In the first part of this book we have sketched the story of man’s thoughts about the stars, from primitive days until the thirteenth century of our era. We have seen what a wealth of imagination and invention the Greeks brought to bear on the purely empirical science of Egypt and Babylon and Homeric Greece, and how out of all the systems devised by them between 600 b.c. and 100 b.c. one survived, which was completed and expounded by Ptolemy in the second century after Christ in his great Syntax or Almagest. Its fundamental principles were that Earth is a sphere, at rest in the centre of the Universe, surrounded on all sides by spherical heavens, and that the movements of all the heavenly bodies are explained by a combination of uniform circular movements.
In the succeeding centuries there were few who could appreciate his work, and during the Dark Ages it was scarcely known in Europe, but was preserved by Nestorian Christians in schools and monasteries of Persia, whence it was unearthed by Mahomedan princes, five centuries after Ptolemy’s death; and when another five centuries had passed it was brought back to Europe, tinged with Oriental thought, and almost immediately became immensely popular among scholars.
Then there arose one of the world’s greatest poets, and, a thousand years after Ptolemy’s death, immortalized his work, writing in a tongue unknown to Ptolemy, and for nations which in his day were only just struggling into existence. As Homer reflects to us man’s primitive conceptions of the Universe, so Dante reflects the ideas of Ptolemy and his school.
And because he lived just at this time he was able to write with perfect confidence, quoting Ptolemy and the Catholic Faith side by side as infallible authorities in astronomy. Had he lived in the early Christian centuries he would have been obliged to choose between classical and orthodox views; had he been born three centuries later, he would have found Copernicus and Galileo ranged against Ptolemy and the Church. Even Milton writing a hundred years after the death of Copernicus, could not make up his mind which system to adopt, and the astronomy of Paradise Lost is a curious jumble of ancient, modern, and transitional ideas. He describes the Primum Mobile as a “firm opacous globe”[71] on which Satan alights and walks about, yet later on tells us that we need not believe in its existence if Earth is turning on her axis;[72] the archangel Raphæl describes to Adam the Creation, at which he was present, yet declares that he himself does not know whether the sun circles round Earth, or Earth round the sun. This the great Architect had wisely concealed from man and angel,
Such inconsistencies are not found in Dante’s work, and nothing could have been further from his thoughts than to imagine the Creator mocking at man’s mistakes and ignorance. Like the angelic doctor, Thomas Aquinas, he considered man’s desire for knowledge as one of his highest attributes, and believed that it had been given to him in order to be satisfied.
But before we examine Dante’s writings, it will be interesting to form an idea of the spirit in which astronomy was generally regarded by his fellow-countrymen, and what were his opportunities of studying it.
Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in or about the year 1265, and died in 1321. There can be no doubt that the part of star-lore which appealed most to the general public in Italy at this time, educated and ignorant alike, was the art of the astrologers. The movements of the heavenly bodies were regarded not merely as omens, but as the actual instruments by which every event on Earth was brought to pass. Every class of plants, every race of animals, was thought to be under the protection of some planet or constellation; so if it was a bad year for certain fruits, or if an epidemic broke out among the cattle, this was because the guardian planet was unfavourably placed, or an evil planet was in the protecting constellation. Floods and drought, prosperity and death, properties of minerals such as the lodestone’s attraction for iron or the emerald’s alleged power of blinding serpents, the instincts of animals and the impulses of men, all were subject to the influences of the stars; and naturally the men who understood and interpreted their movements were held in great repute.
Some of them were unscrupulous quacks, like the one-eyed prophet of Brescia, mentioned by the gossiping friar Salimbene.[74] He “called himself an astrologer and diviner,” and received daily “ten great pennies of silver, and nightly three great Genoese candles of the purest wax” from a political party in Modena, as a recompense for advising them how to act. On one occasion he prophesied a victory for them, but he had little faith in his own words, for being threatened with violence if his prophecy should fail, he “carried off all that he had gained and went his way without saluting his hosts.” “Then,” adds the friar, “the men of Sassuolo began to mock them, as men who sacrifice to devils and not to God, as it is written in Deuteronomy.”
But most of these men, like Asdente of Parma, sincerely believed in their own ability to foretell events, and they usually combined some other favourite forms of soothsaying, as well as a little alchemy, with astrology. Asdente is described by Salimbene as “a poor working cobbler, pure and simple, and fearing God, and courteous and urbane; illiterate, but with great illumination of mind.” His proper name was Master Benvenuto, but he was “commonly called Asdente, that is, toothless, by way of contrary, for he hath great and disordered teeth and an impediment in his speech, yet he understands and is understood well. He dwells at the bridge-head of Parma, hard by the city moat and the well, along the street which goes to Borgo San Donnino.” This humble prophet was said by Dante to be the best known citizen of all Parma (Conv., IV. xvi. 65-71): he was asked to dinner by a bishop, and consulted by the warring factions of Reggio and Parma. He was said to have foretold the death of two popes, and a naval defeat of Pisa by Genoa.
The greatest generals of the day governed their tactics by the advice of astrologers who regularly accompanied them to the field and the camp. The famous Ghibelline, Guido of Montefeltro, who is called by Villani the cleverest soldier of his times[75] retained Guido Bonatti[76] in his service and was believed to have gained his great victory at Forli (in 1282) through the advice of this astrologer. Bonatti is diversely described as a tiler and a lawyer, but whatever his original occupation may have been he found that the position of private astrologer brought him both more fame and more money. He wrote a book on Judicial Astronomy, and Vincent de Beauvais describes him as celebrated throughout the western world for his knowledge of the art.
But Bonatti’s fame was faint and fugitive compared with that of the wizard Michael Scot. He is one of the picturesque figures of the thirteenth century, round whom so many legends have gathered that the facts of his life are difficult to glean. It seems that he was born in Fifeshire of a noble Scottish family, at the end of the twelfth or beginning of the thirteenth century, that he studied in Oxford and Paris, and then spent some time in Toledo. Here he learned Arabic, and probably also astrology, for it was so commonly practised there, especially among the Arabs and the Jews, that it was sometimes called the Toletan art. Afterwards he went to Germany, and was discovered by Frederick II., who took him to Italy. His great learning earned the admiration of Pope Gregory IX., who speaks of him quite affectionately in a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury; and it is said that Honorius II. would have liked to make him an archbishop. But Sir Michael the Scot found Frederick’s court more congenial. The Emperor, who was himself a poet, was a munificent patron of literature and art, and attracted to himself men of talent from all parts of the world. The culture of both East and West met at that brilliant Sicilian court[77] which was his for fifteen years before the title of Emperor was added to that of King of Naples and Sicily. Indeed it was his “fellowship with Saracens”[78] which was one great reason for the accusation of heresy on account of which Dante placed him among the Epicureans in the Inferno. He knew Arabic, as well as French, German, Italian, Latin, and Greek. Michael Scot’s acquaintance with Moorish literature and language was a bond of sympathy between them; he became astrologer to Frederick, and at the Emperor’s wish he superintended a new translation of Aristotle’s works from Arabic into Latin. His taste for astronomy is evidenced by the fact that out of these he chose to translate the De Cœlo himself.
An absurd story is told by Salimbene about Frederick and Michael Scot, which, however, shows what was believed of his capabilities as an astronomer. The Emperor one day asked him, when they were in the palace together, how far they were from the sky, and the astrologer told him the distance. They then took a long journey together, during which the palace was secretly lowered, and on their return Frederick asked casually whether the sky could really be so distant as Michael had said. “Whereupon he made his calculations, and made answer that certainly either the sky had been raised or the earth lowered; and then the Emperor knew that he spake truth.”
Michael Scot is said to have warned Frederick that he would die in Florence, for which reason the Emperor would not enter that city; but having thoughtlessly gone to a town called Florentiola he died there; “for this,” adds the historian, “is almost always the way, the devil tricks one by a play upon words.” It is curious to contrast this remark, attributing Michael’s prophecy to the evil powers, with Salimbene’s quotation from him, in exactly the same spirit as if he were quoting from an Old Testament prophet:—“that the word of Michael Scot may be fulfilled in them, which he wrote in his verses wherein he predicted the future, ‘And the factions at Reggio shall hold ill words together.’” The same author brackets him with others who have foretold the future, in a list which reads curiously to us—“Abbot Joachim, Merlin, Methodius and the Sybil, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Hosea, Daniel, and the Apocalypse, and Michael Scot who was astrologer to the deposed Emperor Frederick II.”
Besides these prophetic verses, Michael wrote several books which treat almost exclusively of astrology, alchemy, and other occult “sciences,” and even in the fifteenth century it was said that his magic books could not be opened without danger, because of the fiends who were thereby invoked! He seems to have returned to his native Scotland to die, but the date is very uncertain. We do not know whether Dante’s picture of him is drawn from memory, or hearsay of some who had seen the lanky Scotsman among the southerners, by nature taller and thinner than they, and worn by his prolonged studies.
It was perhaps the winning personality or the prudence of the canny Scot which enabled him to bring a brilliant career to a peaceful close, favoured by the Church as well as by the excommunicated Emperor, although his studies were of so dubious a nature, and he was intimate with heretic Mahomedans and Jews. Cecco d’Ascoli was not so fortunate. This learned Italian received the high and honoured post of professor of astrology in Bologna, where he lectured and cast horoscopes for his students. He was well versed in natural science, but the shady side of astrology had a fatal attraction for him: he fell under suspicion as a sorcerer, was condemned, and burned at the stake in Florence in 1327 (six years after Dante’s death).
The reputations achieved by these and other thirteenth-century astrologers in Italy, belonging to such different ranks of life, show what an immense importance was attached to their art by the general public. Yet we shall be greatly mistaken if we think that it was only to acquire skill in this fascinating pursuit that men thronged to hear Cecco lecture, or pored over Latin manuscripts. The intense ardour for knowledge which marks this period made them eager to understand the world around them and the sky above their heads.
It would be a shame, writes one, to live in a house and not know how it is built or what shape it has, never to examine the walls, and floors, and ceilings, nor to consider the use of the wooden beams used in its construction. In like manner we should not be content without understanding the form and structure of the Universe in which we live. Man, with his upright attitude and his head held high, unlike the animals, was designed by his Creator to look and listen, to know and comprehend this marvellous Universe, and especially that noblest part of it above him, the heavens and their wonderful movements. For thus alone can he learn to know God Himself, the great Architect of the World.
In writing thus, Ristoro, the monk of Arezzo, was not only echoing the thoughts of Plato and Cicero, he was expressing the feeling for astronomy as a noble and elevating study which was general among thoughtful men of his time. It was expressed also in contemporary art. Visitors to the “Spanish Chapel” in the cloisters of a Florentine church will remember seeing on the frescoed walls the figure of Astronomy as she was personified in Tuscany in the fourteenth century. She sits among her peers, the sciences of the Trivium and Quadrivium, the only one who wears a crown; her fair hair frames a spiritual face, one hand is lifted heavenwards, the other holds a celestial sphere, on which the broad band of the zodiac crosses the “equator of the day.” At her feet sits a kingly figure in flowing robes, also crowned, and with a face of singular beauty and refinement; he gazes up into the skies with a rapt expression, and on his knee is a book in which he writes what he sees.
This nameless figure was identified doubtfully by Ruskin as Zoroaster, who was considered by many as the inventor of astrology, but surely it can be no other than Ptolemy with his Almagest. For Ptolemy, the prince of astronomers, was often and naturally confused with the royal race who had patronized astronomy at Alexandria; as for instance by Omons, a thirteenth-century writer, who says in his Image du Monde that “Ptolemy king of Egypt” wrote the Almagest. The curious mode of dressing the hair and beard may have been thought by the artist to represent an ancient Egyptian fashion.
Ptolemy, we know, was universely acknowledged at the time to be “Master of Astronomy,” as Brunetto Latini calls him. His Almagest was only known indirectly, but it was believed to contain all that could be known about the movements and the nature of the heavens. Some minor additions and corrections had been made, as we have seen, by the Arab astronomers, but the system was accepted as a complete and satisfactory explanation of all celestial phenomena. Hence no professional astronomer was expected to make discoveries; he was simply well versed in the work of those who went before him, skilful in the use of a few simple instruments and tables, and practised in applying the principles of astrology.
A general notion of the Ptolemaic system was widely diffused. For those who could not read Latin there were encyclopædic works written in the vernacular and in a popular style, such as the Trésor of Brunetto Latini, and these always contained a section on astronomy. The average educated man probably had only vague ideas about epicycles and eccentrics, and perhaps had never heard of the Arab estimates of the sizes of the planets; but he would know that astronomy taught that Earth is a globe, motionless at the centre of the universe, and smaller than any of the stars; he would know the names of the seven planets (including among these the sun and moon), and probably also their colours, their periods, and their astrological significance; the zodiacal constellations would be familiar, especially as they were often used decoratively; and he would believe that stars and planets are set in crystalline transparent spheres.
Moreover, he would often be more of an astronomer than he knew, for he would learn almost unconsciously many things of which modern men are ignorant. The ill-lighted streets and the dangers of night journeys would force him to be better acquainted with the motions and phases of the moon than most of us are to-day; he would know when and where to look for different stars; and the want of a watch would make it necessary for him to be able to take his time from the sun at any season of the year. He could, however, sometimes consult a sundial on a church wall or in a private garden, and the church chimes rang out at tierce, and nones, and vespers. These were heard at intervals which were much longer in summer than in winter, for the system of “temporary hours” was used by the Church, and the service of tierce was held halfway between sunrise and noon (or nones), and vespers was halfway between noon and sunset.