Studies in the Poetry of Italy

II. ITALIAN

BY

OSCAR KUHNS

Wesleyan University

Chautauqua Press
CHAUTAUQUA, NEW YORK
MCMXIII

Copyright, 1901, by

OSCAR KUHNS

Third Edition, 1913

The Chautauqua Print Shop

Chautauqua, New York

PREFACE

In writing this book the author has endeavored to give a connected story of the development of Italian literature from its origin down to the present. In so doing, however, he has laid chief stress on those writers whose fame is world-wide, and thus, owing to lack of space, has been obliged to treat in the briefest manner those writers who, although famous in Italy itself, are not generally known to the world at large. It is hoped that the reader may be led to study more in detail this literature, which although ranking with the greatest of the world-literatures, has been to a large degree neglected in England and America. The translations from Dante's New Life and of the story from Boccaccio have been made by the author, inasmuch as during the writing of this book he could not obtain access to the standard translations.

It is to be noted also, that owing to unavoidable delay in the transmission of the manuscript, the author has not been able to read the proof.

Florence, Italy.

CONTENTS

BOOK II. ITALIAN

STUDIES IN THE POETRY OF ITALY

CHAPTER I

THE ORIGINS OF ITALIAN LITERATURE

The first thing that strikes the attention of the student of Italian literature is its comparatively recent origin. In the north and south of France the Old French and Provençal languages had begun to develop a literature before the tenth century, which by the end of the twelfth had risen to a high degree of cultivation; indeed, by that time the Provençal had attained its highest point, and had already begun to decline. In Italy, however, we cannot trace the beginning of a literature, properly so-called, farther back than the thirteenth century.

Among the various causes which may be assigned for this phenomenon, the most important undoubtedly is the fact that the Italians have always looked upon themselves as of one race with the ancient Romans, and the heirs of all the glorious traditions attached to the names of the heroes, poets, and artists of the Eternal City. In similar manner they regarded Latin as their true mother-tongue, of which the vernacular was a mere corruption. Hence it came to pass that all the literature which we find in Italy before the thirteenth century, and a large proportion of that written in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, was in Latin and not in Italian, which seemed to the writers of those days unworthy of forming the medium of poetry and learning.

This feeling of kinship was a natural one for those who lived in the same cities in which the Romans had lived, surrounded by the imposing ruins of the ancient world, speaking a language, which although essentially a modern one, with all its characteristics, was still nearer to Latin than French, Provençal, or Spanish. For these men the irruptions of the northern barbarians, the Goths, the Lombards, and later the Normans, were only a break in the continuity of the historical development of the Latin race in Italy. This spirit—which explains the popularity and temporary success of Arnold of Brescia, in the twelfth century, and of Cola di Rienzi, in the fourteenth, in their efforts to restore the old forms of the Roman republic—must be kept constantly in mind by the student, not only of the political history of Italy, but of its literature and art as well.

Yet this natural feeling does not rest altogether on fact. The Italians of to-day are not the pure descendants of the ancient Romans, but, like the other so-called Latin races, are of mixed origin, more nearly related, it is true, to the Romans, yet in general formed in the same ethnical way as their neighbors.

With the downfall of Rome, Italy, like France and Spain, was overrun by the hordes of German tribes, who, leaving the cold and inhospitable regions of the North sought for more congenial climes in the sunny South. As the Franks in France, the Visigoths and Vandals in Spain, so the Ostrogoths in Italy, toward the end of the fifth century, conquered and colonized the country, and under Theodoric restored for a brief time an appearance of prosperity. In the sixth century came the Lombards, and after destroying and devastating city and country as far south as Rome, and even beyond, finally settled in upper Italy now known from them as Lombardy. Several centuries later came the Normans from France and conquered Sicily and the southern extremity of the peninsula. All these peoples were of German origin, and being gradually merged with the conquered race, formed what we now call the Italian people.[1]

It goes without saying that the Latin language was profoundly affected by all these changes. Although the German invaders gradually adopted the civilization of the conquered land, including the language, yet they could not help influencing this civilization and impressing it with their own individual stamp.

With regard to the language, we must bear in mind that even in the time of Vergil and Cicero, Latin had two forms, one the elegant and artificial language of literature, and the other the idiom of the common people, or the vernacular. Many of the peculiar phonetic, grammatical, and syntactical phenomena which characterize the modern Romance languages existed in this so-called "vulgar Latin," long before the fall of Rome, the irruption of the northern barbarians, and the consequent formation of new nations and new tongues.

All the Romance languages have been derived from this "vulgar Latin," each one being specially moulded by its peculiar environments, and by the various German, Celtic, and other dialects by which it was influenced. Thus the "vulgar Latin" imported by Roman colonists into Gaul, and influenced by the Franks, produced the French language: in the same way "vulgar Latin" plus the various local and foreign influences to which it was subjected in Italy, produced the various dialects of that country—Venetian, Tuscan, Neapolitan, and Sicilian. While literary Latin, although becoming more and more corrupt as the years went by, continued in Italy to be the language of the church, of the courts of law, and of what literature there was, the vernacular—i. e., the various dialects—was used in all the operations of daily life.

We have evidence that this popular tongue must have been in existence as far back as the seventh century, for in Latin public documents dating from that period on, we find occasional words and fragments of phrases, especially the names of persons and places, which are marked by the special characteristics of the Italian language. These expressions, embedded in the Latin documents, like pebbles in sand, become more and more numerous as we approach the tenth century, until finally, in the year 960, we meet for the first time with a complete Italian sentence, in a legal document concerning the boundaries of a certain piece of property in Capua; four years later we find almost the same formula in a similar document. Toward the end of the eleventh century certain frescoes were painted in the lower church of Saint Clement in Rome, where they may still be seen, and among them is one beneath which is found an explanation in Italian.

In spite of the fact, however, that these monuments of early Italian increase from year to year, they were not numerous before the thirteenth century. The very scarcity of them shows the tenacity with which the people clung to the traditions of Rome, since not only literature, but even public and private documents were written in Latin. This literary tradition never wholly died out in Italy, even in the darkest days of her history. It is true that in the terrible disorders that accompanied the slow agony of dying Rome, a long period of darkness and ignorance occurred. The empire was split into two parts and the seat of the emperor was transferred to Constantinople; the Goths and Lombards conquered Northern Italy, the Saracens and Normans the South. All through the Dark Ages Italy was the prey of foreign marauders; the Huns—those scourges of the nations—came as far as Rome; the Arabs obtained a foothold in Sicily, scoured the seas, and even ravaged the Campagna up to the very walls of the Eternal City.

Not only did devoted Italy suffer from outsiders, but discord and civil conflicts rent her very entrails. When Charlemagne was crowned emperor in 800 by Leo III., as a reward for having defended Rome against the incursions of the Lombards, it was thought that the reëstablishment of the Roman empire would bring in a new era of peace and glory. With the death of the great king, however, anarchy once more reigned supreme. His successors in the empire (for the most part weaklings) were kept busy with the affairs of Germany, and regarded Italy, "the garden of the empire," as Dante calls it, with indifference. In Italy itself there was no such thing as patriotism or feeling of national unity. The people were oppressed by the nobles, who themselves were in a continual state of warfare with each other. In the eleventh century a new power arose in the form of free cities, chief among them being Venice, Genoa, Pisa, and Florence. These, however, only increased the disorder which already existed; city fought with city, and even within the same walls the various families formed parties and feuds, which led to incessant strife, of which murder, rapine, and arson were the usual concomitants.

No wonder, then, that in the midst of all this anarchy and confusion Roman civilization almost died out. What the barbarians had spared, the church itself tried to destroy. Having finally triumphed over pagan Rome, it fought pagan civilization; the early Christian fathers looked upon art and literature as the work of demons; the clergy were forbidden to read the classic writers except for grammatical purposes, the subject matter being deemed poisonous to the souls of Christians. Even so great a man as Pope Gregory despised classical antiquity. During the long period when Italy was the prey of Saracen and Hun, when pestilence and famine stalked gauntly through the desolated land, civilization sank to its lowest point. Superstition and asceticism held full sway in religion; men sought relief from the sufferings of the life that now is in the contemplation of a new and happier state in the life to come. Hence arose the widespread conviction that God is best pleased with those who despise this life, with all its beauty and pleasure, its pride and glory, its pomp and power.

In spite of this apparent death, however, a spark of life still existed. Through all this dolorous period, schools could be found, in which a half-barbarous Latin was rudely taught, as being the language of the church. There never was a time when Latin authors were not read to some extent in school and monastery.

With the eleventh century a change for the better began in the intellectual, as well as in the political life of Italy. The rise of cities, the crusades, even the unholy contest between pope and emperor gave new impulse to the minds of all, and led to the beginning of a new era. The defeat of the German emperors, through papal intrigue, added to the power of the free cities, which were thus made independent of trans-Alpine over-lordship, and now began to enter upon that long career of prosperity and intellectual conquest which is the wonder of the student of the history of medieval Italy.

This intellectual movement of the eleventh century, which gave a new and strong impulse to the study of philosophy and theology, resulted in a rich literature in these departments of learning. Peter Damian, the right hand of Gregory VII. in his war with the emperors, became a leader in the study of philosophy and wrote many celebrated works. Other Italian philosophers and theologians—Lanfranc, Anselm, and Peter Lombard—taught in foreign schools. In the thirteenth century Italy produced two of the greatest of the medieval philosophers, St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Bonaventura. Later the newly founded University of Bologna became the center of an eager study of law, which resulted in the writing of many books on jurisprudence.

This late and artificial bloom of Latin literature in theology and philosophy brought the necessity of a more satisfactory study of the Latin language itself. Hence arose many new grammars, rhetorics, and texts. In a similar manner the newly awakened interest in science (such as it was) brought in a new class of books, corresponding to our modern encyclopedias. From the twelfth century on, all over Europe, large numbers of these compendiums were compiled, containing a summary of all the knowledge of the times; chief among these encyclopedias was the vast Speculum Majus (the Greater Mirror) of Vincent of Beauvais, containing 82 books and 9,905 chapters. Very popular, also, were the moral and didactic treatises. Symbolism took possession of all literature. The phenomena of nature became types of religious life—even the writings of pagan antiquity were treated symbolically and made to reveal prophecies of Christian doctrine; Vergil, in a famous passage, was supposed to have foretold the coming of the Savior, and even the Ars Amatoria of Ovid, "of the earth earthy," if ever poem was, was interpreted in terms of Christian mysticism.

All the above-mentioned literature, however, so far as it existed in Italy before the thirteenth century, was written in Latin; we must dismiss it, therefore, with this brief mention, and pass on to the true subject of this book, Italian literature properly so-called, which, as we have already seen, cannot be said to have existed before the thirteenth century.

One feature which is largely characteristic of all subsequent periods of Italian literature marks the formative period thereof, that is, the comparative lack of invention and originality, and the spirit of imitation of other literatures, distant either in time or space. In order to trace its early beginnings to their sources, we must go outside the borders of Italy. For nearly two hundred years the south of France had been the home of a large number of elegant lyrical poets, whose fame and influence had spread over all Europe. These troubadours, as they were called, were welcomed not only at the courts of princes and nobles in Provence, but were likewise honored guests in Northern France, in Spain, and in Italy. The latter country had long been closely connected with Southern France by means of commerce and politics. Hence it was natural for the troubadours to seek the rewards of their art in the brilliant courts of Italy. Toward the end of the twelfth century some of the best known of them, among them the famous Pierre Vidal and Rambaud de Vaqueiras, made their way thither. After the terrible crusades against the Albigenses—which not only cruelly slaughtered tens of thousands of earnest Christians, but likewise destroyed forever the independence and prosperity of Provence, and thus, by destroying the courts of noble families, put a sudden stop to the flourishing literature—large numbers of the wandering minstrels came to Northern Italy.

It was not long before their influence began to manifest itself, first in Northern Italy, and later in the south and center. The north Italian poets began to imitate the troubadours, and soon a considerable body of poetry had been composed by native poets, in the manner and—a phenomenon worthy of note—in the language itself of the Provençal poets. This is due to the relationship between the dialects of Northern Italy and the Provençal, and also to the fact that at that time the latter tongue was far more elegant and cultivated than the other Romance languages. This north Italian poetry is always included in the Provençal collections and the writers are known as troubadours in spite of their Italian nationality. Among the most famous are Bartolomeo Zorzi of Venice, Bonifaccio Calvo of Genoa, and especially Sordello of Mantua, praised by Dante in a famous passage of the Purgatory, and the subject of Browning's well-known poem.

We see, then, that the above poets belong rather to the history of Provençal than that of Italian literature. To find the first springs of national poetry in Italy, we must traverse the whole length of the peninsula and arrive at the court of Frederick II. (1194-1250) in Sicily, which at this time was far ahead of the rest of the country in civilization, art, and literature. Frederick himself was a many-sided man, warrior, statesman, lawyer, and scholar, and stands out among his contemporaries, especially in matters of religious tolerance. He welcomed to his court not only the scholars, poets, and artists of Europe, but likewise Arabs, who were at that time in possession of a high degree of culture. He caused many Greek and Arab authors to be translated into Latin, among them Aristotle; he founded the University of Naples; above all, by his own mighty personality, he made a deep impression on the times.

Frederick's ministers were, like himself, men of culture and learning. Chief among them was Pier delle Vigne, statesman and poet, the cause of whose tragic death by his own hand is told by Dante in the Inferno.

The influence of the troubadours made itself felt in Sicily about the same time as in Northern Italy, only here the imitation was in the Italian language and not in Provençal. Among the early Sicilian poets who wrote after the manner of the troubadours, was the Emperor Frederick II. himself, his son, Enzio, and Pier delle Vigne. From an æsthetic point of view, this early indigenous poetry is of little interest, but as the beginning of a movement which culminated in the New Life and Divine Comedy of Dante, it is of very great importance.

It had no originality or freshness, but was a slavish imitation of Provençal models, the conventions of which were transported bodily, without any change, except to be poorer. Love was the only theme, and the type always remains the same. The lover is humble, a feudal vassal of his lady who stands far above him, all beauty and virtue, but a cold and lifeless abstraction. She usually treats her lover with disdain or indifference, while he pours forth the protestations of his love, extols her beauty, and laments her hardness of heart. All these things, repeated countless times, in almost the same language, became monotonous in the Provençal poets, and naturally much more so in their Italian imitators.

This Sicilian school of poetry did not last long; it perished with the downfall of the Hohenstaufens. It found a continuation, however, in middle Italy, especially in the province of Tuscany, which, from this time on, becomes the center of the literary and artistic life of Italy. The poetry of the court of Frederick had not been written in the Sicilian dialect, but in a sort of court language not very dissimilar to the Tuscan. It is probable that among the poets of the Sicilian school some were Tuscans, and that after the death of Frederick they returned home, bringing with them the poetical doctrines which they had learned.

However this may be, we find a direct continuation of the movement in Tuscany. We see the same slavish imitation of the troubadours, the same ideas, and the same poetical language and tricks of style. In addition to the influence of the Sicilian school, there was a direct imitation of the Provençal poets; thus Guittone d'Arezzo, the leader of the early Tuscan school, wrote and spoke Provençal, and Dante, in his Purgatory, introduces the Troubadour Arnaut Daniel, speaking in his native tongue.

One phase of Provençal poetry—the political—strangely enough considering the stormy times, had not been imitated by the poets at the court of Frederick II. From the first, however, the Tuscans included politics in their poetry, and one of the strongest of Guittone's poems is a song on the battle of Montaperti (1260).

Guittone d'Arezzo is the direct literary ancestor of Dante, and the first original Italian poet. Hence he deserves a word or two even in this brief sketch. He was born in 1230 near Arezzo in Tuscany, hence his name; after a youth spent in the pursuit of pleasure, he was converted, and looking on all things earthly as mere vanities, he left his wife and family and joined the recently founded military-religious order of the Knights of Saint Mary. He died at Florence in 1294. In early life he had been gay and dissipated; his last years he spent in the exercises of religious asceticism. These two parts of his life correspond to two phases of his poetry. In the first he was a follower of the Sicilian school and wrote love poetry; in the second he discarded this "foolishness" and wrote political, moral, and theological discussions in verse. His poetry has little esthetic value, but is important as forming a transition between the early Sicilian school and the group of poets whose greatest member was Dante. His writings against earthly love and his praise of heavenly love mark an important change in the development of Italian poetry and open the path which leads up to Beatrice and the Divine Comedy.

The next important step in this progress is marked by Guido Guinicelli, a learned lawyer and judge of Bologna (situated in the province of Romagna and separated from Tuscany by the Apennines), a city which at that time was the seat of a flourishing university and the center of a keen intellectual life.

Guinicelli was born in 1220, was prominent in political as well as in literary circles, was banished in 1274, and died in 1276. He was a follower of Guittone, and like him his first poetry was in the manner of the Sicilian school. He changed later and began a new school, the dolce stile nuova, as Dante calls it. The change shows itself especially in the new conception of love, and of its origin, growth, and effects. The troubadours and their Sicilian imitators declared that love came from seeing, that it entered through the eyes of the beholder, and thence descended to the heart. Guinicelli says, on the contrary, that love does not come from without, but dwells, "as a bird in its nest," in the heart and is an attribute thereof. This is not true, however, of all men, but only of those who are virtuous and good. Only the gentle heart can love, and a noble character is not the effect of love, but its cause. These sentiments are expressed in the following lines, translated by Rossetti:

"Within the gentle heart Love shelters him,
As birds within the green shade of the grove.
Before the gentle heart, in Nature's scheme,
Love was not, or the gentle heart ere Love.
For with the sun, at once,
So sprang the light immediately, nor was
Its birth before the sun's.
And Love hath its effect in gentleness
Of very self; even as
Within the middle fire the heat's excess."

Whereas the love of the troubadours was romantic and chivalrous, the love of Guinicelli was intellectual and philosophical. With him earthly affections become purified and spiritualized. The old repertory of conventional expressions is gradually discarded, and new forms take their place, soon to become conventional in their turn. Love and the poet's Lady remain abstract, but have now a different signification. The Lady is still treated as a perfect being, but she becomes now a symbol of something higher. Love for her leads to virtue and to God; poetry now receives an allegorical character, and its real end becomes the inculcation of philosophical truth under the veil of earthly love. The importance of Guinicelli for us is his influence on Dante, for the new school was not continued in Bologna, but found its chief followers in Florence. We are thus led naturally up to the works of the great Florentine poet whom we shall study in the next two chapters.

In the meantime, however, we must cast a brief glance at certain other early phases of Italian literature, which later developed into important branches of poetry and prose.

Northern Italy, as we have seen, had no share in beginning an indigenous lyrical poetry. It did, however, have an early literature of its own, in the form of religious and didactic poetry, for the most part translations from Latin and French originals. In Umbria, the home of St. Francis, and the center of those waves of religious excitement which so profoundly affected Italy in the thirteenth century, a popular religious lyric arose. St. Francis himself deserves some mention in literary history, if only on account of his famous song of praise, which he instructed his followers to sing as they wandered, like spiritual troubadours, through the land. St. Francis was no mere ascetic, but loved the beauty of nature and had a tender love for all creatures. Quaintly enough he was wont to call birds and animals, and even inanimate objects, such as the sun and moon, by the name of brother and sister.[2] Among his followers was Thomas of Celano, who wrote that most solemn and majestic of all Latin hymns, "Dies Iræ."

The astonishing popularity and spread of the new order founded by St. Francis can only be explained by the terrible sufferings of the times. All Italy was stirred by deep religious excitement. In 1233, the movement reached its high-water mark. Old and young, high and low, leaving their ordinary occupations and business, marched in processions through the land singing pious songs; the country folk streamed to the cities to hear the sermons which were given morning, noon, and night.

About the year 1260, a similar movement started, that of the Flagellants, so called from their custom of carrying whips with which they lashed themselves in token of repentance. The times were dark and stormy, the never-ending feuds between the papal and imperial parties brought in their train murder and rapine, while famine and pestilence stalked through the land. Suddenly a priest, named Fasani, appeared in Perugia, who said he had been sent by heaven to prophesy terrible punishments on a sinful world. Once more the processions began, and the aroused and penitent multitudes moved through the land, lashing themselves with whips and singing pious songs.

The literary effect of all this religious excitement was far-reaching, especially important for us in that it prepared the way for Dante, not only by creating the proper atmosphere, but by the production of hymns and visionary journeys into the unseen world. The religious lyrics or hymns, which the multitudes sang, were known as Laudi, or songs of praise. They were not the artificial imitation of foreign poets, like the early Sicilian and Tuscan poetry, but the genuine product of the soil. They were composed for and sung by the great mass of the people who could not understand Latin. They were spread far and wide and made popular by the Flagellants, and thus became true folk-songs.

The most famous of the writers of these Laudi in the thirteenth century was Jacopone da Todi, the story of whose conversion is extremely touching. He was a rich young lawyer of Florence, full of the pride of life. At a certain festivity his wife was killed by an accident, and under her costly garments was found, next to her skin, a hair-shirt, such as was worn by penitents. The tragic death of his wife and this evidence of her religious feelings converted the once proud Jacopone, who joined a religious order and devoted the rest of his life to the service of God. Besides being the author of a number of Laudi and religious poems, he probably wrote the famous Latin hymn, Stabat Mater.

The Laudi, beginning in the thirteenth century, lasted down to the sixteenth century. As an example of them we give here the following stanzas, written by Girolamo Benivieni (1453-1542), and translated by John Addington Symonds:

Jesus, whoso with thee
Hangs not in pain and loss
Pierced on the cruel cross,
At peace can never be.

Lord, unto me be kind:
Give me that peace of mind
Which in the world so blind
And false, dwells but with thee.

Here in my heart be lit
Thy fire to feed on it,
Till burning bit by bit
It dies to live with thee.

Before we close this chapter we must say a word or two concerning another branch of early literature, whose influence is not great on Dante or his immediate successors, but which was destined to bloom forth later in a new kind of poetry, which has become the peculiar glory of Italy. The introduction into Italy of the French national heroic epic (the chansons de geste) began about the same time as the introduction of the Provençal lyric. In Northern Italy these romances were not only read but imitated, and about the second half of the thirteenth century, arose a mongrel sort of literature, written in a language, half French, half Italian. The most popular of these poems were those dealing with Charlemagne, who, as the protector of the pope and the restorer of the Roman empire, was looked upon by the Italians as one of their own race. These old chansons de geste, however, in coming to Italy, lost much of their original significance. The spirit and ideals could scarcely be understood by the Italians, to whom feudal society was largely unknown. What they liked in the French romances was not religious or patriotic sentiments, but adventures and the wonderful deeds of the heroes. The object, then, of the rude early writers of the Franco-Italian epic was to interest the hearers and arouse curiosity. Hence these poems became monopolized by wandering minstrels, who sang in the streets and public squares to the people who gathered about them, much as their descendants gather about the Punch and Judy shows and the wandering musicians of to-day. For nearly two hundred years the French romances existed in Italy in this humble state, until, as we shall see later, they were incorporated into regular literature by Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto.

SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

Italian literature of comparatively recent origin—Causes therefor—Italian literature proper does not begin before the thirteenth century—The poetry of Provence and its influence on North Italy—The Italian troubadours—The rise of indigenous poetry in Sicily—Transference of the movement to Tuscany—Guido Guinicelli of Bologna—The "new school"—How it differed from the preceding poetry—Character of literature in North Italy—St. Francis and the religious movements—The Flagellants—Literary effect of these movements—The Laudi—Jacopone da Todi—French epic romances and their influence in Italy.

1. Give a brief sketch of the origin of the Italian people.

2. When does Italian literature proper begin?

3. Name three great Italian philosophers who wrote in Latin.

4. What country first influenced Italian lyrical poetry?

5. What do you understand by the Sicilian school?

6. Give the chief characteristics of the poetry of this school.

7. Who was Guittone d'Arezzo?

8. Guido Guinicelli and the "new school"?

9. How did he differ from the Provençal and Sicilian poets?

10. St. Francis of Assisi,—what was his connection with literature?

11. Describe the religious movements in Italy in the thirteenth century.

12. Who was Jacopone da Todi?

13. What was the influence of the French national epic in Italy?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

It is very important in the study of any literature to have some knowledge of the history of the country in question. Those who wish to study more in detail the subject treated in this book, should read some book on the history of Italy. For the early period of the literature, the best authority is Gaspary, who wrote in German,—but the first volume of whose book has just been translated into English, and published in the Bohn Library. An indispensable book is Rossetti's "Dante and his Circle," which contains many excellent translations from the early poets of Italy.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In Southern Italy, especially in Sicily, there is a large infusion of Greek and Saracen blood.

[2] His last words were, "Welcome, sister death."

CHAPTER II

DANTE: LIFE AND MINOR WORKS

In the preceding chapter we have outlined the development of early Italian poetry, endeavoring to show how from the Sicilian school it was carried over to Tuscany; how Guido Guinicelli, in Bologna, had transformed it from a slavish imitation of the troubadours into a new school of symbolical philosophical poetry, and finally, how from Bologna the new doctrines spread to Florence.

There were a number of early poets of Florence and other Tuscan cities who wrote in the manner of Guido Guinicelli, among the best known being Cino da Pistoia, Lapo Gianni, Dante da Majano, and especially worthy of note, Guido Cavalcanti. The latter, who was the intimate friend of Dante, was a member of a noble family, and was prominent in all the intellectual and political life of Florence. He was among those who were exiled from the city in 1300, and died soon after his return in the same year. Dante refers to him in the New Life as the "first of his friends," and records in the Inferno a pathetic interview with his father in the city of Dis. To him and a mutual friend, Lapo, he addressed the following beautiful sonnet, so well translated by Shelley:

Guido, I would that Lapo, thou and I,
Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend
A magic ship, whose charmèd sails should fly,
With winds at will where'er our thoughts might wend,
And that no change, nor any evil chance
Should mar our joyous voyage; but it might be,
That even satiety should still enhance
Between our hearts their strict community:
And that the bounteous wizard then would place
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love,
Companions of our wandering, and would grace
With passionate talk, wherever we might rove,
Our time, and each were as content and free
As I believe that thou and I should be.

As a sample of Guido Cavalcanti's own poetical skill we may take the following sonnet, translated by Cary:

Whatso is fair in lady's face or mind,
And gentle knights caparison'd and gay,
Singing of sweet birds unto love inclined,
And gallant barks that cut the watery way;
The white snow falling without any wind,
The cloudless sky at break of early day,
The crystal stream, with flowers the meadow lined,
Silver, and gold, and azure for array:
To him that sees the beauty and the worth
Whose power doth meet and in my lady dwell,
All seem as vile, their price and lustre gone.
And, as the heaven is higher than the earth,
So she in knowledge doth each one excel,
Not slow to good in nature like her own.

It is with Dante alone, however, that we can busy ourselves here, for in him are summed up all the various tendencies and characteristics of his predecessors and contemporaries.

The figure of Dante Alighieri is one of the saddest in literary history; his life seemed to contain all the sorrow that can fall to the lot of humankind. An exile from his native city, separated from family and friends, deprived of his property, and thus forced to live in poverty or become the recipient of charity, disappointed in his patriotic hopes, the only thing left him to do was to turn his eyes inward and to build up out of his very sufferings and sorrow, his immortal poem:

"Ah! from what agony of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,—
This medieval miracle of song."

We see, then, that even more important than in the case of other poets is some knowledge of the great Florentine.

Unfortunately we have not a reliable and complete record of that life. Legend and fancy have been interwoven with facts so closely that often it is hard to separate one from the other. The following data, however, are well established. Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in the year 1265, the day and month being uncertain, but probably falling between May 18th and June 17th. He belonged to a family which was counted among the lesser nobility. Dante himself does not seem to have been able to trace his ancestry further back than four generations. In the fifteenth canto of Paradise there is a famous passage where the poet tells how he meets in Mars his great-grandfather, Cacciaguida, who gives him certain autobiographical details: That he was baptized at the church of San Giovanni in Florence; that he had two brothers; that his wife came from the Po valley (whence originated the name Alighieri); that he had gone on the crusades with the Emperor Conrad, by whom he had been dubbed knight, and finally, that he had been killed by the Arabs. This is all Dante knew, for he makes Cacciaguida say:

"They, of whom I sprang,
And I, had there our birthplace,"

that is, in a certain quarter of Florence—

"Thus much
Suffice of my forefathers; who they were,
And whence they hither came, more honorable
It is to pass in silence than to tell."

Of Dante's immediate family we know little. Strangely enough for one who reveals himself so completely in his poetry, he says nothing of either father or mother. As to his education we can only infer it from his works and the condition of the times. The statements made by Boccaccio and Villani concerning his early school life, are fables. He did not go to school under Brunetto Latini, for the latter had no school; although Dante was undoubtedly influenced by Latini's Trésor (a vast encyclopedical compilation of contemporary knowledge) which laid the foundations of the poet's learning. Moreover, it may well be that the distinguished statesman, judge, and writer directed by his personal counsel the studies of the bright young scholar, for whom he prophesied a brilliant career. Hence Dante's joy and gratitude at meeting in the Inferno the "dear paternal image of him who had taught him how man becomes eternal."

It is certain that Dante studied the regular curriculum of medieval education, the so-called seven liberal arts, consisting of the Quadrivium and the Trivium.[3] He knew Latin, but no Greek; he quotes frequently Vergil, Horace, Statius, and others. He was a profound student of philosophy and theology; loved art, music, and poetry. In the Divine Comedy he shows a wide knowledge, embracing practically all the science and learning of the times. All this he largely taught himself, especially in his early life. Later he visited the universities of Padua and Bologna, and probably Paris. It is quite unlikely that he got as far as Oxford, as Mr. Gladstone endeavored to prove some years ago. He was not unacquainted with military life, having been present at the battle of Campaldino and at the surrender of Caprona.

He was married before 1298 to Gemma Donati, and thus became related to one of the most powerful families in Florence. Here again he shows a strange reticence, never mentioning his wife or children. We have no reason, however, to believe his marriage unhappy, or that he lacked affection for his children.

It is true that his wife did not follow him in exile, but there was reason enough for this in his poverty and wandering life. The apotheosis of Beatrice need not presuppose lack of conjugal affection, for his love for her was entirely Platonic and became later a mere symbol of the spiritual life. He had by Gemma several children, two sons, Pietro and Jacopo, and one daughter, Beatrice; that he had another daughter, named Antonia, is probable, but not certain. His children joined him later in life in Ravenna.

Of the greatest importance for the understanding of the Divine Comedy is a knowledge of the political doctrines and public life of Dante. Tuscany at that time was in a wild and stormy condition. It shared in the terrible disorders of the struggle between the Guelphs and Ghibellines (the former supporting the pope, the latter the emperor). It likewise had private quarrels of its own. The old feudal nobility had been repressed by the rise of the cities, into which the nobles themselves had migrated, and where they kept up an incessant series of quarrels among themselves or with the free citizens. Yet, in spite of this constant state of warfare, the cities of Tuscany increased in power and prosperity, especially Florence. We need only remember that at the time Dante entered public life (1300) an extraordinary activity manifested itself in all branches of public works; new streets, squares, and bridges were laid out and built; the foundations of the cathedral had been laid, and Santa Croce and the Palazzo Vecchio had been begun. Such extensive works of public improvement presuppose a high degree of prosperity and culture. The political condition of Florence itself at this time was something as follows: In 1265, to go back a few years in order to get the proper perspective, Charles of Anjou, brother of the king of France, had been called by Pope Urban IV. to Italy to aid him in the war with the house of Swabia, and through him the mighty imperial family of the Hohenstaufens, which had counted among its members Frederick Barbarossa and Frederick II., was destroyed. Manfred, the natural son of Frederick II., was killed at the battle of Beneventum (1260), and his nephew, the sixteen-year-old Conradin, the last member of the family, was betrayed into the hands of Charles after the battle of Tagliacozza and brutally beheaded in the public square of Naples (1268). It was through Charles of Anjou that the Ghibellines, who having been banished from Florence in 1258, had returned after the battle of Montaperti in 1260, were once more driven from the city; and the Guelphs, that is, the supporters of the pope, were restored to power.

The government was subject to frequent changes, becoming, however, more and more democratic in character. The decree of Gian della Bella had declared all nobles ineligible to public office, and granted the right to govern only to those who belonged to a guild or who exercised a profession. It was undoubtedly to render himself eligible to office that Dante joined the guild of physicians. In 1300 he was elected one of the six priors who ruled the city, for a period of two months only. From this brief term of office Dante himself dates all his later misfortunes.

At this time, in addition to the two great parties of Guelphs and Ghibellines, which existed in Florence as in the rest of Italy, there were in the city two minor parties, which at first had nothing to do with papal or imperial politics. These parties, known as Whites and Blacks, came from Pistoia, over which Florence exercised a sort of protectorate. The rulers of the latter city tried to smooth out the quarrels of the above local factions of Pistoia, by taking the chiefs of both parties to themselves; but the quarrels continued in Florence, and soon the whole city was drawn into the contest, the Blacks being led by Corso Donati, and the Whites by the family of the Cerchi.

Pope Boniface VIII., who claimed Tuscany as the heir of the Countess Matilda, endeavored to take advantage of the state of discord in order to further his own selfish plans. For this purpose he sent the Cardinal Acquasparta to Florence, who, failing to accomplish his mission, excommunicated the recalcitrant city and left it in a rage. At this juncture the priors, of whom, as we have seen, Dante was one, thought to still the discord by banishing the leaders of the Whites and Blacks, an act, however, which only served to bring the hatred of both parties on the heads of the magistrates.

In 1301 Charles of Valois was called to Florence, ostensibly to pacify the divided city; he favored the party of the Blacks, however, and let in Corso Donati, who had been exiled the year before, and for five days murder, fire, and rapine raged through the streets of the devoted city. All the Whites who were not slain were exiled and their property confiscated or destroyed. Among the exiled was Dante. There are several decrees against him still extant in the archives of Florence. The first is dated January 27, 1302, and accuses him, with several others, of extortion, bribery, defalcation of public money, and hostility to the pope and the church. We need not say that of all these accusations the latter was alone true. In case the accused did not appear before the court to answer the charges, they were condemned in contumacy, to pay a fine of five hundred gold florins; if this was not paid within three days, their property should be confiscated. This decree was followed by another, on March 10, 1302, in which the same charges were repeated, and in which Dante, as a delinquent, was declared an outlaw, and condemned to be burned alive if ever caught within Florentine territory.

Thus begins the poignant story of Dante's exile. We know but few definite details of that long period of wandering. He himself says, in his Banquet, that he traveled all over Italy, "a pilgrim, almost a beggar."

In the seventeenth canto of Paradise Cacciaguida gives a brief summary of Dante's exile in the form of a prophecy:

"Thou shalt leave each thing
Beloved most dearly: this is the first shaft
Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove
How salt the savor is of other's bread;
How hard the passage, to descend and climb
By other's stairs. But that shall gall thee most,
Will be the worthless and vile company,
With whom thou must be thrown into these straits.
For all ungrateful, impious all, and mad,
Shall turn 'gainst thee: but in a little while,
Theirs, and not thine, shall be the crimson'd brow,
Their course shall so evince their brutishness,
To have ta'en thy stand apart shall well become thee.
"First refuge thou must find, first place of rest,
In the great Lombard's courtesy, who bears,
Upon the ladder perch'd, the sacred bird.
He shall behold thee with such kind regard,
That 'twixt ye two, the contrary to that
Which 'falls 'twixt other men, the granting shall
Forerun the asking."

We see from these lines that Dante first went to Verona, the seat of Bartolommeo della Scala (the "great Lombard," whose coat of arms was a ladder "scala," with an eagle perched upon it). From there he went to Bologna, thence to Padua, and thence to the Lunigiana. It is about this time that he is said to have gone to Paris (this is probable), and to Germany, Flanders, and England; it is not at all probable that he ever saw the last-mentioned place.

Dante never gave up altogether the hope that he might one day return to Florence. He yearned all his life for the "beautiful sheep-fold" where he had lived as a lamb. Yet even this happiness he would not accept at the price of dishonor. When, in 1312, a general amnesty was proclaimed by Florence, and he might have returned if he would consent to certain humiliating conditions, he wrote the following noble words to a friend in Florence:

"This is not the way of coming home, my father! Yet, if you or other find one not beneath the fame of Dante and his honor, that will I gladly pursue. But if by no such way can I enter Florence, then Florence shall I never enter. And what then! Can I not behold the sun and the stars from every spot of earth? Shall I not be able to meditate on the sweetest truths in every place beneath the sky, unless I make myself ignoble, yea, ignominious to the people and state of Florence? Nor shall bread be wanting."

A great hope rose above the horizon of his life when Henry VII., of Luxemburg, came to Italy to restore the ancient power of the empire. Dante's letters written at this time are couched in exultant, almost extravagant, language: "Rejoice, Oh! Italy," he cries, "for thy bridegroom, the comfort of the world, and the glory of the people, the most merciful Henry, the divine Augustus and Cæsar is hastening hither to the wedding feast." His joy and exultation, alas! were doomed to a speedy end.

In 1312 Henry, who, after the murder of Albert, had been crowned emperor (in 1309), came to Pisa, thence to Rome. Then, after having in vain besieged Florence, which had become the leader of the anti-imperial movement, he retired to Buonconvento, where he died (probably from poison) August 24, 1313.

With the tragic death of Henry, Dante seems to have given up all hope of earthly happiness and from now on turned his eyes to heaven, from which alone he could hope for justice to himself and peace and righteousness for unhappy Italy. The composition of the Divine Comedy dates from this period. His final refuge and place of rest was at Ravenna, at the court of Guido da Polenta, uncle of Francesca da Rimini, whose pathetic story is quoted in the next chapter. Here, in comparative comfort and peace, he spent the evening of his life, occupying his time in writing the Divine Comedy and in occasional journeys in the interest of his patron. In 1321, while on one of these journeys to Venice, he caught fever and died on the 13th of September of that year.

Many anecdotes and legends are told of these years of exile. Thus it is said that while in Verona, as he was walking one day through the streets, some women saw him and said: "Behold, there is the man who has been in hell." A beautiful story is told in a letter, doubtful however, written by Fra Ilario of the Monastery of Santa Croce on Monte Corvo, to the effect that one day a dust-stained, travel-worn man, carrying a roll of manuscript under his arm, knocked at the door of the monastery, and on being asked what he wanted, answered "pace, pace" (peace, peace). This legend has been beautifully rendered by Longfellow in the following lines:

"Methinks I see thee stand with pallid cheeks
By Fra Ilario in his diocese,
As on the convent walls in golden streaks
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease.
And as he asks what there the stranger seeks
Thy voice along the cloisters whispers 'peace.'"

Dante's character reveals itself in all its phases in his works. His youth as represented in the New Life was a happy one, filled with ardor for study, with affection for friends, and with the ecstasy of a pure and virtuous love. He needed, however, the death of Beatrice, the long years of exile, and the disappointment of all his hopes to develop that strong and noble character which the world admires almost as much as his poetry. He was an enthusiastic student, yet mingled with the affairs of men; never willingly doing wrong himself, he was unyielding in what he conceived to be right, and consecrated his consummate powers to the cause of the noble and the good. His own conscience was clear, and under this "breastplate," as he calls it, he went steadily on his way. He was proud of his learning, strong in his opinions, and does not hesitate to constitute himself the stern judge of all his contemporaries; this in a lesser man would have seemed presumptuous; in Dante it was only the prosecution of a solemn and, as he thought, a Godgiven duty. Yet, in spite of this sternness his heart was soft and tender.

Like Tennyson's poet, Dante was "dowered with love of love," as well as "hate of hate and scorn of scorn."

Those who read only the Inferno, may get the impression of a savage, revengeful spirit, but the Purgatory and Paradise are full of tenderest poetry of sublimest imagination, and show their author to have had a heart full of love and gentleness, sweetness and light. A deep melancholy weighed over the whole later life of Dante; his heart never ceased to long for home and friends, yet this melancholy is not pessimism; he never lost his confidence in God, never doubted right would win.

It is this inspiring combination of noble qualities in Dante's character, reflected in every page of the Divine Comedy, which makes the study of the latter not merely an æsthetic pleasure, but a spiritual exercise, ennobling and uplifting the minds of those who read it with the "spirit and with the understanding also."

The works of Dante are not many. They consist of prose and poetry, the former comprising the so-called Banquet (Convito) and the essay on Universal Monarchy. The former was to have been finished in fifteen books or chapters, but is only a fragment of four. It is a sort of encyclopedia of knowledge, such as were so popular in the Middle Ages, but written in Italian, in order to bring it within the reach of the unlearned reader. It is full of the scholastic learning of the times, and while not attractive to the ordinary reader, is of great importance for a complete understanding of the Divine Comedy. Likewise important in this respect is the political treatise on the Monarchy, in which Dante sums up his theory of world-politics. This book, written in Latin, is divided into three parts: in Book I., the author shows the necessity of a universal empire; in Book II., he shows the right of Rome to be the seat of this empire; in Book III., he shows the independence of the emperor from the pope. This theory of the separation of the church and state runs like a thread through the whole of the Divine Comedy, in which Dante constantly attributes the sufferings of Italy to the lust for temporal power on the part of the pope and clergy.

For the general reader, however, the most interesting of Dante's writings, after the Divine Comedy, is the New Life, a strange and beautiful little book which serves as a prologue to the Divine Comedy. It is the story of Dante's love for Beatrice Portinari, the daughter of Folco, a neighbor and friend of the poet's father. It is a simple story, containing but few actual events, the details consisting for the most part of repetitions of the theory of love propounded by Guido Guinicelli, of analyses of Dante's own state of mind, and of mystical visions. The form of the book is peculiar, part prose, part poetry, the latter being accompanied by a brief commentary. Yet there is a truth and sincerity in the book which prove that it is no mere allegory or symbol, but the record of an actual love on the part of Dante for the fair young Florentine girl who is its heroine.

Dante tells us in quaint and scholastic language how he first saw Beatrice at a May festival, when she was at the beginning of her ninth year and he was at the end of his. She was dressed in red, with ornaments suited to her youthful age, and was so beautiful "that surely one could say of her the words of the poet, Homer: 'She seemed not the daughter of mortal man but of God.'" He tells us, further, how he felt the spirit of love awaken within him and how, after that first meeting, he sought every opportunity of seeing her again.

Nine years later, again in May, he records another occasion when he met Beatrice, this time dressed in white and accompanied by two ladies, "and passing along the street she turned her eyes toward the place where I stood, very timid, and through her ineffable courtesy she gently saluted me, so that it seemed to me that I experienced all the depths of bliss. The hour was precisely the ninth of that day, and inasmuch as it was the first time that her words reached my ears, such sweetness came upon me that, intoxicated, as it were, with joy, I left the people and went to my solitary chamber, and began to muse upon this most courteous lady." This love, accompanied as it was with violent alternations of joy and sorrow, produced a strong effect on Dante; his health suffered, his nerves were shattered, and he became frail and weak. Yet he refused to tell her name, although he confessed that love was the cause of his sufferings: "And when they asked me by means of whom love brought me to this wretched state, I looked at them with a smile, but said nothing."

In order, however, to put people on the wrong track, he pretended to love another lady, and so successful was this subterfuge, that even Beatrice herself believed it, so that one day, meeting Dante, she refused to salute him, an act which filled him with deepest affliction: "Now after my happiness was denied me, there came upon me so much grief that leaving all people I went my way to a solitary place to bathe the earth with bitterest tears; and when I was somewhat relieved by this weeping, I entered my chamber where I could lament without being heard. And there I began to call on my lady for mercy, and saying: 'Love, help thy faithful one,' I fell asleep in tears like a little, beaten child."

As we have already said, there is little action in this book, only a few meetings in the street, in church, or at funerals; even the death of Beatrice's father is spoken of vaguely and allusively. The importance of all lies in the psychological analysis of feelings and thoughts of the poet. The descriptions of Beatrice are vague and her figure is wrapped in an atmosphere of "vaporous twilight." Her beauty is not presented to us by means of word-painting, but rather by its effect on all who behold her. This is illustrated in the following sonnet, which is justly considered the most beautiful not only of Dante's poetry but of all Italian literature:

So gentle and so noble doth appear
My lady when she passes through the street,
That none her salutation dare repeat
And all eyes turn from her as if in fear.
She goes her way, and cannot help but hear
The praise of all,—yet modest still and sweet;
Something she seems come down from heaven,—her seat,
To earth a miracle to show men here.
So pleasing doth she seem unto the eye,
That to the heart a sweetness seems to move,
A sweetness only known to those who feel.
And from her lips a spirit seems to steal,—
A gentle spirit, soft and full of love,—
That whispers to the souls of all men,—"sigh."

The effect of all the conflicting sentiments which agitated Dante's bosom was to throw him into a serious illness, in the course of which he had a terrible vision of the approaching death of Beatrice. "Now a few days after this, it happened that there came upon me a dolorous infirmity, whence for nine days I suffered most bitter pain; this led me to such weakness that I was not able to move from my bed. I say, then, that on the ninth day, feeling my pain almost intolerable, there came to me a thought concerning my lady. And when I had thought somewhat of her, and turned again in thought to my own weakened life, and considered how fragile is its duration, even though it be in health, I began to weep to myself over so much misery. Whence I said to myself with sighs: verily the most gentle Beatrice must sometime die. Wherefore there came upon me so great a depression that I closed my eyes and began to wander in mind, so that there appeared to me certain faces of ladies with disheveled hair, who said to me, 'Thou also shalt die.' And after these ladies certain other faces, horribly distorted, appeared and said: 'Thou art dead.' Then I seemed to see ladies with disheveled hair going along the street weeping, and wondrous sad; and the sun grew dark, so that the stars showed themselves, of such color that methought they wept; and the birds as they flew fell dead; and there were mighty earthquakes; and as I wondered and was smitten with terror in such fancies, methought I saw a friend come to me and say: 'Dost thou not know? Thy peerless lady has departed this life.' Then I began to weep very piteously, and not only in dream, but bathing my cheeks in real tears. And I dreamed that I looked skyward and saw a multitude of angels flying upwards, and they had before them a small cloud, exceedingly white.[4] And the angels seemed to be singing gloriously, and the words which I seemed to hear were these: 'Hosanna in the Highest,' and naught else could I hear. Then it seemed to me that my heart, which was so full of love, said to me: 'It is true, indeed, that our lady lies dead.' And so strong was my wandering fancy that it showed me this lady dead; and I seemed to see ladies covering her head with a very white veil, and her face had so great an aspect of humility that she seemed to say: 'I have gone to behold the beginning of peace.' And then I seemed to have returned to my own room, and there I looked toward heaven and began to cry out in tears: 'O, soul most beautiful, how blessed is he who beholds thee.' And as I said these words with sobs and tears, and called on death to come to me, a young and gentle lady who was at my bedside, thinking that my tears and cries were for grief on account of my infirmity began also to weep in great fear. Whereupon other ladies who were in the room, noticed that I wept, and leading away from my bedside her who was joined to me by close ties of blood,[5] they came to me to wake me from my dream, and saying: 'Weep no more,' and again: 'Be not so discomforted.' And as they thus spoke, my strong fancy ceased, and just as I was about to say: 'O, Beatrice, blessed art thou,' and I had already said, 'O, Beatrice—' giving a start I opened my eyes and saw that I had been dreaming."

The presentiment of Dante in the above exquisite passage came true. Beatrice, too fair and good for earth, was called by God to Himself. One day the poet sat down to write a poem in praise of her and had finished one stanza when the news came that Beatrice was dead. At first he seemed too benumbed even for tears, and after a quotation from Jeremiah—

"How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! How is she become a widow, she that was great among the nations!"—

at the beginning of the next paragraph, he gives a fantastic discussion of the symbolical figure nine and its connection with the life and death of Beatrice. Then the tears began to flow, and unutterable sadness took possession of his heart. A whole year after he tells us how one day he sat thinking of her and drawing the picture of an angel, a picture, alas! which was never finished, as he was interrupted by visitors.[6] At another time he tells how one day he saw a number of pilgrims passing through Florence on their way to Rome, and to them he addressed one of his most beautiful sonnets:

Oh, pilgrims who move on with steps so slow,
Musing perchance of friends now far away;
So distant is your native land, oh say!
As by your actions ye do seem to show?
For lo! you weep and mourn not when you go,
Through these our city streets, so sad to-day;
Nor unto us your meed of pity pay,
Bowed as we are 'neath heavy weight of woe.
If while I speak you will but wait and hear,—
Surely,—my heart in sighing whispers me,—
That then you shall go on with sorrow deep.
Florence has lost its Beatrice dear;
And words that tell what she was wont to be,
Are potent to make all that hear them weep.

With these lines the New Life practically ends. After one more sonnet, in which he tells how he was lifted in spirit and had a vision of Beatrice in paradise, he concludes the book with the following paragraph, in which we first see a definite purpose on the part of Dante to write a long poem in praise of Beatrice: "After this sonnet there appeared to me a wonderful vision, in which I saw things which made me resolve to say no more of this blessed one until I should be able to treat more worthily of her, and to come to that I study as much as I can, as she truly knows. So that if it shall be the pleasure of Him in whom all things live that my life endure for some years more, I hope to say of her that which has never yet been said of mortal woman. And then may it please Him who is Lord of Courtesy, that my soul may go to see the glory of its lady, that is, the blessed Beatrice who gloriously looks on the face of him 'qui est per cuncta sæcula benedictus in sæcula sæculorum. Amen.'" (Who is blessed throughout all the ages.)

SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

Early Tuscan poetry—Guido Cavalcanti, a contemporary of Dante—Guelphs and Ghibellines, Whites and Blacks at Florence—Dante born 1265; his education; his love for Beatrice; marriage and home life; an exile; dies in Ravenna 1321.

1. Mention some of the early Tuscan poets.

2. What is the date of Dante's birth?

3. What is known of his family?

4. How and where was he educated?

5. Tell what you can of his family life.

6. What was the political condition of Florence in Dante's time?

7. Who were the Guelphs and Ghibellines,—the Whites and Blacks?

8. When and why was Dante exiled?

9. Name some of the places he is known to have visited.

10. How and when did he die?

11. Describe briefly his character.

12. Name the chief works of Dante, giving a brief indication of their contents.

13. Tell briefly the story of his love for Beatrice.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

No poet in Italian literature is better adapted to special study than Dante, nor is any so profitable. The material is abundant. The reader should provide himself with Scartazzini's Companion to Dante, translated by A. J. Butler, or Symond's Introduction to Dante. These will furnish all necessary facts concerning the life and works of the poet. It must be remembered that the Divine Comedy is a difficult poem, and that it takes many readings and much study to master it. It will be best to begin by reading Maria F. Rossetti's A Shadow of Dante, which gives a general outline of the story with copious extracts. Then one of the numerous translations should be taken up and studied carefully, canto by canto—Cary's, Longfellow's, and Norton's translations (the latter in prose) are the best. An edition of Cary's translation has been made by the writer of this book (published by T. Y. Crowell & Co.), with special reference to the general reader. It contains an introduction, Rossetti's translation of the New Life, and a revised reprint of Cary's version of the Divine Comedy furnished with a popular commentary in the form of foot notes. The number of essays and critical estimates of Dante in English is legion; perhaps the best three are those by Carlyle (in Heroes and Hero Worship), Dean Church, and Lowell. Of especial value is Dinsmore's Aids to the Study of Dante (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The Quadrivium included arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music; the Trivium, grammar (i. e., Latin), dialectics, and rhetoric.

[4] The soul of Beatrice.

[5] Dante's sister.

[6]

"You and I would rather see that angel,
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not? than read a fresh Inferno."
Browning (One Word More).

CHAPTER III

THE DIVINE COMEDY

We have seen, at the end of the last chapter, how Dante had made a vow to glorify Beatrice, as no other woman had ever been glorified, and how he studied and labored to prepare himself for the lofty task. The Divine Comedy is the fulfilment of this "immense promise." Although it is probable that Dante did not begin to write this poem till after the death of Henry VII. (1313), yet there can be no doubt that it was slowly developing in his mind during all the years of his exile.

The Divine Comedy is divided into three parts or books, canticas, as they are called by Dante: Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, each one containing thirty-three cantos, with one additional introductory canto prefixed to the Hell. Even the number of lines in the three canticas is approximately the same.[7] Dante's love for number-symbols was shown in the New Life, hence we are justified in accepting the theory that the threefold division of the poem is symbolical of the Trinity, and that the thirty-three cantos of each cantica represent the years of the Savior's life. It is worthy of note that the last word in each of the three books is "stars."

The allegory of the Divine Comedy has been the subject of countless discussions. The consensus of the best modern commentators seems to be, however, that although the allegory is more or less political, it is chiefly religious. The great theme is the salvation of the human soul, represented by Dante himself, who is the protagonist of the poem. As he wanders first through hell, he sees in all its loathly horrors the "exceeding sinfulness of sin," and realizes its inevitable punishment; as he climbs the steep slopes of purgatory, at first with infinite difficulty, but with ever-increasing ease as he approaches the summit, he learns by his own experience how hard it is to root out the natural tendencies to sin that pull the soul downward; and finally, as he mounts from heaven to heaven, till he arrives in the very presence of God Himself, he experiences the joy unspeakable that comes to him who, having purged himself of all sin, is found worthy to join "the innumerable company of saints and the spirits of just men made perfect."

The Divine Comedy is a visionary journey through the three supernatural worlds, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. Such visions were by no means infrequent in the Middle Ages, and Dante had many predecessors. He simply adopted a poetical device well known to his contemporaries. What differentiated him from others is the dramatic and intensely personal character of his vision; the consummate skill with which he interwove into this one poem all the science, learning, philosophy, and history of the times; and the lovely poetry in which all these things are embalmed. To appreciate the vast difference between the Divine Comedy and previous works of a similar nature, we need only to read a few pages of such crude books as the Visions of Alberico, Tugdale, and Saint Brandon.

To Dante and his contemporaries the supernatural world was not what it is to us to-day, a vast, unbounded space filled with star-systems like our own: the topography of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise seemed to them as definite as that of our own planet. The Ptolemaic system of astronomy (overthrown by Copernicus, yet still forming the framework of Milton's Paradise Lost) was accepted with implicit confidence. According to this system the universe consisted of ten heavens or concentric spheres, in the center of which was our earth, immovable itself, while around it revolved the heavenly spheres. The earth was surrounded by an atmosphere of air, then one of fire, and then came in order the heavens of the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the fixed stars, and the Primum Mobile (the source of the motion of the spheres) beyond which stretched out to infinity the Empyrean, the heaven of light and love, the seat of God and the angels.

According to Dante, hell is situated in the interior of the earth, being in shape a sort of funnel with the point downward, and reaching to the center of the earth, which is also the center of the universe. Purgatory rises in the form of a truncated cone in the surface of the southern hemisphere, having in solid form, the same shape as the hollow funnel of hell. It was formed of the earth which fled before Lucifer, and splashed up behind him like water, when, after his revolt against the Almighty he was flung headlong from heaven and became fixed in the center of the earth, as far as possible according to the Ptolemaic system from the Empyrean and God.

Hell is formed of nine concentric, ever-narrowing terraces, or circles, exhibiting a great variety of landscapes, rivers, and lakes, gloomy forests and sandy deserts, all shrouded in utter darkness except where flickering flames tear the thick pall of night, or the red-hot walls of Dis gleam balefully over the waters of the Stygian marsh. Here are punished the various groups of sinners, whom Dante sees, whose suffering he describes, and with whom he converses as he makes his way downward from circle to circle.

It was in the year 1300, at Easter time, when Dante began his strange and eventful pilgrimage, "midway in this our mortal life," he says in the first line of the poem, that is when he himself was thirty-five years old. He finds himself lost in a dense forest, not knowing how he came there, and after wandering for some time, reaches the foot of a lofty mountain, whose top is lighted by the rays of the morning sun. He is about to make his way thither, when he is stopped by the appearance, one after the other, of three terrible beasts, a leopard, a lion, and a wolf. He falls back in terror to the forest, when suddenly he sees a figure advancing toward him and learns that this is Vergil, who has been sent by Beatrice (now in heaven) to lead her lover from the wood of sin to salvation. To do this it will be necessary for Dante to pass through the infernal world, then up the craggy heights of purgatory to the earthly paradise, where Beatrice herself will take charge of him and lead him from heaven to heaven, even to the presence of God Himself. Dante's courage and confidence fail at this prospect—he is not Æneas or St. Paul, he says, to undertake such supernatural journeys—but when Vergil tells him that Beatrice herself has sent him, Dante expresses his willingness to undertake the difficult and awe-inspiring task.

It is nightfall when they reach the gate of hell, over which is written the dread inscription:

"Through me you pass into the city of woe:
Through me you pass into eternal pain:
Through me among the people lost for aye:
Justice the founder of my fabric moved:
To rear me was the task of power divine,
Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.
Before me things create were none, save things
Eternal, and eternal I endure.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

Entering in they are met with the sound of sighs, moans, and lamentations, mingled with curses hoarse and deep, and the beating of hands, all making a hideous din in the starless air, in which a long train of spirits is whirled about hither and thither stung by wasps and hornets. These spirits are the souls of those ignoble ones who were neither for God nor against him.

"The wretched souls of those, who lived
Without or praise or blame, with that ill band
Of angels mixed, who nor rebellious proved,
Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves
Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth
Not to impair his luster; nor the depth
Of Hell receives them, lest the accursed tribe
Should glory thence with exultation vain."

Here Dante recognizes the soul of him who made the "great refusal," recalling thus the strange story of the aged hermit, Peter Murrone, who after fifty-five years and more of solitary life in a cave high up among the Abruzzi Mountains, was forced to ascend the papal throne, and who after a short period of ineffectual reign under the name of Celestine V., resigned, thus making way for Boniface VIII., Dante's bitter enemy. Vergil's contemptuous remark concerning these souls,

"Speak not of them, but look and pass them by,"

has become proverbial.

Soon after this the two poets reach the shores of the river Acheron, where Charon, the infernal boatman, is busy ferrying the souls of the damned to the other side. He refuses to take Dante in his boat, and the latter falls into a swoon, and being aroused by a clap of thunder, finds himself on the other side. How he was carried over we are not told. The wanderers are now in limbo or the first circle of hell, in which are contained the souls of unbaptized children and of the great and good of the pagan world, especially the poets and philosophers of ancient Greece and Rome, who, having lived before the coming of Christ, had through no fault of their own died without faith in Him who alone can save. These souls are not punished by physical pain, as is the case with those in the following circles, but nourishing forever a desire which they have no hope of ever having satisfied, they pass the endless years of eternity in gentle melancholy. Here Dante meets the spirits of Homer, Ovid, Horace, and Lucan, who treat him kindly and make him one of the band, thus consecrating him as a great poet.

"When they together short discourse had held,
They turned to me, with salutation kind
Beckoning me; at the which my master smiled:
Nor was this all; but greater honor still
They gave me, for they made me of their tribe;
And I was sixth amid so learn'd a band.
"Far as the luminous beacon on we passed,
Speaking of matters, then befitting well
To speak, now fitter left untold. At foot
Of a magnificent castle we arrived,
Seven times with lofty walls begirt, and round
Defended by a pleasant stream. O'er this
As o'er dry land we passed. Next, through seven gates,
I with those sages entered, and we came
Into a mead with lively verdure fresh.
"There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around
Majestically moved, and in their port
Bore eminent authority: they spake
Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet.
"We to one side retired, into a place
Open and bright and lofty, whence each one
Stood manifest to view. Incontinent,
There on the green enamel of the plain
Were shown me the great spirits, by whose sight
I am exalted in my own esteem."

Leaving this beautiful oasis in the infernal desert, the poets enter the second circle, where Hell may be said really to begin. Here Dante sees the monster Minos, the judge of the infernal regions, who assigns to each soul its proper circle, indicating the number thereof by winding his tail about his body a corresponding number of times. In circle two are the souls of the licentious, blown about forever by a violent wind. Among them Dante recognizes the famous lovers of antiquity, Dido, Helen, Cleopatra. His attention is especially attracted toward two spirits, who, locked closely in each other's arms, are blown hither and thither like chaff before the wind. Calling upon them to tell him who they are, he hears the pathetic story of Francesca da Rimini, perhaps the most famous and beautiful passage in all poetry:

"When I had heard my sage instructor name
Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpowered
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind
Was lost; and I began: 'Bard! willingly
I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind.' He thus:
'Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.
Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come.' Soon as the wind
Swayed them toward us, I thus framed my speech:
'O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrained.' As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issued, from that troop where Dido ranks,
They, through the ill air speeding: with such force
My cry prevailed, by strong affection urged.
"'O gracious creature and benign! who go'st
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbrued;
If, for a friend, the King of all, we owned,
Our prayer to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
Of whatso'er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind,
As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean[8] with his sequent streams.
"'Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt[9],
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still:
Love, that denial takes from none beloved,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not.
Love brought us to one death: Caïna[10] waits
The soul, who spilt our life.' Such were their words;
At hearing which, downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried:
'What art thou pondering?' I in answer thus:
'Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire
Must they at length to that ill pass have reached!'
"Then turning, I to them my speech addressed,
And thus began: 'Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves.
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what and how Love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?' She replied:
'No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens
Thy learn'd instructor yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do
As one who weeps and tells his tale. One day
For our delight we read of Launcelot,
How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us. Oft times by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point
Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished for smile so rapturously kissed
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kissed. The book and writer both
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day
We read no more.' While thus one spirit spake,
The other wailed so sorely, that heart-struck
I, through compassion fainting, seemed not far
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground."

Passing rapidly over circle three, in which the gluttons lie in mire under a pelting storm of hail, snow, and rain, torn to pieces by the three-throated Cerberus; and circle four, where misers and spendthrifts roll great weights against each other and upbraid each the other with his besetting sin; we come to circle five, where in the dark and dismal waters of the Styx the wrathful and the melancholy are plunged. It is singular that Dante makes low spirits or mental depression as much a sin as violence and lack of self-control:

"The good instructor spake: 'Now seest thou, son!
The souls of those, whom anger overcame.
This, too, for certain know, that underneath
The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs
Into these bubbles make the surface heave,—
As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn.
Fixed in the slime, they say: "Sad once were we,
In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun,
Carrying a foul and lazy mist within:
Now in these murky settlings are we sad."
Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats,
But word distinct can utter none.'"

As they stand at the foot of a dark tower, a light flashes from its top and another light, far off above the waters, sends back an answer through the murky air. Dante, full of curiosity, turns to Vergil for explanation:

"'There on the filthy waters,' he replied,
'E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see,
If the marsh-gendered fog conceal it not.'
"Never was arrow from the cord dismissed,
That ran its way so nimbly through the air,
As a small bark, that through the waves I spied
Toward us coming, under the sole sway
Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud:
'Art thou arrived, fell spirit?'—'Phlegyas, Phlegyas,
This time thou criest in vain,' my lord replied;
'No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er
The slimy pool we pass.' As one who hears
Of some great wrong he hath sustained, whereat
Inly he pines: So Phlegyas inly pined
In his fierce ire. My guide, descending, stepped
Into the skiff, and bade me enter next,
Close at his side; nor, till my entrance, seemed
The vessel freighted. Soon as both embarked,
Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow,
More deeply than with others it is wont."

Thus they cross the Styx, and soon approach the other shore, where luridly picturesque in the ink-black atmosphere rise the red-hot walls and towers of the city of Dis:

"And thus the good instructor: 'Now, my son
Draws near the city, that of Dis[11] is named,
With its grave denizens, a mighty throng.'
"I thus: 'The minarets already, sir!
There, certes, in the valley I descry,
Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire
Had issued.' He replied: 'Eternal fire,
That inward burns shows them with ruddy flame
Illumed; as in this nether hell thou seest.'
"We came within the fosses deep, that moat
This region comfortless. The walls appeared
As they were framed of iron. We had made
Wide circuit, ere a place we reached, where loud
The mariner cried vehement: 'Go forth:
The entrance is here.' Upon the gates I spied
More than a thousand, who of old from heaven
Were shower'd. With ireful gestures, 'Who is this,'
They cried, 'that, without death first felt, goes through
The regions of the dead?' My sapient guide
Made sign that he for secret parley wished;
Whereat their angry scorn abating, thus
They spake: 'Come thou alone; and let him go,
Who hath so hardily entered this realm.
Alone return he by his witless way;
If well he know it, let him prove. For thee,
Here shalt thou tarry, who through clime so dark
Hast been his escort.' Now bethink thee, reader!
What cheer was mine at sound of those curst words.
I did believe I never should return."

While not only Dante but Vergil himself stand in dismay before the closed gates of the city, and the threatening devils on the walls, they hear a roar like that of a mighty wind, and behold! over the waters of the Styx a celestial messenger comes dry-shod, puts to flight the recalcitrant devils, and opening the gates with a touch of his wand, departs without having uttered a word.

Entering the city, Dante sees a vast cemetery covered with tombs, whence issue flames, and in which are shut up the souls of those who denied the immortality of the soul. Here occurs the celebrated scene between Dante and Farinata degli Uberti, who alone, after the battle of Montaperti, in 1260 (when the victorious Ghibellines seriously contemplated razing Florence to the ground), opposed the motion, and thus saved his native city from destruction. Here also Dante sees the father of his friend, Guido Cavalcanti.

In the center of the cemetery yawns a tremendous abyss, which leads to the lower regions of hell. Before they descend this, however, Vergil explains to Dante the various kinds of sins which are punished in hell. Those he has seen hitherto (gluttony, licentiousness, avarice, wrath, and melancholy) all belong to the category of incontinence; those which are to come are due to malice, and harm not only oneself but others. The sixth circle, that of the heretics, in which they now are, forms a transition between the above two general divisions. In circle seven, the next one below them, are punished the violent, subdivided into three classes: 1, those who were violent against their fellow-men,—tyrants, murderers, and robbers; 2, those who were violent against themselves,—suicides and gamblers; 3, those who were violent against God, nature, and art,—blasphemers, sodomites, and usurers. In circles eight and nine are the fraudulent and traitors, the various classes of which are given later.

After this explanation, the two poets descend the rocky cliff, and find at the bottom a blood-red river, where, guarded by centaurs, are plunged the souls of murderers and robbers, in various depths according to the heinousness of their cruelty and crimes. Crossing this stream they come to a dark and gloomy wood, composed of trees gnarled and twisted into all sorts of fantastic shapes, grimly recalling the contortions of a human body in pain, and covered with poisonous thorns. On the branches sit hideous harpies, half woman, half bird. Each of these trees contains the soul of a suicide. Dante, breaking off a small branch, is horrified to see human blood slowly ooze from the break, and a hissing noise like escaping steam, which resolves itself finally into words. From these he learns that the soul contained in this tree is that of Pier delle Vigne, prime minister of Frederick II., who tells his sad and pathetic story, how he became the victim of slander and court intrigue, and how, being unjustly imprisoned by his master, he committed suicide.

Beyond this gruesome forest the wanderers come out upon a vast sandy desert, utterly treeless, where they see many wretched souls, some lying supine, some crouching down in a sitting posture, some walking incessantly about, all, however, forever trying, but in vain, to ward off from their naked bodies countless flakes of flame which fall slowly and steadily like snow

"On Alpine summits, when the wind is hushed."

Here are punished the blasphemers, violent against God; usurers, violent against art; and sodomites, violent against nature. Among the latter Dante recognizes and converses with his old friend, Brunetto Latini, who prophesies to him his future fame and his exile from Florence:

"'If thou,' he answer'd, 'follow but thy star,
Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven;
Unless in fairer days my judgment erred.
And if my fate so early had not chanced,
Seeing the heavens thus bounteous to thee, I
Had gladly given thee comfort in thy work.
But that ungrateful and malignant race,
Who in old times came down from Fiesole,[12]
Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,
Will for thy good deeds show thee enmity.'"

To which the poet answers with noble courage:

"This only would I have thee clearly note:
That, so my conscience have no plea against me,
Do Fortune as she list, I stand prepared,
Not new or strange such earnest to my ear.
Speed Fortune then her wheel, as likes her best;
The clown his mattock; all things have their course."

The poets then descend the tremendous cliff leading to circle eight, on the back of Geryon, a fantastic monster, with face of a good man, but body of a beast, many-colored and covered over with complicated figures, being a symbol of the fraud punished in the next circle. This is subdivided into ten concentric rings, or ditches, with the floor gradually descending to a well in the center, thus resembling the circular rows of seats in an amphitheater, converging to the arena. In these ten malebolge, as Dante calls them—i. e., evil pits—are ten different kinds of fraudulent, panderers, flatterers, those guilty of simony, false prophets, magicians, thieves, barterers (those who sell public offices), evil counselors, schismatics, and hypocrites, all punished with diabolic ingenuity, hewn asunder by the sword, boiled in lakes of burning pitch, bitten by poisonous snakes, wasted by dire and hideous disease. As an example of the horrors seen in these evil pits we give one vivid picture, that of the famous Troubadour Bertrand de Born, who, having incited the young son of Henry II., of England, to rebel against his father, is punished in hell by having his head cut off and carrying it in his hand:

"But I there
Still lingered to behold the troop, and saw
Thing, such as I may fear without more proof
To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,
The boon companion, who her strong breastplate
Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within,
And bids him on and fear not. Without doubt
I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,
A headless trunk, that even as the rest
Of the sad flock paced onward. By the hair
It bore the severed member, lantern-wise
Pendent in hand, which look'd at us and said,
'Woe's me!' The spirit lighted thus himself;
And two there were in one, and one in two.
How that may be, he knows who ordereth so.
"When at the bridge's foot direct he stood,
His arm aloft he reared, thrusting the head
Full in our view, that nearer we might hear
The words, which thus it utter'd: 'Now behold
This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st
To spy the dead: behold, if any else
Be terrible as this. And, that on earth
Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John
The counsel mischievous. Father and son
I set at mutual war. For Absalom
And David more did not Ahitophel,
Spurring them on maliciously to strife.
For parting those so closely knit, my brain
Parted, alas! I carry from its source,
That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law
Of retribution fiercely works in me.'"

In the eighth pit are the souls of evil counselors, so completely swathed in flames that their forms cannot be seen. Dante's attention is especially attracted to one of these moving flames, with a double-tipped point, which proves to contain the souls of Diomede and Ulysses, who, as they were together in fraud, are now inseparable in punishment. The story of his last voyage and final shipwreck, told by Ulysses, how in his old age, weary of the monotony of home life and longing to know the secret of the great Western ocean, he set sail with his old companions, is full of imaginative grandeur:

"Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn
Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire
That labors with the wind, then to and fro
Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds,
Threw out its voice, and spake: when I escaped
From Circe, who beyond a circling year
Had held me near Caieta by her charms,
Ere thus Æneas yet had named the shore;
Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
Of my old father, nor return of love,
That should have crowned Penelope with joy,
Could overcome in me the zeal I had
To explore the world, and search the ways of life,
Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sailed
Into the deep, illimitable main,
With but one bark, and the small faithful band
That yet cleaved to me. As Iberia far,
Far as Marocco, either shore I saw,
And the Sardinian and each isle beside
Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age
Were I and my companions, when we came
To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain'd
The boundaries not to be o'erstepp'd by man
The walls of Seville to my right I left,
On the other hand already Ceuta past.
'O brothers!' I began, 'who to the West
Through perils without number now have reached;
To this the short remaining watch, that yet
Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof
Of the unpeopled world, following the track
Of Phœbus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang:
Ye were not formed to live the life of brutes,
But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.'
With these few words I sharpened for the voyage
The mind of my associates, that I then
Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn
Our poop we turned, and for the witless flight
Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left.
Each star of the other pole night now beheld,
And ours so low, that from the ocean floor
It rose not. Five times re-illumed, as oft
Vanish'd the light from underneath the moon,
Since the deep way we entered, when from far
Appear'd a mountain dim, loftiest methought
Of all I e'er beheld. Joy seized us straight;
But soon to mourning changed. From the new land
A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side
Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl'd her round
With all the waves; the fourth time lifted up
The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed:
And over us the booming billow closed."

In the center of the amphitheater of Malebolge is a deep and vast well, guarded by giants, one of whom takes the poets in his arms and deposits them at the bottom. Here they find the ninth and last circle, where in four divisions the traitors against relatives, friends, country, and benefactors, are fixed like flies in amber in a solid lake of ice, swept by bitter, cold winds. Among the traitors to their country Dante sees one man who is gnawing in relentless rage at the head of another fixed in the ice in front of him. Inquiring the cause of this terrible cruelty, Dante hears the following story, couched in language which Goethe has declared to be without an equal in all poetry:

"His jaws uplifting from their fell repast,
That sinner wiped them on the hairs o' the head,
Which he behind had mangled, then began:
'Thy will obeying, I call up afresh
Sorrow past cure; which, but to think of, wrings
My heart, or ere I tell on 't. But if words,
That I may utter, shall prove seed to bear
Fruit of eternal infamy to him,
The traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once
Shalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be
I know not, nor how here below art come:
But Florentine thou seemest of a truth,
When I do hear thee. Know, I was on earth
Count Ugolino, and the Archbishop he
Ruggieri. Why I neighbor him so close,
Now list. That through effect of his ill thoughts
In him my trust reposing, I was ta'en
And after murdered, need is not I tell.
What therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,
How cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,
And know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate
Within that mew, which for my sake the name
Of famine bears, where others yet must pine,
Already through its opening several moons
Had shown me, when I slept the evil sleep
That from the future tore the curtain off.
This one, methought, as master of the sport,
Rode forth to chase the gaunt wolf, and his whelps,
Unto the mountain which forbids the sight
Of Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs
Inquisitive and keen, before him ranged
Lanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.
After short course the father and the sons
Seemed tired and lagging, and methought I saw
The sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke,
Before the dawn, amid their sleep I heard
My sons (for they were with me) weep and ask
For bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang
Thou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;
And if not now, why use thy tears to flow?
Now had they wakened; and the hour drew near
When they were wont to bring us food; the mind
Of each misgave him through his dream, and I
Heard, at its outlet underneath locked up
The horrible tower: whence, uttering not a word,
I look'd upon the visage of my sons.
I wept not: so all stone I felt within.
They wept: and one, my little Anselm, cried,
"Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?" Yet
I shed no tear, nor answered all that day
Nor the next night, until another sun
Came out upon the world. When a faint beam
Had to our doleful prison made its way,
And in four countenances I descried
The image of my own, on either hand
Through agony I bit; and they, who thought
I did it through desire of feeding, rose
O' the sudden, and cried, "Father, we should grieve
Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gavest
These weeds of miserable flesh we wear;
And do thou strip them off from us again."
Then, not to make them sadder, I kept down
My spirit in stillness. That day and the next
We all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!
Why open'dst not upon us? When we came
To the fourth day, then Gaddo at my feet
Outstretched did fling him, crying, "Hast no help
For me, my father!" There he died; and e'en
Plainly as thou seest me, saw I the three
Fall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth:
Whence I betook me, now grown blind, to grope
Over them all, and for three days aloud
Called on them who were dead. Then, fasting got
The mastery of grief.' Thus having spoke,
Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth
He fasten'd like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone,
Firm and unyielding. Oh, thou Pisa! shame
Of all the people, who their dwelling make
In that fair region, where the Italian voice
Is heard; since that thy neighbors are so slack
To punish, from their deep foundations rise
Capraia and Gorgona,[13] and dam up
The mouth of Arno; that each soul in thee
May perish in the waters. What if fame
Reported that thy castles were betrayed
By Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou
To stretch his children on the rack. For them,
Brigata, Uguccione, and the pair
Of gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,
Their tender years, thou modern Thebes, did make
Uncapable of guilt. Onward we passed,
Where others, skarfed in rugged folds of ice.
Not on their feet were turned, but each reversed."

Arriving at the very bottom of hell, the poets see the body of Lucifer fixed in the center thereof (which is at the same time the center of earth and of the universe), with its upper part projecting into the freezing air. This monstrous figure, as hideous now as it had been beautiful before his revolt against God, has three pairs of wings and three heads, in the mouths of which he tears to pieces the three arch-traitors, Judas, Brutus, and Cassius.

The wanderers climb along the hairy sides of Lucifer and finally reach a cavity which corresponds to the lowest part of hell, and up into which are thrust the legs of the monster. They have thus passed the center of earth and are now in the other or southern hemisphere. Making their way upward along the course of a stream they finally come out into the open air, where the mount of purgatory rises sheer up from the surface of the great southern sea.

The first cantos of Purgatory are of wonderful beauty, and their loveliness is heightened by contrast, coming as it does after the darkness, filth, and horrors of hell. Issuing from the subterranean passage just before sunrise, the poets see before them a vast expanse of sea, lighted up by the soft rays of Venus, the morning star, and gradually becoming brighter as the dawn advances:

"Sweet hue of eastern sapphire, that was spread
O'er the serene aspect of the pure air,
High up as the first circle, to mine eyes
Unwonted joy renew'd, soon as I 'scaped
Forth from the atmosphere of deadly gloom,
That had mine eyes and bosom fill'd with grief.
The radiant planet, that to love invites,
Made all the Orient laugh, and veiled beneath
The Pisces' light, that in his escort came.
"To the right hand I turned, and fixed my mind
On the other pole attentive, where I saw
Four stars ne'er seen before save by the ken
Of our first parents. Heaven of their rays
Seemed joyous. O thou northern site! bereft
Indeed, and widowed, since of these deprived."

As they stand watching this scene, a venerable old man (Cato, the guardian of the island) approaches and tells them to go to the seashore and wipe off the stains of hell with the reeds that grow there:

"The dawn had chased the matin hour of prime,
Which fled before it, so that from afar
I spied the trembling of the ocean stream.
"We traversed the deserted plain, as one
Who, wandered from his track, thinks every step
Trodden in vain till he regain the path.
"When we had come where yet the tender dew
Strove with the sun, and in a place where fresh
The wind breathed o'er it, while it slowly dried;
Both hands extended on the watery grass
My master placed, in graceful act and kind.
Whence I of his intent before apprized,
Stretched out to him my cheeks suffused with tears.
There to my visage he anew restored
That hue which the dun shades of hell concealed.
"Then on the solitary shore arrived,
That never sailing on its waters saw
Man that could after measure back his course,
He girt me in such manner as had pleased
Him who instructed; and O strange to tell!
As he selected every humble plant,
Wherever one was plucked another there
Resembling, straightway in its place arose."

As they linger by the seaside, they suddenly see a bright light far off over the waters, which, as it approaches nearer, turns out to be a boat wafted by angelic wings and bearing to purgatory the souls of the saved, among them a musician, a friend of Dante's who at his request, sings one of the poet's own songs:

"Meanwhile we lingered by the water's brink,
Like men, who, musing on their road, in thought
Journey, while motionless the body rests.
When lo! as, near upon the hour of dawn,
Through the thick vapors Mars with fiery beam
Glares down in west, over the ocean floor;
So seemed, what once again I hope to view,
A light, so swiftly coming through the sea,
No winged course might equal its career.
From which when for a space I had withdrawn
Mine eyes, to make inquiry of my guide,
Again I looked, and saw it grown in size
And brightness: then on either side appeared
Something, but what I knew not, of bright hue,
And by degrees from underneath it came
Another. My preceptor silent yet
Stood, while the brightness, that we first discerned,
Opened the form of wings: then when he knew
The pilot, cried aloud, 'Down, down; bend low
Thy knees; behold God's angel: fold thy hands:
Now shalt thou see true ministers indeed.
Lo! how all human means he sets at nought;
So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail
Except his wings, between such distant shores.
Lo! how straight up to heaven he holds them reared,
Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes,
That not like mortal hairs fall off or change.'
"As more and more toward us came, more bright
Appeared the bird of God, nor could the eye
Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down.
He drove ashore in a small bark so swift
And light, that in its course no wave it drank.
The heavenly steersman at the prow was seen,
Visibly written Blessed in his looks.
Within, a hundred spirits and more there sat.
"'In Exitu Israel de Egypto,'
All with one voice together sang, with what
In the remainder of that hymn is writ.
Then soon as with the sign of holy cross
He blessed them, they at once leaped out on land:
He, swiftly as he came, returned. The crew,
There left, appear'd astounded with the place,
Gazing around, as one who sees new sights.
"From every side the sun darted his beams,
And with his arrowy radiance from mid heaven
Had chased the Capricorn, when that strange tribe,
Lifting their eyes toward us: 'If ye know,
Declare what path will lead us to the mount.'
"Them Vergil answered: 'Ye suppose, perchance,
Us well acquainted with this place: but here,
We, as yourselves, are strangers. Not long erst
We came, before you but a little space,
By other road so rough and hard, that now
The ascent will seem to us as play.' The spirits,
Who from my breathing had perceived I lived,
Grew pale with wonder. As the multitude
Flock round a herald sent with olive branch,
To hear what news he brings, and in their haste
Tread one another down; e'en so at sight
Of me those happy spirits were fixed, each one
Forgetful of its errand to depart
Where, cleansed from sin, it might be made all fair.
"Then one I saw darting before the rest
With such fond ardor to embrace me, I
To do the like was moved. O shadows vain!
Except in outward semblance: thrice my hands
I clasped behind it, they as oft return'd
Empty into my breast again. Surprise
I need must think was painted in my looks,
For that the shadow smiled and backward drew.
To follow it I hastened, but with voice
Of sweetness it enjoined me to desist.
Then who it was I knew, and pray'd of it,
To talk with me it would a little pause.
It answered: 'Thee as in my mortal frame
I loved, so loosed from it I love thee still,
And therefore pause: but why walkest thou here?'
"'Not without purpose once more to return,
Thou find'st me, my Casella, where I am,
Journeying this way;' I said: 'but how of thee
Hath so much time been lost?' He answered straight
"'No outrage hath been done to me, if he,
Who when and whom he chooses takes, hath oft
Denied me passage here; since of just will
His will he makes. These three months past indeed,
He, whoso chose to enter, with free leave
Hath taken; whence I wandering by the shore
Where Tiber's wave grows salt, of him gain'd kind
Admittance, at that river's mouth, toward which
His wings are pointed; for there always throng
All such as not to Acheron descend.'
"Then I: '"If new law taketh not from thee
Memory or custom of love-tuned song,
That whilom all my cares had power to 'swage:
Please thee therewith a little to console
My spirit, that encumber'd with its frame,
Traveling so far, of pain is overcome.'
"'Love, that discourses in my thoughts,' he then
Began in such soft accents, that within
The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide,
And all who came with him, so well were pleased,
That seemed nought else might in their thoughts have room.
"Fast fixed in mute attention to his notes
We stood, when lo! that old man venerable
Exclaiming, 'How is this, ye tardy spirits?
What negligence detains you loitering here?
Run to the mountain to cast off those scales,
That from your eyes the sight of God conceal.'
"As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food
Collected, blade or tares, without their pride
Accustomed, and in still and quiet sort,
If aught alarm them, suddenly desert
Their meal, assailed by more important care;
So I that new-come troop beheld, the song
Deserting, hasten to the mountain side,
As one who goes, yet, where he tends, knows not.
Nor with less hurried step did we depart."

Thus rebuked by Cato for delaying, even thus innocently, their first duty, which is to purge away their sins, the company of spirits breaks up and Dante and Vergil make their way to the mountain of purgatory, which lifts its seven terraces almost perpendicularly from the sea.

Before reaching the first of these terraces, however, they pass over a steep and rocky slope, ante-purgatory, as it may be called, where linger the souls of those who, although saved, neglected their repentance till late in life, or who died in contumacy with Holy Church. Among the latter Dante sees Manfred, the unfortunate son of Frederick II.,

"Comely and fair and gentle of aspect,"

who was slain at Benevento, in 1266; and likewise Buonconte da Montefeltro, who was killed in the battle of Campaldino (1289), and whose account of the post-mortem fate of his body is singularly impressive; "There is nothing like it in literature," says Ruskin:

"I thus:
'From Campaldino's field what force or chance
Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?'
"'Oh!' answered he, 'at Casentino's foot
A stream there courseth, named Archiano, sprung
In Apennine above the hermit's seat.
E'en where its name is cancel'd, there came I,
Pierced in the throat, fleeing away on foot,
And bloodying the plain. Here sight and speech
Fail'd me; and, finishing with Mary's name,
I fell, and tenantless my flesh remain'd.
I will report the truth; which thou again
Tell to the living. Me God's angel took,
Whilst he of hell exclaimed: "O thou from heaven:
Say wherefore hast thou robb'd me? Thou of him
The eternal portion bear'st with thee away,
For one poor tear that he deprives me of.
But of the other, other rule I make."
"'Thou know'st how in the atmosphere collects
That vapor dank, returning into water
Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it.
That evil will, which in his intellect
Still follows evil, came; and raised the wind
And smoky mist, by virtue of the power
Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon
As day was spent, he covered o'er with cloud,
From Pratomagno to the mountain range;
And stretched the sky above; so that the air
Impregnate changed to water. Fell the rain;
And to the fosses came all that the land
Contained not; and, as mightiest streams are wont,
To the great river, with such headlong sweep,
Rushed, that nought stayed its course. My stiffened frame
Laid at his mouth, the fell Archiano found,
And dashed it into Arno; from my breast
Loosening the cross, that of myself I made
When overcome with pain. He hurled me on,
Along the banks and bottom of his course;
Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt."

After leaving Buonconte, Dante and Vergil make their way upward and finally come across the spirit of Sordello, the famous troubadour, a native of Mantua and thus a fellow citizen of Vergil. The cordiality with which they greet each other gives Dante an opportunity to vent his indignation at the discord existing in Italy:

"Ah, slavish Italy! thou inn of grief!
Vessel without a pilot in loud storm!
Lady no longer of fair provinces,
But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,
Even from the pleasant sound of his dear land
Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen
With such glad cheer: while now thy living ones
In thee abide not without war; and one
Malicious gnaws another; aye, of those
Whom the same wall and the same moat contains.
Seek, wretched one! around thy seacoasts wide;
Then homeward to thy bosom turn; and mark,
If any part of thee sweet peace enjoy.
What boots it, that thy reins Justinian's hand
Refitted, if thy saddle be unprest?
Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame.
Ah, people! thou obedient still shouldst live,
And in the saddle let thy Cæsar sit,
If well thou marked'st that which God commands."

As night is now coming on, during which upward progress cannot be made, Sordello conducts Dante and Vergil to a pleasant valley:

"Betwixt the steep and plain, a crooked path
Led us traverse into the ridge's side,
Where more than half the sloping edge expires.
Refulgent gold, and silver thrice refined,
And scarlet grain and ceruse, Indian wood
Of lucid dye serene, fresh emeralds
But newly broken, by the herbs and flowers
Placed in that fair recess, in color all
Had been surpassed, as great surpasses less.
Nor nature only there lavish'd her hues.
But of the sweetness of a thousand smells
A rare and undistinguished fragrance made.
"'Salve Regina,' on the grass and flowers,
Here chanting, I beheld those spirits sit,
Who not beyond the valley could be seen."

Here Sordello points out the souls of mighty princes who left deep traces in the history of the times, among them the Emperor Rudolph of Germany, Peter of Aragon, Philip III. of France, and

"The king of simple life and plain,"

Henry III. of England. The scene that follows is one of the most celebrated, as well as beautiful in the Divine Comedy:

"Now was the hour that wakens fond desire
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart
Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell,
And pilgrim newly on his road with love
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day:
When I, no longer taking heed to hear,
Began, with wonder, from those spirits to mark
One risen from its seat, which with its hand
Audience implored. Both palms it joined and raised,
Fixing its steadfast gaze toward the east,
As telling God, 'I care for nought beside.'
"'Te Lucis Ante,' so devoutly then
Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain,
That all my sense in ravishment was lost.
And the rest after, softly and devout,
Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze
Directed to the bright supernal wheels.
"I saw that gentle band silently next
Look up, as if in expectation held,
Pale and in lowly guise; and, from on high,
I saw, forth issuing descend beneath,
Two angels, with two flame-illumined swords,
Broken and mutilated of their points.
Green as the tender leaves but newly born,
Their vesture was, the which, by wings as green
Beaten, they drew behind them, fanned in air.
A little over us one took his stand;
The other lighted on the opposing hill;
So that the troop were in the midst contained.
Well I descried the whiteness on their heads;
But in their visages the dazzled eye
Was lost, as faculty that by too much
Is overpowered. 'From Mary's bosom both
Are come,' exclaimed Sordello, 'as a guard
Over the vale, 'gainst him, who hither tends,
The serpent.' Whence not knowing by which path
He came, I turned me round; and closely pressed
All frozen, to my leader's trusted side."
"My insatiate eyes
Meanwhile to heaven had traveled, even there
Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel
Nearest the axle: When my guide inquired:
'What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?'
"I answered: 'The three torches, with which here
The pole is all on fire.' He then to me:
'The four resplendent stars, thou saw'st this morn,
Are there beneath; and these, risen in their stead.'
"While yet he spoke, Sordello to himself
Drew him, and cried: 'Lo there our enemy!'
And with his hand pointed that way to look.
"Along the side, where barrier none arose
Around the little vale, a serpent lay,
Such haply as gave Eve the bitter food,
Between the grass and flowers, the evil snake
Came on, reverting oft his lifted head;
And, as a beast that smooths its polished coat,
Licking his back. I saw not, nor can tell,
How those celestial falcons from their seat
Moved, but in motion each one well descried.
Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes,
The serpent fled; and, to their stations, back
The angels up return'd with equal flight."

After conversing with several friends whom he meets here, Dante falls asleep and is carried thus unconscious by Lucia (symbol of divine grace) to the gate of purgatory proper. When he awakes the sun is two hours high. Three steps lead to the gate, one dark and broken, symbol of a "broken and a contrite heart"; one of smooth, white marble, symbol of confession; and one purple, repentance. On the threshold of diamond (the immovable foundation of Holy Church) sits an angel with a sword and two keys; with the former he cuts seven P's on Dante's forehead (the Latin word for sin, peccatum), and with the latter he opens the gate, which as it swings open sends forth a sound of heavenly music:

"Attentively I turned,
Listening the thunder that first issued forth;
And 'We praise thee, O God,' methought I heard,
In accents blended with sweet melody.
The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound
Of choral voices, that in solemn chant
With organ mingle, and, now high and clear
Come swelling, now float indistinct away."

In Terrace I. are punished the proud, crushed beneath enormous weights. On the side of the mountain wall are sculptured wonderful bas-reliefs, representing examples of humility; especially famous is the one which tells the story of Trajan's justice, a story which led Pope Gregory to make a prayer to God, who granted it, for the release of the pagan emperor's soul from hell:

"There, was storied on the rock
The exalted glory of the Roman prince,
Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earn
His mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.
A widow at his bridle stood, attired
In tears and mourning. Round about them trooped
Full throng of knights; and overhead in gold
The eagles floated, struggling with the wind.
The wretch appeared amid all these to say:
'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,
My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:
'Wait now till I return.' And she, as one
Made hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thou
Dost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,
May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,
If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee;'
At length he answers. 'It beseemeth well
My duty be perform'd, ere I move hence:
So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'
"He whose ken nothing new surveys, produced
That visible speaking, new to us and strange,
The like not found on earth. Fondly I gazed
Upon those patterns of meek humbleness,
Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake."

Farther on in the same terrace they see similar sculptures representing examples of punished pride, such as the fall of Lucifer, and the destruction of Niobe. In each of the following terraces these examples of sin and the opposite virtue are given, represented, however, by various means.

Among the proud, Dante sees the miniature painter, Oderisi of Adubbio, who pronounces those words on the vanity of earthly fame, which have been proverbial:

"The noise
Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind,
That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,
Shifting the point it blows from.

"Your renown
Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;
And his[14] might withers it, by whom it sprang
Crude from the lap of earth."

Passing through Terrace II., where the envious sit sadly against the rocky wall, with their eye-lids sewn together, and Terrace III., where the wrathful are shrouded in a black, stifling mist, the poets reach Terrace IV., where the slothful are punished. Here Vergil explains the apparent paradox that love is the root of all evil as well as good. Love, he says, is the desire for something; desire for those things which harm others—i. e., love for evil, produces pride, envy, and wrath. These are punished in the first three terraces. Insufficient desire or love for that which is good—i. e., God—is punished in Terrace IV., that of the "slothful in well-doing"; excessive desire for merely earthly things, which are not evil in themselves, but only in their excess, produces avarice, gluttony, and licentiousness; these are punished in the last three terraces.

Ascending now to Terrace V., Dante sees the souls of Pope Adrian, and Hugh Capet, founder of the long dynasty of the kings of France, who gives a brief but admirable summary of the development of the monarchy in France. As they are walking along this terrace, suddenly a mighty earthquake shakes the whole mountain, and while Dante is still filled with amazement and dread at this strange phenomenon, they are overtaken by the spirit of Statius, who explains the cause of the earthquake, telling how, when a soul has been completely purged of its sins, and the time of its redemption has arrived, it rises spontaneously from its place, and joyfully makes its way toward the heavens above, while the whole mountain rejoices with him, and the souls along the slope above and below cry out: "Glory to God in the highest!"

Statius now accompanies Dante and Vergil and all three mount to Terrace VI., where the gluttons are punished, being worn to skin and bone by hunger and thirst, which are only increased by the sight of waterfalls and trees laden with fruit. The last terrace is swathed in flames of fire, within which move about the licentious. Here Dante sees many famous poets and greets with especial joy Guido Guinicelli of Bologna, who he says:

"Was a father to me, and to those
My betters, who have ever used the sweet
And pleasant rhymes of love."

Through this wall of living flame, Dante, too, must pass before he can reach the summit of purgatory. His spirit, indeed, is willing, but his flesh is weak; he hesitates long before daring to enter the fiery furnace. Vergil urges him on in the tenderest manner:

"The escorting spirits turned with gentle looks
Toward me; and the Mantuan spake: 'My son,
Here torment thou mayst feel, but canst not death.
Remember thee, remember thee, if I
Safe e'en on Geryon brought thee; now I come
More near to God, wilt thou not trust me now?
Of this be sure; though in its womb that flame
A thousand years contained thee, from thy head
No hair should perish. If thou doubt my truth,
Approach; and with thy hands thy vesture's hem
Stretch forth, and for thyself confirm belief.
Lay now all fear, oh! lay all fear aside.
Turn hither, and come onward undismayed.'
"I still, though conscience urged, no step advanced.
"When still he saw me fixed and obstinate,
Somewhat disturb'd he cried: 'Mark now, my son,
From Beatrice thou art by this wall
Divided.' As at Thisbe's name the eye
Of Pyramus was open'd (when life ebbed
Fast from his veins), and took one parting glance,
While vermeil dyed the mulberry; thus I turned
To my sage guide, relenting, when I heard
The name that springs forever in my breast.
"He shook his forehead; and, 'How long,' he said,
'Linger we now?' then smiled, as one would smile
Upon a child that eyes the fruit and yields.
Into the fire before me then he walked;
And Statius, who erewhile no little space
Had parted us, he prayed to come behind.
"I would have cast me into molten glass
To cool me, when I entered; so intense
Raged the conflagrant mass. The sire beloved,
To comfort me, as he proceeded, still
Of Beatrice talked. 'Her eyes,' saith he,
'E'en now I seem to view.' From the other side
A voice, that sang did guide us; and the voice
Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth,
There where the path led upward. 'Come,' we heard,
'Come, blessed of my father.' Such the sounds
That hailed us from within a light; which shone
So radiant, I could not endure the view."

Above this last terrace stretches out the lovely earthly paradise, but before the poets can reach it night comes on, and Dante sleeps on the steps, guarded by Vergil and Statius, as a flock is watched over by its shepherd. The passage which describes this scene, and Dante's vision, is a beautiful one:

"Each of us had made
A stair his pallet; not that will, but power,
Had failed us, by the nature of that mount
Forbidden further travel. As the goats
That late have skipt and wanton'd rapidly
Upon the craggy cliffs, ere they had ta'en
Their supper on the herb, now silent lie
And ruminate beneath the umbrage brown,
While noon-day rages; and the goatherd leans
Upon his staff, and leaning watches them:
And as the swain, that lodges out all night
In quiet by his flock, lest beast of prey
Disperse them: even so all three abode;
I as a goat, and as the shepherds they,
Close pent on either side by shelving rock.
"A little glimpse of sky was seen above;
Yet by that little I beheld the stars,
In magnitude and lustre shining forth
With more than wonted glory. As I lay,
Gazing on them, and in that fit of musing
Sleep overcame me, sleep, that bringeth oft
Tidings of future hap. About the hour,
As I believe, when Venus from the east
First lighten'd on the mountain, she whose orb
Seems alway glowing with the fire of love,
A lady young and beautiful, I dreamed,
Was passing o'er a lea; and, as she came,
Methought I saw her ever and anon
Bending to cull the flowers; and thus she sang:
'Know ye, whoever of my name would ask,
That I am Leah:[15] for my brow to weave
A garland, these fair hands unwearied ply.
To please me at the crystal mirror, here
I deck me. But my sister Rachel, she
Before her glass abides the livelong day
Her radiant eyes beholding, charmed no less,
Than I with this delightful task. Her joy
In contemplation, as in labor mine.'
"And now as glimmering dawn appeared, that breaks
More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he
Sojourns less distant on his homeward way,
Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled
My slumber; whence I rose, and saw my guide
Already risen. 'That delicious fruit,
Which through so many a branch the zealous care
Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day
Appease thy hunger.' Such the words I heard
From Vergil's lip; and never greeting heard,
So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight
Desire so grew upon desire to mount,
Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings
Increasing for my flight. When we had run
O'er all the ladder to its topmost round,
As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fixed
His eyes, and thus he spake: 'Both fires, my son,
The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen;
And art arrived, where of itself my ken
No further reaches. I, with skill and art,
Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take
For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way,
O'ercome the straiter. Lo! the sun, that darts
His beam upon thy forehead: lo! the herb,
The arborets and flowers, which of itself
This land pours forth profuse. Till those bright eyes
With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste
To succor thee, thou mayst or seat thee down,
Or wander where thou wilt.'"

Thus Dante, having been led by reason (represented by Vergil) to purge himself of sin and vice, is now to put himself under the guidance of heavenly wisdom (represented by Beatrice), by whom he is to visit the homes of the blessed. First, however, he lingers in the earthly paradise which forms the summit of purgatory, and sees strange sights before Beatrice reveals herself to him.

The descriptions of the landscape in the earthly paradise are of surpassing beauty and choice of quotation is exceedingly difficult. Only a few passages can be given here:

"Through that celestial forest, whose thick shade
With lively greenness the new-springing day
Attemper'd, eager now to roam, and search
Its limits round, forthwith I left the bank;
Along the champain leisurely my way
Pursuing, o'er the ground, that on all sides
Delicious odor breathed. A pleasant air,
That intermitted never, never veered,
Smote on my temples, gently, as a wind
Of softest influence: at which the sprays,
Obedient all, lean'd trembling to that part
Where first the holy mountain casts his shade;
Yet were not so disorder'd, but that still
Upon their top the feathered quiristers
Applied their wonted art, and with full joy
Welcomed those hours of prime, and warbled shrill
Amid the leaves, that to their jocund lays
Kept tenor; even as from branch to branch,
Along the piny forests on the shore
Of Chiassi,[16] rolls the gathering melody,
When Eolus hath from his cavern loosed
The dripping south. Already had my steps,
Though slow, so far into that ancient wood
Transported me, I could not ken the place
Where I had entered; when, behold! my path
Was bounded by a rill, which, to the left,
With little rippling waters bent the grass
That issued from its brink. On earth no wave,
How clean soe'er, that would not seem to have
Some mixture in itself, compared with this,
Transpicuous clear; yet darkly on it rolled,
Darkly beneath perpetual gloom, which ne'er
Admits or sun or moon-light there to shine.
"My feet advanced not; but my wondering eyes
Passed onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey
The tender may-bloom, flush'd through many a hue,
In prodigal variety: and there,
As object, rising suddenly to view,
That from our bosom every thought beside
With the rare marvel chases, I beheld
A lady all alone, who, singing, went,
And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way
Was all o'er painted. 'Lady beautiful!
Thou, who (if looks, that used to speak the heart,
Are worthy of our trust) with love's own beam
Dost warm thee,' thus to her my speech I framed;
'Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend
Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song.
Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks,
I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd
Proserpine, in that season, when her child
The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring.'
"As when a lady, turning in the dance,
Doth foot it featly, and advances scarce
One step before the other to the ground;
Over the yellow and vermilion flowers
Thus turned she at my suit, most maiden-like
Veiling her sober eyes; and came so near,
That I distinctly caught the dulcet sound.
Arriving where the limpid waters now
Laved the green swerd, her eyes she deigned to raise,
That shot such splendor on me, as I ween
Ne'er glanced from Cytherea's, when her son
Had sped his keenest weapon to her heart.
Upon the opposite bank she stood and smiled;
As through her graceful fingers shifted still
The intermingling dyes, which without seed
That lofty land unbosoms. By the stream
Three paces only were we sunder'd: yet,
The Hellespont, where Xerxes pass'd it o'er
(A curb forever to the pride of man),
Was by Leander not more hateful held
For floating, with inhospitable wave,
'Twixt Sestus and Abydos, than by me
That flood, because it gave no passage thence.
"'Strangers ye come; and haply in this place,
That cradled human nature in her birth,
Wondering, ye not without suspicion view
My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody,
"Thou, Lord! hast made me glad," will give ye light,
Which may uncloud your minds.

"Singing, as if enamored, she resumed
And closed the song, with 'Blessed they whose sins
Are covered.' Like the wood-nymphs then, that tripped
Singly across the sylvan shadows; one
Eager to view, and one to escape the sun;
So moved she on, against the current, up
The verdant rivage. I, her mincing step
Observing, with as tardy step pursued.
"Between us not an hundred paces trod,
The bank, on each side bending equally,
Gave me to face the Orient. Nor our way
Far onward brought us, when to me at once
She turned, and cried: 'My brother! look, and hearken.'
And lo! a sudden lustre ran across
Through the great forest on all parts, so bright,
I doubted whether lightning were abroad;
But that, expiring ever in the spleen
That doth unfold it, and this during still,
And waxing still in splendor, made me question
What it might be: and a sweet melody
Ran through the luminous air. Then did I chide,
With warrantable zeal, the hardihood
Of our first parent; for that there, where earth
Stood in obedience to the heavens, she only,
Woman, the creature of an hour, endured not
Restraint of any veil, which had she borne
Devoutly, joys, ineffable as these,
Had from the first, and long time since, been mine.
"While, through that wilderness of primy sweets
That never fade, suspense I walked, and yet
Expectant of beatitude more high;
Before us, like a blazing fire, the air
Under the green boughs glowed; and, for a song,
Distinct the sound of melody was heard."

The poet now beholds a mystical procession of strange and wonderful beasts, venerable old men, beautiful maidens dressed in red, white, green, and purple, all accompanying a chariot drawn by a griffin and representing the Church of Christ. On the chariot itself stands Beatrice.

"At the last audit, so
The blest shall rise, from forth his cavern each
Uplifting lightly his new-vested flesh;
As, on the sacred litter, at the voice
Authoritative of that elder, sprang
A hundred ministers and messengers
Of life eternal. 'Blessed thou, who comest!'
And, 'Oh!' they cried, 'from full hands scatter ye
Unwithering lilies:' and, so saying, cast
Flowers over head and round them on all sides.
"I have beheld, ere now, at break of day,
The eastern clime all roseate; and the sky
Opposed, one deep and beautiful serene;
And the sun's face so shaded, and with mists
Attempered, at his rising, that the eye
Long while endured the sight: thus, in a cloud
Of flowers, that from those hands angelic rose,
And down within and outside of the car
Fell showering, in white veil with olive wreathed,
A virgin in my view appeared, beneath
Green mantle, robed in hue of living flame.
And o'er my spirit, that so long a time
Had from her presence felt no shuddering dread,
Albeit mine eyes discerned her not, there moved
A hidden virtue from her, at whose touch
The power of ancient love was strong within me."

After Beatrice has rebuked Dante for his wayward conduct in life, and he repents in bitter tears, he is led by Matilda to the streams of Lethe and Eunoe, and bathing therein, is made "pure and apt for mounting to the stars."

As we have already seen, the paradise of Dante is composed of nine spheres enclosed by the Empyrean, which itself is boundless, and is the seat of the Godhead, surrounded by the celestial hierarchy of seraphim, cherubim, thrones, dominions, virtues, powers, principalities, archangels, and angels. The blessed are here arranged on seats in the form of a rose, surrounding a lake of liquid light, in which they, gazing, see all the fulness of the glory of God. These souls, however, by a mystical virtue of ubiquity, are likewise seen by Dante in the various heavens through which he, with Beatrice, passes, and manifest themselves to him in various forms of light, flames, flashes, sparkles, or shapes made of fiery particles. The souls of the blessed, which are thus distributed over the nine heavens, have varying degrees of felicity. Thus, in the first heaven—that of the moon—Piccarda, sister of Corso Donati, appears to Dante, faint and dim in that tenuous atmosphere, as a "pearl set on a white forehead," and tells him how, having been forced by her brother to break her vows as a nun, and not having shown tenacity of purpose in opposing his tyranny, she now occupies the lowest sphere of Paradise. Yet this she does with perfect content and happiness, since such is the will of God, for, she says, to quote that one incomparable line, as Matthew Arnold calls it:

"In la sua voluntade è nostra pace."
(In His will is our peace.)

Rising from heaven to heaven with Beatrice, Dante passes through Mercury and Venus, in the former of which are the souls of Christians who sought with over-much zeal for earthly glory, and in the latter those who were inclined too much to mere human love, and finally reaches the sun, where he sees the great doctors of theology. Here Saint Thomas Aquinas, a Dominican himself, tells in beautiful language the story of St. Francis of Assisi and the establishment of his order; while the Franciscan, St. Bonaventura, with the same exquisite courtesy, tells the story of St. Dominic.

In Mars, Dante sees the souls of Christian martyrs and warriors, many of whom form themselves before the eyes of the poet into a wonderful cross of roseate light, flashing in countless splendors. Here, as we have already seen, he meets and converses with his ancestor, Cacciaguida. In Saturn the poet beholds a wonderful ladder of light, with spirits mounting and descending upon it, a ladder such as

"Crowded with angels unnumbered
By Jacob was seen as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night."

Here Peter Damian tells of the mystery of predestination, and St. Benedict describes the founding of his order at Montecassino.

In the heaven of the fixed stars Dante beholds the triumph of Christ:

"Short space ensued; I was not held, I say,
Long in expectance, when I saw the heaven
Wax more and more resplendent; and, 'Behold,'
Cried Beatrice, 'the triumphal hosts
Of Christ, and all the harvest gathered in,
Made ripe by these revolving spheres.' Meseemed,
That, while she spake, her image all did burn;
And in her eyes such fulness was of joy,
As I am fain to pass unconstrued by.
"As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles,
In peerless beauty, 'mid the eternal nymphs,
That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound;
In bright preëminence so saw I there
O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew
Their radiance, as from ours the starry train:
And, through the living light, so lustrous glowed
The substance, that my ken endured it not.

"Prompt I heard
Her bidding, and encountered once again
The strife of aching vision. As, erewhile,
Through glance of sunlight, streamed through broken cloud,
Mine eyes a flower-besprinkled mead have seen;
Though veiled themselves in shade: so saw I there
Legions of splendors, on whom burning rays
Shed lightnings from above; yet saw I not
The fountain whence they flowed. O gracious virtue!
Thou, whose broad stamp is on them, higher up
Thou didst exalt thy glory, to give room
To my o'erlabored sight; when at the name
Of that fair flower, whom duly I invoke
Both morn and eve, my soul with all her might
Collected, on the goodliest ardor fix'd.
And, as the bright dimensions of the star
In heaven excelling, as once here on earth,
Were, in my eyeballs livelily portrayed;
Lo! from within the sky a cresset fell,
Circling in fashion of a diadem;
And girt the star; and, hovering, round it wheel'd.
"Whatever melody sounds sweetest here,
And draws the spirit most unto itself,
Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder;
Compared unto the sounding of that lyre,
Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays
The floor of heaven was crown'd. 'Angelic Love
I am, who thus with hovering flight enwheel
The lofty rapture from that womb inspired.
Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so,
Lady of Heaven! will hover; long as thou
Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy
Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere.'
"Such close was to the circling melody:
And, as it ended, all the other lights
Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name.
"The robe,[17] that with its regal folds enwraps
The world, and with the nearer breath of God
Doth burn and quiver, held so far retired
Its inner hem and skirting over us,
That yet no glimmer of its majesty
Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes
Unequal to pursue the crowned flame,
That towering rose, and sought the seed it bore.
And like to babe that stretches forth its arms
For very eagerness toward the breast,
After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd
Their wavy summits all the fervent band,
Through zealous love to Mary: then, in view,
There halted; and 'Regina Cœli' sang
So sweetly, the delight hath left me never."

After the passing away of this glorious vision Dante is examined as to his faith by St. Peter, his hope by St. James, and his love by St. John; then being found worthy of being admitted into the presence of God, he rises to the Empyrean, beholds the Blessed Rose, where are seated the saints of all ages, and finally catches an instantaneous glimpse of the glory and mystery of the Trinity. In this supreme vision his desires find full fruition, and his spirit, overcome by the overwhelming glory of the Godhead, fails him, and thus his vision comes to an end,

"Here vigor failed the towering fantasy:
But yet the will rolled onward, like a wheel
In even motion, by the love impell'd,
That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars."

Such is the Divine Comedy of Dante, which has won the undying admiration of all great minds from the poet's own time down to the present. It would lead us too far to go into a detailed analysis of its greatness here, but with one consent men like Carlyle, Ruskin, Gladstone, Browning, and Tennyson in England; Tholuck, Witte, and Kraus, in Germany; Longfellow and Lowell in America, attribute the title of supreme genius to this poem.

The Divine Comedy is universal in its compass, containing the elements of dramatic, epic, and lyric poetry; full of sublime imaginations, touching and pathetic episodes, and not deficient even in humor, grotesque at times, but often of a strangely sweet and tender nature. The language is astonishingly simple and concise, and invariably represents the thought of the poet with absolute truth and fidelity. We find in this wonderfully condensed poem no mere epithets, no mere arabesques of style such as adorn the lesser thoughts of lesser men. Each word is in its right place. "It is amazing," says Ruskin, "how every word, almost every syllable, reveals new meanings the more we study them." The metaphors of Dante are especially famous, for the most part simple and drawn from everyday life, yet unexcelled in beauty and especially in their perfect and complete adaptation to the point they are meant to illustrate. Such are those of the old tailor threading his needle, the sheep leaving the fold in huddling groups, the fish disappearing from view in the depths of clear water, and the pearl faintly discernible on a white forehead.

Above all, the personality of the author lends a dramatic interest to the poem and exercises a fascination on the reader. As Lowell says, "The man behind the verse is far greater than the verse itself."[18] In the midst of the wonderful landscapes of his own creation, dark and terrible, soft and beautiful, he walks among the men and woman of all ages; he talks to them and hears their stories of half-forgotten crimes and tragedies; he brands them with infamy or sets upon their brows the wreath of praise. It is his love for Beatrice—now become the symbol of spiritual life—which leads him through the realms of sin over the steep rocks of Purgatory to the glory ineffable of God.

Completely a man of his age, Dante incorporates into the Divine Comedy all its science and learning, its theology, philosophy, astronomy, use of classical authors, way of looking at the insignificance of the present life in comparison with the life to come. All these things have still a distinct medieval stamp. Yet Dante is at the same time the most original of poets. It is his mighty individuality which, rising above the conventionality of his age and country, has made him a world-poet, as true to-day as ever in his depiction of the human heart in all its sin and sorrow, virtue, and vice, in its love and hate and its inextinguishable aspiration toward a better and happier existence in the world beyond the grave.

SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

Visionary journeys to the unseen world in the Middle Ages—How Dante differs from them—The Ptolemaic system—Year of Dante's supposed journey—Entrance to Hell—Souls of the Ignoble—Limbo and the Unbaptized—Circle II and the Licentious—III and IV, Gluttons and Misers—V, The Styx—VI, Heretics—VII, The Violent: River of blood, Wood of Suicides, Sandy Plain—VIII, The Fraudulent—IX, The Traitors. Purgatory and its seven terraces—The Earthly Paradise—The Supreme Vision—Characteristic features of the Divine Comedy—Its beauty and greatness.

1. Did Dante invent the framework of the Divine Comedy?

2. Give briefly the Ptolemaic system of the universe.

3. How old was Dante when he is supposed to have begun his journey?

4. Give the various sins punished in the nine circles of Hell.

5. Who was Francesca da Rimini?

6. Mention some of the most famous passages in Dante's Hell.

7. Describe the scene before the gates of Dis.

8. What was the shape of Malebolge, and what kinds of sin were there punished?

9. Tell the story of the last voyage of Ulysses.

10. Describe the lowest circle of Hell.

11. Story of Ugolino and the Tower of Hunger.

12. Describe the appearance of Lucifer and the three arch-traitors.

13. Where is Purgatory situated?

14. Describe the scene on the seashore.

15. Who were Cato, Casella, Manfred, and Buonconte?

16. What souls are punished in Ante-Purgatory?

17. Describe the scene in the Valley of the Princes.

18. How does Dante reach the gate of Purgatory?

19. Name the various sins punished in the seven terraces of Purgatory.

20. Describe the Earthly Paradise.

21. What happens to Dante there?

22. Name the various heavens in their order.

23. In which of these heavens does Dante see the souls of Piccarda, St. Thomas Aquinas, Cacciaguida, and St. Peter?