Chapter 22

From Helicon the Muses wing their way:Mondego's flowery banks invite their stay,Now Coimbra shines, Minerva's proud abode;And fired with joy, Parnassus' blooming GodBeholds another dear-loved Athens rise,And spread her laurels in indulgent skies.[131]

The university, however, fell off, and it was don Manuel who exerted himself for its re-establishment; and dom John, his successor, took equal pains to raise it to its former prosperity, and in the first place caused it again to be restored to Coimbra—for it had been transferred to Lisbon—and founded several new colleges. The date when Camoens entered it is uncertain. It has been supposed that he was twelve years old. In that case he must have attended it while at Lisbon; for it was only transferred in 1537[132]when Camoens was thirteen or fourteen.

Saa de Miranda had studied there, and Ferreira was also a student. He was younger than Camoens by four years, and that, at a boyish age, makes the difference of, as it were, a generation. There is no token that they were known to each other, nor, indeed, are there any traces of Camoens' life or pursuits at Coimbra, except such as we find in his poems; and these are in some sort contradictory—agreeing, however, in the love they express for the picturesque scenery in which this seat of learning was placed, and affection for its beautiful river.

Mr. Adamson quotes a canzone, in which he dwells with delight on the charms of the Mondego, and dates thence his earliest passion. Lord Strangford asserts that he had never experienced the passion of love while at Coimbra, and rests his assertion on expressions of the poet. Both of course are right, and the poet is wrong. Nor is this assertion paradoxical. When the heart of Camoens became susceptible to a master feeling, that filled it and awoke its every pulse to a sense of love, he would naturally wish to throw into the back-ground any boyish fancy; and comparing its slight and evanescent emotions with the mighty passion of which he was afterwards the prey, he might well say,—

All ignorant of love I pass'd my days,Its bow and all its mad deceits despising,

and revert to that period as the time,—

When from the bonds of love I wander'd free—For always was I not chain'd to the oar:—Once liberty was mine—but that is o'er.And I now dwell in bard captivity.[133]

This certainly contrasts strangely with the poem quoted by Adamson, but it is a fair poetic licence, or rather a licence of the heart, which not only would bring to its selected shrine every former emotion and immolate them there, but is jealous that any such existed, and would gladly expunge all trace of them from the page of life. The verses above mentioned form his fourth canzone, and were written on taking leave of Coimbra.[134]The following is a portion of it:—

Soft from its crystal bed of rest,Mondego's tranquil waters glide,Nor stop, till, lost on ocean's breast,They, swelling, mingle with the tide.Increasing still, as still they flow—Ah! there commenced my endless woe.* * * *Yet whisper'd to the murmuring stream,That winds these flowery meads among,I give affection's cheating dream,And pour in weeping truth my song;That each recounted woe may proveA lasting monument of love.

There is another sonnet, in which he takes leave of the Mondego, but its context renders it apparent that it was not written so early in life, as when he first quitted the university. As his parents had a house at Coimbra, it may be assumed that he frequently visited this place, and wrote the following sonnet in a later and sadder day:—

Mondego! thou whose waters, cold and clear,Gird those green banks, where fancy fain would stay,Fondly to muse on that departed day,When hope was kind, and friendship seem'd sincere—Ere I had purchased knowledge with a tear.—Mondego! though I bend my pilgrim wayTo other shores, where other fountains stray,And other rivers roll their proud career,Still, nor shall time, nor grief, nor stars severe,Nor widening distance e'er prevail in aught,To make thee less to this sad bosom dear;And Memory oft, by old affection taught,Shall lightly speed upon the shrines of thought,To bathe among thy waters cold and clear.[135]

There is nothing so attractive to a biographer as to complete the fragments of his hero's life; and, almost as children trace the forms ofanimals and landscapes in the fire, by fixing the eye on salient particles, so a few words suffice to give "local habitation and a name," to such emotions as the poet has made the subject of his verse. To do this, and by an accurate investigation of dates, and a careful sifting of concomitant circumstances to discover the veiled event, is often the art of biography—but we must not be seduced too far. Truth, absolute and unshakeable, ought to be the foundation of our assertions, or we paint a fancy head instead of an individual portrait. Truth is all in all in matters of history, for history is the chart of the world's sea; and if imaginary lands are marked, those who would wisely learn from the experience of others, are led sadly astray. Petrarch has been the mark of similar conjectures to a great extent; but his letters give a true direction to our researches. We have no such guide in the history of Camoens's attachment. He loved and was beloved; was banished, and his lady died. Such is nearly all that we absolutely know.

1545.[136]Ætat.21.

To return however from remark to history, Camoens left Coimbra for Lisbon and the court. He had not lost his time at the University—he was a finished scholar. He was a poet also then when poetry was held a high and divine gift. With such acquirements and accomplishments, joined to his gentlemanly qualities, his courtesy and wit, he was favoured by the highest people at court; his handsome person also gained him the favour and estimation of the ladies. His defect was his poverty, but that defect might be remedied by the friendship of some great man, or the favour of his sovereign. Asa young noble of illustrious descent, he had a right to expect advancement. As a poet full of imagination and ardour, at the very first glowing entrance to life, while (to speak metaphorically) the Aurora of hope announced the rising sun of prosperity, he might expect an ample portion of that happiness, which,while we are young, appears to us to be our just and assured inheritance.

Soon after his arrival at court he fell in love. One of his sonnets, (commented upon by an almanack,) fixes the date when he first saw the lady, as the eleventh or twelfth of April, 1545. He mentions that it was holy week, and at the time when the ceremonies that commemorate the death of our Saviour were celebrated. This sonnet is not one of his best; but we quote Lord Strangford's translation, as it is a monument of an interesting epoch—the commencement of that attachment which shed a disastrous influence over the rest of his life—for by it his early hopes were blighted, and they never flowered again:

"Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain,And myriads bow'd before the sainted shrine,In solemn reverence to the Sire divine,Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain;When in the midst of God's eternal fane,(Ah, little weening of his fell design!)Love bore the heart, which since has ne'er been mine,To one who seem'd of heaven's elected train!For sanctity of place or time were vain'Gainst that blind Archer's soul-consuming power,Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above.O! Lady, since I've worn thy gentle chain,How oft have I deplored each wasted hour,When I was free and had not learn'd to love!

It is said that this occurrence took place in the church of Christ's Wounds, at Lisbon.[137]There is so much resemblance of time and place between this event and the first time when Petrarch records that he saw Laura, that we might almost suppose that the later poet imitated the earlier one; but there is no other resemblance between their attachment. The name of the lady Camoens fell in love with, was dona Caterina deAtayde, and she was a lady of the palace. Many researches have been made to discover more of her parentage and station; dom Jose Maria de Sousa made diligent search in the "Historia da Casa Real;" but he can do no more than conjecture that she was a relation of dom Antonio de Atayde, the first conde de Castanheira, a powerful favourite of John III. It is guessed that she was not more than sixteen when Camoens first saw her. She was unmarried; his attachment therefore was totally unlike the Platonic, far-off worship of the lover of Laura de Sades. Camoens loved as a youth who dedicates himself to one whom he may hope to make his own in the open face of day—with whom he might spend his life, as her protector and husband; but she was of high birth, and her relations had lofty pretensions—a pennyless, though noble and accomplished gentleman by no means suited their views. The love of Camoens was full of difficulties: his ardour was excited by them; and, while unassured of any return he was disposed to vanquish every obstacle for the sake of seeing, and endeavouring to win the heart of the beloved object.

Youth and love aided the developement of a vivid imagination. There never breathed a more genuine poet than Camoens, and now he poured forth his soul in rhymes: canzoni and sonnets are dedicated to his lady, describing her beauty, his sufferings, and the deep affection he nourished. Notwithstanding the good old proverb, commentators are fond of instituting comparisons, and the amatory poetry of Petrarch and Camoens has been compared. Camoens had doubtless read and studied Petrarch, but in no respect does he imitate him. There is more finish in the compositions of the Italian, and for this there is an obvious cause. While speaking slightingly of them, Petrarch was employed even in his last days in the correction and polishing of his Italian poetry; while the verses of Camoens, written in the first gush of inspiration, werenever collected by him, or if collected, the volume was lost: and scattered over Portugal and India, it was with difficulty they were brought together, nor were they published till after his death, and some of those included in the collection are said not to be his.

There is a glow, a freshness, and a truth; a touching softness and a heart-felt eagerness, in his verses on dona Caterina, which is very winning. The language he uses does not charm the ear like Italian, but it is capable of great melody and expression. We possess translations of a small portion, but lyrics can never be translated; they have avoiceof their own which cannot be transfused into another language. Lord Strangford's translations have this merit, that they read like original poetry—but something of truth has been sacrificed in consequence.

It is from these poems that we gather almost all we know of Camoens' attachment. As Petrarch did, he dedicates a sonnet to an emotion—which to a lover's heart seemed an event, or in acanzone, dwells at length on the course of his passion. One sonnet which describes the lady, is a great favourite with the Portuguese: the translation is difficult; we quote the one given by Mr. Adamson—

"Her Eye's soft movement, radiant and benign,Yet with no casual glance; her honest smile,Cautious though free;—her gestures that combine,Light mirth with modesty, as if the whileShe stood all trembling o'er some doubtful bliss,Her blithe demeanour; her confiding ease,Secure in grave and virgin bashfulness,Midst every gentler virtue formed to pleaseHer purity of soul—her innate fearOf error's stain; her temper mild, resigned;Her looks, obedience; her unclouded air,The faithful index of a spotless mind;These form a Circe, who with magic artCan fix or change each purpose of my heart."

He describes her charms in many of his poems. Dona Caterina had mild blue eyes, and hair of a golden brown, and he dwells on the softness of the former and the splendour of the latter with fond admiration; but the poem which expresses most fervently the influence of her beauty is oneof which Dr. Southey has given a very exquisite translation, and which we are irresistibly tempted to quote—

"When I behold you. Lady, when my eyesDwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight,I give my spirit to that one delight,And earth appears to me a Paradise.And when I hear you speak and see you smile,Full, satisfied, absorbed, my centred mindDeems all the world's vain hopes and joys the while,As empty as the unsubstantial wind.Lady, I feel your charms, but dare not raiseTo that high theme th' unequal song of praise;A power for that to language was not given:Nor marvel I when I those beauties view,Lady, that he whose power created you,Could form the stars and yonder glorious heaven."

The concluding lines of the above sonnet are conceived in the very truth of love and ardour of imagination that stamps the lyrics and sonnets of Camoens with a charm almost unequalled by any other poet.

The obstacles that were in the way of all intercourse with the lady maddened his young and impatient spirit. Dona Caterina lived in the palace, and Camoens violated some rule of decorum in endeavouring to see her, and was exiled. We are not told what his fault was. Dona Caterina was not insensible to his passion. He always speaks of her as mild and retiring—modest and gentle; he never complains of her haughtiness nor her pride: indeed, several of his sonnets speak of how oft he was happy and content, and of "past sweet delights."[138]We do not venture too far, therefore, in supposing that her relations discovered that she returned her lover's attachment; and, as they were opposed to their being married, they used their influence to get the youthful and, as they deemed, presumptuous aspirant, banished.

Lord Strangford speaks decidedly of a parting interview, when the horrors of approaching exile were softened by finding his grief and his sorrow shared by her he loved. There indeed appears foundation for this, though the noble biographer uses a few fancy tints, when, quoting the twenty-fourth sonnet, he comments on it, by saying, "On the morning ofhis departure his mistress relented from her wonted severity, and confessed the secret of her long concealed affection. The sighs of grief were soon lost in those of mutual delight, and the hour of parting was perhaps the sweetest of our poet's existence." This may be true. The poet speaks of "a mournful and a happy morning, overflowing with grief and pity", which he desires should for ever be remembered, and he speaks of "tears shed by other eyes than his."[139]

Camoens appears to have passed his exile at Santarem (the native place of his mother), or in its neighbourhood. He was supremely unhappy; banished from her he loved, banished from the court, where all his hopes of advancement, were centred, the gates of life were closed on him. His genius and his poetical imagination were his only resource and comfort. He wrote many of his lyrics and sonnets here, and among the rest a very beautiful elegy, in which he compares himself to Ovid banished to Pontus, and separated from the country and the friends he loved. He dwells on the Roman's misery, and proceeds—

"Thus Fancy paints me—thus like him forlorn,Condemn'd the hapless exile's fate to prove;In life-consuming pain, thus doomed to mournThe loss of all I prized—of her I love."Reflection paints me guiltless though opprest,Increasing thus the sources of my woe;The pang unmerited that rends the breast,But bids a tear of keener sorrow flow."On golden Tagus' undulating stream[140]Skim the light barks by gentlest, wishes spedTrace their still way midst many a rosy gleamThat steals in blushes o'er its trembling bed."I see them gay, in passing beauty glideSome with fix'd sails to woo the tardy gale,While others with their oars that stream divideTo which I weeping tell the Exile's tale."

"Thus Fancy paints me—thus like him forlorn,Condemn'd the hapless exile's fate to prove;In life-consuming pain, thus doomed to mournThe loss of all I prized—of her I love.

"Reflection paints me guiltless though opprest,Increasing thus the sources of my woe;The pang unmerited that rends the breast,But bids a tear of keener sorrow flow.

"On golden Tagus' undulating stream[140]Skim the light barks by gentlest, wishes spedTrace their still way midst many a rosy gleamThat steals in blushes o'er its trembling bed.

"I see them gay, in passing beauty glideSome with fix'd sails to woo the tardy gale,While others with their oars that stream divideTo which I weeping tell the Exile's tale."

At this period also he is supposed to have conceived and begun the Lusiad. Passionately fond of his country, and proud of her heroes, he believed it to be a glorious task to celebrate their deeds; and while his heart warmed and his imagination was fired with such a subject, he might hope that it would please his sovereign, and that his patriotic labours would bear the fruit of some prosperity for himself. That he hoped much, we know, and felt all the confidence in eventual happiness which the young and ardent naturally feel is certain. How bitter and how blighting was the truth, that as it brought to light, piece by piece, year by year, the course of his life, shewed only barren tracks, storms, and hardship—to end at last in abject wretchedness!

The gleams that a little irradiate the obscurity in which this portion of the life of Camoens is enveloped, shed a very doubtful light upon his motives. Faria y Sousa says, that he returned to Lisbon, and was a second time exiled for the same cause, and then resolved on his expedition to India. But there is no proof of his being banished a second time by any royal order.

The simple facts appear to be these. In 1545 he left the university and began life. He was twenty-one, ardent in his temper, high of hope, of an aspiring but poetic temperament, that could bear all that called him forth to action and glory, but was impatient of obscurity, and the dull sleepy course of hopeless unvaried mediocrity of station and life. He loved, and he was banished.

His heart then spent itself in rhymes, and he conceived the idea of a poem which he deemed to be epic, which spoke of heroes, who were his countrymen, who were but lately dead, and whose path to glory in the east he even saw open before himself. Five years were passed since he had left Coimbra; he was still poor and unprotected: he resolved to be and to do something, and on this, formed the project of going to India. He had formed an intimacy with dom Antonio de Noronha. Dom Alfonso de Noronha (who must have been some relation to this young noble) was at this time named viceroy for India; and the entry in the Portuguese East Indian register shows that Camoens had taken his passage on board the same vessel in which the viceroy sailed. From some reason, however, he changed his intention. Dom Antonio was about to join the Portuguese army in Africa. His father had discovered an attachment between him and dona Margarita de Silva, a lady of high birth and great beauty, but from some unknown cause, not approving of it, he sent his son to Ceuta. Nothing was more natural than that dom Antonio should solicit his friend to accompany him, instead of leaving his native country for the distant clime of India. Other commentators say that the father of Camoens was at that time in Africa, and sent for his son; but facts tend to negative this. We have seen that Simon Vaz was his son's surety on his projected voyage, on board the Don Pedro; nor have we any facility afforded us of reconciling these contradictions.[141]There are several expressions inhis poems which indicate that the poet, though innocent, was obliged to go to Africa.[142]These might allude to a paternal command, or simply to the evil fate that pursued him, driven by which, he might term that force, which was only a strongly impelling motive.

1550.Ætat.20.

While with the troops at Ceuta, Camoens was actively employed, and displayed great bravery on various occasions; on one, he was destined to be a great sufferer, as he lost an eye in a naval engagement which took place in the straits of Gibraltar.

Like Cervantes, Camoens fought for his country and was mutilated in her wars, and received neither reward nor preferment. After passing some time in the burning clime of Africa, he returned to Lisbon; but no better fortune awaited him. He returned, deprived of an eye, and the unfortunate mutilation rendered him an object of ridicule to those very ladies who, eight years before, when he was in the prime of youth and beauty, had welcomed him with distinction. At this period, the biographers state that the object of his faithful and passionate attachment died: this seems a mistake, as we shall afterwards mention; but he was divided from her by obstacles as insurmountable as death. His father was no more. He had sailed to India as commander of a vessel, was wrecked on the Malabar coast, and, escaping from the wreck, arrived at Goa; but did not long survive the loss of his fortunes.

1553.Ætat.29.

Camoens cast hope to the winds, and embarked for India. Stricken by disappointment, rendered despairing by hopeless love—his wearied fancy could build no more airy fabrics of future good fortune to which to escape during the tedious or fearful hours of a long and dangerous voyage. His resource was his poem. He occupied himself with the Lusiad; and, doubtless, found in the glow of inspiration, and in the exercise of his imagination, some relief from sorrow and care, while traversing those stormy and distant seas, which the heroes of his epic had beforesailed over, even though he went towards

"That long desired and distant land, which isThe grave of every poor and honest man."[143]

He sailed in the San Bento, in which the commodore Fernando Alvares Cabral, who commanded the fleet then going to the east, also embarked. It was the only one of the squadron that reached its destination; the rest being destroyed by tempests. It reached Goa in the September of the same year.

Then Camoens visited India the glorious days of Portugal were at an end. Albuquerque, Almeida, and the heroic Pacheco, who like a fabulous Paladin, withstood whole armies with his single arm, and who died unregarded and unnoticed by his ungrateful sovereign in a hospital in Lisbon, were no more; the disinterestedness, the honour and humanity, that distinguished the administration of Albuquerque, was not imitated by his successors. He had taken Goa, and founded an empire, which the corrupt government of Portugal has caused us to inherit. The local governors too often sought only to enrich themselves; the viceroys were involved in wars occasioned by their tyranny and extortion; and that which Albuquerque intended should be a political and vast dominion tributary to his native land, sunk into mere commercial or piratical speculations. In the same way, the trade with China was stained by oppressions and rapine.

Dom Alfonso de Noronha was still viceroy on Camoens' arrival. He was avaricious and tyrannical. At this time the king of Cochin had applied to the Portuguese for protection against the king of Pimenta. An armament was sent in November; and Camoens, without giving himself time to repose from his long voyage, accompanied it. The artillery of the Portuguese gained for them a signal victory, and the king of Cochin soon sued for peace. "We were to retale an island," Camoens writes in his first elegy, "belonging to the king of Porca, and which the king of Pimenta had seized; and we were successful. We departed from Goa with a large armament, which comprised all the forces there, collected together by the viceroy. With little trouble we destroyed the quiver-armed people, and punished them with death and fire. We were detained in the island only two days, which was the last for some, who passed the cold waters of Styx."

Thus he enrolled his name at once among those adventurers who sought by their gallantry to conquer fortune, and to acquire prosperity and reputation by the sword. Camoens was full of military ardour, but he was a poet, and his disposition was gentle as it was fearless; and Southey well observes, that his better nature induced him, while recording this victory, to envy those happier men whose lives were spent in the exercise of the arts of peace.

On his return to Goa, he was saddened by the news of the death of his young and dear friend, dom Antonio de Noronha. He perished in an engagement with the Moors, near Tetuan, on the 18th of April, 1553. Antonio had been driven from his native country to fall in the destructive African wars, through the obduracy of his father. He was miserable in his exile; as Camoens pathetically describes:—

"But while his tell-tale cheek the cause betrays,To him who marks it with affection's eye,And speaks in silence to a father's gazeThe fatal strength of love's resistless sigh;Parental art, resolved, alas! to proveThe stronger power of absence over love."

Unimaginative people fancy that when a poet laments in song; his heart is cold. How false this is, persons even of the chilliest fancy can judge if they call to mind, how, in times of vehement affliction, they are more alive, and the world is more alive to them, in images that hear upon their grief, than during periods of monotony. The act of writing may compose the mind; but the boiling of the soul, and quake of heart, that precede, transcend all the sufferings which tame spirits feel. Camoens wrote a sonnet[144]and an elegy on this loss, which he sent in a letter to a friend.

"I wish so much for a letter from you," he says in this letter, "that I fear that my wishes balked themselves—for it is a trick of fortune to inspire a strong desire for the very purpose of disappointing it. But as I would not have such wrong done me, as that you should suspect that I do not remember you, I determined to remind you by this, in which you will see little more or less than that I wish you to write to me from your native land; and in anticipated payment I send you news from this, which will do no harm at the bottom of a box, and may serve as a word of advice to other adventurers, that they may learn that every country grows grass. When I left Portugal, as one bound for another world, I sent all the hopes I had nourished, with a crier before them, to be hanged, as coiners of false money, and I freed myself from all the thoughts of home, so that there might not remain in me one stone upon another. Thus situated, in the midst of uncertainty and confusion, the last words I uttered were those of Scipio Africanus—'Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa mea.' For without having committed any sin that would doom me to three days of purgatory, I have endured three-thousand from evil tongues, worse intentions, and wicked designs, born of mere envy,

"to viewTheir darling ivy, torn from them, take rootAgainst another wall."[145]

Even friendships softer than wax have been warmed into hatred and set alight, whence my fame has received more blisters than the crackling of a roasted pig. Thus they found in my skin the valour of Achilles, who could only be wounded at the sole of the foot; for they were never able to see mine, though I forced many to show theirs. In short, Senhor, I know not how to thank myself for having escaped all the snares with which circumstances surrounded me in that country, except by coming to this, where I am more respected than the bulls of Merciana[146], and live more peacefully than in the cell of friar. This country, I say, which is the mother of rascals, and the mother-in-law of honest men. For those who seek to enrich themselves float like bladders on the water; but those whose inclinations lead them to deeds on arms, are thrown, as the tide throws dead bodies on shore, to be dried up first, and then to decay."

He then proceeds to speak of the women. The Portuguese whom he finds there, he says, are old; and of the natives he dislikes their language—"for if you address them," he continues, "in the style of Petrarch and Boscan, they reply in a language so sown with tares, that it sticks in the throat of the understanding, and would throw cold water on the most burning flame in the world. And now no more, Senhor, than this sonnet, which I wrote on the death of dom Antonio de Noronha, which I send as a mark of how much it grieved me. I wrote an eclogue on the same subject, which appears to me the best I have written. I wished also to send it to Miguel Diaz, who would be glad to see it, on account of his great friendship for dom Antonio, but being occupied by the many letters I have to write to Portugal, I have no time."

Camoens could not remain inactive; he had left a country which,notwithstanding all he had suffered, he fondly loved, because no career was open to him. He sought one in India, and when none presented itself, he cast himself in the first expedition set on foot, however dangerous or tedious it promised to be, and with all the bravery and ardour of his soul, using both pen and sword, endeavoured to fight or write himself into reputation and preferment.

1554.Ætat.30.

The year following his arrival at Goa, Noronha was succeeded in his viceroyalty by dom Pedro Mascarenhas, who soon after died, and Francisco Barreto acted as governor. The cruising of the Mahometans in the straits of Mecca was very detrimental to the Portuguese trade, and expeditions were sent out to protect the merchantmen, under the command of Manoel de Vasconcellos. On the second occasion, Camoens offered to serve as volunteer, and accompanying Vasconcellos, shared the great hardships of the expedition.

1555.Ætat.31.

On his return to Goa, he wrote a most beautifulcanzone, the ninth, descriptive of the wretchedness he endured, in which he pourtrays that corner of the world, "neighbouring a barren, rocky, sterile mountain; useless, bare, bald and shapeless, abhorred of nature, where no bird flies, nor wild beast crouches—where no stream flows, nor any fountain springs, and whose name is Felix. Here my hapless fortune placed me; here, in this remote, rugged, and rocky part of the world, did fortune will that a short space of my short life should be spent, that it might be scattered in pieces about the world; here I wasted my sad, solitary, and sterile days, full of hardship, grief, and resentment; nor had I, as my only adversaries, life, a burning sun, and chilling waters, a thick and sultry atmosphere, — but also my own thoughts. They assailed me, bringing the memory of some passed and brief delight, which once was mine when I inhabited the world, to double the asperity of my adversity, by showing me that many happy hours may be enjoyed; and thus, in these thoughts, I wore out time and life."

Camoens returned to Goa, only to again encounter the enmity of fate and malice of men. It was natural for him, to behold with indignation and contempt the extortion and tyranny of the Portuguese government; and he is said to have been excited by these feelings to express his dislike of various individuals that composed it in a satire, which he named "Follies in India," (Disparates na India), in which, in general terms, he lashes many potent individuals for their misdeeds. This made him enemies; and being suspected of composing another satire, still more distasteful to several who were named in it, as instituting a feast of canes in honour of the new governor, and getting drunk on the occasion; the persons aggrieved, fearing Camoens' sword as well as his pen, applied for redress to Barreto, and he was glad of the pretence to arrest and banish him to China[147]; or rather, Southey says, we should express it, ordered him to another station; but this is often the worst exile; when a man has sought a new country, where he has friends and prospects, it is an arbitrary and cruel act that drives him out to seek his fortune on unknown shores, where he arrives a stranger, and may be looked on as an intruder; his name already stigmatised by the very circumstances of his removal.

1556.Ætat.32.

Camoens departed from Goa in the fleet which Barreto despatched to the South. He felt this arbitrary act bitterly. He denounced it as unjust, and went, he says, "loaded with his recollections, his sorrows, and his fortunes, which were for ever adverse." He disembarked, at first, at one of the Molucca Isles; Ternate, as it is supposed: the term of his stay there is uncertain, but there is every reason to suppose that he soon proceeded to Macao.[148]He here held the office of "Provedor dos Defunctos," or commissary for the effects of the deceased; and here again we find a similarity with Cervantes, who was driven to maintain himself by accepting a clerkship; but in this Camoens was more fortunate than the Spaniard; the situation he held was of greater emolument, and he amassed a little fortune while holding it[149]; nor was it a place that demanded much time for the fulfilment of its duties. Camoens found leisure to retire from the details of business, and to pursue his poetical occupations. He was wont to spend much time in a grotto whichcommanded a view of the sea, and where, apart from the rest of the world, he wrote a great portion of the "Lusiad." This spot is still shown to strangers who visit Macao, as the grotto of Camoens; and an English visitor thus describes it: "It is pleasantly situated on the western shore of the promontory of Macao, and faces the harbour, which divides it on that side from the main land. This promontory is a narrow neck of land, whose stony and barren surface is only rendered habitable by the sea breezes, that blow from three quarters of the compass, and somewhat temper the natural heat of the climate." At this day, the English possessor has beautified it by a plantation of trees, and crowned it with a small Chinese temple, built on the rock, which is a sort of cromlech; the excavation beneath is the cave, or natural grotto, to which the poet resorted, bare in itself, but commanding a beautiful and extensive view:—"the wide sea flecked with verdant isles, the harbour busy with vessels, the line of woody and cultivated coast, bounded by the majestic Montagna, whose pyramidical form and dark aspect add no small charm to the scenery."

Here Camoens continued the "Lusiad;" here Southey supposes that the happiest years of his life were spent. It may be so, but airy and cameleon-like must that happiness have been. His imagination, his desire of fame, the grasp he held of it, as he added to his immortal work, doubtless often fired his soul with that rapture which poets only know; and, as he gathered together some of the world's pelf, he might dream of dona Caterina, of his native Lisbon, and hope to make her his own when he should return; he could look upon the sky and sea, and the beautiful earth, and feel the loveliness of the creation breathe peace and love around him. But still he was exiled and he was alone; his food was hope; far off expectation, and that too of blessings, which he was never doomed to possess; and as doubtless the human soul does unconsciously receive shadows or sunbeams from the future, so his melancholy mood mayoften have made him wonder, why on an earth so lovely; beneath so sublime a heaven, he should be doomed to solitude and misfortune.

Thus several years were passed. Whatever the emoluments of his place were, or whatever fortune it was that he amassed, or whatever were the charms of his abode, they did not seduce him to stay a day longer than he was obliged. He obtained leave to return to Goa from, or was invited to do so by, dom Costantino de Braganza, the new viceroy, who had known and entertained friendship for him in Portugal. He embarked carrying with him his little fortune. But here fate at once displayed her unmitigated persecution; he was wrecked at the mouth of the river Mecon, and with difficulty reached the shore; carrying in one hand the manuscript of his poem, while he swam with the other. Every thing else that he possessed in the world was lost.[150]

Camoens was kindly received by the natives who lived on the banks of the Mecon; though he says of them with some scorn—

"The near inhabitants brutishly thinkThat pain and glory, after this life's endEven brute creatures of each kind attend."

yet this very belief may have made them more sympathetic and charitable.

He remained on this coast for a few days after his wreck. And here all commentators agree that he wrote what are called his marvellous and inimitable rendondilhas, which commence by an allusion to the Hebrew psalm of exile, "By the waters of Babylon." Southey rejects absolutely the possibility that this beautiful poem could have been written at such an hour of tumult and uncertainty, and brings as proof, that not only,he does not mention his wreck, nor the kindness he received, for which he evidently felt grateful, but speaks of himself as living in exile.

He soon pursued his voyage to Goa, where the viceroy received him with kindness and distinction; and hope might dawn again upon his heart, and he might expect preferment under dom Constantine de Braganza's patronage, who loved him as a friend. But we are almost forced to believe in the influence of a star, and that which ruled the fate of Camoens was full of storm and wreck, and miserable reverses. Dom Constantine, with whose viceroyalty, Faria tells us, ended all good government in India, the succeeding governors being unable to stem the tide and avarice of extortion, was soon replaced by don Francisco de Coutinho, Conde de Redondo. The poet's enemies took advantage of this change to urge against him an accusation of malversation in the exercise of his office at Macao. Don Francisco was said to be the friend and admirer of the poet, but Mickle, in reprobating his general character, accuses him also of deceit towards Camoens—at least he afforded him no protection on this occasion, and this thrice unhappy man was thrown into prison.

In the seventh canto of the Lusiad, the poet breaks off suddenly in the narrative, as if oppressed by the sense of his own woes; and, forced to give a voice to the anguish that wrung his soul, he recalls images of home and bids them assuage the bitterness of his grief, while he recapitulates the various disasters he had sustained—exclaiming,—

"But, O, blind manI! that, unwise and rude, without your clue,Nymphs of Mondego and the Tagan stream,A course so long, so intricate, pursue.I launch into a boundless ocean,With wind so contrary, that unless youExtend your favours, I have cause to thinkMy brittle bark will in a moment sink.Behold, how long, whilst I strain all my powersYour Tagus singing, and your Portugal,Fortune, new toils presenting and new sours,Through the world drags me at her chariot's tail:Sometimes committed to sea's rolling towers,Sometimes to bloody dangers martial!Thus I, like desperate Canace of old,My pen in this, my sword in that hand hold.Now by declined and scorned povertyDegraded, at another's board to eat;Now in possession of a fortune high,Thrown back again, farther than ever yet;Now 'scaped, with my life only, which hung byA single thread, even that a load too great;That 'tis no less a wonder I am here,Than Judah's king's new lease of fifteen year.Nay more, my Nymphs, I thus being made an isleAnd rock of want, surrounded by my woes,The same, whom I swam, singing all the while,Gave me for all my verses, but coarse prose:Instead of hoped rest for long exile.Or bays, to crown my head which bald now grows,Unworthy scandals they thereon did hail,Which laid me in a miserable jail.[151]

Behold, how long, whilst I strain all my powersYour Tagus singing, and your Portugal,Fortune, new toils presenting and new sours,Through the world drags me at her chariot's tail:Sometimes committed to sea's rolling towers,Sometimes to bloody dangers martial!Thus I, like desperate Canace of old,My pen in this, my sword in that hand hold.

Now by declined and scorned povertyDegraded, at another's board to eat;Now in possession of a fortune high,Thrown back again, farther than ever yet;Now 'scaped, with my life only, which hung byA single thread, even that a load too great;That 'tis no less a wonder I am here,Than Judah's king's new lease of fifteen year.

Nay more, my Nymphs, I thus being made an isleAnd rock of want, surrounded by my woes,The same, whom I swam, singing all the while,Gave me for all my verses, but coarse prose:Instead of hoped rest for long exile.Or bays, to crown my head which bald now grows,Unworthy scandals they thereon did hail,Which laid me in a miserable jail.[151]

Camoens was easily enabled to prove the falsehood of the charges of which he was accused. And he would have been set free, but Miguel Rodrigues Coutinho, a man of wealth and consequence, but nicknamed Fios-seccos, detained him in prison for a trifling debt; not more, at the very largest computation, than twenty pounds. He petitioned for his release from the viceroy in some sportive verses, in which he ridicules the character of his creditor. The request was such as a man in adversity might prefer to a friend in power, without humiliation; and though the biographers are chary of attributing the merit of his release to the viceroy, and Mickle even asserts that he owed it "to the shame felt by the gentlemen of Goa," it seems likely that dom Francisco did shew his friendship by enlarging him.

He continued in India, and pursued his military career as a volunteer. On all occasions he displayed undaunted bravery; and his companions in arms loved him for the heroic as well as cheerful spirit which he displayed in all reverses, and during every hardship.

At this period he is supposed to have heard of the death of dona Catarina de Atayde[152], who, in her grave, was not more lost to him than on earth, while such far seas lay between them; yet the thought of her was dear and consolatory. When recording that two blows befell him at the same time, the one the loss of fortune, he continues:—

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