'In the cool air of the hills, among the old oaks and chestnuts, on the green meadows where there were no thorns to wound the feet, and no snakes or insects to hurt or annoy, the Pope pa.s.sed days of unclouded happiness.'

This is thoroughly modern: 'Silvarum amator,' as he calls himself, he includes both the details of the near and the general effect of the far-distant landscape.

And with age his appreciation of it only seemed to increase; for instance, he says of Todi:

'A most lovely view meets the eye wherever you turn; you can see Perusia and all the valley that lies between, full of wide--spreading forts and fertile fields, and honoured by the river Tiber, which, drawing its coils along like a snake, divides Tuscia from Umbria, and, close to the city itself, enters many a mountain, pa.s.sing through which it descends to the plain, murmuring as it goes, as though constrained against its will.'

This is his description of a lake storm, during an excursion to the Albanian Mountains:

As far as Ostia 'he had a delightful voyage; at night the sea began to be most unwontedly troubled, and a severe storm arose. The east wind rolled up the waters from their lowest depths, huge waves beat the sh.o.r.e; you could have heard the sea, as it were, groaning and wailing. So great was the force of the winds, that nothing seemed able to resist it; they raged and alternately fled and put one another to rout, they overturned woods and anything that withstood them. The air glittered with frequent lightning, the sky thundered, and terrific thunder-bolts fell from the clouds.... The night was pitch dark, though the flashes of lightning were continuous.'

And of a lake at rest he says:

'The beauty of that lake is remarkable; everywhere it is surrounded by high rocks, the water is transparently clear. Nature, so far superior to art, provided a most pleasant journey. The Nemorian lake, with its crystal-clear waters, reflects the faces of those that look into it, and fills a deep basin. The descent from the top to the bottom is wooded. The poetic genius would never be awakened if it slept here; you would say it was the dwelling-place of the Muses, the home of the Nymphs, and, if there is any truth in legends, the hiding-place of Diana.'

He visited the lakes among the mountains, climbing and resting under the trees; the view from Monte Cavo was his favourite, from which he could see Terracina, the lakes of Nemi and Albano, etc. He noted their extent and formation, and added:

'The genista, however, was especially delightful, covering, as it did with its flowers, the greater part of the plains. Then, moreover, Rome presented itself fully to the eyes, together with Soracte and the Sabine Land, and the Apennine range white with snow, and Tibur and Praeneste.'

It is clear that it was a thoroughly modern enthusiasm which attracted aeneas Sylvius to the country and gave him this ready pen for everything in Nature--everything, that is, except bare mountain summits.

It is difficult to attribute this faculty for enjoying and describing scenery to the influence of antiquity alone, for, save the younger Pliny, I know of no Roman under the Empire who possessed it, and, besides, we do not know how far Pius II. was acquainted with Roman literature. We know that the re-awakening of cla.s.sic literature exerted an influence upon the direction of the feeling for Nature in general, and, for the rest, very various elements coalesced. Like times produce like streams of tendency, and h.e.l.lenism, the Roman Empire, and the Renaissance were alike to some extent in the conditions of their existence and the results that flowed from them; the causal nexus between them is undeniable, and makes them the chief stepping-stones on the way to the modern.

Theocritus, Meleager, Petrarch, and aeneas Sylvius may serve as representatives of the development of the feeling for Nature from cla.s.sic to modern; they are the ancestors of our enthusiasm, the links in the chain which leads up to Rousseau, Goethe, Byron, and Sh.e.l.ley.

From the autobiography of aeneas Sylvius and the lyrics of Petrarch we gain a far truer picture of the feeling of the period up to the sixteenth century than from any poetry in other countries. Even the epic had a more modern tone in Italy; Ariosto's descriptions were far ahead of any German epic.

Humboldt pointed out very clearly the difference between the epic of the people and the epic of art--between Homer and Ariosto. Both, he said, are true painters of the world and Nature; but Ariosto pleases more by his brilliance and wealth of colour, Homer by purity of form and beauty of composition. Ariosto achieves through general effect, Homer through perfection of form. Nature is more naive in Homer, the subject is paramount, and the singer disappears; in Ariosto, Nature is sentimental, and the poet always remains in view upon the stage.

In Homer all is closely knit, while Ariosto's threads are loosely spun, and he breaks them himself in play. Homer almost never describes, Ariosto always does.

Ariosto's scenes and comparisons from Nature, being calculated for effect, are more subjective, and far more highly-coloured than Homer's. But they shew a sympathetic grasp.

The modern bloom, so difficult to define, lies over them--something at once sensuous, sentimental, and chivalrous. He is given to describing lonely woodland scenery, fit places for trysts and lovers'

rendezvous.

In the 1st Canto of _Mad Orlando_:

With flowery thorns, vermilion roses near Her, she upon a lovely bush doth meet, That mirrored doth in the bright waves appear, Shut out by lofty oaks from the sun's heat.

Amidst the thickest shades there is a clear s.p.a.ce in the middle for a cool retreat; So mixed the leaves and boughs are, through them none Can see; they are impervious to the sun.

In the 6th Canto the Hippogriff carries Roger into a country:

Nor could he, had he searched the whole world through, Than this a more delightful country see....

Soft meads, clear streams, and banks affording shade, Hillocks and plains, by culture fertile made.

Fair thickets of the cedar, palm and no Less pleasant myrtle, of the laurel sweet, Of orange trees, where fruit and flow'rs did grow, And which in various forms, all lovely, meet With their thick shades against the fervid glow Of summer days, afforded a retreat; And nightingales, devoid of fear, among Those branches fluttered, pouring forth their song.

Amid the lilies white and roses red, Ever more freshened by the tepid air, The stag was seen, with his proud lofty head, And feeling safe, the rabbit and the hare....

Sapphires and rubies, topazes, pearls, gold, Hyacinths, chrysolites, and diamonds were Like the night flow'rs, which did their leaves unfold There on those glad plains, painted by the air So green the gra.s.s, that if we did behold It here, no emeralds could therewith compare; As fair the foliage of the trees was, which With fruit and flow'r eternally were rich.

Amid the boughs, sing yellow, white, and blue, And red and green small feathered creatures gay; The crystals less limpidity of hue Than the still lakes or murmuring brooks display.

A gentle breeze, that seemeth still to woo And never change from its accustomed way, Made all around so tremulous the air That no annoyance was the day's hot glare.

(Canto 34.)

Descriptions of time are short:

From the hard face of earth the sun's bright hue Not yet its veil obscure and dark did rend; The Lycaonian offspring scarcely through The furrows of the sky his plough did send.

(Canto 80.)

Comparisons, especially about the beauty of women, are very artistic, recalling Sappho and Catullus:

The tender maid is like unto the rose In the fair garden on its native thorn; Whilst it alone and safely doth repose, Nor flock nor shepherd crops it; dewy morn, Water and earth, the breeze that sweetly blows, Are gracious to it; lovely dames adorn With it their bosoms and their beautiful Brows; it enamoured youths delight to cull.

(Canto 1.)

Only, Alcina fairest was by far As is the sun more fair than every star....

Milk is the bosom, of luxuriant size, And the fair neck is round and snowy white; Two unripe ivory apples fall and rise Like waves upon the sea-beach when a slight Breeze stirs the ocean. (Canto 7.)

Now in a gulf of bliss up to the eyes And of fair things, to swim he doth begin.

(Canto 7.)

So closely doth the ivy not enlace The tree where firmly rooted it doth stand, As clasp each other in their warm embrace These lovers, by each other's sweet breath fanned.

Sweet flower, of which on India's sh.o.r.e no trace Is, or on the Sabaean odorous sand.

(Canto 7.)

Her fair face the appearance did maintain That sometimes shewn is by the sky in spring, When at the very time that falls the rain, The sun aside his cloudy veil doth fling.

And as the nightingale its pleasant strain Then on the boughs of the green trees doth sing, Thus Love doth bathe his pinions at those bright But tearful eyes, enjoying the clear light.

(Canto 11.)

But as more fickle than the leaf was she, When it in autumn doth more sapless grow, And the old wind doth strip it from the tree, And doth before it in its fury grow.

(Canto 21.)

He uses the sea:

As when a bark doth the deep ocean plough, That two winds strike with an alternate blast, 'Tis now sent forward by the one, and now Back by the other in its first place cast, And whirled from prow to p.o.o.p, from p.o.o.p to prow, But urged by the most potent wind at last Philander thus irresolute between The two thoughts, did to the least wicked lean.

(Canto 21.)

As comes the wave upon the salt sea sh.o.r.e Which the smooth wind at first in thought hath fanned; Greater the second is than that before It, and the third more fiercely follows, and Each time the humour more abounds, and more Doth it extend its scourge upon the land: Against Orlando thus from vales below And hills above, doth the vile rabble grow.

(Canto 24.)

These comparisons not only shew faithful and personal observation, but are far more subjective and subtle than, for instance, Dante's.

The same holds good of Ta.s.so. How beautiful in detail, and how sentimental too, is this from _Jerusalem Delivered_:

Behold how lovely blooms the vernal rose When scarce the leaves her early bud disclose, When, half unwrapt, and half to view revealed, She gives new pleasure from her charms concealed.

But when she shews her bosom wide displayed, How soon her sweets exhale, her beauties fade!

No more she seems the flower so lately loved, By virgins cherished and by youths approved.

So swiftly fleeting with the transient day Pa.s.ses the flower of mortal life away.

Not less subjective is:

Like a ray of light on water A smile of soft desire played in her liquid eyes.