misc writings and speeches(米斯克说与写)-第17章
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whom they saw after they awoke from their long sleep。
Nor did Petrarch gain less by comparison with his immediate
successors than with those who had preceded him。 Till more than a
century after his death Italy produced no poet who could be compared to
him。 This decay of genius is doubtless to be ascribed； in a great measure；
to the influence which his own works had exercised upon the literature of
his country。 Yet it has conduced much to his fame。 Nothing is more
favourable to the reputation of a writer than to be succeeded by a race
inferior to himself； and it is an advantage； from obvious causes； much
more frequently enjoyed by those who corrupt the national taste than by
those who improve it。
Another cause has co…operated with those which I have mentioned to
spread the renown of Petrarch。 I mean the interest which is inspired by
the events of his lifean interest which must have been strongly felt by his
contemporaries； since； after an interval of five hundred years； no critic can
be wholly exempt from its influence。 Among the great men to whom we
owe the resuscitation of science he deserves the foremost place； and his
enthusiastic attachment to this great cause constitutes his most just and
splendid title to the gratitude of posterity。 He was the votary of literature。
He loved it with a perfect love。 He worshipped it with an almost
fanatical devotion。 He was the missionary； who proclaimed its
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discoveries to distant countries the pilgrim； who travelled far and wide to
collect its reliques the hermit； who retired to seclusion to meditate on its
beauties… …the champion； who fought its battlesthe conqueror； who； in
more than a metaphorical sense； led barbarism and ignorance in triumph；
and received in the Capitol the laurel which his magnificent victory had
earned。
Nothing can be conceived more noble or affecting than that ceremony。
The superb palaces and porticoes； by which had rolled the ivory chariots
of Marius and Caesar； had long mouldered into dust。 The laurelled
fascesthe golden eaglesthe shouting legionsthe captives and the
pictured citieswere indeed wanting to his victorious procession。 The
sceptre had passed away from Rome。 But she still retained the mightier
influence of an intellectual empire； and was now to confer the prouder
reward of an intellectual triumph。 To the man who had extended the
dominion of her ancient languagewho had erected the trophies of
philosophy and imagination in the haunts of ignorance and ferocity
whose captives were the hearts of admiring nations enchained by the
influence of his songwhose spoils were the treasures of ancient genius
rescued from obscurity and decaythe Eternal City offered the just and
glorious tribute of her gratitude。 Amidst the ruined monuments of
ancient and the infant erections of modern art； he who had restored the
broken link between the two ages of human civilisation was crowned with
the wreath which he had deserved from the moderns who owed to him
their refinementfrom the ancients who owed to him their fame。 Never
was a coronation so august witnessed by Westminster or by Rheims。
When we turn from this glorious spectacle to the private chamber of
the poet；when we contemplate the struggle of passion and virtue；the
eye dimmed； the cheek furrowed； by the tears of sinful and hopeless
desire；when we reflect on the whole history of his attachment； from the
gay fantasy of his youth to the lingering despair of his age； pity and
affection mingle with our admiration。 Even after death had placed the
last seal on his misery； we see him devoting to the cause of the human
mind all the strength and energy which love and sorrow had spared。 He
lived the apostle of literature；he fell its martyr：he was found dead with
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his head reclined on a book。
Those who have studied the life and writings of Petrarch with attention；
will perhaps be inclined to make some deductions from this panegyric。 It
cannot be denied that his merits were disfigured by a most unpleasant
affectation。 His zeal for literature communicated a tinge of pedantry to
all his feelings and opinions。 His love was the love of a sonnetteer：his
patriotism was the patriotism of an antiquarian。 The interest with which
we contemplate the works； and study the history； of those who； in former
ages； have occupied our country； arises from the associations which
connect them with the community in which are comprised all the objects
of our affection and our hope。 In the mind of Petrarch these feelings
were reversed。 He loved Italy； because it abounded with the monuments
of the ancient masters of the world。 His native citythe fair and glorious
Florencethe modern Athens； then in all the bloom and strength of its
youth； could not obtain； from the most distinguished of its citizens； any
portion of that passionate homage which he paid to the decrepitude of
Rome。 These and many other blemishes； though they must in candour be
acknowledged； can but in a very slight degree diminish the glory of his
career。 For my own part； I look upon it with so much fondness and
pleasure that I feel reluctant to turn from it to the consideration of his
works； which I by no means contemplate with equal admiration。
Nevertheless； I think highly of the poetical powers of Petrarch。 He did
not possess； indeed； the art of strongly presenting sensible objects to the
imagination；and this is the more remarkable； because the talent of which
I speak is that which peculiarly distinguishes the Italian poets。 In the
Divine Comedy it is displayed in its highest perfection。 It characterises
almost every celebrated poem in the language。 Perhaps this is to be
attributed to the circumstance； that painting and sculpture had attained a
high degree of excellence in Italy before poetry had been extensively
cultivated。 Men were debarred from books； but accustomed from
childhood to contemplate the admirable works of art； which； even in the
thirteenth century； Italy began to produce。 Hence their imaginations
received so strong a bias that； even in their writings； a taste for graphic
delineation is discernible。 The progress of things in England has been in
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all respects different。 The consequence is； that English historical pictures
are poems on canvas； while Italian poems are pictures painted to the mind
by means of words。 Of this national characteristic the writings of
Petrarch are almost totally destitute。 His sonnets indeed； from their
subject and nature； and his Latin Poems； from the restraints which always
shackle one who writes in a dead language； cannot fairly be received in
evidence。 But his Triumphs absolutely required the exercise of this talent；
and exhibit no indications of it。
Genius； however； he certainly possessed； and genius of a high order。
His ardent； tender； and magnificent turn of thought； his brilliant fancy； his
command of expression； at once forcible and elegant； must be
acknowledged。 Nature meant him for the prince of lyric writers。 But
by one fatal present she deprived her other gifts of half their value。 He
would have been a much greater poet had he been a less clever man。 His
ingenuity was the bane of his mind。 He abandoned the noble and natural
style； in which he might have excelled； for the conceits which he produced
with a facility at once admirable and disgusting。 His muse； like the
Roman lady in Livy； was tempted by gaudy ornaments to betray the
fastnesses of her strength； and； like her； was crushed beneath the glittering
bribes which had seduced her。
The paucity of his thoughts is very remarkable。 It is impossible to
look without amazement on a mind so fertile in combinations； yet so
barren of images。 His amatory poetry is wholly made up of a very few
topics； disposed in so many orders； and exhibited in so many lights； that it
reminds us of those arithmetical problems about permutations； which so
much astonish the unlearned。 The French cook； who boasted that he
could make fifteen different dishes out of a nettle…top； was not a greater
master of his art。 The mind of Petrarch was a kaleidoscope。 At every turn
it presents us with new forms； always fantastic； occasionally beautiful； and
we can scarcely believe that all these varieties have been produced by the
same worthless fragments of glass。 The sameness of his images is；
indeed； in some degree； to be attributed to the sameness of his subject。 It
would be unreasonable to expect perpetual variety from so many hundred
compositions； all of the same length； all in the same measure； and all
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addressed to the same insipid and heartless coquette。 I cannot but
suspect a
