JAMES HARVEY ROBINSON (continued 5)

In much the same way we writers, too, must see to it that along with the similarity there is a large measure of dissimilarity; and furthermore such likeness as there is must be elusive, something that it is impossible to seize except by a sort of still-hunt, a quality to be felt rather than defined. In brief, we may appropriate another's thought, and may even copy the very colours[5] of his style, but we must abstain from borrowing his actual words. The resemblance in the one case is hidden away below the surface; in the other it stares the reader in the face. The one kind of imitation makes poets; the other—apes. It may all be summed up by saying with Seneca, and with Flaccus before him, that we must write just as the bees make honey, not keeping the flowers but turning them into a sweetness of our own, blending many very different flavours into one, which shall be unlike them all, and better.

I often say such things, and he always listens as he would to his own father. It happened the other day, though, as I was advising him in this fashion, that he offered the following objection. "I see your meaning," he said, "and I admit the truth of all that you say. But the occasional, sparing, use of others' words,—that is a thing for which I have abundant warrant, in the practice of very many of our poets, and of yourself above all." I was amazed, and replied, "If ever you have found such things in my works, my son, you may be sure that it is due to some oversight, and is very far from being my deliberate intention. I know that cases of this sort, where a writer makes use of another's words, are to be found by the thousand in the poets; but I myself have always taken the utmost pains, when composing, to avoid every trace both of my own work and, more particularly, of my predecessors', difficult though such avoidance is. But where, pray, is this passage of mine, by which you justify yourself?" "In your bucolics, number six, where, not far from the end, there is a verse that concludes with these words: atque intonat ore." I was astounded; for I realised, as he spoke, what I had failed to see when writing, that this is the ending of one of Virgil's lines, in the sixth book of his divine poem. I determined to communicate the discovery to you; not that there is room any longer for correction, the poem being well known by this time and scattered far and wide, but that you might upbraid yourself for having left it to another to point out this slip of mine; or, if it has chanced to escape your own notice so far, that you might learn of it now, and at the same time might be led to reflect on the fact that we mortals, all of us,—not I alone, who with all my zeal and industry am handicapped by insufficiency of talent and literary training, but all other men as well, however great their learning and their abilities,—are so limited in our powers that all our inventions have some element of incompleteness, perfection being the prerogative of him alone from whom proceeds the little that we know and are able to do. Then, in conclusion, I want you to join me in praying Virgil to pardon me, and not harden his heart against me for unwittingly borrowing—not stealing—these few words from him,—who himself has stolen outright, many and many a time, from Homer, and Ennius, and Lucretius, and many another poet. Farewell.

PAVIA, Oct. 28, [1365].

IV

TRAVELS

Ulysseos errores erroribus meis confer: profecto si nominis et rerum claritas una foret, nec diutius erravit ille, nec latius.—Præfatio.

The Italians were probably the first among modern peoples to discover the outer world to be something beautiful in itself. "Would that you could know," Petrarch writes to a friend, "with what delight I wander, free and alone, among the mountains, forests, and streams." He spent many years, as we have seen, in his simple rustic home at Vaucluse, and throughout his life he was in the habit of retiring now and then to the seclusion of the country. In no way did his tastes more nearly approach our modern predilections than in his love of nature and his passion for travel.

He was once invited to accompany a friend upon a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but he discreetly refused the invitation; not that he feared the perils of the deep, but he could not overcome his horror of sea-sickness, which he had several times experienced upon the Mediterranean. Instead of joining his friend, he prepared a little guide-book[1] for him, which might serve to call his attention to the noteworthy objects upon the long journey from Genoa to Jerusalem. It is significant that Petrarch deals principally in his little manual not with the half-legendary attractions of the Orient, but with the familiar beauties of their own Italy. He does not forget, at the very opening of the journey, the lovely valleys of the Riviera, with their tumbling brooks, and the pleasing contrast of wildness and verdure on the hills to the east of Genoa. But, like a true lover of nature, he felt himself powerless adequately to describe the scene, and contented himself with commending to his friend's admiration the beauties which no mortal pen could depict.[2] The four letters which follow have been chosen with the aim of illustrating Petrarch's attitude toward the world about him.

An Excursion to Paris, the Netherlands, and the Rhine.

To Cardinal Giovanni Colonna.[1]

I have lately been travelling through France, not on business, as you know, but simply from a youthful curiosity to see the country. I finally penetrated into Germany, to the banks of the Rhine itself. I have carefully noted the customs of the people, and have been much interested in observing the characteristics of a country hitherto unknown to me, and in comparing the things I saw with those at home. While I found much to admire in both countries, I in no way regretted my Italian origin. Indeed, the more I travel, the more my admiration for Italy grows. If Plato, as he himself says, thanked the immortal gods, among other things, for making him a Greek and not a barbarian, why should not we too thank the Lord for the land of our birth, unless to be born a Greek be considered more noble than to be born an Italian. This, however, would be to assert that the slave was above his master. No Greekling, however shameless, would dare to make such a claim, if he but recollected that long before Rome was founded and had by superior strength established her sway, long before the world yet knew of the Romans, "men of the toga, lords of the earth," a beggarly fourth part of Italy, a region desert and uninhabited, was nevertheless styled by its Greek colonists "Greater Greece." If that scanty area could then be called great, how very great, how immense, must the Roman power have seemed after Corinth had fallen, after Ætolia had been devastated and Argos, Mycenæ, and other cities had been taken, after the Macedonian kings had been captured, Pyrrhus vanquished, and Thermopylæ a second time drenched with Asiatic blood! Certainly no one can deny that it is a trifle more distinguished to be an Italian than a Greek. This, however, is a matter which we may perhaps take up elsewhere.

To revert to my travels in France,—I visited the capital of the kingdom, Paris, which claims Julius Cæsar as its founder. I must have felt much the same upon entering the town as did Apuleius when he wandered about Hypata in Thessaly. I spent no little time there, in open-mouthed wonder; and I was so full of interest and eagerness to know the truth about what I had heard of the place that when daylight failed me I even prolonged my investigations into the night. After loitering about for a long time, gaping at the sights, I at last satisfied myself that I had discovered the point where truth left off and fiction began. But it is a long story, and not suited for a letter, and I must wait until I see you and can rehearse my experiences at length.

To pass over the intervening events, I also visited Ghent, which proudly claims the same illustrious founder as Paris, and I saw something of the people of Flanders and Brabant, who devote themselves to preparing and weaving wool. I also visited Liège, which is noted for its clergy, and Aix-la-Chapelle, Charles's capital, where in a marble church I saw the tomb of that great prince, which is very properly an object of veneration to the barbarian nations....[2]

I did not leave Aix-la-Chapelle until I had bathed in the waters, which are warm like those at Baiæ. It is from them that the town is said to derive its name.[3] I then proceeded to Cologne, which lies on the left bank of the Rhine, and is noted for its situation, its river, and its inhabitants. I was astonished to find such a degree of culture in a barbarous land. The appearance of the city, the dignity of the men, the attractiveness of the women, all surprised me. The day of my arrival happened to be the feast of St. John the Baptist. It was nearly sunset when I reached the city. On the advice of the friends whom my reputation, rather than any true merit, had won for me even there, I allowed myself to be led immediately from the inn to the river, to witness a curious sight. And I was not disappointed, for I found the river-bank lined with a multitude of remarkably comely women. Ye gods, what faces and forms! And how well attired! One whose heart was not already occupied might well have met his fate here.

I took my stand upon a little rise of ground where I could easily follow what was going on. There was a dense mass of people, but no disorder of any kind. They knelt down in quick succession on the bank, half hidden by the fragrant grass, and turning up their sleeves above the elbow they bathed their hands and white arms in the eddying stream. As they talked together, with an indescribably soft foreign murmur, I felt that I had never better appreciated Cicero's remark, which, like the old proverb, reminds us that we are all deaf and dumb when we have to do with an unknown tongue. I, however, had the aid of kind interpreters, for—and this was not the least surprising thing I noted there—these skies, too, give nurture to Pierian spirits. So when Juvenal wonders that

Fluent Gaul has taught the British advocate,[4]

let him marvel, too, that

Learned Germany many a clear-voiced bard sustained.

But, lest you should be misled by my words, I hasten to add that there are no Virgils here, although many Ovids,[5] so that you would say that the latter author was justified in his reliance upon his genius or the affection of posterity, when he placed at the end of his Metamorphoses that audacious prophecy where he ventures to claim that as far as the power of Rome shall extend,—nay, as far as the very name of Roman shall penetrate in a conquered world,—so widely shall his works be read by enthusiastic admirers.

When anything was to be heard or said I had to rely upon my companions to furnish both ears and tongue. Not understanding the scene, and being deeply interested in it, I asked an explanation from one of my friends, employing the Virgilian lines:

... What means the crowded shore? What seek these eager spirits?[6]

He told me that this was an old custom among the people, and that the lower classes, especially the women, have the greatest confidence that the threatening calamities of the coming year can be washed away by bathing on this day in the river, and a happier fate be so assured. Consequently this annual ablution has always been conscientiously performed, and always will be. I smiled at this explanation, and replied, "Those who dwell by Father Rhine are fortunate indeed if he washes their misfortunes away with him; I fear that neither Po nor Tiber could ever free us of ours. You send your ills to the Britons, by the river; we would gladly ship ours off to the Africans or Illyrians." But I was given to understand that our rivers were too sluggish. There was a great laugh over this, and then, as it was getting late, we left the spot and returned home.

During the few days following I wandered about the city, under the guidance of my friends, from morning until night. I enjoyed these rambles not so much for what I actually saw as on account of the reminiscences of our ancestors, who have left such extraordinary monuments to the Roman power in this far-distant country. Marcus Agrippa came, perhaps, most prominently before me. He was the founder of this colony, to which, in preference to all his other great works whether at home or abroad, he gave his own name. He was a great builder as well as a distinguished warrior. His fame was such that he was chosen by Augustus as the most desirable son-in-law in the world. His wife, whatever else we may say of her, was at least a remarkable woman, the Emperor's only child and very dear to him. I beheld the bodies of the thousands of holy virgins who had suffered together, and the ground dedicated to these noble relics—ground which they say will of its own accord reject an unworthy corpse. I beheld the Capitol, which is an imitation of ours. But in place of our senate, meeting to consider the exigencies of peace and war, here one finds beautiful boys and girls ever lifting up together their harmonious voices in nightly hymns of praise to God. There one might hear the rattle of arms, the rolling chariots and the groans of captives; but here are peace and happiness and the voice of mirth. There it was the warrior who made his triumphal entry; here it is the Prince of Peace.

I saw, too, the great church in the very centre of the town. It is very beautiful, although still uncompleted, and is not unjustly regarded by the inhabitants as the finest building of its kind in the world. I looked with reverence upon the relics of the Three Kings, who, as we read, came once upon a time, bringing presents, to worship at the feet of a Heavenly King as he lay wailing in the manger. Their bodies were brought from the East to the West in three great leaps.[7]

You may perhaps think, noble father, that I have gone too far just here, and dwelt upon unimportant details. I readily admit it, but it is because I have nothing more at heart than to obey your commands. Among the many instructions which you gave me, as I was leaving, the last one was that I should write to you as fully about the countries I visited and the various things I saw and heard as I should tell about them, were we face to face. I was not to spare the pen, nor to strive for elegance or terseness of expression. Everything was to be included, not simply the more picturesque incidents. In Cicero's words, you told me to write "whatever might come into the cheek." I promised to do this, and from the numerous letters which I have despatched on the way it would seem that I had kept my engagement. If you had desired me to treat of higher things I should have done what I could; but it seems to me in the present case that the object of my letter should be rather to instruct the reader than to give consequence to the writer. If you and I wish to appear before the public we can do so in books, but in our letters let us just talk with one another.

But to continue, I left Cologne June 30, in such heat and dust that I sighed for Virgil's "Alpine snows and the rigours of the Rhine." I next passed through the Forest of Ardennes, alone, and, as you will be surprised to hear, in time of war. But God, it is said, grants especial protection to the unwary. I had long known something of this region from books; it seemed to me a very wild and dismal place indeed. However, I will not undertake with my pen a journey which I have but just completed with my horse. After many wanderings I reached Lyons to-day. It, too, is a noble Roman colony, a little older even than Cologne. From this point two well known rivers flow together into our ocean,—the Rhone here joining the Arar, or, as the inhabitants now call it, the Saône. But I need not tell you more about them, for they are hurrying on, one led by the other, down to Avignon, where the Roman pontiff detains you and the whole human race.

This morning when I arrived here I ran across one of your servants by accident, and plied him, as those newly arrived from foreign parts are wont to do, with a thousand questions. He knew nothing, however, except that your noble brother, whom I was hastening to join, had gone on to Rome without me. On hearing this my anxiety to proceed suddenly abated. It is now my purpose to wait here until the heat too shall abate somewhat, and until I regain my vigour by a little rest. I had not realised that I had suffered from either source until I met your servant; no kind of weariness indeed is so keenly felt as that of the mind. If the journey promises to seem tedious to me I shall float down the Rhone. In the meantime I am glad to know that your faithful servant will see that this reaches you, and that you will know where I am. As for your brother, who was to be my guide, and who now (my disappointment must be my excuse for saying it) has deserted me, I feel that my expostulations must be addressed to him directly. I beg that you will see that the enclosed message[8] reaches him as soon as may be. Farewell. Remember your friend.

LYONS, August 9.

A good deal has been written about Petrarch's famous ascent of Mount Ventoux. Körting assuredly exaggerates its significance when he declares it "an epoch-making deed" which would by itself substantiate Petrarch's title to be called the first modern man.[1] The reader will observe that, however modern may have been the spirit in which the excursion was undertaken, the relapse into mediæval sentiment was speedy and complete. As we shall find, Petrarch had no sooner reached the top than he bethought himself of his Augustine, before whose stern dictum the wide landscape quickly lost its fascination.

The Ascent of Mount Ventoux.

To Dionisio da Borgo San Sepolcro.[2]

To-day I made the ascent of the highest mountain in this region, which is not improperly called Ventosum.[3] My only motive was the wish to see what so great an elevation had to offer. I have had the expedition in mind for many years; for, as you know, I have lived in this region from infancy, having been cast here by that fate which determines the affairs of men. Consequently the mountain, which is visible from a great distance, was ever before my eyes, and I conceived the plan of some time doing what I have at last accomplished to-day. The idea took hold upon me with especial force when, in re-reading Livy's History of Rome, yesterday, I happened upon the place where Philip of Macedon, the same who waged war against the Romans, ascended Mount Hæmus in Thessaly, from whose summit he was able, it is said, to see two seas, the Adriatic and the Euxine. Whether this be true or false I have not been able to determine, for the mountain is too far away, and writers disagree. Pomponius Mela, the cosmographer—not to mention others who have spoken of this occurrence—admits its truth without hesitation; Titus Livius, on the other hand, considers it false. I, assuredly, should not have left the question long in doubt, had that mountain been as easy to explore as this one. Let us leave this matter one side, however, and return to my mountain here,—it seems to me that a young man in private life may well be excused for attempting what an aged king could undertake without arousing criticism.

When I came to look about for a companion I found, strangely enough, that hardly one among my friends seemed suitable, so rarely do we meet with just the right combination of personal tastes and characteristics, even among those who are dearest to us. This one was too apathetic, that one over-anxious; this one too slow, that one too hasty; one was too sad, another over-cheerful; one more simple, another more sagacious, than I desired. I feared this one's taciturnity and that one's loquacity. The heavy deliberation of some repelled me as much as the lean incapacity of others. I rejected those who were likely to irritate me by a cold want of interest, as well as those who might weary me by their excessive enthusiasm. Such defects, however grave, could be borne with at home, for charity suffereth all things, and friendship accepts any burden; but it is quite otherwise on a journey, where every weakness becomes much more serious. So, as I was bent upon pleasure and anxious that my enjoyment should be unalloyed, I looked about me with unusual care, balanced against one another the various characteristics of my friends, and without committing any breach of friendship I silently condemned every trait which might prove disagreeable on the way. And—would you believe it?—I finally turned homeward for aid, and proposed the ascent to my only brother, who is younger than I, and with whom you are well acquainted. He was delighted and gratified beyond measure by the thought of holding the place of a friend as well as of a brother.

At the time fixed we left the house, and by evening reached Malaucène, which lies at the foot of the mountain, to the north. Having rested there a day, we finally made the ascent this morning, with no companions except two servants; and a most difficult task it was. The mountain is a very steep and almost inaccessible mass of stony soil. But, as the poet has well said, "Remorseless toil conquers all." It was a long day, the air fine. We enjoyed the advantages of vigour of mind and strength and agility of body, and everything else essential to those engaged in such an undertaking, and so had no other difficulties to face than those of the region itself. We found an old shepherd in one of the mountain dales, who tried, at great length, to dissuade us from the ascent, saying that some fifty years before he had, in the same ardour of youth, reached the summit, but had gotten for his pains nothing except fatigue and regret, and clothes and body torn by the rocks and briars. No one, so far as he or his companions knew, had ever tried the ascent before or after him. But his counsels increased rather than diminished our desire to proceed, since youth is suspicious of warnings. So the old man, finding that his efforts were in vain, went a little way with us, and pointed out a rough path among the rocks, uttering many admonitions, which he continued to send after us even after we had left him behind. Surrendering to him all such garments or other possessions as might prove burdensome to us, we made ready for the ascent, and started off at a good pace. But, as usually happens, fatigue quickly followed upon our excessive exertion, and we soon came to a halt at the top of a certain cliff. Upon starting on again we went more slowly, and I especially advanced along the rocky way with a more deliberate step. While my brother chose a direct path straight up the ridge, I weakly took an easier one which really descended. When I was called back, and the right road was shown me, I replied that I hoped to find a better way round on the other side, and that I did not mind going farther if the path were only less steep. This was just an excuse for my laziness; and when the others had already reached a considerable height I was still wandering in the valleys. I had failed to find an easier path, and had only increased the distance and difficulty of the ascent. At last I became disgusted with the intricate way I had chosen, and resolved to ascend without more ado. When I reached my brother, who, while waiting for me, had had ample opportunity for rest, I was tired and irritated. We walked along together for a time, but hardly had we passed the first spur when I forgot about the circuitous route which I had just tried, and took a lower one again. Once more I followed an easy, roundabout path through winding valleys, only to find myself soon in my old difficulty. I was simply trying to avoid the exertion of the ascent; but no human ingenuity can alter the nature of things, or cause anything to reach a height by going down. Suffice it to say that, much to my vexation and my brother's amusement, I made this same mistake three times or more during a few hours.

After being frequently misled in this way, I finally sat down in a valley and transferred my winged thoughts from things corporeal to the immaterial, addressing myself as follows:—"What thou hast repeatedly experienced to-day in the ascent of this mountain, happens to thee, as to many, in the journey toward the blessed life. But this is not so readily perceived by men, since the motions of the body are obvious and external while those of the soul are invisible and hidden. Yes, the life which we call blessed is to be sought for on a high eminence, and strait is the way that leads to it. Many, also, are the hills that lie between, and we must ascend, by a glorious stairway, from strength to strength. At the top is at once the end of our struggles and the goal for which we are bound. All wish to reach this goal, but, as Ovid says, 'To wish is little; we must long with the utmost eagerness to gain our end.' Thou certainly dost ardently desire, as well as simply wish, unless thou deceivest thyself in this matter, as in so many others. What, then, doth hold thee back? Nothing, assuredly, except that thou wouldst take a path which seems, at first thought, more easy, leading through low and worldly pleasures. But nevertheless in the end, after long wanderings, thou must perforce either climb the steeper path, under the burden of tasks foolishly deferred, to its blessed culmination, or lie down in the valley of thy sins, and (I shudder to think of it!), if the shadow of death overtake thee, spend an eternal night amid constant torments." These thoughts stimulated both body and mind in a wonderful degree for facing the difficulties which yet remained. Oh, that I might traverse in spirit that other road for which I long day and night, even as to-day I overcame material obstacles by my bodily exertions! And I know not why it should not be far easier, since the swift immortal soul can reach its goal in the twinkling of an eye, without passing through space, while my progress to-day was necessarily slow, dependent as I was upon a failing body weighed down by heavy members.

One peak of the mountain, the highest of all, the country people call "Sonny," why, I do not know, unless by antiphrasis, as I have sometimes suspected in other instances; for the peak in question would seem to be the father of all the surrounding ones. On its top is a little level place, and here we could at last rest our tired bodies.

Now, my father, since you have followed the thoughts that spurred me on in my ascent, listen to the rest of the story, and devote one hour, I pray you, to reviewing the experiences of my entire day. At first, owing to the unaccustomed quality of the air and the effect of the great sweep of view spread out before me, I stood like one dazed. I beheld the clouds under our feet, and what I had read of Athos and Olympus seemed less incredible as I myself witnessed the same things from a mountain of less fame. I turned my eyes toward Italy, whither my heart most inclined. The Alps, rugged and snow-capped, seemed to rise close by, although they were really at a great distance; the very same Alps through which that fierce enemy of the Roman name once made his way, bursting the rocks, if we may believe the report, by the application of vinegar. I sighed, I must confess, for the skies of Italy, which I beheld rather with my mind than with my eyes. An inexpressible longing came over me to see once more my friend and my country. At the same time I reproached myself for this double weakness, springing, as it did, from a soul not yet steeled to manly resistance. And yet there were excuses for both of these cravings, and a number of distinguished writers might be summoned to support me.

Then a new idea took possession of me, and I shifted my thoughts to a consideration of time rather than place. "To-day it is ten years since, having completed thy youthful studies, thou didst leave Bologna. Eternal God! In the name of immutable wisdom, think what alterations in thy character this intervening period has beheld! I pass over a thousand instances. I am not yet in a safe harbour where I can calmly recall past storms. The time may come when I can review in due order all the experiences of the past, saying with St. Augustine, 'I desire to recall my foul actions and the carnal corruption of my soul, not because I love them, but that I may the more love thee, O my God.' Much that is doubtful and evil still clings to me, but what I once loved, that I love no longer. And yet what am I saying? I still love it, but with shame, but with heaviness of heart. Now, at last, I have confessed the truth. So it is. I love, but love what I would not love, what I would that I might hate. Though loath to do so, though constrained, though sad and sorrowing, still I do love, and I feel in my miserable self the truth of the well known words, 'I will hate if I can; if not, I will love against my will.' Three years have not yet passed since that perverse and wicked passion[4] which had a firm grasp upon me and held undisputed sway in my heart began to discover a rebellious opponent, who was unwilling longer to yield obedience. These two adversaries have joined in close combat for the supremacy, and for a long time now a harassing and doubtful war has been waged in the field of my thoughts."

Thus I turned over the last ten years in my mind, and then, fixing my anxious gaze on the future, I asked myself, "If, perchance, thou shouldst prolong this uncertain life of thine for yet two lustres, and shouldst make an advance toward virtue proportionate to the distance to which thou hast departed from thine original infatuation during the past two years, since the new longing first encountered the old, couldst thou, on reaching thy fortieth year, face death, if not with complete assurance, at least with hopefulness, calmly dismissing from thy thoughts the residuum of life as it faded into old age?"

These and similar reflections occurred to me, my father. I rejoiced in my progress, mourned my weaknesses, and commiserated the universal instability of human conduct. I had well-nigh forgotten where I was and our object in coming; but at last I dismissed my anxieties, which were better suited to other surroundings, and resolved to look about me and see what we had come to see. The sinking sun and the lengthening shadows of the mountain were already warning us that the time was near at hand when we must go. As if suddenly wakened from sleep, I turned about and gazed toward the west. I was unable to discern the summits of the Pyrenees, which form the barrier between France and Spain; not because of any intervening obstacle that I know of but owing simply to the insufficiency of our mortal vision. But I could see with the utmost clearness, off to the right, the mountains of the region about Lyons, and to the left the bay of Marseilles and the waters that lash the shores of Aigues Mortes, altho' all these places were so distant that it would require a journey of several days to reach them. Under our very eyes flowed the Rhone.

While I was thus dividing my thoughts, now turning my attention to some terrestrial object that lay before me, now raising my soul, as I had done my body, to higher planes, it occurred to me to look into my copy of St. Augustine's Confessions, a gift that I owe to your love, and that I always have about me, in memory of both the author and the giver. I opened the compact little volume, small indeed in size, but of infinite charm, with the intention of reading whatever came to hand, for I could happen upon nothing that would be otherwise than edifying and devout. Now it chanced that the tenth book presented itself. My brother, waiting to hear something of St. Augustine's from my lips, stood attentively by. I call him, and God too, to witness that where I first fixed my eyes it was written: "And men go about to wonder at the heights of the mountains, and the mighty waves of the sea, and the wide sweep of rivers, and the circuit of the ocean, and the revolution of the stars, but themselves they consider not." I was abashed, and, asking my brother (who was anxious to hear more), not to annoy me, I closed the book, angry with myself that I should still be admiring earthly things who might long ago have learned from even the pagan philosophers that nothing is wonderful but the soul, which, when great itself, finds nothing great outside itself. Then, in truth, I was satisfied that I had seen enough of the mountain; I turned my inward eye upon myself, and from that time not a syllable fell from my lips until we reached the bottom again. Those words had given me occupation enough, for I could not believe that it was by a mere accident that I happened upon them. What I had there read I believed to be addressed to me and to no other, remembering that St. Augustine had once suspected the same thing in his own case, when, on opening the book of the Apostle, as he himself tells us, the first words that he saw there were, "Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantoness, not in strife and envying. But put you on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof."

The same thing happened earlier to St. Anthony, when he was listening to the Gospel where it is written, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me." Believing this scripture to have been read for his especial benefit, as his biographer Athanasius says, he guided himself by its aid to the Kingdom of Heaven. And as Anthony on hearing these words waited for nothing more, and as Augustine upon reading the Apostle's admonition sought no farther, so I concluded my reading in the few words which I have given. I thought in silence of the lack of good counsel in us mortals, who neglect what is noblest in ourselves, scatter our energies in all directions, and waste ourselves in a vain show, because we look about us for what is to be found only within. I wondered at the natural nobility of our soul, save when it debases itself of its own free will, and deserts its original estate, turning what God has given it for its honour into dishonour. How many times, think you, did I turn back that day, to glance at the summit of the mountain, which seemed scarcely a cubit high compared with the range of human contemplation,—when it is not immersed in the foul mire of earth? With every downward step I asked myself this: If we are ready to endure so much sweat and labour in order that we may bring our bodies a little nearer heaven, how can a soul struggling toward God, up the steeps of human pride and human destiny, fear any cross or prison or sting of fortune? How few, I thought, but are diverted from their path by the fear of difficulties or the love of ease! How happy the lot of those few, if any such there be! It is of them, assuredly, that the poet was thinking, when he wrote:

Happy the man who is skilled to understand Nature's hid causes; who beneath his feet All terrors casts, and death's relentless doom, And the loud roar of greedy Acheron.[5]

How earnestly should we strive, not to stand on mountain-tops, but to trample beneath us those appetites which spring from earthly impulses.[6]

With no consciousness of the difficulties of the way, amidst these preoccupations which I have so frankly revealed, we came, long after dark, but with the full moon lending us its friendly light, to the little inn which we had left that morning before dawn. The time during which the servants have been occupied in preparing our supper, I have spent in a secluded part of the house, hurriedly jotting down these experiences on the spur of the moment, lest, in case my task were postponed, my mood should change on leaving the place, and so my interest in writing flag.

You will see, my dearest father, that I wish nothing to be concealed from you, for I am careful to describe to you not only my life in general but even my individual reflections. And I beseech you, in turn, to pray that these vague and wandering thoughts of mine may some time become firmly fixed, and, after having been vainly tossed about from one interest to another, may direct themselves at last toward the single, true, certain, and everlasting good.

MALAUCÈNE, April 26.

The Charms of Pavia.

To Boccacio.[1]

You have done well to visit me by letter, since you either would not or could not come to see me in person. On hearing that you had crossed the Alps to see the Babylon of the West, worse than the ancient city of that name because nearer to us, I was in a constant state of anxiety until I learned of your safe return. For I well know the difficulties of the route, having traversed it frequently, and I thought, too, of your heaviness of body, and of your seriousness of mind, so favourable to scholarly leisure and so averse to the responsibilities which you had assumed. Worried by these considerations, I enjoyed no peace, day or night, and I thank God that you are back safe and sound. The greater the perils of the sea that you have escaped, the greater is my gratitude for your return.

But, unless you were in a very great hurry, it would have been very easy for you, on reaching Genoa, to have turned this way. It would have required but two days to come to see me—whom indeed you see always and wherever you go,—and you would also have seen this city of Ticinum, on the banks of the Ticino, which I believe you have never visited. It is now called Pavia, which the grammarians tell us means admirable, or wonderful. It was long the celebrated capital of the Lombards. Still earlier than their time I find that Cæsar Augustus took up his quarters here, on the eve of the German war. I suppose he wished to be nearer the scene of action. He had sent his step-son on into Germany; where he was performing the most glorious deeds of prowess. From here Augustus could observe the campaign as from a watch-tower, stimulating the leader, and ready, should one of the reverses so common in war occur, to bring to his succour all the imperial forces, as well as the majesty of his own name.

You would have seen where the Carthaginian leader gained his first victory over our generals, in a conflict during which the Roman commander was snatched from the enemy's weapons and saved from imminent death by his son, scarcely more than a boy,—a striking presage that the lad would himself one day become a great leader. You would have seen where St. Augustine is buried, and where Boethius found a fitting place of exile in which to spend his old age and to die. They now repose together in two urns, under the same roof with King Luitprand, who transferred the body of St. Augustine[2] from Sardinia to this city. This is indeed a pious and devout concourse of illustrious men. One might think that Boethius followed in the footsteps of St. Augustine, during his life, by his spirit and writings, especially those on the Trinity,[3] which he composed after the example of Augustine, and in death, because his remains share the same tomb. You would wish that your mortal remains might have been destined to lie near such good and learned men. Finally, you would have seen a city famous in the mouths of men for its age. It is true that no reference to it occurs, so far as I can recollect, earlier than the period of the second Punic war, of which I just spoke. Indeed, if my memory does not play me false, even in connection with that period Livy only mentions the river and not the town. However, the similarity of the names—the river, Ticinus, and the town, Ticinum—might easily lead to the confusion of one with the other.[4]

But I will leave one side all such doubtful matters and confine myself to what is certain. You would find the air of the place very salubrious. I have now spent three summers here, and I do not remember to have experienced ever anywhere else such frequent and plentiful showers with so little thunder and lightning, such freedom from heat, and such steady, refreshing breezes. You would find the city beautifully situated. The Ligurians, of old a notable race and to this day a very powerful people, occupy the greater part of northern Italy, and the city lies in the midst of their territory. Commandingly situated on a slight elevation, and on the margin of gently sloping banks, it raises its crown of towers into the clouds, and enjoys a wide and free prospect on all sides, one which, so far as I know, is not exceeded in extent or beauty by that of any town which lies thus in a plain. By turning one's head ever so little one can see in one direction the snowy crest of the Alps, and in the other the wooded Apennines. The Ticino itself, descending in graceful curves and hastening to join the Po, flows close by the walls, and, as it is written, makes glad the city by its swift waters. Its two banks are joined by as fine a bridge as you would wish to see. It is the clearest of streams, both in reputation and in fact, and flows very rapidly, although just here, as if tired after its long journey and perturbed by the neighbourhood of a more famous river, it moves more deliberately, and has been deprived of some of its natural purity by the brooks which join it. It is, in short, very much like my Transalpine Sorgue, save that the Ticino is larger, while the Sorgue, on account of the nearness of its source, is cooler in summer and warmer in winter.

You would see, also, one of those works in which you have such an interest, and in which I, too, take the greatest delight,—an equestrian statue in gilded bronze. It stands in the middle of the market-place, and seems to be just on the point of reaching, with a spirited bound, the summit of an eminence. The figure is said to have been carried off from your dear people of Ravenna. Those best trained in sculpture and painting declare it to be second to none.

Lastly, in order of time, though not of importance, you would see the huge palace, situated on the highest point of the city; an admirable building, which cost a vast amount. It was built by the princely Galeazzo, the younger of the Visconti,[5] the rulers of Milan, Pavia, and many neighbouring towns, a man who surpasses others in many ways, and in the magnificence of his buildings fairly excels himself. I am convinced, unless I be misled by my partiality for the founder, that, with your good taste in such matters, you would declare this to be the most noble production of modern art.

So if you had come you would not only have seen your friend, which I hope, and indeed know, would have been most agreeable to you, but you would have been delighted also by the spectacle, not, as Virgil says, of wonderful little things, but of a multitude of great and glorious objects. I must confess that in my own case these objects are a source of supreme pleasure, and would keep me here, were it not that other interests call me away. I leave here shortly, but very gladly return to pass the summer months—if fate grant me more summer months....[6]

V

POLITICAL OPINIONS

RIENZO AND CHARLES IV

Principum ac regum familiaritatibus et nobilium amicitiis usque ad invidiam fortunatus fui.... Maximi regum meæ ætatis amarunt et coluerunt me; cur autem nescio; ipsi viderint: et ita cum quibusdam fui, ut ipsi quodam modo mecum essent, et eminentiæ eorum nullum tædium, commoda multa perceperim.

Epistola ad Posteros.

Petrarch exhibits in his letters a deep and constant interest in public affairs, albeit, like others of his time, he views political problems somewhat broadly, with a generous disregard not only of technical detail but of human nature itself. He tells us that his intercourse with kings and princes and his friendship with noble personages was such as to excite envy in the less fortunate. His international fame, seconded by his own tastes and ambition, brought him into intimate association during a great part of his life with the potentates of his day, not only of Italy but of France and Germany,—even with the Emperor of the East. While he did not actually participate in the government, even during his stay at Milan, we find him sent upon important public missions. He prepared and delivered political addresses, and wrote letters to rulers and public men, with a hope of influencing their policy; he composed a considerable treatise upon the art of government;[1] he even participated, as a consulting expert, in drafting a constitution for the city of Rome.

Petrarch's interest in political reform is doubtless attributable in no small part to the patriotic enthusiasm aroused by the study of his nation's glorious past. Romans were to him but earlier Italians. Scipio Africanus was a national hero; Virgil, the great national poet; the Cæsars, the Italian rulers of the world. On visiting Cologne nothing so fascinated him as the vestiges of his forefathers. Moreover, he had ever before him in his fellow-countryman, Cicero, a literary spirit and philosopher like himself, who had not hesitated to devote his energies to public affairs.

The history of Italy under the rule of their Roman ancestors took on a celestial radiance in the eyes of those who viewed the sad decline of their country's greatness. Petrarch would, he says, have preferred any age to his own. His sole consolation lay in the rooted conviction that times were going rapidly from bad to worse. He saw upon every hand examples of the terrible inadequacy of the existing system to yield even the most primitive benefit of government,—the reasonable security of person and property. Disorder, robbery, and murder were every-day occurrences. When he first visited Rome, his friends deemed a hundred horsemen a necessary escort to protect him from the Orsini on his way to the city.[2] Upon the occasion of his coronation the representative of the King of Naples, who was to accompany him, failed to reach Rome; he had been captured by bandits.[3] Petrarch himself was attacked as he left the city, and was obliged to return within its walls.[4] The danger upon the highroads kept him in a constant state of apprehension when he or his friends undertook a journey. Even the peaceful retreat at Vaucluse was at last plundered and burned, and the poet declared that nowhere was one any longer sheltered from the ferocious robber bands which moved about with the precision of regular armies, and which the walls of fortified towns and the arms of their rulers were alike powerless to check.[5]

This lawlessness was naturally attributed to Italian disunion. The subdivision of Italy into a multitude of practically independent states and urban communities stimulated the development of personal political ambition and produced the "age of despots." The tyrants, in their struggle to maintain their power at home and increase their prestige abroad, inevitably resorted to the approved expedient of the usurper, territorial aggrandisement. The discomfiture or subjugation of their neighbours became the absorbing object of the foreign policy of Milan, Venice, and Florence, and of the lesser states as well. Peace, the natural enemy of the usurper, was thoroughly banished from Italy, and a perpetual state of war prevailed. There were few serious, decisive conflicts, it is true, but there was an all-pervading, self-perpetuating, Ishmaelitish antagonism between the various countries, which precluded all hope of national cooperation. "Servile Italy," indeed, "ship without a pilot!"[6]

In the face of such evils, and hopeless of reform from within, a patriotic Italian of the fourteenth century might be pardoned for looking to a foreign ruler, even to a somewhat commonplace and unpromising prince, for the initiative in restoring order. The Italians were too completely engrossed by their own complex interstate relations, and too thoroughly convinced of the absolute inferiority of "the barbarians," seriously to apprehend that foreign intervention might ultimately develop into subjugation. History was, indeed, quite explicit upon this point. The German emperors had never been able to establish their control over Italy except partially and for the moment.

Practical considerations were not, however, the most fundamental justification and explanation of the Ghibelline reliance upon foreign intervention. The political speculation of the time shows clearly that theory was much more potent than the obvious necessity of governmental reform in fostering the imperial cause. The theory in question was that of the perpetuity of the Holy Roman Empire, with its divinely recognised centre at Rome. Even at the courts of the despots, whose practical sagacity was creating the first modern states with their elaborate systems of administration, Petrarch, like Dante, loved to brood, with a half-mystical, half-humanistic partiality, upon that perdurable illusion which exercised such an inexplicable charm over the mediæval mind. It was the same craving for an ideal union of humanity under one consecrated head that led Dante joyfully to hail the coming of Henry VII. In the same great cause,—the defence of the Empire,—Marsiglio of Padua, by far the keenest of the political thinkers of Petrarch's time, composed his extraordinary treatise upon government and the relations of church and state. Longing for the restoration of Rome's supremacy, Petrarch first placed his hopes in Rienzo, and then, after the Tribune's fall, sent message after message to Charles IV., King of Bohemia, the grandson of Dante's imperial hero, exhorting him to have pity upon Italy and widowed Rome.

Mr. Bryce calls Dante's treatise on government an epitaph, not a prophecy. Petrarch, too, was blind to the forces about him which made for political progress. He learned nothing from that race of really great rulers, the Visconti, with whom he was intimately associated. Moreover, the most original and profound work upon government which the Middle Ages produced, the Defensor Pacis of Marsiglio of Padua, written in 1324, appears to have exercised no influence upon him, and although he confined his reading to the classics and the writings of the Fathers, his political sympathies and ideals are typically mediæval. In his treatment of these matters he does not rise above the current argumentation of the Imperialists, although he re-enforces his position with a greater abundance and precision of historical illustration.

Rienzo had found in Petrarch a sympathetic confidant when, as early as 1343, upon visiting Avignon, he had unfolded his audacious schemes to him.[7] When, four years later, at Pentecost, 1347, the innkeeper's son carried out his successful coup d'état and got possession of the city of Rome, Petrarch was enchanted, as is shown by the letter given below. The immediate results of Rienzo's accession to power were indeed almost magical: order was restored, the roads were rendered safe for the first time in the memory of man, and an Italian parliament was summoned to consider the unification of Italy. The Tribune's manifestoes aroused universal enthusiasm; and, in spite of the writer's inflated and obscure style, Petrarch pronounced him, long after the spell was broken, a most eloquent and persuasive orator and a graceful writer. Petrarch seemed to see his own dreams realised; the ancient dignity and ascendancy of Rome were re-established; the foreign tyrants, as he called the Roman nobility, including the Colonnesi, had been expelled; the power was once more in the hands of the divinely elected people of Rome. Rome was soon to be the head of a unified and rejuvenated Italy, perhaps of a redeemed Europe. By November Petrarch was on his way to join Rienzo. He was probably actuated to some extent, however, by his desire to see Italy once more, and to escape from the reproaches of his former friends at the papal court, especially of Giovanni Colonna, whose favour he necessarily sacrificed by his public espousal of Rienzo's cause. But upon his reaching Genoa, letters forwarded to him from Avignon brought the sad story of the Tribune's fatal indiscretions. He thereupon gave up the idea of going to Rome, and contented himself with addressing a sharp reprimand to the delinquent ruler, to whom he recalled the truth: Magnus enim labor est magnæ custodia famæ.[8]

After scarcely seven months of power Rienzo ignominiously retired from the Capitol and fled to the solitudes of the Abruzzi. There, while living the life of a hermit, he was encouraged by prophetic revelations to renew his attempts to establish the Roman power. He determined to conciliate the new Emperor, Charles IV., foreigner as he was, and win him if possible to his fantastic[9] schemes. This strangest of all Italian ambassadors must have reached Prague when Charles was fresh from a perusal of Petrarch's first summons to him, which is given below.[10] The Emperor listened curiously to Rienzo's representations, but instead of joining him in a campaign for the realisation of the ideal Roman Empire he shut up the ex-Tribune as an enemy of the Church, and later turned him over to the pope at Avignon. Petrarch still sympathised with the unfortunate captive, and prepared an appeal to the Roman people in his favour.[11] After a brief return to a restricted exercise of power as senator under the papal control, Rienzo was killed by a mob, October 8, 1354.[12]

Petrarch's letters to Rienzo do not simply show an absorbing interest in the attempt of a national leader to restore the ancient prestige of Rome and to establish the unity of Italy; they seem to prove that there was a fundamental congruity, a spiritual affinity—Wahlverwandtschaft[1]—between the two men, which would have made them firm friends had they been brought together. One,[2] at least, of the eight letters of Petrarch to Rienzo which have been preserved is strikingly free from constraint, and would lead us to believe that the poet, on his part, was anxious that their relations should be those of cordial familiarity. The letter which follows gives us some notion of the widespread interest aroused by the Tribune's first acts.

To Cola di Rienzo, Tribune of the Roman People.[3]

I shall continue to write to you every day, not from any hope of a reply,—for, in view of your heavy and varied cares, I must admit that while I long for an answer I can hardly expect one,—but rather that you may be the first to learn what goes on in my mind respecting you, and especially that I may in this way assure you of my deep concern for your welfare. I clearly perceive, in the first place, that you are set on a high pinnacle, exposed to the gaze, the judgment, and the comments not only of the Italians but of the whole human race; not only of those who are now alive but of those who shall be born in all the centuries to come. I realise, too, that you have assumed a heavy but a splendid and honourable responsibility, and undertaken a task at once glorious and unique. Never will our own generation, never will posterity, as I believe, cease to think of you. The speech of other men is as idle and discordant as their fleeting whims, but your purpose, no whit less firm than the Capitoline rock upon which you dwell, is one not to be shaken by every breath.

I know not whether you are aware of one thing, or, if so, whether you have given it any thought. You must not imagine that your letters which have hitherto reached us have remained in the hands of those to whom they were addressed. They are promptly copied by everybody with such eagerness, and circulated about the papal corridors with such interest that one would suppose that they came from a celestial being, or a dweller at the antipodes, rather than from one of our own race. At the rumour of a letter from you the whole populace gathers. Never was an utterance of the Delphic Apollo interpreted in so many senses as your words. I cannot but extol your circumspection in maintaining a tone at once so temperate and so free from offence, and I pray most fervently that you will henceforth take greater and greater precautions in this respect. Your words reflect the noble spirit of the writer and the majesty of the Roman people, without derogating in any way from the reverence and honour due to the Roman pontiff. It beseems your wisdom and eloquence to be able so to associate things which appear, but are not in reality, contradictory, that each is given its due weight.[4] I have noted how astonished some have been that the conflict in your letters between modesty and assurance resulted in so equal a contest and so doubtful a victory, for neither cowardly fear nor swelling pride showed themselves in the arena. Men hesitate, I observe, whether to admire most your deeds or your words, since all admit that for your devotion to liberty they may well declare you a Brutus, and for your eloquence, a Cicero,—whom Catullus of Verona calls "most fluent."

Continue, then, as you have begun. Write not only as if everyone were to see your letters, but as if they were to be sent forth from all our shores, and transmitted to every land. You have laid the firmest of foundations, in peace, truth, justice, and liberty; build upon these; for what you raise thereon shall be established, and he who runs upon them shall be dashed to pieces. He who opposes truth shall prove himself a liar; he who opposes peace, a turbulent spirit; he who opposes justice is himself unjust, and he who opposes liberty, arrogant and shameless.

I approve of your custom of keeping copies of all the letters which you send to various parts of the globe, for these copies are useful in determining what you should say by what you have already said, and they enable you, when it is necessary, to compare the letters of others with your own. That you do this is proved to me by the manner in which you dated your letter. Your magnificent subscription, moreover, "in the first year of the Republic's freedom," smacks of the intent to begin our annals anew. The expression delights and comforts me. And since you are wholly engaged in action, and until you discover a genius equal to the affair, I tender you, unless God ...,[5] my little skill and this pen of mine, as Livy says, to uphold the memory of the people who rule the earth; nor will my Africa disdain to give place a little. Farewell.

The following letter, written some five years after Rienzo's coup d'état, is not only important for its references to the ex-Tribune's reception at Avignon, but it enables us to judge how the whole affair appeared to Petrarch after his friend's disgrace.

Rienzo under the Protection of the Muses.

To Francesco Nelli.[1]

What do you expect me to tell you now?—something more of the episode in my last letter, which may equally well have brought indignant tears to your eyes or made you laugh?[2] At this moment I certainly have nothing more important on hand, although there are plenty of trifling duties. Indeed, lack of time prevents my turning to more weighty matters, and even what little time I have is not really free, but is filled with astonishing interruptions. I am in a constant hubbub, always in motion, running here, there, and nowhere.[3] This is an ill that is all too familiar to those who move from place to place. Having left Babylon[4] for the last time, I am now at the Fountain of the Sorgue, my usual port of refuge from the storms that overtake me. Here I am waiting for travelling companions, as well as for late autumn, or at least for that season when, as Virgil hath it, "the shortening days bring a waning heat." In the meantime, that my country life may not be wholly profitless, I am gathering together the results of past meditation. Every day I try either to make some progress in the more important writings which I have in hand or to finish outright some one little thing. This letter will show you what I am doing to-day.

Poetry, a divine gift which belongs of necessity to the few, is now beginning to be usurped, not to say profaned and degraded, by the many. To me there is nothing more irritating than this, and if I know your disposition, my friend, you will find it no less hard than I to reconcile yourself to this unbecoming state of affairs. Never at Athens or Rome, never in the times of Homer or Virgil, was there such an ado about poets as we have now on the banks of the Rhone; although I believe there was never a place or a time when the knowledge of these matters was at so low an ebb. But I would have you smother your irritation in a laugh, and learn to jest even in the midst of sadness.

Cola di Rienzo has recently come, or rather been brought, a prisoner, to the papal curia. He who was once the Tribune of the city of Rome, inspiring terror far and wide, is now the most miserable of men, and, what is worst of all, I fear that, miserable as he undoubtedly is, he ought scarcely to arouse our pity, since he who might have died with glory upon the Capitol has submitted to be imprisoned, first by a Bohemian and then by a native of Limoges,[5] thus bringing derision upon himself and upon the Roman name and state. How active my pen was in praising and admonishing this man is perhaps better known than I should wish. I was enamoured of his virtue; I applauded his design, and admired his spirit; I congratulated Italy, and anticipated a restoration of dominion to the mother city, and peace for the whole world. I could not disguise the joy that such hopes engendered, and it seemed to me that I should become a participant in all this glory if I could but urge him on in his course. That he keenly felt the incentive of my words his letters and messages amply testified. This aroused me the more, and incited me to discover what would serve to inflame further his fervid spirit; and, as I well knew that nothing causes a generous heart to glow like praise and renown, I disseminated enthusiastic eulogies, which may have seemed exaggerated to some, but which were in my opinion perfectly justified. I commended his past actions, and exhorted him to persevere in the future. Some of my letters to him are still preserved, and I am not altogether ashamed of them. I am not addicted to prophecy; would that he, too, had refrained from it! Moreover, at the time when I wrote, what he had done and what he seemed about to do was worthy not only of my admiration but of that of the whole human race. I doubt whether these letters should be destroyed for the single reason that he preferred to live a coward rather than die with dignity. But it is useless to discuss the impossible; however anxious I might be to destroy them I cannot, for they are now in the hands of the public, and so have escaped from my control.

But to return to our subject. He who had filled evil-doers throughout the world with trembling apprehension, and the good with glad hope and anticipation, approached the papal court humbled and despised. He who had once been attended by the whole Roman people and the chiefs of the Italian cities was now accompanied by two guards only, one on either side, as he made his unhappy way through the people, who crowded about him in their eagerness to see the face of one of whom they had only heard the proud name....[6] In this plight, as I understand from the letters of friends, one hope is left him; a rumour has spread among the people that he is an illustrious poet. It seems to them a shameful thing that one devoted to so sacred a pursuit should suffer violence. The elevated sentiment that now prevails with the crowd is the same to which Cicero once appealed before the magistrates, in favour of his teacher, Aulus Licinius Archias. But I need not add a description of the oration, which I formerly fetched from farthest Germany when travelling through that region as an eager sight-seer in my early days. During the year following my return, in response to the desires of your friends, I sent it to our native city. That you have it and have read it carefully I can see from the letters which reach me from there. But what shall I say of Rienzo's affair? I am delighted, and rejoice more than words can tell, that such honour is now rendered to the Muses, and—what is the more astonishing—by those who are unacquainted with them; so that they are able to save by their name alone a man otherwise hateful even to his very judges. What more exalted prerogatives could they have enjoyed under Augustus Cæsar, at a time when they were held in supreme honour, when poets came from all parts to look upon the illustrious countenance of that unique prince who was at once their friend and the ruler of the earth? What greater tribute, I ask, could be paid to the power of the Muses than that they should be permitted to snatch from death's door a man certainly detested,—with how much reason I will not discuss,—a convicted and confessed criminal (even if not guilty of the offence of which he is accused), about to be condemned by the unanimous vote of his judges to capital punishment. I am delighted, again I say it; I congratulate both him and the Muses,—him upon the protection he enjoys, them upon the honour in which they are held. Nor do I grudge an offender, reduced to his last hope and in such critical circumstances, this saving title of poet.

Yet if you asked my opinion I should say that Cola di Rienzo is very eloquent, possessed of great powers of persuasion, and ready of speech; as a writer also he is charming and elegant, his diction, if not very copious, is graceful and brilliant. I believe, too, that he reads all the poets that are generally known; but he is not a poet for all that, any more than one is a weaver who dons a garment made by another's hands. Even the writing of verses does not suffice by itself to earn the title of poet. As Horace most truly says,

'T is not enough then merely to inclose Plain sense in numbers,—which if you transpose, The words were such as any man might say.[7]

But this man has never composed a single poem which has reached my ears, nor has he applied himself to such things; and without application nothing, however easy, can be well done.

I wished to tell you all this in order that you first might be moved by the fate of one who was once a public benefactor, and then might rejoice in his unexpected deliverance. You will, like me, be equally amused and disgusted by the cause of his escape, and will wonder, if Cola—which God grant!—can, in such imminent peril, find shelter beneath the ægis of the poet, why Virgil should not escape in the same way? Yet he would certainly have perished at the hands of the same judges, because he is held to be not a poet but a magician. But I will tell you something which will amuse you still more. I myself, than whom no one has ever been more hostile to divination and magic, have occasionally been pronounced a magician by quite as acute judges, on account of my fondness for Virgil. How low indeed have our studies sunk![8]...

The treatment of Rienzo by the papal officials at Avignon seemed to Petrarch an insult to the Roman people; and he determined, shortly after the prisoner's arrival, to appeal to those who had once shared in the Tribune's fleeting glory. Petrarch's interest in the case may very well be ascribed, in part at least, to his former friendship for Rienzo; his letter is, however, chiefly important as illustrating his political ideas and his highly fantastic conception of the Roman Empire.

To the Roman People, urging them to Intervene in Rienzo's Trial.[1]

Invincible people, to whom I belong, Conquerors of the Nations! there is a grave question which I would discuss with you, briefly and in confidence. I pray you therefore, I conjure you, illustrious men, to grant me your attention, for yours are the interests at stake. It is a serious matter, a most serious matter, with which none other in the world can be compared. But lest I should exhaust your interest by delay, or seem to endeavour to give added weight to a matter that by its very nature is of supreme importance, I will omit any introduction and come at once to the point.

Your former Tribune is now a captive in the power of strangers, and—sad spectacle indeed!—like a nocturnal thief or a traitor to his country, he pleads his cause in chains. He is refused the opportunity of a legitimate defence by the highest of earthly tribunals. The magistrates of justice themselves reject the claims of justice, and deny him what has never been denied to even the most impious offenders.[2] It is true that he may perhaps deserve to suffer in this manner, for, after he had planted the Republic by his skill, with his own hands so to speak, after it had taken root and flowered, in the very bloom of glorious success he left it. But Rome assuredly does not merit such treatment. Her citizens, who were formerly inviolable by law and exempt from punishment, are now indiscriminately maltreated, as anyone's savage caprice may dictate, and this is done not only without the guilt that attaches to a crime, but even with the high praise of virtue.

But that you may not be ignorant, most illustrious sirs, why he who was formerly your head and guide and is still your fellow-citizen—or shall I say your exile?—is thus persecuted, I must dwell upon a circumstance of which you may already be aware, but which is none the less astounding and intolerable. He is accused not of betraying but of defending liberty; he is guilty not of surrendering but of holding the Capitol. The supreme crime with which he is charged, and which merits expiation on the scaffold, is that he dared affirm that the Roman Empire is still at Rome, and in possession of the Roman people. Oh impious age! Oh preposterous jealousy, malevolence unprecedented! What doest thou, O Christ, ineffable and incorruptible judge of all? Where are thine eyes with which thou art wont to scatter the clouds of human misery? Why dost thou turn them away? Why dost thou not, with thy forked lightning, put an end to this unholy trial? Even though we be not deserving, look upon us, have pity upon us! Behold our enemies (who are not less thine), for they are multiplied, and they hate us even as they hate thee, with a cruel hate. Judge, we beseech thee, between our cause and theirs, unlike in every respect. From thy mouth let our judgment go forth; let thine eyes behold equity.

That one nation, or indeed that all nations, as we perceive, should have desired to withdraw themselves from that easiest and most just of all yokes, the yoke of Rome, need not surprise nor anger us, since there is in the souls of all mortals an innate love of liberty. Inadvisable and premature this desire may often be, and those whom shame forbids to obey their superiors ofttimes command but ill, and might better have submitted to be led. In this way all things are thrown into a state of turmoil and confusion; and in place of a suitable dominion we not infrequently find an unworthy subjection; instead of a dignified subordination, an unjust authority. Were this otherwise, human affairs would be upon a better footing, and the world, its head erect, would be vigorous still.

If this cannot be accepted upon my authority, experience may be trusted. When have we seen such peace, such tranquillity, such justice, such glory of well-doing, such rewards for virtue, such punishments for evil,—when did such order reign in all things, as when the world had but a single head, and that head Rome? It was that time which God, who loves peace and justice, chose above all others to humble himself to be born of the Virgin and to visit our earth. To each body is given its respective head; so the whole world, which the poet calls "the great body," should content itself with a single temporal head. A creature with two heads is a monster; how much more horrid and frightful a prodigy is a being with a thousand separate heads, wrangling among themselves and tearing each other. But if there must be several heads, there certainly should be one which is above the others and controls everything, so that the whole body may remain at peace. It is a truth amply proved by innumerable experiences, and supported by the authority of the most learned, that in heaven and on earth unity of rule has always been best. That God Omnipotent has willed that the supreme head should be no other than Rome, he has shown by a thousand signs, for he has rendered Rome worthy, by the glory of both peace and war, and has granted her a preëminence of power, marvellous and unexampled.

Although this be true, yet if in the past a nation, following the custom of the human heart, which daily rejoices in its own evil, has, as I have said, chosen to embrace a harmful and doubtful liberty rather than accept the safe and advantageous dominion of the common mother, it may still be pardoned for its audacity or stupidity. But who can, without scandal, hear the question raised among learned men whether the Roman Empire is at Rome? Must we assume, then, that the Parthian, the Persian, and the Median kingdoms remain with the Parthians, the Persians, and the Medes, respectively, but that the Roman Empire wanders about? Who can stomach such an absurdity? Who will not, rather, vomit it up and utterly reject it? If the Roman Empire is not at Rome, pray where is it? If it is anywhere else than at Rome it is no longer the Empire of the Romans, but belongs to those with whom an erratic fate has left it. Although the Roman generals were, owing to the exigencies of the Republic, often engaged with their armies in the far east or extreme west, or found themselves in the regions of Boreas or of Auster, the Roman dominion in the meantime was at Rome, and Rome it was which determined whether the Roman generals merited reward or punishment. It was determined upon the Capitol who should be honoured, who punished, who should enter the city as a private citizen, who with the honours of an ovation or of a triumph. Even after the tyranny, or, as we prefer to say, the monarchy, of Julius Cæsar was established, the Roman rulers, although they were assigned a place in the council of the gods themselves, continued, as we well know, to ask the consent of the Senate or of the Roman people in the conduct of the government, and according as that permission was granted or refused they proceeded with, or desisted from, their proposed action. Emperors may, therefore, wander about, but the Empire is fixed and forever immovable. And we may well infer that it was no temporary site but its eternal place to which Virgil refers when he says:

While on the rock-fast Capitol Æneas' house abides, And while the Roman Father still the might of Empire guides.[3]

... It was, however, also a Roman who wrote, "All that is born dies, and that which increases grows old." Nor does it distress me that Fortune exercises her prerogatives in your case as well as in that of others, and, in order plainly to show that she is mistress of human affairs, fears not to lay hands upon the very head of the world. I well know her violence and her inconstancy. Still, I cannot endure the idle boasts of certain unbridled nations, and the insolent conduct of those whose neck long bore the yoke of Rome. To pass over many other outrageous themes of discussion, they raise the question—oh, unhappy and shameful suggestion!—whether the Roman Empire is at Rome.

It is indeed true that upon a spot now covered with trackless forest royal palaces may some time arise; and where to-day stand halls resplendent with gold, the hungry flocks may some time pasture, and the wandering shepherds occupy the apartments of kings. I do not depreciate the power of Fortune. As she has obliterated other cities, so, with no more effort, if with greater ruin, she may destroy the queen of cities. Alas, she has already partially accomplished this; but she can never bring it about that the Roman Empire can be anywhere else than at Rome, for as soon as it is anywhere else it ceases to be Roman.

This your unfortunate fellow-citizen has maintained, and will not deny that he still maintains; and this constitutes the terrible crime for which his life is endangered. He claims that his assertion is based upon the opinion of many wise men, nor do I think that he is wrong. He further entreats that counsel and the opportunity to defend himself be granted him. This is refused; and, without divine mercy and your support, he is undone; innocent and defenceless, he will be condemned.

Almost everyone pities him; there is scarcely one who is not distressed for him, except those whose duty it is to be compassionate, to forgive the erring, and to feel no envy toward virtue. Distinguished lawyers are not wanting here who claim that this same proposition can be most clearly proved by the civil law. Others maintain that they could cite many and weighty references in the histories, which go to substantiate this opinion, if it were only permitted them to speak freely. But no one now dares to hint a word of this, except in a corner, or timidly and in secret. Even I who write this to you, although I might not refuse to die for the truth, if my death would seem to promise any advantage to the Republic,—even I now keep my peace, and do not affix my name to this present communication, believing that the style itself will suffice to indicate the writer, though I may add that it is a Roman citizen who speaks.[4] But if the matter should be considered in a place of safety, before a just judge, and not in the tribunal of our enemies, I hope, with the truth illuminating my intellect, and God directing my speech or pen, to be able to say that which will render it clearer than day that the Roman Empire, although long wasted and oppressed by the attacks of fortune, and occupied in turn by Spaniards, Africans, Greeks, Gauls, and Germans, still exists; that it is at Rome, not elsewhere; and that it will always remain there, although absolutely nothing of that great city should be left except the naked rock of the Capitol. I will prove, further, that even before we were ruled by foreigners, and while the Roman Cæsars still held the power, all the authority of the Empire was lodged, not in them, but in the citadel of the Capitol and in the Roman people....[5]

Bear such aid, then, as you can and ought, to your Tribune, or, if that title is extinguished, to your fellow-citizen, who has merited well at the hands of the Republic; first and foremost, because he has raised a great and important question which had been lost sight of and neglected for centuries, and which indicates the only means toward a reformation of the state and the ushering in of the golden age. Succour this man! Do not neglect the safety of one who has incurred a thousand perils and subjected himself to eternal despite in your behalf. Consider his spirit and his purpose, and remember the former state of your affairs, and how quickly the advice and efforts of a single man excited a wonderful hope, not only in Rome, but throughout Italy. Remember how speedily the Italian name and the glory of Rome were elevated and purified; remember the fear and disappointment of your enemies, the joy of your friends, the anticipations of the people; how the course of events was altered, how the whole universe assumed a new aspect, and the disposition of men's minds was changed. Among all the revolutions under heaven none has been so wonderful and astounding as this. For seven months, not longer, he held the reins of the Republic by an effort which in my judgment finds scarcely a parallel in the whole history of the world; and had he continued as he began he would have accomplished a divine rather than a human work. Indeed, whatever man does well is the work of God. There is, then, no doubt that this man, who is known to have acted for your glory and not to satisfy his own ambition, deserves your favour. You must blame Fortune for the outcome. If his original fervour gave way to a certain lethargy, forgive this in the name of human inconstancy and weakness, and save your fellow-citizen while you may from his enemies; you, who formerly protected the Greeks from the Macedonians, the Sicilians from the Carthaginians, the Campanians from the Samnites, and the Etrurians from the Gauls, and that not without serious peril to yourselves.

Your resources are, I confess, no longer what they once were, but never did your fathers show such valour as when Roman poverty, which forms the wealth of virtue, flourished. Your power is less, that I do not forget; but believe me, if a drop of the old blood still flows in your veins, you may yet enjoy no little majesty and no trifling authority. Venture somewhat, I adjure you, in memory of past greatness, in the name of the ashes and fame of your ancestors, in the name of the Empire, in the name of Jesus Christ, who bade us love our neighbour and aid the afflicted. Have courage, I beseech you, above all in a matter where your petition is honourable, and silence shameful and unbecoming. If not for his welfare, dare to do something for the sake of your own reputation, if you would still count for anything. There is nothing less Roman than fear. I forewarn you that if you are afraid, if you despise yourselves, others, too, will despise you; no one will fear you. But if you once begin to desire not to be scorned you will be feared far and wide, as has often been proved in the past, and but lately, also, when that ruler to whom I refer was governing the Republic. You have but to speak as one; let the world recognise that the Roman people has but a single voice, and no one will reject or scorn their words; everyone will respect or fear them. Claim the captive, or demand justice; one or the other will be conceded to you. And you, who once by a trifling embassy freed a King of Egypt besieged by the Syrians, free now your fellow-citizen from a shameful prison.

Some two years after Rienzo's retirement, Petrarch addressed his first letter to Charles of Bohemia, who already enjoyed the title of King of the Romans, but had not yet been crowned Emperor at Rome, as was then customary. While we cannot attempt to analyse the anomalous character of this historically important personage, it will nevertheless be readily and justly inferred that little real sympathy could exist between our ardent southern doctrinaire and the sober northern ruler. Petrarch was too thoroughly Italian really to respect Charles personally. He could never place unreserved confidence in a German from the cold north, "where there is no noble ardour or vital heat of empire."[1] To his fellow-countryman, Rienzo, had been drawn both by the hope of seeing Rome once more supreme and, as we have seen, by natural affinity, and a common fiery enthusiasm for the mighty lessons of antiquity. Charles enlisted his interest only as the titular successor of the Cæsars. The vitality, and, it must be admitted, the absurdity, of Petrarch's political theories are clearly seen in his long correspondence with the Emperor. He clung to his ideal with such tenacity that he continued to despatch appeal after appeal across the Alps, in spite of deluded hopes and disappointments which might well have appeared decisive.[2]

The letters shed little or no light upon the conditions of the times, or upon the interrelations of the Italian states. We hear of Veii and of the Samnites, but the writer passes over the more pertinent Florence and the Visconti in silence. In one instance only does he refer to existing conditions. The success of Rienzo is cited with a hope of rousing the King's emulation.[3] If Peace and Justice and their inseparable companions, Good Faith and sweet Security, returned at the call of the Tribune, how much might not justly be expected from the spell of the imperial name? Charles was to free the Italians from slavery, to reinstate justice, now prostituted to avarice, and once more to bring back peace, long fallen into utter oblivion.[4] No more complete or specific program is offered; the poet satisfies himself with the constant reiteration of the eternal fitness of Rome's headship. This had satisfied many generations of political writers; it is the central idea of mediæval thought, whether in the field of secular or ecclesiastical political speculation. Petrarch adds nothing to it, and the chief interest in his messages is, perhaps, their conservatism. His study of the classics did not modify but served only to intensify the current conception. For him there was no mean between the traditional anachronism of a world-monarchy and the petty, unscrupulous, restless despotisms about him.

In one respect, however, Petrarch advanced beyond the fruitless repetition of old fantastic theory, for he viewed Charles not only as Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire but as a new Augustus, a patron of literature. Upon receiving a letter from his royal friend he exclaims, "If it was deemed a glorious thing for Virgil and Horace to gain the notice and companionship of Cæsar Augustus and to receive his letters, why should not I, their successor, not indeed in merit but in time, and perhaps in the opinion of men,—why should not I feel justly proud to be similarly distinguished by Augustus' successor?"[5] The tribute here implied to the Emperor's interest in letters was by no means entirely unmerited. Petrarch, as we have repeatedly seen, was strongly attached to the rulers of his day, in whom he either discovered, or quickly aroused, a certain enthusiasm for the new culture. They came to relish the society of men of letters, and to extend to them their princely patronage, during the long humanistic epoch of which he was the herald.

To Charles IV., Emperor August of the Romans.[1]

My letter, most serene Emperor, when it considers its origin, whence it proceeds and whither it is bound, is filled with dread at the thought of the gulf over which it must pass. Born in the shadow of obscurity, what wonder if it is dazzled by the brilliancy of your splendid name? But love casteth out fear: it will, as it ventures into the light of your presence, at least serve to bear to you the message of my faithful affection. Read, then, I pray you, Glory of our Age, read! for you need fear no empty flattery, that common affliction of kings, so irksome and hateful to you. The art of adulation is repugnant to my character; prepare rather to listen to my lamentations, for you are now to be disturbed not by compliments but by complaints.

Why do you forget us—nay, forget yourself, if I may be pardoned for so speaking? How is it that your Italy no longer enjoys your watchful care? We have long placed our hope in you, as one sent to us from heaven, who would speedily re-establish our liberty; but you have forsaken us, and, when action is most essential, you occupy your time in lengthy deliberations.—You will perceive, Cæsar, how frankly I dare to address you, though a person insignificant and unknown. Be not offended at my boldness, I beseech you, but congratulate yourself upon the possession of a nature which can arouse this confidence in me.

To revert to the question in hand, why do you spend your time in mere consultation, as if master of the future? Do you not know how abruptly the most important matter may reach a crisis? A day may bring forth what has been preparing for centuries. Believe me, if you but consider your own reputation, and the condition of the state, you will clearly perceive that neither your interests nor ours require longer delay. What is more fleeting and uncertain than life? Although you are now at the height of manly vigour, your strength will not endure, but is slipping from you steadily and apace. Each day carries you insensibly toward old age. You hesitate and look about you; ere you are aware, your hair will be white. Can you apprehend that you are premature in undertaking a task for which, as you must know, the longest life would scarcely suffice? The business before you is no common or trifling affair. The Roman Empire, long harassed by storms, and again and again deluded in its hopes of safety, has at last placed its waning reliance in your uprightness and devotion. After a thousand perils, it ventures. under the protection of your name, to breathe once more; but hope alone cannot long sustain it. You must realise how great and how holy a burden of responsibility you have assumed. Press on, we exhort you, to the goal, with the utmost speed!

Time is so precious, nay, so inestimable a possession, that it is the one thing which the learned agree can justify avarice. So cast hesitation to the winds and, as behooves one who is entering upon a momentous task, count every day a priceless opportunity. Let this thought make you frugal of time, and induce you to come to our rescue, and show the light of your august countenance, for which we long amidst the clouds of our adversity. Let not solicitude for Transalpine affairs, nor the love of your native soil, detain you; but whenever you look upon Germany, think of Italy. There you were born, here you were nurtured; there you enjoy a kingdom, here both a kingdom and an empire; and, as I believe I may, with the consent of all nations and peoples, safely add, while the members of the Empire are everywhere, here you will find the head itself. There must, however, be no slothfulness if you would reach the desired result, for it will prove no small matter to re-unite all these precious fragments into a single body.

I well know that novelty always excites suspicion, but you are not summoned to an unknown land. Italy is no less familiar to you than Germany itself. Pledged to us by divine favour from your childhood, you followed, with extraordinary ability, the footsteps of your illustrious father.[2] Under his guidance you made yourself acquainted with the Italian cities, the customs of the people, the configuration of the land, and mastered in this way the first principles of your glorious profession. Here, while still a boy, and with a prowess more than mortal, you gained many a famous victory. Yet great as were these deeds they but foreshadowed greater things; since, as a man, you could not look with apprehension upon a country which had afforded you, as a youth, the opportunity for such signal triumphs. You could forecast from the auspicious results of your first campaign what you might, as Emperor, anticipate upon the same field.