No More Learning

From this letter it appears that this epic, to which he owed the laurel
and no small part of his living reputation, had not yet been published,
with the exception of thirty-four verses, which had appeared at Naples
through the indiscretion of Barbatus. Boccaccio said that Petrarch kept
it continually locked up, and had been several times inclined to burn
it. The author of the Decameron himself did not long survive his master:
he died the 21st of December, 1375.

Petrarch so far succeeded in clearing the road to the study of
antiquities, as to deserve the title which he justly retains of the
restorer of classical learning; nor did his enthusiasm for ancient
monuments prevent him from describing them with critical taste. He gave
an impulse to the study of geography by his Itinerarium Syriacum. That
science had been partially revived in the preceding century, by the
publication of Marco Polo's travels, and journeys to distant countries
had been accomplished more frequently than before, not only by religious
missionaries, but by pilgrims who travelled from purely rational
curiosity: but both of these classes of travellers, especially the
religionists, dealt profusely in the marvellous; and their falsehoods
were further exaggerated by copyists, who wished to profit by the sale
of MSS. describing their adventures. As an instance of the doubtful
wonders related by wayfaring men, may be noticed what is told of
Octorico da Pordenone, who met, at Trebizond, with a man who had trained
four thousand partridges to follow him on journeys for three days
together, who gathered around like chickens when he slept, and who
returned home after he had sold to the Emperor as many of them as his
imperial majesty chose to select.

His treatise, "De Remediis utriusque Fortunae" (On the Remedies for both
Extremes of Fortune) was one of his great undertakings in the solitude
of Vaucluse, though it was not finished till many years afterwards, when
it was dedicated to Azzo Correggio. Here he borrows, of course, largely
from the ancients; at the same time he treats us to some observations on
human nature sufficiently original to keep his work from the dryness of
plagiarism.

His treatise on "A Solitary Life" was written as an apology for his own
love of retirement--retirement, not solitude, for Petrarch had the
social feeling too strongly in his nature to desire a perfect hermitage.
He loved to have a friend now and then beside him, to whom he might say
how sweet is solitude. Even his deepest retirement in the "shut-up
valley" was occasionally visited by dear friends, with whom his
discourse was so interesting that they wandered in the woods so long and
so far, that the servant could not find them to announce that their
dinner was ready. In his rapturous praise of living alone, our poet,
therefore, says more than he sincerely meant; he liked retirement, to be
sure, but then it was with somebody within reach of him, like the young
lady in Miss Porter's novel, who was fond of solitude, and walked much
in Hyde Park by herself, with her footman behind her.

His treatise, "De Otio Religiosorum," was written in 1353, after an
agreeable visit to his brother, who was a monk.
It is a commendation of
the monastic life. He may be found, I dare say, to exaggerate the
blessing of that mode of life which, in proportion to our increasing
activity and intelligence, has sunk in the estimation of Protestant
society, so that we compare the whole monkish fraternity with the drones
in a hive, an ignavum pecus, whom the other bees are right in expelling.

Though I shall never pretend to be the translator of Petrarch, I recoil
not, after writing his Life, from giving a sincere account of the
impression which his poetry produces on my mind. I have studied the
Italian language with assiduity, though perhaps at a later period of my
life than enables the ear to be _perfectly_ sensitive to its harmony,
for it is in youth, nay, almost in childhood alone, that the melody and
felicitous expressions of any tongue can touch our deepest sensibility;
but still I have studied it with pains--I believe I can thoroughly
appreciate Dante; I can perceive much in Petrarch that is elevated and
tender; and I approach the subject unconscious of the slightest
splenetic prejudice.

I demur to calling him the first of modern poets who refined and
dignified the language of love. Dante had certainly set him the example.
It is true that, compared with his brothers of classical antiquity in
love-poetry, he appears like an Abel of purity offering innocent incense
at the side of so many Cains making their carnal sacrifices. Tibullus
alone anticipates his tenderness. At the same time, while Petrarch is
purer than those classical lovers, he is never so natural as they
sometimes are when their passages are least objectionable, and the
sun-bursts of his real, manly, and natural human love seem to me often
to come to us straggling through the clouds of Platonism.

I will not expatiate on the _concetti_ that may be objected to in many
of his sonnets, for they are so often in such close connection with
exquisitely fine thoughts, that, in tearing away the weed, we might be
in danger of snapping the flower.

I feel little inclined, besides, to dwell on Petrarch's faults with that
feline dilation of vision which sees in the dark what would escape other
eyes in daylight, for, if I could make out the strongest critical case
against him, I should still have to answer this question, "How comes it
that Petrarch's poetry, in spite of all these faults, has been the
favourite of the world for nearly five hundred years? "

So strong a regard for Petrarch is rooted in the mind of Italy, that his
renown has grown up like an oak which has reached maturity amidst the
storms of ages, and fears not decay from revolving centuries. One of the
high charms of his poetical language is its pure and melting melody, a
charm untransferable to any more northern tongue.

No conformation of words will charm the ear unless they bring silent
thoughts of corresponding sweetness to the mind; nor could the most
sonorous, vapid verses be changed into poetry if they were set to the
music of the Spheres. It is scarcely necessary to say that Petrarch has
intellectual graces of thought and spiritual felicities of diction,
without which his tactics in the mere march of words would be a
worthless skill.

The love of Petrarch was misplaced, but its utterance was at once so
fervid and delicate, and its enthusiasm so enduring, that the purest
minds feel justified in abstracting from their consideration the
unhappiness of the attachment, and attending only to its devout
fidelity.