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ART. IX. G. BAGLIOLI, Paris, 1818.
H. F. CARY, A. M., vol. 18mo, London, 1818.
M. Baglioli's new work on Dante was announced, in 1816, by subscription, in large quarto, with magnificent paper and characters. The subscription was, it seems, not encouraging; and, after two years expectation, the author has published his work in a more modest form; which, indeed, we think the most fair, as well as the most prudent part. If the book be good, it will be useful to a greater number of readers. If it be bad, the buyers will have less cost to regret. Authors now seem desirous of placing their works under the protection of splendid printing, and to have the hope of being immortalized at least by the continuators of Mr. Dibdin's
M. Baglioli's Dante will form three volumes in large octavo, of which the first is not yet completely printed; but we have now before us nine sheets of it, which contain the text of eight books of the
The poem of Dante is like an immense forest, venerable for its antiquity, and
astonishing by the growth of trees which seem to have sprung up at once to their
gigantic height by the force of nature, aided
It is said by Warburton in his Preface to Shakespeare, that the whole a critic
can do for an author who deserves his services, is to correct the faulty text,
to remark the peculiarities of language, to illustrate the obscure allusions,
and to explain ‘the beauties an defects of sentiment or
composition.’
Perhaps we may prove, in the sequel, that
this observation cannot be universally adopted; — but if it were
sufficient in the case of all other poets, it is certain, that, by the most
complete and suocessful application of it to the poem of Dante, a critic would
perform only half his task. The first part which relates to the emendation of
the text, has been happily enough executed in the native city of the poet, by
the Academy della Crusca. That learned body, occupied in studying and purifying
their language, naturally sought for its radical treasures in the age of Dante,
Petrarca, and Boccaccio. These academicians were almost all Florentines, and had
abundant means of collecting various readings. The numerous libraries of
Florence were supplied with MSS. of Dante's poem, of which
they collated more than a hundred with the early editions. These various
readings were discussed by them for the common interest — for the
honour of the poet, the language, and the academy; by which means they avoided
the obstinacy, the acrimony, and the puerile quarrels which the jealousy of
individuals has spread among the commentators of Homer and Shakespeare. They
thus spared the time of their readers, and saved literature from some ridicule.
This academy was not always so wise. They dishonoured themselves in their
hostility against Tasso. But in that case they were ambitious of giving laws to
genius; a task for which an assembly of men is peculiarly unfitted. In their
emendations of Dante, on the contrary, they needed only a calm and attentive
examination, a free discussion, and a mature deliberation on questions purely
verbal and grammatical. Academies are in general useful, where the object is
only to arrange and preserve the stock of human knowledge. It can be increased
only by men of genius — independent of rules and associations, and
fearlessly pursuing glory at their own peril. But societies bound by
institutions, often obliged to respect and sometimes to flatter governments and
powerful individuals, can never display independence of mind, or possess the
courage necessary for the exertion of genius. They may, under despotic
governments, become instruments in the hands of tyrants for repressing the
progress of mind, and narrowing the diffusion of knowledge.
But to return to Dante. The Academy della Crusca have admitted the best of the
various readings into their text, and have placed in the margin all that are
probable. Their edition is known by the date of 1595. It is not improper to inform the general reader, that this edition is
disgraced by typographical errors of every sort. It should be left to
critics, who are not perplexed by its blunders; and to collectors, who
sometimes prefer editions for the celebrity of their mistakes.
Padre Lombardi having examined an ancient milanese edition of 1478 called the
So much for the history of emendatory criticism on Dante. As to the second part
of Warburton's suggestion, ‘to remark the peculiarities of
language,’
the ancient editors, from the sons of Dante,
who were the first to illustrate the poem of their father, till the edition of
the Crusca, did not consider such remarks as necessary. The Academy did much;
but their remarks on the phraseology of Dante are scattered over their
voluminous
The third part of the editor's duty, ‘to illustrate the obscure
allusions,’
has been executed with more care than success.
All the other great poems in the world, taken together, have, perhaps, not so
many allusions as the single work of Dante. He comprehends the whole history of
his age — all that was then known of art, literature, and science
— the usages and morals of his time, and their origin in preceding
ages — together with theological opinions, and the great influence
which they then exercised over the mind and actions of men. His allusions are
rapid, various, multiplied — succeeding each other with the rapidity
of flashes of lightning, which leaves short intervals of darkness between them.
He describes all human passions — all actions — the vices
and the virtues of tlie most different scenes. He places them in the despair of
hell — in the hope of purgatory — and in the blessedness of
paradise. He observes men in youth — in manhood — and in old
age. He has brought together those of both sexes — of all religions
— of all occupations — of all nations — and of all
ages; yet he never takes them in masses — he always presents them as
individuals. He speaks to every one of them — he studies their words
— he watches their countenances. He often paints a great character by
his inaction. Sordello, who had led a very active life, and who, after having
made every effort for his country, died despairing of the fate of Italy, is met
by Dante in purgatory. While a crowd of ghosts, curious about the affairs of the
world, followed the poet to learn news from him, Sordello kept aloof.
‘Esso non ne diceva alcuna cosa
Ma lasciavane andar, sempre guardando
A guisa di leon quando si posa.
— —
Let it be remarked, that he has not before named Sordello. He gives no reason for his disdainful silence; and he leaves his reader to discover in the chronicles what we have said on the character of this illustrious personage. The poet condenses into three lines, and often into one, the history of a prince's life. In speaking of St. Celestino, who refused the papacy at the suggestion of Boniface VIII, his successor, he describes him without mention of his name.
‘Colui
Che fece per viltate il gran rifiuto’.
Cant. III, 60.
In the twentieth Canto of the
‘Oh Signor mio quando sarò io lieto
A veder la vendetta che nascosa
Fa dolce l'ira tua nel tuo secreto’.
‘O Sovran Master, when shall I rejoice
To see the vengeance which thy wrath well pleased
In secret silence broods’.
—
Cary's Dante , II, 92.
In this last verse we find a sentiment as old as Homer, who tells us, that
‘vengeance is the pleasure of the gods,’
Κρείσσων
γὰρ
βασιλεὸς
ὅτε
χώσεται
ἀνδρὶ
χέρηϊ·
Εἴπερ
γὰρ τε
χόλον τε
καὶ
αὐτῆμαρ
καταπέψῃ
Ἀλλά γε
καὶ
μετόπισθεν.
ὲχει
κότον
ὄφρα,
τελέσσῃ
Ἐν
στήθεσσιngr;
ἑοῖσι.
— et
seqq.
‘Infensus memoria — et adversum eludentes se quisque
ultione et sanguine explebant.’
—
‘Memoria, Ultione,
Explebant.’
In Dante, it is the passionate exclamation of
a man who has long brooded over his own indignation.
Shakespeare unfolds the character of his persons, and presents them under all the variety of forms which they can naturally assume. He surrounds them with all the splendour of his imagination, and liestows on them that full and minute reality which his creative genius could alone confer. Of all tragic poets, he most amply develops character. On the other hand, Dante, if compared not only to Virgil, the most sober of poets, but even to Tacitus, will be found never to employ more than a stroke or two of his pencil, which he aims at imprinting almost insensibly on the hearts of his readers. Virgil has related the story of Eurydice in two hundred verses; Dante, in sixty verses, has fmished his masterpiece — the Tale of Francesca da Rimini. The history of Desdemona has a parallel in the following passage of Dante. Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent; but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive to health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chroniclers, indeed, tell us, that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that the survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in
‘Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia;
Siena mi fe, disfecemi Maremma.
Salsi colui che inanellata pria
Disposando m'avea con la sua gemma’.
Cant. V, et ult.
Yet these few words draw tears from those who know the fate of this young woman. Her first desire to be recalled to the remembrance of her friends on earth is very affecting. Her modest requeet, her manner of naming herself, and of describing the author of her sufferings, without any allusion to his crime, and merely by the pledges of faith and love which attended their first union, are deeply pathetic. The soft harmony of the last verses, full of gay and tender remembrances, forms a most striking contrast with the ideas of domestic unhappiness, of death and of cruelty, which must rise in the reader's imagination.
He has not treated every subject so laconically. In the history of Count Ugolino, and in that of Francesca da Rimini, he paints on a larger scale. There are, perhaps, in the poem, thirty passages of equal energy and extent. But he generally compresses his narration in the manner which we have pointed out. He often speaks of anecdotes, of men and of crimes not mentioned by any contemporary writer; and it is for these reasons that a commentary on his allusions would have been impracticable, if, fortunately for us, it had not been commenced soon after his death.
He died in 1321; and, in 1334, we find mention made of a commentary by his sons Peter and James, and another anonymous writer. In 1350, Visconti, Archbishop of Milan, formed a commission of six scholars, namely, two philosophers, two theologians, and two florentine men of letters, to compose a commentary on Dante, which they completed. Petrarch, also, is said to have written commentaries on his great predecessor: but of this there seems no evidence. In 1373, the republic of Florence elected Boccaccio to explain Dante to his fellow–citizens. He delivered lectures on this subject, in which he poured forth the knowledge which he had accumulated during a long life. His digressions are fine and instructive; his style more sober than in his more known works, without losing the richness and elegance which distinguish him. But he died before he had expounded above a third of the
Among the fathers of the council of Constance, were two English prelates,
Nicholas, Bishop of Bath, and Robert, Bishop of Salisbury, who, with Cardinal
Amadeo de Saluces, requested John de Saravalla, Prince Bishop of Fermo, to
explain Dante to them. He translated the poem into Latin prose, and subjoined
notes. We learn, from the Dedication, that he began his work on the Ist February
1416, and fmished it in a year and a fortnight. It has never been printed; but,
a few years ago, a manuscript copy was extant in the Vatican library; and we
mention it only to remark, that, at the time of the Council of Trent, Dante was
a writer, of whom no Bishop would dare to avow that he was the commentator. We
subjoin a passage from this manuscript,
‘Dantes dilexit Theologiam sacram in qua diu
studuit in Oxoniis in Regno Angliæ’
. In the next
page, he says, ‘Dantes in juventute sese
dedit omnibus artibus liberalibus, studens eas et Padue, et Bononie,
demum Oxoniis et Parisiis, ubi fecit multos actus mirabiles in
tantum quod ab aliquibus dicebatur magnus Philosophus, ab aliquibus
magnus Theologus, ab aliquibus magnus Poeta’
. It
is probable that the Italian Bishop received this information, true or
false, from his English brethren, especially as the conclusion of the
above passage has much the air of a literal translation from an English
original.
Christopher Landinus, a commentator on Virgil, published also commentaries on
Dante. He lived near the time of the discovery of printing, when verbal
criticism became a separate study. He was a man of great erudition, who has
multiplied quotations, expanded the too diffuse commentaries of his forerunners,
and expatiated on the allegories, the theological opinions and the scholastic
philosophy of the Poet; but, like his successor in the next age, Alexander
Velutello, has done nothing to illustrate the poetical beauties. These
commentators have been little read since their own time. About the beginning of
the sixteenth century, the popularity of Dante underwent some fluctuations. The
exclusive taste for Grecian and Roman literature which flourished under Leo X,
disposed the critics of that period to look down upon Dante as an irregular and
barbarous writer. Boccaccio and Petrarca had become the sole models of Italian
composition — See Sperone Speroni's for taste had already been tainted by
effeminacy
.
‘one of the Witnesses of the Truth’.
Towards 1550, the Jesuits possessed themselves of the education of Italy; and
they systematically decried a writer likely to produce effects on the opinions
and on the character of youth so irreconcileable with their policy. Three men of
genius, however, even at that time, professed their admiration of him. The first
was Sperone Speroni, a writer now little read, but considered in his own time as
the oracle of philosophy and literature, and still deserving to be regarded as a
model of vigour and elegance in Italian prose. Michael Angelo had filled a copy
of Dante with drawings, which he lost in a sea voyage.
Serassi, in the second edition of the ‘
.Dante’
From 1600 to 1730, Dante had no commentators, and few editions. From 1473 to the edition of La Crusca, Haim enumerates 44 editions. From
1598 to the edition of Volpi in 1727, he only mentions 5. This
enumeration must be understood to refer only to rare or important
editions; for about 1620, Francesco Cionacci, a noble Florentine,
published a catalogue of 452 editions extant in his time. Since the
Revolution, editions of Dante have succeeded each other with astonishing
rapidity.
It was after the fall of the Jesuits that Lombardi, airanciscan, incensed at their malignity and false taste, ventured to undertake his commentary on Dante. He was of the same order with Ganganelli, the pope who suppressed the Jesuits. But it was more easy to suppress than to extinguish the literary and religious prejudices which they had established in Italy. Pius VI, then employed in the defence of the doctrines of the see of Rome against Joseph II, Leopold in Tuscany, and against the Jansenism which predominated in the universities both of Tuscany and Lombardy, was not favourable to an antipapal poet. Lombardi might have observed the accomplishment of his author's prophecy —
‘Giunta è la Spada
Col Pasturale, e l'uno e l'altro insieme
Per viva forza mal convien che vada’.
XVI, 119.
But he did not even venture to put his name in the title–page. He ventures only on his initials, with a vignette, exhibiting a portrait of Dante with a somewhat obscure inscription, intimating that he also was in danger from the power which had trampled on Kings and Emperors. We know none of the circumstances of his life which could throw light on this intimation. But it is certain that his friend Angelucci who appeared as the editor of his work, was imprisoned in 1794 for his political opinions.
In these circumstances we must not wonder at the circumspection with which he conducts that part of his plan which consists in the defence of Dante. We have already spoken of his emendations amÍ grammatical remarks. His explanations are clear and sometimes new, though he does not often venture to quit the beaten track. He had not sufficient taste and sensibility to discern the delicacy, or to feel the tenderness of the historical allusions. The prose of his notes is dry, and, though concise, the want of elegance makes it appear diffuse. After all, it is the most useful historical commentary yet printed on Dante.
Volpi was a learned man; but Italian was not his principal study. Mr Poggiali has studied it more deeply. The brevity adopted by both, in their excellent editions of Padua and Leghorn, has left no room for narrative commentary — indispensable to the illustration of a poem in which the anecdotes of an obscure age are accumulated, and often only hinted at.
On the last head of Warburton's description of the critical office — that of explaining ‘the beauties and defects of sentiment and composition — we must at once say, that, in truth, nothing has been done. It is indeed a task, of which the due, or even tolerable execution requires, in the case of Dante, a combination of talents which can hardly be united in the same individual. He who undertakes this part of criticism has two duties to fulfil. The first, and by far the most easy, relates to the general plan of a work — its end, the style, the progress which the language makes under the author — his original inventions and imitations — the degree in which he has improved on his models, or fallen short of them — and the instruction or amusement which he has imparted to his contemporaries or posterity. The second is far more difficult, and, in its utmost extent, impracticable. It consists in a minute exposition of all the separate beauties and defects of a poem, from page to page, often from verse to verse, and sometimes from word to word. The critic must display beauties, so that they shall be felt by those who did not feel them in the poet; and he must explain the causes of pleasure to those who are delighted without knowing how. Minute and argumentative as this analysis may often be, its object would be defeated if it were to extinguish the fire of poetry; and the reader, in reasoning with the critic, must never cease to feel with the poet.
A critic may attempt, like the celebrated Gravina, to prove that the
A foreigner of great literary distinction assures us, that, in an attentive perusal of Shakespeare, he finds little to displease him; that, on the contrary, in spite of his preference of the tragic system of the Greeks, he is continually moved; that he meets, in every page, subjects of admiration and meditation. But, when he sees the same tragedies on the stage, the art of the actors, and the illusion of the theatre, serve only to make him see more clearly what he thinks faults. He is not only cooled, but sometimes repelled. The reason which he gives for this difference is, that, in reading, he can feel and see all the beauties of thought and style. He is charmed by originality and variety; his attention is more directed to verses and sentiments, than to the action. But in the theatre, as his ear is not habituated to our pronunciation, he loses the strength and delicacy of the diction. He sees only the outline of events. He follows the action, divested of the attractions of style. When he thus loses all the particular beauties which Shakespeare often draws from the depths of human nature, he returns to his original taste, and once more prefers Sophocles.
The changes in this verse do not appear to the common reader essential either to
the thought, the expression, or the harmony. Yet so, on a calm revisal, the poet
must have considered them. Every man familiar with the art must perceive, that,
during these changes, the heart, the head and the ear of the writer, must have
performed many operations. The business of the critio is to discover the reasons
which determined the poet finally to fix on the line as it now stands in his
printed text. But how difficult it is to find these reasons! and yet, how can
the beauty of the verse be explained without them? If we had the manuscript,
with the various alterations of the noblest passages of great poets, something
might doubtless he done. We have in our possession, the variations in a very
fine stanza of Ariosto, which he altered a hundred times. If we should ever have
occasion to speak of that poet, we shall avail ourselves of these alterations to
illustrate his manner of writing. But, in the other fine stanzas, which seem as
if they flowed from inspiration, his mind must have gone through a like
progress, though so rapidly, that he was himself almost unconscious of its
action. The verses of great poets are always the result of a long series of
thoughts, emotions, remembrances and images, compared, combined, rejected or
selected. The strength, the quickness, and the number of impressions riade on
the mind; the promptitude of recollection; the facility of combining fact with
feeling and thought, together with the powers of comparison and selection,
constitute the greater part of what is called Genius. A man of genius seems to
be inspired, because his mental operations are so much more rapid than those of
other men. To develop the beauties of a poem, the critic must go through the
same reasonings and. judgments which ultimately determined the poet to write as
he has done. But such a critic would be a poet. His ardent and impatient genius
would never submit to the cold labour of criticism. Such a man might, however,
analyze some passages, and at least describe the sensations with which he had
himself perused them; which must surpass, in depth and vivacity, the sensations
of an unpoetical mind. Johnson laughs at the notion, ‘that a
poet is to be published only by a poet;’
— and,
in what relates to emendation, and grammatical or explanatory notes, he is
certainly right. Critics may assist us in generalities; but, when we come to
particulars, which are the soul of poetry, their aid becomes of little value.
Great poets concentrate their ideas, and embody their feelings in images.
Critics take them to pieces, in order to ascertain their texture. Poets, who are
also critics, often exhibit a strange mixture of analysis and imagery.
We shall not enter into the question, whether Pope had most taste or genius.
Perhaps he was destined by nature for bold invention; but in fact he has, in
general, imitated with taste. The same thing may be said of Horace, Vida, and
Boileau. Pope, like them, was a critic'as well as a poet. It is a curious
observation, that no poet of the first rank has ever spoken of the mechanism of
his art, while poets of inferior station have laboriously displayed its rules in
verse. Pindar declares, that a great poet, like ‘the eagle,
soars by his natural strength, and leaves beneath him the ignoble birds who
seem to animate each other by their hoarse cries.’
Horace,
on the contrary, is always teaching us how the wings are to be managed. Pope
lived in the philosophical age of Bayle and Locke; and English poetry, after
shining forth in the originality of Shakespeare, having combined the genius of
the Greek, Latin, and Italian classics in Milton, and having displayed its
various treasures in Dryden, began to form itself upon the models of the French
school. Among the French poets, imagery and feeling are smothered by reflection.
Pope could not resist his habit of analysis, even in the translation of Homer,
who, of all poets, is least disposed to turn aside to speculate. Perhaps these
deviations of Pope from the character of his author, have contributed to the
popularity of the English
In the scene where Venus leads Helen to Paris, Homer shows his knowledge of the heart of a woman agitated by a passion which she strives in vain to conquer. Helen regrets her family, and is ashamed of her situation. She resists the suggestions of Venus, bitterly bewails the infamy of her condition, and warmly desires to return to her husband, though she expects only the contempt of Greece. Venus tells her that her return would not heal the animosities between Greece and Asia; that war would still continue; and that Helen herself would perish by a cruel death. It is after this dialogue that Helen, wrapped up in her veil, follows the goddess in silence. The reader is left to feel the struggles of this woman's reason against her passion. Homer does not explain them. He contents himself with saying, at the beginning of the dialogue, that as soon as Helen heard of the danger of Paris, and was reminded of his beauty, her heart was moved; and that, when she discovered that it was Venus. who spoke to her, she was seized with fright —
‘She spoke, and Helen's secret soul was moved; She scorn'd the champion, but the man she loved’.
The first line of this couplet is in Homer, and only tells the fact. The second is added by Pope, to explaig the intention of Helen and Homer. But the whole interest of the succeeding dialogue vanishes with this explanation. The passion of Helen becomes that of a libertine; and her remonstrances against the counsels of Venus seem gross hypocrisy. But the true Helen of Homer, throughout the
‘He never reproached me; — he hindered others from reproaching me.’A sublime sentiment, which describes at once the noble character of Hector, and all the remorse of the soul of Helen. She lives with Paris, from a sort of union of fatality and despair. She loves him; but she desires to escape from him. Her character in the
‘She scorned the champion, but the man she loved’.
This is the illicit love of a modern lady of fashion; but it is not that of the amorous queen whom Homer saw in his imagination, and perhaps partly also in the manners of his age.
Othello, justifying himself against the charge of having seduced Desdemona, tells the Senate,
‘She loved me for the dangers I had past, And I loved her that she did pity them’.
He tells the fact, and adds the simple reflection which immediately flows from experience and feeling. In such passages, it is impossible to contemplate without astonishment the genius of Shakespeare, which veils the depth of his observation by the simplicity of nature. The passage is thus translated by Delille —
‘Elle aimoit mes malheurs; moi j'aimais ses larmes,
L'Amour et la Pitié confondoient ses charmes’.
Shakespeare seems only to give to Othello the characteristic features of a savage hero, who repays, with all his affection, those who love and admire him, and with all his vengeance those who betray or despise him. The Senate understood Othello. It may be doubted whether they would have understood, or at least felt the cold generalities which make the metaphysical commentary of Delille. Yet the readers of most of the capitals of Europe, at this day, would probably prefer the couplet of Delille.
Of all the translators of Dante with whom we are acquainted, Mr Cary is the most successful; and we cannot but consider his work as a great acquisition to the English reader. It is executed with a fidelity almost without example; and, though the measure he has adopted, conveys no idea of the original stanza, it is perhaps the best for his purpose, and what Dante himself would have chosen, if he had written in English and in a later day. The reasons, which influenced the mind of our own Milton woiild most probably have determined the author of the
Some years ago, Mr. Hayley published a translation of the three first Cantos of that Poem, in which he endeavoured to give an idea of Dante's peculiar manner, by introducing his triple rhyme. It was written with a considerable degree of spii·it and elegance; but we cannot much regret that he proceeded no further. The difficulties which he had to encounter were almost insurmountable; at least he has led us to think so, by his many deviations from the text. Of these there is a remarkable instance in the third Canto. When the poet enters in at the gate, his ears are matantly assailed by a multitude of dismal sounds, among which he distinguishes
‘Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle’. ‘Voices deep and hoarse, With hands together smote’.
The last circumstance, the most striking of them all, is entirely passed over by Mr Hayley. Mr Pope himself indeed could furnish many a parallel from his far famed translations; and one of his most flagrant transgressions has never, to our knowledge, been pointed out. Penelope, in the
Cowper asserts it as his opinion, that ‘a just translation of
any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible;’
and we must
confess that we have never seen one. A translator has no occasion to forge
fetters for himself. He has enough to wear already; and, do what he will, they
will for ever weigh him down. Mr Pope attempted to cover his with flowers; but
he could not conceal them. Sometimes, indeed, he throws them off altogether; but
then he ceases to be a translator of Homer. No adventitious ornament —
no invention can supply the place of truth and exactness to him who wants to
know how men thought and felt in past ages. Who would consent to exchange the
story of Joseph and his Brethren, as it is told in our Bibles, for the most
elegant version of it by Mr Pope?
Of such offences we cannot accuse Mr Cary. Throughout he discovers the will and the power to do justice to his author. He has omitted nothing, he has added nothing; and though here and there his inversions are ungraceful, and his phrases a little obsolete, he walks not unfrequently by the side of his master, and sometimes perhaps goes beyond him. We may say in the language of that venerable Father of Italian Poetry,
‘Hor ti riman, lector, sopra'l tuo banco;
Drieto pensando accioche si preliba’, &c.
‘Now rest thee, reader! on thy bench, and muse Anticipative of the feast to come: So shall delight make thee not feel the toil’.
Perhaps there is no description so sublime in .the
‘Now was the hour that wakens fond desire In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful hearts, Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewel; 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’.
In the Ninth Canto, the Angel of God unlocks the gate; and the verses, that follow, are not unworthy of Milton.
‘As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels moved, Harsh was the grating. 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 no writer, not even in Homer, have the similes more life and variety than in Dante; and they are for the most part given with the truest touches in the translation. We shall select two or three that may convey perhaps a less gloomy idea of him than generally prevails among us.
‘As from a troop of well–ranked. chivalry One knight, more enterprising than the rest, Pricks forth at gallop, eager to display His prowess in the first encounter proved; So parted he from us with lengthened strides, And left me on the way with those two spirits, Who were such mighty marshals.of the woild’.
‘As on their road The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, But stay not; thus, approaching from behind, They eyed us as they passed’.
Ibid., 23.
‘When from their game of dice men separate, He, who hath lost, remains in sadness fixed, Revolving in his mind, what luckless throws He cast: but meanwhile all the company Go with the other; one before him runs, And one, behind, his mantle twitches, one Fast by his side bids him remember him. He stops not; and each one, to whom his hand Is stretched, well knows he bids him stand aside; And thus he from the press defends himself. E'en such was I in that close crowding throng; And turning so my face around to all, And promising, I 'scaped from it with pains’.
Ibid., 6.
‘Then as a troop of maskers, when they put Their vizors off, look other than before, The counterfeited semblance thrown aside’; &c.
Dante must have loved hawking. He paints his bird always to the life.
‘On his feet The falcon first looks down, then to the sky Turns, and forth stretches, eager for the food That wooes him thither’.
And again,
‘Like to a falcon issuing from the hood, That rears his head, and claps him with his wings, His beauty and his eagerness bewraying’.
Mr Cary reminds us sometimes of Shakespeare, — oftener of Milton; but, in his anxiety to imitate them, he becomes more antiquated than either; and we hope, that, when he republishes his translation, which, we trust, he soon will, in a larger and more legible character, he will think proper to modernize the language a little, and give more simplicity and sweetness to many parts of it. In that beautiful simile,
‘Then seemed they like to ladies, from the dance Not ceasing, but suspense , in silent pause,Listening till they have caught the strain anew’.
— surely the word
But, when Dante is the subject, our readers may require something of a darker complexion than what we have given them; and we shall conclude with two extracts from the
‘When I had heard my sage instructor name Those dames and knights of antique days, o'erpowered By pity, well–nigh in amaze my ming 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; They came —......... 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 knows Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to learn the primal root From whence our love got being, I will do, As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day For our delight we read of Landelot, How him Love thralled. Alone we were, and no Sustiioion near us. Ofttimes by that reading. Our eyes were diawn together, and the hue Fled from our altered cheeks. But at orie point Alone, we fell. When of that smile we read, The wish'd–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’.
Canto V.
The same observation applies still more strongly to the unrivalled tale of Ugolino; which Michael Angelo is said to have delighted in. There is a bas–relief of his on the subject.
‘How cruel was the murder shalt thou hear, And know if he have wronged me......... 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. Then, uttering not a word I looked upon the faces 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 answer'd 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 descry'd 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' th' sudden, and cried: “Father, we should grieve Far less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st These weeds of miserable flesh we wear, And do thou strip them off from us again”. Then, not to make then 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 Outstretch'd 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 Call'd 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’.
Canto XXXIII.
When such stories are related by such a poet as Dante, ‘the world will
not willingly let them die.’ Yet, not very long before he appeared,
what a darkness prevailed over Europe! — when there was a
high–constable of France who could not read, and when there were Kings
who could only make the sign of the cross in confirmation of their charters.
Even then, however, as an elegant writer Mrs Barbauld. We rejoice in this opportunity to express our high sense of
her talents. The greatest and most accomplished statesman of the age
always spoke of them with admiration. Her songs he could repeat by
heart; and her essay ‘against Inconsistency in our
Expectations’
, he justly considered as equal to
any thing of the kind in any language.
ART. II. F. CANCELLIERI, Roma, 1814
F. CANCELLIERI
The limits of a late Number precluded us from entering, as fully as we would haye wished, into the subject of Dante. We resume it the more willingly, from our having just received a work, published two or three years ago in Italy, but almost unknown in England, having for its object to ascertain, whether this great poet was an inventor, or an imitator only. The continental antiquaries and scholars have eagerly laid hold of a manuscript, said to have been discovered about the beginning of the present century, and affording efidence, according to some persons, that he had borrowed from others the whole plan, and conception of his wonderful work. The question, indeed, is of ancient date; and, long before such value had been set upon this manuscript, was so perplexed and prolonged, as now to call for definitive elucidation. We trust we shall place our readers in a condition to decide it for themselves.
An extract, or rather a short abstract of an old Vision, written in Latin, appeared in a pamphlet published at Rome in 1801, with an insinuation, that the primitive model of Dante's poem had at length been discovered. Some reader of new publications transmitted the intelligence of this discovery to a German journalist, who received it as of the utmost importance; and from him, a writer in a French paper, (the
Mr Cancellieri apprises us that there existed two famous
The latter Alberic was born about the year 1100, soon after the death of the former. When in his 9th year, he fell sick, and remained in a lethargy for nine days. Whilst in this state, a dove appeared to him, and catching him by the hair lifted him up to the presence of Saint Peter, who, with two angels, conducted the child across Purgatory, and, mounting thence from planet to planet, transported him into Paradise, there to contemplate the glory of the blessed. His vision restored him to perfect health; — the miraculous cure was published to the world; — the monks received the child at Monte–Cassino; — and, because he repeated his vision tolerably well, and was of a rich family, they devoted him to. Saint Benedict, before he had reached his 10th year. He lived from that time in constant penitence, tasting neither flesh or wine, and never wearing shoes; and the monastery had thus the glory of possessing a living saint, who, by his virtue, confirmed the belief that he had seen Purgatory and Paradise.
They took care to have the vision of Alberic reduced to writing, first by one of
their own lettered brethren, and, some years after, by Alberic himself, assisted
by the pen of Peter the Deacon, of whom there are yet remaining some historical
pieces which occasionally throw light upon the darkness of that age. We subjoin
what he says of Alberio in his own words.
Tanta usque in hodiernum abstinentia, tanta
morumagravitate pollet, ut pœnas peccatorum perspexisse, et
pertimuisse, et gloriam sanctorum vidisse nemo quis dubitet: Non
enim carnem, non adipem, non vinum, ab illo tempore usque nunc, Deo
annuente, assumpsit; calciamentai nullo penitus tempore utitur; et
sie, in tanta cordis, ac corporis contritione, et humilitate usque
nunc in hodiernum, in hoc Casinensi cœnobio perseverat, ut multa
illum quæ alios laterent vel metuenda, vel desideranda vidisse,
etiamsi lingua taceret, vita loqueretur. (
If there existed but this one vision before the time of Dante, there might be
some ground for presuming that it suggested to him the idea of his poem. But the
truth is, that such visions abounded from the very earliest ages of
Christianity. Saint Cyprian had visions, — Saint Perpetua had visions,
— and both, with many others, were declared.divine by Saint Augustine.
The revelations of each turned upon the doctrine which each thought the best for
establishing the faith. Accordingly, the creed written for the church over which
he presided, by Saint Gregory Thaumaturgus, was dictated to him in a vision by
Saint John the Evangelist. But the zeal of the early bishops was soon replaced
by the interested views of their successors. About the 10th century, the great
object was, to establish the doctrine of Purgatory, in which the period of
expiation was shortened in favour of souls, in proportion to the alms given by
their heirs to the Church. The monk Alberic describes Purgatory with minuteness,
and sees Hell only at a distance. All those visions, having the same object,
resembled each other; and whoever will take the trouble to examine the legends
of the saints, and archives of the monasteries, will find hundreds, of the same
epoch, and the same tenor. It may be said, that Dante either. profited by all,
or by none; but, if there be any one to which he can be supposed to be indebted
more than another, it is the vision of an English monk, not named by any one
that we know, though told circumstantially by Mathew Paris.
It is sufficiently probable, that Dante had read the history of Mathew Paris, the
historian having died before the birth of the poet; and still more probable,
that he had read the vision of Alberic. The resemblance which we have pointed
out between the visions of the two monks, and the infinity of other visions of
the same kind, show that there was then established, in the popular belief, a
sort of Visionary mythology, which Dante adopted in the same manner as the
mythology of Polytheism had been adopted by Homer. Besides, the discovery of the
manuscript of the Vision of Alberic, about which so much noise has been made for
the last eighteen years, really took place about a century ago. It is mentioned,
but without much stress, by Mazzuchelli, Pelli, and Tiraboschi.
‘the great worm,’
(‘a great worm that devoured
souls.’
Monsignor Bottari was a prelate; the author of the
pamphlet is a Benedictine abbot; Mr Cancellieri is a good. Catholic, and all
three are antiquarians. How has it escaped them, that the Devil is called
‘the serpent’
in the
‘worm’was constantly used for ‘serpent’ by the old Italian writers? Shakespeare indeed uses it in the same sense, in
‘And he put forth the form of an hand, and took me by a lock of mine head, and the spirit lifted me up between the earth and the heayen, and brought me in the visions of God.’It is certain that ingenuity and erudition will discover resemblances in things the most different from each other. In the passage of Sterne, which is so beautiful, so original, and so well known, of the recording angel washing out the oath with a tear, we doubt not that Doctor Ferriar would have detected a plagiarism from Alberic, had that ingenious person seen the 18th section of the manuscript. We give an abstract of the passage, for the use of the Doctor's next edition.
‘A demon holds a book, in which are written the sins of a particular man; and an angel drops on it, from a phial, a tear which the sinner had shed in doing a good action; and his sins are washed out.’
It is possible that Dante may have taken some ideas here and there from the Visions which abounded in his age. There are involuntary plagiarisms, which no writer can wholly avoid; — for much of what we think and express is but a new combination of what we have read and heard. But reminiscences in great geniuses are sparks that produce a mighty flame; and if Dante, like the monks, employed the machinery of visions, the result only proves, that much of a great writer's originality may consist in attaining his sublime objects by the same means which others had employed for mere trifling. He conceived and executed the project of creating the Language and the Poetry of a nation — of exposing all the political wounds of his country — of teaching the Church and the States of Italy, that the imprudence of the Popes, and the civil wars of the cities, and the consequent introduction of foreign arms, must lead to the eternal slavery and disgrace of the Italians. He raised himself to a place among the reformers of morals, the avengers of crimes, and the asserters of orthodoxy in religion; and he called to his aid Heaven itself, with all its terrors and all its hopes, in what was denominated by himself
— ‘the Sacred work, that made Both Heaven and Earth copartners in his toil’. ‘ Il poema sacro Al qual ha posto mano e Cielo e Terra ’.
To explain how he executed his vast design, it appears to us indispensable that we should give a slight sketch of the political and religious state of Italy at the period when he wrote.
Robertson has described Europe, in the middle ages, as peopled with slaves attached to the soil, who had no consolation but their Religion. And this indeed was, for many centuries, the great instrument of good and of evil even in temporal concerns. The feudal lords were restrained only by the fear of Heaven, — and the monarch had no army but such as that military arístocracy supplied. The canon law was the only instrument by which justice could oppose force; and that instrument was wielded only by the clergy. This last circumstance was the chief foundation of the great ascendency of the Popes. A strong yearning after justice and law instigated the people of Italy to become free; and the circumstances of the times were such, that for their freedom they were indebted to the Church. Robertson, however, as well as many others, copying after Machiavelli, has erroneously ascribed the misfortunes of the suoceeding generations to the authority usurped over princes by Gregory VII. The ill effects of that usurpation were not sensibly felt in Italy until a much later period; and the truth is, that Italian liberty and civilization were greatly promoted by it in the first instance; and. advanced by rapid strides, from the age of Gregory to that of Dante, a period of 200 years. The acts of that ambitious Pontiff, however, prolific as they were, of important consequences to his country, require undoubtedly to be kept in view by all who would understand its history.
The daring schemes which he conceived and executed in a few years, and in his old
age, may be said to have been accomplished by the use of the single word
— Excommunication. By this talisman, he compelled the sovereigns of
his day to acknowledge, that all the lands in their dominions allotted for the
support of the clergy, belonged in property to the Pope; — and our
England was the first that made the concession. ’Two Italians at that
time successively enjoyed the see of Canterbury for nearly forty years. Lanfranc. and St Anselm, from 1070 to 1109.
The next of Gregory's gigantic measures was, if possible, still more bold and important — and this was the absolute prohibition of marriage to all the orders of the priesthood. He had here to struggle with the inclinations of the clergy themselves, and of the Italian clergy in particular. But when the difficulty was once overcome, the advantage gained was prodigious — to the order itself — to the Popedom — and to the country which was its seat. The great brotherhood of the Catholic clergy, receiving their subsistence directly from the Church — exempted from secular jurisdiction, and now loosened from all the ties of natural affection — must have felt themselves but feebly attached to their respective countries, and looked almost exclusively, as they taught their fellow citizens to look, to Rome as the place which was to give law to the world.
The last grand project of Gregory was that of the Crusades, This appears by two of his own letters. VOL. XXX, NO. 60
It is under these circumstances that we behold, immediately after the death of this Pope, and even in his lifetime, the cities of Italy suddenly improving in population, wealth and power — palaces of independent magistrates rising to view where there were before but hamlets and slaves — and republics starting forth as if out of nothing. The holy war had delivered Europe in general from the slavery of the soil; every man who took up arms for the crusade became free; and the labourer in Italy began to till the earth on his own account. The military aristocracies and monarchies being employed with their armed forces in distant expeditions, had no longer the same oppressive preponderance at home. The maritime preparations for the crusades were undertaken by the cities of Italy — danger nerved the courage of every class — and navigation, by opening the exportation of manufactures, increased industry, wealth and knowledge. Florence, for example, supplied all nations with her woollen cloths; and Milan furnished all the arms used by the crusaders, and the princes of Europe. The latter city, at that period of her liberty, had a population triple what it is .at the present day. It was said the country was depopulated to supply the manufactures in the towns. But how could so many millions have been subsisted without agriculture? It was then that Italy crowded every port with her gallies, and every marked with her merchandise. The wealth thus resulting from commerce, served to divide and distribute the property of the land, and to inultiply the number of those interested in maintaining the laws and independence of their country. The enormous inequality of fortunes disappeared, and the weight of the capitalists was opposed to the ascendency of the ancient nobles. It was then. that the people of Pisa became masters of the Balearic, and discovered the Canary islands — that Genoa was fortified with strong walls in the space of two months — that Milan, and other towns of Lombardy, having seen their children massacred, their houses and churches burned, their habitations rased — and, having been reduced to live two years unsheltered in the fields, — resumed their arms, routed Frederick Barbarossa, who returned with a formidable force, and compelled him to sign the peace of Constance, acknowledging their independence.
During all this time, it is true that most of those States were engaged in civil
wars. But they had arms in their hands; and when the common enemy appeared, they
knew how to join in defending their common liberties. The Italians having thrown
off the foreign yoke, gave their aid to the Popes, who were constantly occupied
in conflicts with the Emperors; and the Church had thus an interest in favouring
independence and democracy. But, by degrees, she became tired of using the arms
of the Italian States as her defence, though the safest and most natural for her
to employ; and, having contributed towards the liberty of Italy, thought she had
the right to invade it. Excommunications had then been hurled against friends
and enemies, till they began to be less formidable; and the Popes adopted the
policy of introducing foreign conquerors, and sharing their conquests. It was
then that they and the kings of France became constant and close allies. In the
lifetime of Dante, a French prince, aided by the Pope, came for the first time
into Italy, usurping the states of old dynasties in the name of the Holy See
— promising liberty, and preaching concord to republics, but in fact
dividing still more, in order to enslave them. The
The true reason of his exile was his refusal to receive a prince of France sent by Boniface VIII., under the pretext of pacifying their dissensions. After his exile, he openly embraced the Ghibeline party, and composed a Latin treatise,
But, notwithstanding the corruption and senseless ambition of the Church, and its
consequent unpopularity, Religion still maintained its primitive influence. The
first crusade raised almost all Europe in arms, by an opinion, suddenly
diffused, that the end of the world and the general judgment were at hand, and
that the holy war was the sole expiation of sins. These enterprises had been
abandoned during the lifetime of our poet; but the dread of the end of the world
continued to agitate Christendom for eighty years after his death. Leonardo
Aretino, a historian known for the extent of his knowledge, and the share he had
in the affairs of Italy and Europe, was an eyewitness of an event which took
place in 1400. We shall give his account, translated
‘In the midst of the alarms and troubles of the wars, either
begun or impending between the States of Italy, an extraordinary occurrence
took place. All the inhabitants of each state dressed themselves in white.
This multitude went forth with extreme devotion. They passed to the
neighbouring states, humbly craving peace and mercy. Their journey lasted
usually ten days; and their food during this time was bread and water. None
were seen in the towns that were not dressed in white. The people went
without danger into an enemy's country, whither, a few days before, they
would not have dared to approach. No one ever thought of betraying another,
and strangers were never insulted. It was a universal truce tacitly
understood between all enemies. This lasted for about two months; but its
origin is not clear. It was confidently affirmed to have come down from the
Alps into Lombardy, whence it spread with astonishing rapidity over all
Italy. The inhabitants of Lucca were the first who came in a body to
Florence. Their presence suddenly excited an ardent devotion, to such a
degree that even those who, at the commencement, treated this enthusiasm
with contempt, were the first to change their dress and join the procession,
as if they were suddenly impelled by a heavenly inspiration. The people of
Florence divided themselves into four parties; two of which, consisting of a
countless multitude of men, women and children, went to Arezzo. The
remaining two took other directions, and, wherever they came, the
inhabitants dressed themselves in white, and followed their example. During
the two months that this devotion lasted, war was never thought of; but, no
sooner had it passed away, than the people resumed their arms, and the
previous state of agitation was renewed.’
Such, in that age, was the force of religion; and Dante, therefore, naturally
employed its terrors as the most effective means of touching the passions of his
cotemporaries. But religion, in Italy especially, was overgrown with heresies
and schisms, which often produced the most sanguinary conflicts. Saint Francis
founded his order about the beginning of the 13th century; and preached the
faith, according to the doctrines of the Church of Rome, in opposition to the
sects which the Italian chronicles of that age call Valdesi, Albigesi, Cattari
and Paterini, but more commonly by the latter name. These four sects were all in
the main Manicheans. At the same time, St Dominick arrived from Spain, carrying
fire and sword wherever his opinions were disputed. It was he who founded the
Inquisition; and was himself the first magister sacri
palati
, an office always held at Rome, even in our own time, by a
Dominican, who examines new books, and decides upon their publication. Before
the institution of those two orders, the monks were almost all of the different
rules of St Benedict, reformed by St Bernard and other abbots. But, being
occupied in tilling the land, or in perusing manuscripts of antient authors
— in fine, never going beyond their convents, unless to become the
ministers of kingdoms, where they sometimes exercised kingly power, —
their wealth, education, and even pride, rendered them unfit for the business of
running from place to place, and employing hypocrisy, impudence and cruelty, in
the service of the Popes. St Bernard, by his eloquence and rare talents,
exercised great influence over kings and pontiffs. He succeeded in firing Europe
to undertake the crusade; but, to give durability to the opinions he produced,
there was still wanting the pertinacity and roguery of the mendicant friars, to
exhibit to the people spectacles of humility and privation, and of
auto–da–fe. They had their convents in towns, and spread
themselves over the country; whilst the Benedictines were living like great
feudal lords in their castles. Hence, the Italians carefully make the
distinction of
‘Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri.’
The Jesuits, who have been lately re–established, are also mendicant
‘The people,’
(
At the very time that these friars were setting the example of the most infamous vices, they appear also to have originated the most sacrilegious heresies. The Mendicants not only continued to cry up their inmimerable antiquated visions, but invented new ones still more absurd, which they continued to have revealed, sworn to, and believed. The University of Paris was for several years agitated, Europe scandalized, and the Vatican occupied without knowing how to extricate itself, with a long trial of the Dominicans for a singular attempt, aided by a Franciscan fanatick, to substitute the prophetic visions of the Abbé Joachim, with some supplements of their own, for the
‘They preached,’(says he, ‘commented, and taught certain novelties, which, as far as they were known, were considered mere ravings, and reduced those into a book, which they were pleased to style “the Everlasting Gospel ;” with certain other things, of which it would not be wise to say too much.’
This curious observation was first made by Pico of Mirandola: see
Thus were the grossest abuses of superstition and fanaticism mingled with
heretical license, uncertainty of opinion, popular credulity and atheism; and,
nevertheless, Religion was still the great centre around which all the passions
and interests of mankind revolved. In this singular condition of society,
Boniface, in the last year of the 13th century, proclaimed a plenary indulgence
to all who should make a pilgrimage to Rome. All Christendom was accordingly
attracted towards the holy city; and, during several weeks, 200,000 foreigners
were calculated to succeed each other daily
We have thus endeavoured tu fill up some of the
‘the Damned Souls’
was
represented in 1304. The truth, therefore, is probably the very reverse of
Denina's conjecture, — that the idea of the show was suggested to the
people of Florence by the beginning of their fellow–citizen's poem
Tiraboschi and Mr Sismondi, indeed, are both of this opinion; and we may add,
that, even in 1295, Dante, in his little work, entitled
Our poet was the pupil of Brunetto Latini, who, in a sort of poem, entitled the
‘astonished, that no Italian before Mr Corniani suspected this to be the origin of Dante's poem;’— and we are astonished, in our turn, that Mr Ginguené should not know this suspicion to be as old as the year 1400. It may be collected, indeed, from the biographical account of Dante, by Philip Villani, nephew to the illustrious historian of that name; and was advanced more boldly by others a few years after, and at a longer interval.
‘Aver Dante imitato il Tesoretto di
Brunetto Latini.’
Mr Ginguené too, we may say, has been
much too favourable in his judgment of the ‘Poesia
cristiana, nobile e morale.’
Its orthodoxy we do not
dispute. But, for nobleness, we can see nothing but the reverse. And, as to its
morality, it consists entirely in a string of maxims, or rather proverbs,
without imagery, sentiment, or a single spark of animation. It is moreover
disfigured by grammatical inaccuracies, vulgarisms of phrase, and a great number
of words, so obscure, as not to be found even in the dictionary of la Crusca.
That Academy, which was certainly disposed to do full justice to the efforts of
the early Florentine writers, and was instituted for the purpose of examining
them with more care, has characterized the ‘Poesia a foggia di
frottola’
— (poetry in the trivial ballad
style.)
After all this, we should scarcely have expected to meet with a passage like the
following in so learned and correct an author as Mr Hallam.
‘The source from which Dante derived the scheme and general
idea of his poem, has been a subject of inquiry in Italy. To his original
mind, one might have thought the sixth
Even the authority is hastily quoted for this hasty opinion: for though it is
true, that, in the place cited by Mr Hallam, and elsewhere, the French critic
has made the assertion here imputed to him, it is very remarkable, that, in the
succeeding volume, this ‘that
Dante gave grandeur and poetic colouring to the ideas of his master,
Brunetto, —
(
‘that it is at least(possible Dante may have profited by it.’
‘with having confounded the(Tesoro with theTesoretto ,’
‘that, to avoid a winter passage& c. (over the mountains between Milan and Venice , he postponed his journey,’
‘La Valle Lombarda’
.
— The key to the whole, is that the Abbé had never been in Italy,
— and that Mr Ginguené wrote in the same predicament; having never
penetrated beyond Turin, where he went as ambassador in the time of the
Republic. We must not wonder, therefore, if he should now and then make a slip
— But he might have avoided quoting foreign as native authority.
‘Pour ne point alleguer ici’ observes Mr Ginguené (vol. I. p. 25 )
‘d'autorités suspectes; c'est encore dans les
Italiens que je puiserais:’
And incontinently, he
cites a passage of who certainly writes in Italian, but is— and, moreover, generally considered in Italy, as neither very well acquainted with its literature, nor very just to it.a Spaniard !
The work of Mr Frederick Schlegel, which has been very lately translated into English, is another instance of the hazards of all peremptory criticism on the character of foreign writers. The German author has entitled his book — ‘
‘the greatest of Italian and of Christian poets,’— but observes, at the same time, that
‘. Now, the opinion of Mr Hallam is directly opposite to that of this learned Theban.the Ghibeline harshness appears in Dante in a form noble and dignified. But although it may perhaps do no injury to the outward beauty, it certainly mars, in a very considerable degree, the internal charm of his poetry. His chief defect is, in a word,the want of gentle feelings ’
‘In one so highly endowed by nature’,It would be presumption in us to determine — between Mr Schlegel and Mr Hallam — which has read Dante with more care; but the poem itself, we think, affords sufficient evidence that the English critic has the truer sense of its character — and is most in unison with the soul of the poet, which was fraught even to redundance with ‘gentle feelings’, and poured them out, on every occasion, with a warmth and delicacy perhaps unequalled in any other writer. We must however remind even Mr Hallam, that Dante does not always, in his poem, mention his country with resentment; and, in his prose work,observes Mr Hallam , ‘and so consummate by instruction, we may well sympathize with a resentment whích exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh. But the heart of Dante was naturallysensible andeven tender ; his poetry is full of comparisons from rural life; and the sincerity of his early passion for Beatrice, pierces through the veil of allegory that surrounds her. But the memory of his injuries pursued him into the immensity of eternal light; and, in the company of saints and angels, his unforgiving spirit darkens at the name of Florence.’
‘that his bones might repose at last in the soft bosom of that land which had nursed and borne him to the maturity of his age’. — We subjoin his own words, for the satisfaction of those who are sufficiently conversant with Italian to feel the beauty of the original, and who will thence readily concur in the truth of our observation.
‘Ahi! piaciuto fosse al Dispensatore
dell'Universo che la cagione della mia scusa mai non fosse stata! Che né
altri contro me avria fallato, né io sofferto avrei pena ingiustamente;
pena, dico, d'esilio e di povertà, poiché fu piacere dei cittadini della
bellissima e famosissima figlia di Roma, Fiorenza, di gittarmi fuori del suo
dolce seno, nel quale nato e nudrito fui fino al colmo della mia vita; e nel
quale, con buona pace di quella, desidero con tutto il cuore di riposare
l'animo stanco, e terminare il tempo che mi è dato’
.
Mr Schlegel, however, is not the only person who has imputed harshness of soul to Dante. This, indeed, is a sort of traditional censure, derived from the fastidious critics of the Court of Leo X; for our poet, it must be confessed, was
......... minus aptus acutis
Naribus horum hominum .........
......... at est vir bonne, ut melior
Non alius quisquam, at ingenium ingens .
It is a distinctive trait in the character of the earlier poets, that they continually reveal to us in their writings the .inmost feelings and dispositions of their souls. They, as it were, say to the reader,
Tibi nunc, hortante Camœna,
Excutienda damus prœcordia .
But, in order to obtain just views of those characteristic feelings, their poems
should be read through ana chrough; whereas the generality of critics content
themselves with a few popular passages, and judge of fhe rest according to the
response of some of those oracles, who, like Cardinal Bembo, have had the art or
the good fortune to make their
The haughtiness of demeanour, attributed to him by all the writers from Giovanni Villani to the present day, probably is not exaggerated. He was naturally proud; and when he compared himself with his cotemporaries, he felt his own superiority, and took refuge, as he expresses it himself with so much happiness —
Sotto l'usbergo del sentirsi puro .Conscience makès me firm; The boon companion, who her strong breastplate Buckles on him that feels no guilt within ,And bids him on, and fear not.
Nevertheless, this inflexibility and pride, nielt at onc'e into the softest deference and docility, when he meets those who have claims upon his gratitude or respect. In conversing with the shade of Brunetto Latini, who was damned for a shameful crime, he still attends his master with his head bent down —
Il capo chino Tenea, com'uom che riverente vada —Held my head Bent down as one who walks in reverent guise.
We believe it has never been remarked that Dante, who makes it a rule, in
conversing with all others, to employ the pronoun
Sete voiqui, ser Brunetto —— by — Sir! Brunetto!
And art
thou here?
Our poet has even carried modesty so far as not to pronounce his own name; and upon one occasion, when he was asked who he was, did not say that he was Dante; but whilst he described himself in such a manner as to give an exalted opinion of his genius, ascribed all the merit to love, by which he was inspired —
......... io mi son un, che quando Amore spira, noto; e a quel modo Che detta dentro, vo significando .Count of me but as one Who am the scribe of Love, that, when he breathes, Take up my pen, and, as he dictates, write.
Yet when the beloved Beatrice addresses him, as if to reproach him with his past life —
Dante! Non pianger anco, non pianger ancora; Che pianger ti convien per altra spada —Dante, weep not; Weep thou not yet; — behoves thee feel the edge Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that;
he writes his own name, lest he should alter or omit a single word that fell from the lips of her he loved; yet, even for this, he thinks it necessary to excuse himself —
Quando mi volsi, al suon del nome mio Che di necessità qui ei rigistra —Turning me at the sound of mine own name Which here I am compelled to register.
This repugnance to occupy his readers with his own particular concerns, (a repugnance of which we have certainly no reason to complain in the authors of the present day), has perhaps imposed upon Dante his singular silence respecting his family. Whilst he records a variety of domestic anecdotes of almost all his acquaintance, and so forcibly paints the miseries of exile, he omits one grief the most cruel of all — that of a father without a house to shelter, or bread to feed his young and helpless children. It is beyond all doubt that he had several sons, and that they lived in a state of proscription and distress until the period of his death. But, for this fact, we are indebted only to the historians. From his own writings it could not be even suspected that he was a husband and a father.
It is, however, easy to perceive, that he is thinking of his family, when he exclaims, that the women of Florence, in older times, when purity of morals and civil concord prevailed, were not reduced to a life of widowhood whilst their husbands yet lived — or obliged to share with them the sufferings of their exile, without knowing in what place they should find a grave —
O fortunate, e ciascuna era certa Della sua sepoltura —Oh! happy they, Each sure of burial in her native land.
It is not alone in his ‘comparisons drawn from rural
life’
, as remarked by Mr Hallam, but principally in what
he says of social intercourse, and of the brighter days of his country, that we
perceive the sensibility and gentleness of his nature. He delights in painting
the joys of domestic life, of which he presents a most affecting picture in the
15th Canto of the
The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease That witched us into love and courtesy. Le donne, i cavalier', gli affanni e gli agi Che ne invogliava amore e cortesia .
These two lines have such a charm to Italian ears, that Ariosto, after having sketched a thousand beginnings for his poem, and decided upon an indifferent one enough., which was printed, finally rejected them all in the second edition, and substituted almost word for word, the verses of Dante, as follows —
Le donne, i cavalier, l'armi, gli amori
Le cortesie, l'audaci imprese, io canto .
But the slight change which it was necessary to make, destroyed the sweet harmony of the original; and the delicate sentiment of regret is wholly lost in the imitation. It is very rarely that the same ideas, or the same words, produce the same effect, when transplanted from the place into which they first dropped from the heart of a man of genius.
It is curious to see, how little novelty there is, even in the most modern of our elegant distresses. Dante, in the beginning of the 14th century, complains, that commerce having suddenly enriched numbers of mere clowns, society was corrupted and debased by an upstart aristocracy whose insolence and profusion had put to flight all courtesy of heart, and refinement of breeding
An upstart multitude, and sudden gain, Pride and excess, oh! Florence! have in thee Engendered; so that now in tears thou mourn'st.
This is one of the many instances in which our poet mingles with stern justice of observation, a sentiment of plaintive tenderness for his country. It will, we believe, be much more forcibly felt by those who understand the original.
La gente nuova e i subiti guadagni ,
Orgoglio e dismisura han generata ,
Fiorenza, in te! si che tu già ten piagni .
He has also the generosity to attribute to others the courtesy which was felt with so much nobleness, and expressed with so much sweetness by himself. Upon his entrance into Purgatory, he meets his friend Casella, a celebrated musician, who died a short time before, and whom he deeply lamented.
Then one I saw, darting before the rest With such fond ardour 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 returned 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 prayed 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?”
We shall give neither the sequel nor the original of this dialogue. Even this feeble attempt at translation sufficies to show, that it was dictated to a delicate mind by nature. At the close of their conversation. the poet asks his friend to sing.
Then I: “If new laws have not quite destroyed Memory and use of that sweet song of love, That whilom all my cares had power to 'suage, Please thee with it a little to console My spirit — “Love that discourses in my thoughts”. He then Regan, in such soft accents, that within The sweetness thrills me yet.
These lines convey but a dim shadow of the grace and tenderness of the original.
Ed io: “Se nuova legge non ti toglie
Memoria o uso all'amoroso canto,
Che mi solea quetar tutte mie voglie;
Di ciò ti piaccia consolare alquanto
L'anima mia —
“Amor che nella mente mi ragiona”
Cominciò egli allor sì dolcemente
Che la dolcezza ancor dentro mi suona .
Dante, in the words ‘amoroso
canto’
, asks his friend generally to sing him some strain that
should excite in him feelings of tenderness and love; whilst in Mr Cary's
translation, the words ‘
, seem rather to indicate some particular song, and
thereby destroy the beauty and delicacy of the poet's idea; for the touch of
courteous and gentle feeling which he imagines in his friend is, that Casella
selects a song which Dante had himself written for Beatrice. This is not
mentioned in the poem; but we have found the Canzone, of which the opening is
given here, among his lyric compositions.
Perhaps we have not correctly seized the acceptation in which the words
‘gentle feelings’
are used by Mr F.
Schlegel. It is difficult for people to understand each other through the medium
of a foreign language. We have before us a French translation of the
‘of not finding enough of. Now, in as much as the whole poem, and particularly theepisodes in the poem of Dante — and this radical vice of the poem,he says , necessarily fatigues the most intrepid reader’
E come quei che con lena affannata,
Uscito fuor del pelago alla riva,
si volge all'acqua perigliosa, e guata,
And as a man with difficult short breath Forespent with toiling,' scaped from sea to shore Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands At gaze.
(
is translated by Mr Ginguené, ‘
. In the
original, the question is not about a traveller at sea, but about a man who
saves himself by swimming. He reaches the shore, after having despaired of
escape, and when at the very last gasp. The words ‘fuor del pelago’
present the man to our
imagination as if he had been just vomited up by the ocean; and the concluding
verse places him in that sort of stupor which is felt upon passing at once to
safety from despair, without any intervention of hope. He looks back upon
perdition with a stare, unconscious how he had escaped it. The word ‘guata’
which ends the stanza and the
sentence, presents all this, as if by magic, to the imagination of the reader
— and leaves him in full possession of the image which the poet had
conjured up by his genius.
Such observations may appear too minute and particular; but it is in things like
this, that the peculiar merit of Dante consists. He condenses all his thoughts
and feelings in the facts he relates — and expresses himself
invariably by images, and those images often what the Italian painters call
in iscorcio
. Even his largest groupes are composed
of a very few strokes of the pencil — and in none does he ever stop to
fill up the design with minute or successive touches, but passes hastily on
through the boundless variety of his subject, without once pausing to heighten
the effect, or even to allow its full development to the emotion he has excited.
A single word flung in apparently without design, often gives its whole light
and character to the picture. Thus, in the third Canto of the
Then of them one began — “Whoe'er thou art Who journey'st thus this way, thy visage turn. Think if me elsewhere thou hast ever seen”. I towards him turned, and with fixed eyes beheld. Comely and fair and gentle of aspect He seemed; but on one brow a gash was marked; When humbly I disclaimed to have beheld Him ever. “Now behold”, he said; and showed, High on his breast, a wound; then smiling, spake, “I am Mandredi”. E un di loro incominciò: “Chiunque Tu se', così andando volgi 'l viso, Pon mente, se di là mi vedesti unque”. Io mi volsi ver lui, e guardail fiso, Biondo era, e bello, e di gentile aspetto; Ma l'un de' cigli un colpo avea diviso. Quando mi fui umilmente disdetto, D'averlo visto mai, el disse: “Or vedi”; E mostrommi una piaga a sommo il petto, Poi sorridendo disse: “Io son Manfredi” .
Manfredi was the most powerful prince of Italy, and the chief support of the
Ghibeline party; and fell on the field of battle in the flower of his age. The
Pope had his bones dug up and exposed, in order that they might be
‘washed by the rain, and stirred by the
wind’
.Or le bagna la pioggia e muove il vento.
SMILING, whilst he shows the wound that
arrested him in his career of glory, — and discovering, in that
We shall add but one example more, to show the difficulty of explaining the
beauties of Dante's composition by any general description. The passage we
select is from the episode .of ‘
Amor, ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende, Prese costui della bella persona Che mi fu tolta; e il modo ancor m'offende: Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona, Mi prese del costui piacer sì forte Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona: Amor condusse noi ad una morte. Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learned. 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 see'st, he yet deserts me not; Love brought us to, one death.
The whole history of woman's love is as highly and completely wrought, we think,
in these few lines, as that of The words ‘ the lion
.
— piacer sì forte
Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona .
It is thus that Dante unites perspicuity with conciseness — and the most naked simplicity with the profoundest observation of the heart. Her guilty passion survives its punishment by Heaven — but without a shade of impiety. How striking is the contrast of her extreme happiness in the midst of torments that can never cease; when, resuming her nanative, she looks at her lover, and repeats with enthusiasm,
Questi che mai da me non fia diviso —— he who ne'er From me shall separate. We think the word
questi , in the original, more evidently conveys the idea that Francesca, when she used it, turned her eyes towards her lover, who was ever by her side.
She nevertheless goes on to relieve her brother–in–law from all imputation of having seduced her. Alone, and unconscious of their danger, they read a love–story together. They gazed upon each other, pale with emotion — but the secret of their mutual passion never escaped their lips.
Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinse Quella lettura, e scolorocci 'l viso; Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. Oft–times by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from oufaltered cheek: But at one point Alone we fell.
We are sorry to say Mr Cary has not translated these interesting passages with
his usual felicity. The description of two happy lovers in the story was the
ruin of Francesca. It was the romance of Lancilot and Ginevra, wife of Arthur,
King of England. Dante calls the author ‘Galeotto’
; and, in the manuscripts of
Boccaccio, his
Quando leggemmo il disiato riso Esser baciato da cotanto amante, Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante. — When of that smile we read The wish'd 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.
After this avowal, she hastens to complete the picture with one touch which covers her with confusion.
Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante. — That day, We read no more!
She utters not another word! — and yet we fancy her before us, with her
downcast and glowing looks; whilst her lover stands by her side, listening in
silence and in tears. Dante, too, who had hitherto. questioned her, no longer
ventures to inquire in what manner her husband had pu't her to death; but is so
overcome by pity, that he sinks into a swoon. Nor is this to be considered as
merely a poetical exaggeration. It is remarked by the commentators, that the
poet had himself often yielded to the force of love, and that the fear of his
own damnation probably mingled with his compassion for Francesca, in producing
this excessive emotion. This may be true — but it is but a part of the
truth. Dante's whole work, though founded on what may be considered as an
extravagánt fiction, is conversant only with real persons. While other poets
deal with departed or with fabulous heroes, he takes all his characters from
among his countrymen, his cotemporaries, his hosts, his relatives, his friends,
and his enemies. Nor does he seek to disguise them under borrowed appellations.
He gives, in plain ords, the name and description and character of all those wgl
known individuals. He converses with them — reminds them of their
former friendship — and still seeks to mingle his sexitiments with
theirs. At the same time, he marks impartially the retribution to which he
thinks their conduct has entitled them; while, with a singular mixture of human
relenting, he is not prevented by their crimes, and consequent punishment in
hell, from doing them honour — laying open to them his heart, and
consoling them with his tears. If they had attended to those things, we think
the commentators might have condescended to mention, that Francesca was the
daughter of
Boccaccio has given an account which greatly mitigates the crime of Francesca;
and he insinuates, that still further particulars were known to Dante. He
relates, that
‘
Dante abstained from employing any of those circumstances, though highly poetical. He knew that pathos, by being expanded over a number of objects, loses of its force. His design was to produce, not tragedies, but single scenes; and Francesca, to justify herself, must have criminated her father, and thus diminished the affecting magnanimity with which her character is studiously endowed by the poet.
To record this stain upon the illustrious family of a benefactor and a friend,
may in our eyes appear indelicate and ungrateful; especially as it may be
supposed, from his placing Francesca in Hell, that he meant to hold her up to
execration. An observation which perhaps has not escaped the learned men of
Italy, but which they have never expressed, from the dread of provoking the
savage bigotry of their priests, explains this point. Dante constantly
distinguishes between the
From this principle he has deduced, that those who have done neither good or evil in their day, are the most despicable of beings. They are described as
Questi sciaurati che mai non fur vivi —These wretches who ne'er lived.
He places them between Hell, the abode of the damned, and Limbo, the abode of the
souls of infants and good men ignorant of the Christian faith; and with singular
boldness of opinion as well as style, he says
Fama di lor nel mondo esser non lassa, Misericordia e Giustizia li edegna, Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa. Fame of them the world hath none, Nor suffers. Mercy and Justice scorn them both. Speak not of them; but look, and pass them by.
Among those, he has had the boldness to place Saint Celestino, who abdicated the
pontificate through weakness, and acquired his titles to canonization in a
hermit's cell. He also finds amongst them the angels that in the war of
In those who merited that
How fair is the honour reaped from revenge! Che bell'onor s'acquista in Jar vendetta.
How strongly does its application to his own poem illustrate the character of his
age! Though terrified, at every step, by the objects which Hell presents to his
view, the sentiment of vengeance, as a duty, stops him in his course. His eyes
are fixed upon a shade that seems to shun him. Virgil reminds him that they must
continue their journey; and asks the reason of his delay. Dante answers,
‘If you knew the reason, you would allow me to remain
longer; for in the pit, on which I . fixed my eyes, I thought I beheld one
of my kinsmen’. ‘Truly’,
From those considerations, which we have been tempted to expand perhaps more than
was necessary, it is, we think, evident, that the episode of Francesca was every
way congenial to the principles, the poetry, and the affections of Dante, as
well as to the age in which he lived. To satisfy
The celebrity of the episode of Francesca, and the little light hitherto thrown upon it has engaged us in a discussion, the unavoidable length of which is an additional proof that a commentary upon Dante, which should be useful in a historical and poetical view, still remains to be executed. We hasten now to the close of these desultory observations. But few literary men are acquainted with his lyric compositions; and his prose is scarcely ever mentioned. The elegant treatise written by him, to prove that in a nation, divided by so many dialects as Italy, it must be impossible to adapt the dialect of Florence exclusively, was the principal cause of the little value set by the academy of La Crusca and its adherents upon the prose of our poet. For La Crusca always maintained that the language should not be called Italian, or even Tuscan, but Florentine. Nevertheless, the literary language of Italy, though founded upon the Tuscan, is a distinct language, created by the commonwealth of authors, never spoken, but always written; as Dante had seen and foreseen. His own prose is a fine model of forcible and simple style, harmonious without studied cadences, and elegant without the affected graces of Boccaccio and his imitators. We venture upon a short specimen, extracted from the
‘Siccome non si può bene manifestare la bellezza
d'una donna, quando li adornamenti dell'azzimare .e delle vestimenta la
fanno più annumerare che essa medesima. Onde chi vuole bene giudicare d'una
donna, guardi quella, quando solo sua naturale bellezza si sta con lei, da
tutto accidentale adornamento discompagnata. Sicome sarà questo volgare; nel
quale si vedrà l'agevolezza delle sue sillabe, le proprietà delle sue
condizioni, e le orazioni che di lui si fanno: — le quali chi bene
guarderà, vedrà essere piene di dolcissima e d'amabilissima
bellezza.
A perpetuale infamia e depressione degli malvagi uomini
d'Italia che commendano lo volgare altrui e il loro proprio dispregiano,
dico, che la loro mossa viene di cinque abominevoli cagioni. La prima, è
cecità di discrezione. La seconda, maliziata scusazione. La terza, cupidità
di vanagloria. La quarta, argomento d'invidia. La quinta e l'ultima, viltà
d'animo, ciò è pusillanimità. E ciascuna di queste età ha sì gran setta che
pochi son quelli che sieno da esse liberi. Della prima si può così
ragionare. Siccome la parte sensitiva dell'anima ha i suoi occhi co' quali
apprende la differenza delle cose in quanto elle sono di fuori colorate,
così la parte razionale ha il suo occhio, col quale apprende la differenza
delle cose in quanto sono ad alcun fine ordinate, e questa è la discrezione.
E siccome colui che è cieco degli occhi sensibili va sempre secondo che gli
altri, così colui che è cieco del lume . della discrezione, sempre va nel
suo giudizio secondo il grido o diritto o falso. Onde qualunque ora lo
guidatore è cieco, conviene che esso e quello anche cieco che a lui
s'appoggia vengano a mal fine. Però è scritto che il cieco al cieco farà
guida e cosi caderanno amendue nella fossa. Questa guida è stata lungamente
contro a nostro volgare per le ragioni che di sotto si ragioneranno.
Appresso di questa i ciechi sopra notati, che sono quasi infiniti, con la
mano in su la spalla a questi mentitori sono caduti nella fossa della falsa
opinione, della quale uscire non sanno. Dell'abito di questa luce discretiva
massimamente le popolari persone sono orbate, però che occupate dal
principio della loro vita ad alcuno mestiere, dirizzano sì l'animo loro a
quella persona della necessità che ad altro non intendono. E però che
l'abito di virtù, sì morale come infellettuale, subitamente avere non si
può, ma conviene che per usanza s'acquisti, e elli la loro usanza pongono in
alcuna arte, e a discernere l'altre cose non curano, impossibile è a loro
discrezione avere. Perché incontra che molte volte gridano viva la lor morte
e muoja la lor vita, pur che alcuno cominci. E questo è pericolosissimo
difetto nella loro cecità. Onde Boezio giudica la popolare gloria vana
perché la vede senza discrezione. Questi sono da chiamare pecore e non
uomini. Che se una pecora si gettasse da una ripa di mille passi, tutte le
altre l'anderebbono dietro. E se una pecora per alcuna cagione al passare
d'una strada salta, tutte l'altre saltano, eziandio nulla veggendo di
saltare. E io ne vidi già molte in un pozzo saltare per una che dentro vi
saltò, forse credendo saltare un muro, non ostante ch'il pastore piangendo e
gridando con le braccia e col petto dinanzi si parava. La seconda setta
contro al nostro volgare si fa per una maliziata scusa. Molti sono che amano
più d'essere tenuti maestri, che d'essere; e per fuggire lo contrario, ciò è
di non essere tenuti, sempre danno colpa alla materia dell'arte
apparecchiata, ovvero allo strumento. Siccome il mal fabro biasima il ferro
appresentato a lui; e lo mal cetarista biasima la cetra; —
credendo dar la colpa del mal coltello e del mal suonare al ferro e alla
cetra, e levarla a sé. Così sono alquanti, e non pochi, che vogliono che
l'uomo gli tenga dicitori, e per scusarsi del non dire, o del dire male,
accusano e incolpano la materia, ciò è lo volgare proprio, e commendano
l'altro, lo quale non è loro richiesto di fabricare. E chi vuole vedere come
questo ferro si dee biasimare, guardi che opere ne fanno gli buoni e
perfetti artefici e conoscerà la maliziata scusa di costoro che biasimando
lui si credono scusare. Contro questi cotali grida Marco Tullio nel
principio d'un suo libro che si chiama libro del fine de' beni. Però che al
suo tempo biasimavano lo latino romano, e commendavano la grammatica Greca.
E così dico per somiglianti cagioni che questi fanno vile lo parlare
Italico; e prezioso quello di Provenza’
, &c.
&c.
The lyric poetry of Italy was not indeed invented or perfected, though greatly
improved, by Dante. It is mentioned by himself in his prose works, that
‘lyric composition had been introduced above a century
before, by Sicilian poets, into Italy’
; from which time it
was gradually cultivated, down to Guido Cavalcanti, who produced some very fine
essays — the fmest until those of Dante, who in that kind was, in his
turn, surpassed by Petrarca. But still the germs of all that is most enchanting
in the strains of Laura's lover, may be found in the verses which had previously
celebrated Beatrice. The following is the opening of the canzone which his
friend Casella so courteously sang to him in
Amor che nella mente mi ragiona
Della mia donna al soavemente,
Move cose di lei meco sovente
Che l'intelletto sovr'esse dievia:
Lo suo parlar sì dolcemente suona,
Che l'anima che l'ode e che lo sente
Dice: oh me lassa!ch'io non son possente
Di dir quel che odo della donna mia;
..............................................
Perché il nostro pensier non ha valore
Di ritrar tutto ciò che dice amore.
One of his sonnets begins with these four exquisite lines, — to which nothing equal can be found in Petrarca in his happiest moments.
Ne gli occhi porta la mia donna amore
Perché si fa gentil ciò ch'ella mira:
Ognun che passa presso lei, sospira; —
E a chi saluta fa tremar lo core!
Unwearied reading, and a profound knowledge of the Italian language, and of the rise and progress of Italian civilization, are the essential requisites for illustrating the age, the genius, and the works of Dante. It requires active and persevering industry to ransack libraries, and peruse manuscripts of the 13th and 14th centuries, not even yet brought to light. We would further recommend, that the age of Dante should be accurately distinguished from that of Boccaccio and Petrarca. This distinction has never been observed in the literary history of Italy; and the consequence has been, that notions the most different have been confounded with each other. It was about the decline of Dante's life that the political constitution of the Italian Republics underwent a total and almost univeysal change, in consequence of which a new character was suddenly assumed by men, manners, literature, and the church.
It may be observed, that Dante, notwithstanding the number of his biographers,
has not yet had a historian. Among the pieces relating to this poet, either
unpublished or but little known, which we have had occasion to see, is an
interesting letter, which we shall subjoin with the same orthography in which it
may be read in the Laurentine library at Florence. Those who wish to see the original, may find it in that library, by the
following references:
About the year 1316, the friends of Dante succeeded in obtaining his restoration
to his country and his possessions, on condition that he should pay a certain
sum of money, and, entering church, there avow himself guilty, and ask pardon of
the Republic. The following was his answer on the occasion, to one of his
kinsmen, whom he calls ‘Father,’ because perhaps he was an
ecclesiastic; or, more probably, because he was older than the poet.
‘From your letter, which I received with due respect and
affection, I observe how much you have at heart my restoration to my
country. I am bound to you the more gratefully, that an exile rarely finds a
friend. But, after mature consideration, I must, by my answer, disappoint
the wishes of some little minds; and I confide in the judgment to which your
impartiality and prudence will lead you. Your nephew and mine has written to
me, what indeed had been mentioned by many other friends, that, by a decree
concerning the exiles, I am allowed to return to Florence, provided I pay a
certain sum of money, and submit to the humiliation of asking and receiving
absolution; wherèin, my Father, I see two propositions that are ridiculous
and impertinent. I speak of the impertinence of those who mention such
conditions to me; for, in your letter, dictated by judgment and discretion,
there is no such thing. Is such an invitation to return to his country
glorious for Dante, after suffering in exile almost fifteen years? Is it
thus then they would recompense innocence which all the world knows, and the
labour and fatigue of unremitting study? Far from the man who is familiar
with philosophy, be the senseless baseness of a heart of earth, that could
do like a little sciolist, and imitate the infamy of some others, by
offering himself up as it were in chains. Far from the man who cries aloud
for justice, this compromise, by his money, with his persecutors. No, my
Father, this is not the way that shall lead me back to my country. But I
shall return with hasty steps, if you or any other can open to me a way that
shall not derogate from the fame and honour of Dante; but if by no such way
Florence can be entered, then Florence I shall never enter. What! shall I
not everywhere enjoy the sight of the sun and stars? and may I not seek and
contemplate, in every corner of the earth under the canopy of heaven,
consoling and delightful truth, without first rendering myself inglorious,
nay infamous, to the people and republic of Florence? Bread, I hope, will
not fail me’
.In licteris vestris et reverentia debita et affectione
receptis, quam repatriatio mea cure sit vobis ex animo, grata mente,
ac diligenti animadversione concepi, etenim tanto me districtius
obligastis, quanto rarius exules invenire amicos contingit. ad
illarum vero significata respondeo: et si non eatenus qualiter
forsan pusillanimitas appeteret aliquorum, ut sub examine vestri
consilii ante Judicium, affectuose deposco ecce igitur quod per
licteras vestri meique nepotis, necnon aliorum quamplurium amicorum
significatum est mihi: per ordinamentum nuper factum Florentie super
absolutione bannitorum, quod si solvere vellem certam pecunie
quantitatem, vellemque pati notam oblationis et absolvi possem et
redire ad presens. in quo quidem duo ridenda et male perconciliata
sunt. Pater, dico male perconciliata per illos qui talia
expresserunt: nam vestre litere. discretius et consultius clausulate
nihil de talibus continebant. estne ista revocatio gloriosa qua d.
all. (i. e.
DANTES ALLIGHERIUS) revocatur ad
patriam per trilustrium fere perpessus exilium i hecne meruit
conscientia manifesta quibuslibet i hec sudor et labor continuatus
in studiis i absit a viro philosophie domestico temeraria terreni
cordis humilitas, ut more cujusdam Cioli et aliorum infamiam quasi
vinctus ipse se patiatur offerri. absit a viro predicante Justitiam,
ut perpessus injuriam inferentibus, velut io benemerentibus,
pecuniam suam solvat. non est hec via redeundi ad patriam, Pater mi;
sed si alia per vos, aut deinde per alios invenietur que fame d.
(
Yet bread often did fail him. Every reader,of his works must know by heart the
prediction addressed to him by the shade of his ancestor in Paradise.
( See ‘Thou
shalt prove how salt is the taste of the bread of others, and how hard the
road is going up and down the stairs of others’
. But there
is another passage in which, with designed obscurity, and a strength of
expression and feeling which makes the reader tremble, he discovers an exact
portrait of himself in a man who, stripping his visage of
all shame, and, trembling in his very vitals, places himself in the public
way, and stretches out his hand for charity.