not avail myself of your kind offer, and take up my abode under your daughter's roof, during the absence of her husband. I should have preferred going to an inn to being the cause of the scandal that might have arisen, despite my grey hairs and fat unwieldy figure."

"I went, however, to see Francesca; who, when she heard of my arrival, came to meet me with gladness, as if you yourself had returned: yet, when she saw me, she was abashed, blushed, and cast down her eyes; and then, after a timid welcome, she embraced me with filial and modest affection. After conversing together some little time, we went into your garden, and found several of your friends assembled. Here, in explicit and kind terms, she offered me your house, your books, and every thing belonging to you, in a matronly and becoming manner. While we were conversing, your beloved little granddaughter came up: she looked smilingly at me, and I took her with delight in my arms. At first, methought I saw my own child[76]: her face resembles hers—the same smile, the same laughing eyes; the gestures, gait, and carriage of her person, though a little taller—for mine was only five years and a half old when I last saw her—were all similar: if their dialect had been the same, their expressions would have resembled in their simplicity. I saw no difference, except that yours has golden hair, and that of mine was black. Alas! while caressing and charmed by her talk, the recollection of my loss drew tears from my eyes; so that I turned my face away, to conceal my emotion."

"I cannot tell you all that Francesco said and did upon his return; his frequent visits when he found that I would not remove to his house; and how hospitably he entertained me. One incident will suffice: knowing that I was poor, which I never denied, on my departure from Venice, at a late hour, he withdrew with me into another part of his house; and, after taking leave, he stretched out his long arms, and, putting a purse into my hands, made his escape, before I could expostulate with or thank him."

After having been gratified by these tokens of real friendship, Boccaccio suffered one of those mortifying disappointments which too often occur to those who are ready to trust to the good-will and offers of assistance of men who call themselves their friends. Niccolo di Montefalcone, abbot of the celebrated Carthusian monastery of San Stefano in Calabria, invited him to take up his abode with him, describing the agreeable situation of his house, its select library, and the leisure to be enjoyed there. 1370. Ætat. 57. Boccaccio accepted the invitation, and made the journey. He arrived late at night before the gates of the secluded monastery; but, instead of the welcome he expected, he found that the abbot had left the convent hastily, in the middle of the night, on purpose to avoid him. Boccaccio, justly indignant, wrote an angry letter, and, leaving the inhospitable retreat, repaired to Naples, where he was again cordially received by his friend Mainardo de' Cavalcanti.

During his visit to Naples, Boccaccio received many offers of hospitality and patronage: among others, queen Jane of Naples, and Giacomo king of Majorca, endeavoured to persuade him to enter into their service; but Boccaccio was naturally proud and independent: he had been duped by an appearance of friendship, but recoiled from a state of servitude: he preferred his quiet home at Certaldo to the favours of the great; nor could the renewed solicitations of Petrarch induce him to change his mind; and he returned to Tuscany. 1372. Ætat. 59. 1373. Ætat. 60. When he visited Naples again, it was merely for the sake of seeing his friends, without any ulterior view, and he quickly returned to the quiet of Certaldo, where he busied himself in the publication of his work of the "Genealogy of the Gods."

Age and infirmity advanced on him before their time: he was attacked by a painful and disagreeable disease, which rendered life a burthen to him. He lost his strength, and the powers of his understanding; his limbs became heavy, and the light of heaven intolerable; his memory was impaired, and his books no longer afforded him any pleasure. His thoughts were fixed upon the tomb, towards which he believed himself to be rapidly approaching. After having continued in this state for several months, he was one day seized with a violent fever, which increased towards night. His disturbed thoughts turned towards the past: his life appeared to him to have been wasted, and fruitful only of remorse. No friend was near him: his sole attendant was an old nurse, who, unable to penetrate the cause of his disquietude, annoyed him by her meaningless and vulgar consolations. His fever increased; he believed himself to be dying, and he feared to die. His courage, which had until now sustained, all at once deserted him. Hitherto he had avoided physicians, having no faith in the art: he was now driven to send for one, whose remedies afforded him relief, and restored him to some portion of health.[77]

The energy of his mind returned with his bodily strength. He had laboured long to induce the Florentine government to bestow some honourable testimonial on the memory of the illustrious Dante. At length, a decree was promulgated, instituting a professorship for the public explanation of the "Divina Commedia," so to promote, as it was expressed, the advancement of learning and virtue among the living and their posterity. The professorship was bestowed upon Boccaccio: he received a salary of one hundred florins a year, and delivered his lectures in the church of San Stefano. The result was his commentary on the first seventeen cantos of the "Inferno," written in a clear, simple, and elegant style, full of excellent criticism and valuable illustrations.

Thus the remnants of his failing strength were spent upon doing honour to the memory of the celebrated poet, whose genius he so warmly and generously admired, and a depreciation of whom is the sole blot on the otherwise faultless character of Petrarch: but, while he roused his intellects to understand and comment upon the delicate and sublime beauties of Dante, his physical strength decayed, and his sensibility received a severe shock from the death of his beloved friend Petrarch. 1374. Ætat. 61. He heard it first by public report; and it was afterwards confirmed to him in a letter from Francesco Brossano, the laureate's son-in-law, who transmitted to him the legacy of fifty florins, for the purchase of a fur dress for his winter studies. Boccaccio wrote, in return, a letter full of grief and admiration. "He did not mourn," he said, "for the dead, who was receiving the reward of his virtues, but for those who survived him, and were abandoned to the tempestuous sea of life without a pilot." He would have visited his tomb had his health permitted; and he besought Brossano to take care of his posthumous reputation, and to publish his poem of "Africa," which was only known to the world in fragments. In compliance with his request, Brossano had the poem copied, and sent it to him; but he did not live to receive it.