Chapter V: Part 5

"Like a weary traveller, I quicken my steps as I proceed. I read and write day and night, one occupation relieving another. This is all my amusement and employment: my eyes are worn out with readings my fingers weary with holding the pen. My health is so good and robust that I scarcely feel the advance of years. My feelings are as warm as in my youth, but I control their vivacity, so that my repose is seldom disturbed by them. One thing only is the source of disquietude: I am esteemed more than I deserve, so that a vast concourse of people come to see me. Not only am I honoured and loved by the prince of this city and his court, but the whole population pays me respect: yet, living in a distant quarter of the city, the visits I receive are infrequent, and I am often left in solitude. I am unchanged in my habits as to sleep and food. I remain in bed only to sleep, for slumber appears to me to resemble death, and my bed the grave, which renders it hateful. The moment I awake I hurry to my library. Solitude and quiet are dear to me; yet I appear talkative to my friends, and make up for the silence of a year by the conversation of a day. My income is increased, I confess, but my expenditure increases with it. You know me, and that I am never richer nor poorer: the more I have, the less I desire, and abundance renders me moderate: gold passes through my fingers, but never sticks to them."

The literary work on which his busy leisure was employed, was "De Remediis utriusque Fortunæ," which he dedicated to Azzo di Coreggio. Azzo, who had formerly protected him, had been driven into exile, and, alternately a prisoner and an outcast, was reduced to a state of the heaviest adversity. Petrarch never ceased to treat him with respect; and for his comfort and consolation composed this treatise, of how to bring a remedy to the evils consequent on both prosperous and adverse fortune.

Honoured by all men, beloved by his friends, with whom he kept up a constant and affectionate correspondence, courted by monarchs, and refusing the offers made him of the highest preferment in the church, Petrarch spent his latter years in peace and independence. His chief source of care was derived from his son. The youth was at first modest and docile, but his disinclination to literature was so great, that he abhorred the very sight of books. As he grew older he became rebellious, and a separation ensued between him and his father, soon made up again on the submission of the young man and his promises of amendment. The poet's tranquillity was at last broken in upon by the wars of the Visconti, and the plague, which again ravaged Italy. It had spared Milan by a singular exemption in the year 1348, but during its second visitation it was more fatal to this city than to any other. Petrarch had to mourn the loss of many friends; and his son, who died at this time, was probably one of its victims. Petrarch records his death in his Virgil, in these words:--"He who was born for my trouble and sorrow, who while he lived was the cause of heavy care, and who dying, inflicted on me a painful wound, having enjoyed but few happy days in the course of his life, died A. D. 1361, at the age of twenty-five."[56]

[Sidenote: 1361. Ætat. 57.]

These combined causes induced Petrarch to take up his abode at Padua, of whose cathedral he was a canon. During the remainder of his life he usually spent the period of Lent there, and the summer at Pavia; which, belonging to Galeazzo Visconti, he visited as his guest. A great portion of his time also was passed at Venice: he had made the republic a present of his library, and a palace was decreed to him for its reception, in which he often resided. Andrea Dando was dead; his heart had been broken by the reverses which the republic suffered in its struggle with Genoa. Marino Faliero, who succeeded to him, had already met his fate; but the new doge, Lorenzo Celsi, was Petrarch's warm friend.

During this year he gave his daughter Francesca, who was scarcely twenty years of age, in marriage to Francesco Brossano, a Milanese gentleman. She was gentle and modest, attached to her duties, and averse to the pleasures of general society: in person she resembled her father to a singular degree. Her husband had a pleasing exterior; his physiognomy was remarkably placid, his conversation was unassuming, and his manners mild and obliging. Petrarch was much attached to his son-in-law: the new married pair inhabited his house at Venice, and the domestic union was never disturbed to the end of his life.

One of his principal friends at this period was Boccaccio. Boccaccio, in the earnestness of his admiration and the singleness of his heart, sent him a copy of Dante, transcribed by his own hand, with a letter inviting him to study a poet whose works he neglected and depreciated. Petrarch, in answer, endeavoured to exculpate himself from the charge of envying or despising the father of Italian poetry. But his very excuses betray a latent feeling of irritation; and he asks, how he could be supposed to envy a man whose highest flights were in the vulgar tongue, while such of his own poems as were composed in that language he regarded as mere pastime. The poetry of Dante and Petrarch is essentially different. There is more refinement in Petrarch, and more elegance of versification, but scarcely more grace of expression. The force, beauty, and truth, with which Dante describes the objects of nature, and the sympathetic feeling that vivifies his touches of human passion, is of a different style from the outpouring of sentiment, and earnest dwelling on the writer's own emotions, which form the soul of Petrarch's verses. The characters of the poets were also in contrast.[57] Dante was a proud, high-spirited, unyielding man: his haughty soul bent itself to God and the sense of virtue only; he loved deeply, but it was as a poet and a boy; and his after-life, spent in adversity, is tinged only with sombre colours. He possessed the essentials of a hero. Petrarch was amiable and conciliating: he was incapable of venality or baseness; on the contrary, his disposition was frank, independent, and generous; but he was vain even to weakness; and there was a touch of almost feminine softness in his nature, which was even accompanied by physical timidity of temper. His ardent affections made him, to a degree, fear his friends; he was versatile rather than vigorous in his conceptions; and it was easier for him to plan new works, than to execute one begun, and to persevere to the end.

He wrote for the learned in Latin; he was averse to communicate with the ignorant in Italian verse, yet he never made Laura the subject of poetry except in his native tongue. Even to the last he wrote of her; and one of his latest productions, chiefly in her honour, were the "Triumphs." One of these, "The Triumph of Death," is among the most perfect and beautiful of his productions. His description of Laura's death; the assemblage of her friends who came to witness her last moments, and asked what would become of them when she was gone; her own calmness and resignation; her life fading as a flame that consumes itself away, not that is violently extinguished; her countenance fair, not pale; her attitude, reposing like one fatigued, a sweet sleep closing her beautiful eyes; all is told with touching simplicity and grace. The second part relates the imagined visit of her spirit to the pillow of her bereaved lover on the night of her death. She approached him, and, sighing, gave him her hand: delight sprung up in his heart at taking the desired hand in his. "Recognise her," she said, "who abstracted you from the beaten path when your young heart first opened itself to her." Then, with a thoughtful and composed mien, she sat, and made him sit on a bank shaded by a laurel and a beech. "How should I fail to know my sweet deity!" replied the poet, weeping, and doubtful whether he spoke to one alive or dead. She comforted and exhorted him to give up those mundane thoughts which made death a pain. "To the good," she said, "death is a delivery from a dark prison. I had approached near the last moment; the flesh was weak, but my spirit ready, when I heard a low sad voice saying, 'O miserable is he who counts the days; and one appears to endure a thousand years--and who lives in vain--who wanders over earth and sea, thinking only of her--speaking only of her!' Then," continues Laura, "I turned my languid eyes, and saw the spirit who had impelled me and checked you; I recognised her aspect; for in my younger days, when I was dearest to you, she made life bitter, and death, which is seldom pleasant to mortals, sweet; so that at that sad moment I was happy, except for the compassion I felt for you."--"Ah! lady," said the poet, "tell me, I beseech you, did love never inspire you with a wish to pity my sufferings, without detracting from your own virtuous resolves? For your sweet anger and gentle indignation, and the soft peace written in your eyes, held my soul in doubt for many years." A smile brightened the lady's countenance as she hastily replied, "My heart never was, nor can be, divided from yours; but I tempered your fire with my coldness, for there was no other way of saving our young names from slander,--nor is a mother less kind because she is severe. Sometimes I said, 'He rather burns than loves, and I must watch;' but she watches ill who fears or desires. You saw my outward mien, but did not discern the inward thought. Often anger was painted on my countenance, while love warmed my heart;--but reason was never in me conquered by feeling. Then, when I saw you subdued by grief, I turned my eyes tenderly on you, and saved your life, and our honour. These were my arts, my deceits, my kind or disdainful treatment; and thus, either sad or gay, I have led you to the end, and rejoice, though weary."--"Lady," replied the poet, "this were reward for all my devotion, could I believe you."--"Never will I say whether you pleased my eyes in life," answered his visitant; "but the chains which your heart wore pleased me, as well as the name which, far and near, you have conferred on me. Your love needed moderation only; our mutual affection might be equal; but you displayed yours, I concealed mine. You were hoarse with demanding pity, while I continued silent,--for shame or fear made much suffering appear slight in my eyes. Grief is not decreased by silence, nor is it augmented by complaints; yet every veil was riven "when alone I listened to you singing, 'Dir più non osa il nostro amore.' My heart was with you, while my eyes were bent to earth. But you do not perceive," she continued, "how the hours fly, and that dawn is, from her golden bed, bringing back day to mortals. We must part--alas! If you would say more, speak briefly."--"I would know, lady," said the poet, "whether I shall soon follow you, or tarry long behind." She, already moving away, replied, "In my belief, you will remain on earth without me many years."

Thus fondly, in age, and after the many years which Laura had prophesied had gone over his head, Petrarch dwelt on the slight variations and events that checkered the history of his love. It may be remarked, also, that he grew to hold in slight esteem his Latin poetry; he could never be prevailed upon to communicate his "Africa," and begged that after his death it might be destroyed.

To the last he interested himself deeply in the political state of his country. He exceedingly exulted when, on the death of Innocent VI., pope Urban V. removed his court to Rome. At the same time that he refused the reiterated offer of the place of apostolic secretary, he asked his friends to solicit church-preferment for him--he cared not what, so that it did not demand the sacrifice of his liberty, nor include the responsibility attendant on the care of souls. It would seem that his income had become diminished at this time, for he often said that it was not in old age that he should seek to increase his means; doubtless his expenses increased on his daughter's account, and he had given up several of his canonicates to his friends, lie was a generous man, and had many dependents always about him; so that it is no wonder that he wished not to find his capacity of benefiting others inconveniently straitened.

[Sidenote: 1363. Ætat. 59.]

Boccaccio became warmly attached to Petrarch; at one time he spent the three summer months of June, July, and August, with him at Venice, in company with a Greek named Leonzio Pilato--a singular man, of a sombre, acid, and irritable disposition, but valuable to the friends as an expounder of the Greek language. Pilato left them to return to Constantinople; but his restless gloomy spirit quickly prompted him to wish to revisit Italy. He wrote Petrarch a letter, "as long and dirty," says the poet, as his own hair and beard. "This Greek," he continues, in a letter to Boccaccio, "would be useful to us in our studies, were he not an absolute savage; but I will never invite him here again. Let him go, if he will, with his mantle and ferocious manners, and inhabit the labyrinth of Crete, in which he has already spent many years." [Sidenote: 1365. Ætat. 61.] This severity was tempered afterwards, when he heard of the death of Pilato, who was struck by lightning during a storm on board ship, while returning by sea to Italy. "This unhappy man," writes Petrarch, "died as he lived, miserably. I do not think he ever enjoyed a tranquil hour: I cannot imagine how the spirit of poetry contrived to enter his tempestuous soul."

[Sidenote: 1367. Ætat. 63.]

When Urban V. arrived at Rome, Petrarch wrote him a long letter, expressive of the transport he felt on this auspicious event. He praised his courage in having vanquished every obstacle; adding, "Permit me to praise you; I shall not be suspected of flattery, for I ask nothing except your benediction." The pope replied to this letter by an eulogium on its eloquence; declaring, at the same time, that he had the greatest desire to see and be of service to him.

But old age had advanced on Petrarch. He had for several years suffered, each autumn, the attacks of a tertian fever, probably the effect of the climate of Lombardy, where that malady is prevalent; and this tended rapidly to diminish his strength. [Sidenote: 1369. Ætat. 65.] When Urban V. wrote to him with his own hand to reproach him for not having come to Rome, and urging his instant journey, his letter found Petrarch at Padua, recovering slowly from an attack of this kind. He was unable to mount a horse, and was obliged to defer obeying the mandate. Somewhat recovered during the following winter, he prepared for his journey, making his will, which he wrote with his own hand. [Sidenote: April 4. 1370. Ætat. 66.] He then set out, but got no further than Ferrara; he there fell into a sort of swoon, in which he continued for thirty hours without giving any sign of life. The most violent remedies were administered, and he felt them no more than a marble statue. The report went abroad that he was dead, and the city was filled with mourning and lamentation. As soon as he was somewhat recovered, he would have proceeded on his journey, notwithstanding the representations of the physicians, who declared that he would not arrive at Rome alive: but he was too weak to get on horseback; so he was carried back to Padua in a gondola, and was received, on his unexpected arrival, with the liveliest demonstrations of joy, by Francesco da Carrara, the lord of the town, and by its inhabitants.

For the sake of tranquillity, and to recover his health, he sought a house in the country, and established himself at Arquà, a village situated north of Padua, among the Euganean hills, not far from the ancient and picturesque town of Este. The country around, presenting the vast plains of Lombardy in prospect, and the dells and acclivities of the hills in the immediate vicinity, is charming beyond description. There is a luxuriance of vegetation, a richness of produce, which belongs to Italy, while the climate affords a perpetual spring. Petrarch built a small but agreeable house at the end of the village, surrounded by vineyards and gardens.

He busied himself in this retreat by finishing a work begun three years before, which he had better have left wholly undone. It was founded on a curious incident, of which he has preserved the knowledge, and which otherwise would have sunk into oblivion. There were a set of young men at Venice, disciples of Aristotle, or rather of his Arabian translator, Averroes, who set up his philosophy as the law of the world, who despised the Christian religion, and turned the apostles and fathers of the church into ridicule: there was an open war of opinion between these men and the pious Petrarch. Four among them, in the presumption and vivacity of youth, instituted a kind of mock tribunal, at which they tried the merits of their amiable and learned countryman; and pronounced the sentence, that "Petrarch was a good sort of a man, but exceedingly ignorant." He relates this incident in his treatise, "On my own Ignorance and that of others," which he commences by pretending to be satisfied with the decision. "Be it so," he says, "I am content; let my judges be wise, while I am virtuous!" and then he goes on to prove the fallacy of their judgment by a great display of erudition.

[Sidenote: May 7. 1371. Ætat. 67.]

He continued to get weaker, and his illnesses were violent, though transient. On one occasion he was attacked by a fever, and the physician sent to him by Francesco da Carrara, declared that he could not survive the night. The next morning he was found, apparently well, risen from his bed and occupied by his books. "This," he says, "has happened to me ten times in the course of ten years." The vital powers were thus exhausted, and it was not likely that he could live to extreme age.

[Sidenote: Padua, Jan. 5. 1372. Ætat. 68.]

"You ask me how I am," he writes to a friend: "I am tranquil, and liberated from the passions of youth. I enjoyed health for a long time--during the last two years I am grown infirm. My life has been declared to be in imminent danger, yet I am still alive. I am at present at Padua, fulfilling my duties as canon. I have quitted Venice, and rejoice to have done so, on account of the war between the republic and the lord of this city. In Venice I should have been suspected; here I am beloved. I pass a great part of my time in the country, which I always prefer to town. I read, I write, I think. I neither hate nor envy any man. During the early season of youth, I despised every one except myself--in maturer years I despised myself only--in my old age I despise almost all--and myself more than any. I fear only those whom I love, and my desires are limited to the ending my life well. I try to avoid my numerous visiters, and have a small agreeable house among the Euganean hills, where I hope to pass the rest of my days in peace--with the absent or the dead, perpetually in my thoughts. I have been invited by the pope, the emperor, and the king of France, who have often and earnestly solicited me to take up my abode at their several courts; but I have constantly refused, preferring my liberty before all things."

It is a singular circumstance that one of the last acts of Petrarch was, to read the "Decameron." Notwithstanding his intimate friendship with the author during twenty years, Boccaccio's modesty prevented his speaking of the work, and it fell into Petrarch's hands by chance. [Sidenote: June 8. 1374. Ætat. 70.] "I have not had time," he writes to his friend, "to read the whole, so that I am not a fair judge; but it has pleased me exceedingly. Its great freedom is sufficiently excused by the age at which you wrote it, the lightness of the subject, and of the readers for whom it was destined. With many gay and laughable things, are mingled many that are serious and pious. I have read principally at the beginning and end. Your description of the state of our country during the plague, appears to me very true and very pathetic. The tale at the conclusion made so lively an impression on me that I committed it to memory, that I might sometimes relate it to my friends."

This is the story of Griselda. Petrarch translated it into Latin for the sake of those who did not understand Italian, and often read it and had it read to him. He relates, that frequently the friend who read it broke off, interrupted by tears. Among others to whom he communicated this favourite tale was our English poet Chaucer, who in his prologue to the story of Griselda says that he

"Learned it at Padowe of a worthy clerke, Francis Petrarch."

Chaucer had been sent ambassador to Genoa just at this time.

The letter to Boccaccio accompanying the Latin translation of the story was probably the last that Petrarch ever wrote. The life of this great and good man had nearly arrived at its conclusion. On the morning of the 19th of July, 1374, he was found by his attendants in his library, his head resting on a book. As he often passed whole hours and even days in this attitude, it at first excited no peculiar attention; but the immovability of his posture at length grew alarming, and on inspection it was found that he was no more.

The intelligence of his death spread through Arquà, the Euganean hills, and Padua, and occasioned general consternation: people flocked from far and near to attend his funeral. Francesco da Carrara, with all the nobility of the city of Padua, was present. The bishop, with the chapter and clergy, performed the ceremony. The funeral oration was pronounced by Bonaventura da Peraga, of the order of the hermits of St. Augustin. The body was first interred in a chapel of the church at Arquà, dedicated to the Virgin, which Petrarch had himself built. A short time after, his son-in-law, Francesco Brossano, erected a marble monument opposite the church, and caused the body to be transferred to it; inscribing on the tomb four bad Latin verses, which it is said that Petrarch himself composed, ordering that no epitaph of greater pretension should record his death.

Petrarch directed in his will that none should weep his death. "Tears," he says, "are useless to the dead, and they injure the living:" he requested only that alms should be given to the poor, that they might pray for his soul. He continues, "Let them do what they will with my body; it imports nothing to me." He left Francesco Brossano his heir, and begs him, as his beloved son, to divide the money he should find into two parts; to keep one himself, and to give the other to the person he has mentioned to him. This is said to mean his daughter. He left several legacies to hospitals and religious houses. He bequeathed his good lute to Thomas Barbari, wherewith to sing the praises of God; and to Boccaccio he left fifty golden florins, to buy a robe lined with fur, for his winter studies; apologising at the same time for leaving so trifling a sum to so great a man.

This is a brief and imperfect sketch of Petrarch's life--drawn from the ample materials which his Latin prose works afford, and the careful researches of various biographers, particularly of the Abbé de Sâde, who ascertained, by infinite labour and perseverance, several doubtful facts concerning the persons with whom the poet's life is chiefly connected. Much more might be said of one whose history is pregnant with profound and various interest. It will be enough if these pages contain a faithful portrait, and impress the reader with a just sense, of his honest worth, his admirable genius, his high-toned feelings, and the many virtues that adorned his long career.

[Footnote 27: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 28: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 29: Canzone IV.]

[Footnote 30: Secretum Francaci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 31: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 32: Canzone IV. In this, one of the most beautiful of his canzoni, Petrarch narrates the early story of his love. In it occur the following lines:--

"I' seguii tanto avanti il mio desire, Ch' un dì cacciando siccom' io solea, Mi mossi; e quella fera bella e cruda In una fonte ignuda Si stava, quanto 'l Sol più forte ardea. Io, perchè d' altra vista non m' appago, Stetti a mirarla: ond' ella ebbe vergogna, E per farne vendetta, o per celarse, L' acqua nel viso con le mane mi sparse, Vero dirò, forse e' parrà menzogna: Ch' i, sentii trarmi della propria immago; Ed un cervo solitario, e vago, Di selva in selva ratto mi transformo; Ed ancor de' miei can' fuggo lo stormo."

The abbé de Sâde, commenting on this poem with true French dryness of fancy, supposes that the scene actually occurred, and would point out the very spot in the environs of Avignon; not perceiving that the poet, in an exquisite allegory, founded on the story of Acteon, describes the wanderings of his mind, and the reveries in which he indulged concerning her he loved; and that both lady and fountain are the creations of his imagination, which so duped and absorbed him; that passion changed him to a solitary being, and his thoughts became the pursuers that perpetually followed and tormented him.]

[Footnote 33: I adopt Petrarch's own words, here and elsewhere, translated from the "Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ."]

[Footnote 34: Secretum Francisci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 35: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 36: Ibid.]

[Footnote 37: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 38: Epist. Fam.]

[Footnote 39: Sonnets 53, 54. The Abbé de Sâde notices these sonnets. They prove that the order of time is not preserved in the arrangement of his sonnets; as his letters prove that this journey through the forest of Ardennes preceded many events recorded in poems which are represented as if of an earlier date.]

[Footnote 40: Epist. Fam.]

[Footnote 41: The envoy shows that this canzone was written in Italy, probably when Petrarch was residing at Parma, a few years after. Yet being able to quote only a poem of which there exists a worthy translation, I could not refrain from extracting it; and though alluding to another country, and finished there, it is almost impossible not to believe that it was conceived at Vaucluse, and that it breathes the spirit that filled him in that solitude.]

[Footnote 42: This was not a painting, but a small marble medallion. It has been, since the fourteenth century, in possession of the Peruzzi family at Florence. Behind the portrait of Laura are four Italian verses, not inserted in any editions of Petrarch:--

"Splendida luce cui chiaro se vede Quel bel che può mostrar nel mondo amore, O vero exemplo del sopran valore E d'ogni meraviglia intiera fede."

There is a medallion also of Petrarch, similar in form to the other, behind which is inscribed--

"Simion de Senis me fecit, Sub Anno Domini MCCCXLIII."

The authenticity of these bas-reliefs is acknowledged in Italy; a pamphlet, giving an account of them, was published in Paris, 1821, written by one of the Peruzzi family.]

[Footnote 43: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 44: Ibid.]

[Footnote 45: Epist. ad Posterit.]

[Footnote 46: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 47: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 48: Abbé de Sâde.]

[Footnote 49: Secretimi Francisci Petrarchæ.]

[Footnote 50: Petrarch uses church time, in which the ninth hour answers to six A. M.]

[Footnote 51: The perfect accord between this record in Petrarch's handwriting, and the inscription on the coffin of Laura de Sâde, discovered in the church of the Minor Friars at Avignon, puts the identity of the lady beyond all doubt. This seems to have taken place for the very purpose of informing posterity of who she was whom the poet had celebrated, yet whose actual name he never mentioned.]

[Footnote 52: "The Virgil to which this note is appended is preserved in the Ambrosian library at Milan. In 1795, a part of the leaf on which it was written became detached from the cover, and the librarians perceived other writing beneath. Curiosity engaged them to take off the entire leaf, in which process, the parchment being tightly glued, the writing, nearly effaced, remained on the wood of the binding. They found beneath a note in the handwriting of Petrarch, containing the dates of the loss he had once suffered of the book itself, and its restitution. There is, in addition, a record of the dates of the death of various of his friends, mingled with exclamations of regret and sorrow, and complaints of the increasing solitude to which he finds himself reduced through these reiterated bereavements."--_Ginguene._]

[Footnote 53: Tiraboschi.]

[Footnote 54: "Morte m'ha liberato un'altra volta, E rotto 'l nodo, e'l foco ha spento, e sparso, Contra la qual non vai forza nè 'ngegno."

_Part II, Sonnet III._]

[Footnote 55: The Abbé de Sâde attributes to this prince the kiss bestowed on Laura at a ball, by one of royal blood. The prince with his hand beckoned aside every other elder or more noble lady, and kissed her on her brow and eyelids. Petrarch, who was present, was filled at once with envy and triumph (Sonnet CCI.). If her beauty, and not the celebrity conferred on her by the poet, was the occasion of this compliment, it is difficult not to believe that it was bestowed before she had lost the bloom of youth, especially as it is mentioned that the prince put aside all ladies older than herself.]

[Footnote 56: Ugo Foscolo.]

[Footnote 57: Essays on Petrarch, by Ugo Foscolo.]

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.

[Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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. [Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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."

[Sidenote: 1345. Ætat. 35.]