No More Learning

Boccaccio came to Venice to see Petrarch in 1363, and their meeting was
joyous. They spent delightfully together the months of June, July, and
August, 1363. Boccaccio had not long left him, when, in the following
year, our poet heard of the death of his friend Laelius, and his tears
were still fresh for his loss, when he received another shock in being
bereft of Simonides. It requires a certain age and degree of experience
to appreciate this kind of calamity, when we feel the desolation of
losing our accustomed friends, and almost wish ourselves out of life
that we may escape from its solitude. Boccaccio returned to Florence
early in September, 1363.

In 1364, peace was concluded between Barnabo Visconti and Urban V.
Barnabo having refused to treat with the Cardinal Albornoz, whom he
personally hated, his Holiness sent the Cardinal Androine de la Roche to
Italy as his legate. Petrarch repaired to Bologna to pay his respects to
the new representative of the Pope. He was touched by the sad condition
in which he found that city, which had been so nourishing when he
studied at its university. "I seem," he says, "to be in a dream when I
see the once fair city desolated by war, by slavery, and by famine.
Instead of the joy that once reigned here, sadness is everywhere spread,
and you hear only sighs and wailings in place of songs. Where you
formerly saw troops of girls dancing, there are now only bands of
robbers and assassins. "

Lucchino del Verme, one of the most famous condottieri of his time, had
commanded troops in the service of the Visconti, at whose court he made
the acquaintance of Petrarch. Our poet invited him to serve the
Venetians in the war in which they were engaged with the people of
Candia. Lucchino went to Venice whilst Petrarch was absent, reviewed the
troops, and embarked for Candia on board the fleet, which consisted of
thirty galleys and eight large vessels.
Petrarch did not return to
Venice till the expedition had sailed. He passed the summer in the
country, having at his house one of his friends, Barthelemi di
Pappazuori, Bishop of Christi, whom he had known at Avignon, and who had
come purposely to see him. One day, when they were both at a window
which overlooked the sea, they beheld one of the long vessels which the
Italians call a galeazza, entering the harbour. The green branches with
which it was decked, the air of joy that appeared among the mariners,
the young men crowned with laurel, who, from the prow, saluted the
standard of their country--everything betokened that the galeazza
brought good news. When the vessel came a little nearer, they could
perceive the captured colours of their enemies suspended from the poop,
and no doubt could be entertained that a great victory had been won. The
moment that the sentinel on the tower had made the signal of a vessel
entering the harbour, the people flocked thither in crowds, and their
joy was even beyond expectation when they learned that the rebellion had
been totally crushed, and the island reduced to obedience. The most
magnificent festivals were given at Venice on this occasion.

Shortly after these Venetian fetes, we find our poet writing a long
letter to Boccaccio, in which he gives a curious and interesting
description of the Jongleurs of Italy. He speaks of them in a very
different manner from those pictures that have come down to us of the
Provencal Troubadours. The latter were at once poets and musicians, who
frequented the courts and castles of great lords, and sang their
praises. Their strains, too, were sometimes satirical. They amused
themselves with different subjects, and wedded their verses to the sound
of the harp and other instruments. They were called Troubadours from the
word _trobar_, "to invent. " They were original poets, of the true
minstrel breed, similar to those whom Bishop Percy ascribes to England
in the olden time, but about the reality of whom, as a professional
body, Ritson has shown some cause to doubt. Of the Italian Jongleurs,
Petrarch gives us a humble notion. "They are a class," he says, "who
have little wit, but a great deal of memory, and still more impudence.