Art. II. Osservazioni Intorno alla Questione sopra la Originalita del Poema di Dante. Di F. CANCELLIERI. Roma, 1814.

Observations concerning the Question of the Originality of the Poem of Dante. By F. CANCELLIERI.

THE limits of a late Number precluded us from entering, as fully as we would have 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 evidence, 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 Publiciste of July 1809), transcribed, embellished, and diffused it over all Europe, through the medium of his universal language. Having nothing to do with politics, every body received it upon the faith of the author of the pamphlet, by whom alone the old manuscript had been read ; and it was immediately settled, among the wits and critics of the day, that Dante was but the versifier of the ideas of others. Mr Cancellieri, a professed black-letter scholar, and animated, no doubt, with a laudable zeal for religion as well as literature, published the Vision entire in 1814, on the return of his Holiness to Rome. He accompanies it with an Italian translation, the whole comprising some sixty pages, preceded by twice that number of pages of his own remarks. In this ample dissertation, the question, however, is merely glanced at ;—and all that its readers can make out with certainty is, that the learned author had selected this curious subject chiefly to astonish the world by his multifarious erudition, in a book which might have been not inaptly entitled—‘ De rebus omnibus, et de quibusdam aliis. ’ It must be acknowledged however, that, amidst the unbounded variety of his citations, we meet with some things which it is agreeable to know ; but they have so little to do with Dante, that we are really but little beholden to him on the present occasion ; and have been obliged to refer to many other authorities, in order to disentangle ourselves from the perplexities into which he had brought us.

Mr Cancellieri apprises us that there existed two famous Alberics, both monks of Monte-Cassino ;—but he thought it immaterial to add, that the first was one of the few monks to whom the civilization of the world is not without obligations—he having, in the midst of the barbarism of the 11th century, written treatises upon logic, astronomy, and music.
* Mabillon, An. Bened. vol. 5, b. 65.
His works probably contributed more to form the mind of Dante, than the Visions of the other to form the plan of his poem.

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 Alberic in his own words.
† Tanta usque in hodiernum abstinentia, tunta morum gravitate pollet, ut poenas peccatorum perspexisse, et pertimuisse, et glorium sanctorum vidisse nemo quis dubitet : Non enim carnem, non adipem, non vinum, ab illo tempore usque nunc, Deo annuente, assumpsit ; calciamento nullo penitus tempore utitur ; et sic, in tanta cordis, ac corporis contritione, et humilitate usque nunc in hodiernum, in hoc Casinensi cœnobio perseverat, ut multa illum quæ alios laterent val metuenda, vel desideranda vidisse, etiamsi lingua taceret, vim loqueretur. (De Viris illustr. Casin.)

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 1Oth 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.
* Hist. Ang. ad an. 1196.
The English monk, like the Italian, gives no description of Hell, but, like Dante, describes his Purgatory as a mount ;—the passage from Purgatory to Paradise, a vast garden, intersected by delightful woods, as in our poet : Both had their visions in the holy week ;—both allot the same punishments to the same infamous crimes, with some other points of resemblance, which those who are curious may find in Mathew Paris. The vision related by that historian, suffices to give an idea of all the others ; and proves, indeed, that there existed, at that time, a systematic style for working, in this way, upon popular credulity. The English monk also had his vision immediately after a long and dangerous malady, and in a state of lethargy and inanition, which lasted nine days, also followed by a miraculous cure.

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 hat ! 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 Mazzuchclli, Pelli, and Tiraboschi.
* Mazzuch. Scritt. It. vol. 1. pag. 290.—Pelli Memor. pag. 122.—
Tirab. Storia, &c. vol. 3. b, 4.
Mr Bottari was the first who confronted it with the poem of Dante, in the year 1753 ; and the vanity which turns the heads of so many erudite persons, when they make discoveries to their own infinite surprise, made him imagine he had discovered, in Dante, diverse close imitations of the manuscript. The following is one of his great instances. Dante calls the Devil
the great worm,
(Inferno, Cant. 31.), and therefore he must have copied from Alberic, who saw
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 Scriptures, and that ‘ worm ’ was constantly used for ‘ serpent ’ by the old Italian writers ? Shakespeare indeed uses it in the same sense, in ‘ Anthony and Cleopatra ;’ and Johnson, in his note upon the passage, adduces a variety of other instances, in which the term was so employed. Another alleged imitation is, that in Purgatory an eagle grasps Dante with his talon, and raises him on high, in the same manner as Alberic had been caught by the hair, and lifted up by a dove.—Here, too, three pious persons have forgotten their Bible. In the two chapters of Daniel, retained in the Vulgate, Habakkuk is thus caught and lifted up. by an angel ; and the prophet Ezekiel says, chap. viii. v. 3.
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 heaven, 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. Parad. Cant. 25.

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 aristocracy 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 succeeding generations to the authority usurped over princes by Gregory VII. The ill effects of that usurpation were hot sensibly felt in Italy until a much later period ; and the truUi 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.
By this notable device, the Church at once acquired a very large portion of all the cultivated lands of Europe : for the monks had very generally employed themselves in clearing and cultivating the soil—received large donations from potentates and kings—and had thus become wealthy and powerful proprietors. By this act of annexation, however, they became the immediate subjects of the Pope ; and a great portion of the riches of Europe began, in consequence, to flow in upon Italy.

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 fell 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. See Collect. of Labbeus.
which, though he did not live long enough to curry into execution, he left to his successor already matured and digested. Then it was that kings became subalterns in command, fighting with their subjects in Asia during half a century, under orders issued from Rome ; and Rome and Italy became, of course, the centre of influence and authority. All these advantages, however, would have been of but little value, without freedom ; and of this, also, the sovereign Pontiff happened to be the first dispenser :—for Gregory, in his first experiment of excommunication, released the Italians from their oath of fealty to the Emperor, who had previously governed them as vassals.

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 market with her merchandise. The wealth thus resulting from commerce, served to divide and distribute the property of the land, and to multiply 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 Guelfi professed themselves supporters of the Church, and the Ghibelini of the Empire, but without much caring for the one or the other. The true question between them was, whether the wealthy citizens or the people should govern the state ; and, in the continual danger of foreign invasion, the popular party found its interest in attaching itself to the Church and to France against Germany, whilst the higher classes were more interested in joining the Emperors against the Popes and the French. From the political conduct of Dante when a magistrate, it is evident that he condemned the madness of both parties ; for he sent the leaders of both into banishment. But it is also clear that he was more afraid of France than of Germany, and not over fond of democracy.

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, De Monarchia, to prove that all the misfortunes of Italy sprang from the false doctrine, that the Popes had a right to interfere in temporal concerns. France having, at the time, contrived that the Popes should reside at Avignon, for the purposes of more absolute control, and Frenchmen having been successively raised to the Holy See, as being more devoted to French interests, our poet addressed a letter to the Cardinals from his exile, recommending strongly that they should elect an Italian Pope.
* Giovanni Villani, B. 9, chap. 134.
It was with those views, and under those circumstances, in so far as politics were concerned, that he wrote his poem.

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 verbatim,

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. Aret. Hist. Flor. b. 12. c. 1.

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 Monaci and Frati. The former were always more or less useful to agriculture—remarkable for the luxury in which they lived—receiving amongst them only persons of condition. for the most part—and each congregation having a sort of monarchical constitution, of which the abbot was absolute chief. The constitution of the Frati was, on the other hand, at all times more or less democratic. They have always been meddling with affairs of state, and family affairs—
Scire volunt secreta domus atque inde timeri.

The Jesuits, who have been lately re-established, are also mendicant Frati. Notwithstanding their great wealth, they observed the form, in order to preserve the right of begging, by sending out their conversi (lay-brothers) with sacks, three or four times a year, to beg for their convents. Having been established three centuries later than the others, they took advantage of this, to give refinement to the arts, and to avoid the faults of those who preceded them. Mathew Paris, who was nearly cotemporary with Saint Francis and Saint Dominick, has given pictures of their new flocks, which might be taken for an abstract of all that has been written from the days of Pascal to the present, concerning the Jesuits.
The people,
says he,
called them hypocrites and successors of Antichrist, pseudo-preachers, flatterers and counsellors of kings and princes, despisers and supplanters of bishops, violators of royal marriage-beds, prevaricators of confessions, who, wandering over unknown provinces, minister to the audacity of sin.
(ad an. 1256, p. 939, Edit. 1640.)
It is inconceivable what an ascendency was exercised by the Dominicans and Franciscans in the time of our poet over the passions of individuals, the opinions of the people, and the powers of the State. The Franciscan, Fra Giovanni di Vicenza, possessed unbounded authority in Lombardy, changing the laws, leading towns and provinces in his train ; instigating the civil animosities of that unhappy people in obedience to the fatal policy of the Popes ; and, when harangues and intrigues failed, making himself obeyed by auto-da-fe. By a document published not long since by Mr Marini, it appears that auto-da-fe were multiplied by the Dominicans, even beyond the wishes and orders of the Court of Home. It is a brief of Pope Benedict the XI., dated the 11th of March 1304, and addressed to the Inquisitors of Padua, ordering them to reverse their iniquitous sentences, and to go on with their trade of preaching and burning, in such a manner, that the outcries of the people should no longer reach his ears. Benedict the XI. was himself a Dominican ; and perhaps wished, like many other sovereigns, to profit by the injustice of his agents, without appearing to be a party.

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 innumerable antiquated visions, but invented rev. 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 New Testament. Mathew Paris, either from not being exactly informed of what was passing abroad, or not daring to state all he knew, speaks of this circumstance only in general terms.
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.
(Hist. Aug. ad an. 1257.)
But he has said quite enough to confirm the discoveries subsequently made by writers of every communion, respecting this extraordinary tact, and to make known in what state Dante found the religion of Europe. The Inquisitors, in the mean time, were by no means remiss in burning astrologers, and persons accused of practising the art of magic, though it sometimes happened that an astrologer triumphed over them. Of two cotemporaries of Dante, one, Cecco d’Ascoli, was burned by order of the Dominican Inquisition at Florence ;
* Gio. Villani, B. 10. Chap. 39.
and the other, Pietro d’Abano, who was reputed to be confederate with devils, and openly professed astrology, upon being accused at Paris, retorted the charge of heresy upon the Dominicans—summoned them to appear—convicted them of heresy by forty-five special arguments—procured their expulsion and exclusion from Paris for a considerable period—and was himself pronounced innocent by the Pope at Rome,
† Michael Savonarola, ad an. 1292, 1299.—Petri Abani conciliator, differentia 10.
The people, however, believed in the power of this magician. It is mentioned in the chronicles of that age, and still repeated in the villages of Padua, that Pietro had seven spirits at his command ; and that when he was going to be hanged, he substituted an ass in his place. The fact is, that notwithstanding his canonical absolution, Pietro had admitted in his writings the influence of the stars upon human actions, and denied absolutely the existence of demons.
‡ This curious observation was first made by Pico of Mirandola. See De rerum Prænotatione, sect. 5.

The philosophy of Epicurus had made some progress among the higher orders in the age of Dante ; Guido Cavalcauti, his intimate friend, was pointed out by the people for his Meditations against the Existence of God.

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
‖ Maratori, Annali, ad an. 1300.
at its gates. To give all possible solemnity and effect to the lessons he proposed to inculcate, Dante fixed the epoch of his Vision of Divine Justice, in the holy week of that year, when all Europe thus went forth to obtain the remission of sins.

We have thus endeavoured to fill up some of the lacunæ in the work of Mr Cancellieri ; and trust we have, at the same time, negatived many of the trite and visionary conjectures that have been hazarded upon the sources whence our poet might have derived the idea of his work.
* Romance of Guerino—Saint Patrick’s pit—The Juggler who goes to Hell—The dream of Hell—The road to Hell—and three Tales of the 12th and 13th centuries, to be found in the old French Fabliaux.
There are, however, some recent authors, whose writings are deservedly popular, of whose opinions it may be right to say something. Denina has gone the length of supposing, that Dante borrowed his plan from a masquerade which took place during a public festival at Florence, in which devils and damned souls were represented as characters. This strange drama was exhibited on a bridge over the Arno, which, being made of wood, gave way during the show, and closed the scene most tragically.—Now, it appears from Villani, that Dante had left Florence two years before ; and, previously to his departure, had composed the seven first cantos of his poem, which were saved by his wife when his house was pillaged and destroyed by the faction that persecuted him. The manuscript, by Boccacio’s account, was sent to him in his exile, in 1302 ; and the masquerade of ‘ 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 ‘ La Vita Nuova, ’ gives distinct hints of the design of his great poem.

Our poet was the pupil of Brunetto Latini, who, in a sort of poem, entitled the Tesoretto, supposes himself guided by Ovid through the mazes of a forest, in search of the oracles of nature and philosophy ; and from this model it is confidently, asserted, that the pupil loses himself in a forest, and takes Virgil for his guide. That Mr Corniani should dilate upon this fine discovery, is very natural—for, of all the historians of Italian literature, he is the most quackish and the most inept. But it is lamentable that it should be repeated with even more confidence by Mr Guiguené. He is
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.
* Vide Lor. Mehus, vita del Traversari, page 153.
Federigo Ubaldini says, in the preface to his edition of the Tesoretto in 1642—
Aver Dante imitato il Tesoretto di Brunetto Latini.
Mr Ginguené too, we may say, has been much too favourable in his judgment of the Tesoretto, which is really a very mean and scarcely intelligible performance. Though written six hundred years ago, we suspect there are but few persons who have read it in all that time. Would it be credited, that Count Mazzuchelli, and Father Quadrio, the two Italian writers who have most carefully explored the old authors, had but an imperfect knowledge of the Tesoretto, even while they were busy disputing about it ? Both writers, misled by the resemblance of name, mention it as an abridgment of the Tesoro, which is in fact the great work of Brunetto Latini, but has nothing whatever, either in conception or matter, in common with the Tesoretto. The Tesoro, besides, is written in French, and in prose. Monsignor Fontanini, who is occasionally bewildered by his admiration of what is old, calls the Tesoretto—
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 Tesoretto in three words—
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 Æneid would have sufficed. But it happens, in fact, that he took his plan, with more direct imitation than we should expect, from the Tesoretto of his master in philosophical studies, Brunetto Latini. This is proved by Mr Ginguené, B. 2, p. 8.
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 certainty is reduced to probability. Mr Ginguené there says only,
that Dante gave grandeur and poetic colouring to the ideas of his master, Brunetto,—if indeed he borrowed any from him ; and similar ideas were not dictated to him by the nature of his subject.
(Vol. II, p. 27).
And at last this great discovery dwindles into a mere possibility, for Mr Ginguené, in giving some extracts from the Tesoretto, is reduced to the avowal,
that it is at least possible Dante may have profited by it.
(p. 8).
The truth is, that such inaccuracies and inconsistencies are almost inevitable in treating of a foreign literature ; and especially of a literature so copious and peculiar as the Italian. The history of its eminent writers is entangled in the dissensions of the different provinces—the systems of their different schools—their religious opinions, and not infrequently the political interests of their several masters. Hence, in order to appretiate the force or the value of their expressions, it is often necessary to have an accurate knowledge of the different systems of literary education, of manners, of revolutions, of governments, and, often, even of the personal character and design of each writer. In Italy, too, it should be remembered, that there has not for centuries been any political freedom, and that the people have been studiously kept in ignorance. Flattery and satire have accordingly been chiefly in request—while party spirit and imposture have had full play. The number of readers, at the same time, is so limited, as to consist almost wholly of protegés, patrons and rivals : and the men of letters, who might expose imposture, and bring truth to light, have rarely been able to speak without danger. We have already observed, that the Jesuits usurped every branch of polite literature ; and that, to serve the cause of the Popes, they systematically decried Dante, with the other noblest geniuses of Italy. Nevertheless, the history of the Jesuit Tiraboschi, is (with very few exceptions) the constant model of Mr Ginguené, who in fact has done little more than impart a more lively colouring to the original design of that learned but prejudiced person. In the execution of this humble task, however, he now and then gets so bewildered as to be unjust to his model :—for example, he actually charges Tiraboschi
with having confounded the Tesoro with the Tesoretto,
(vol. II, p. 8.) ;
—while the fact is, that Tiraboschi was the very person who first exposed this blunder of Mazzuchelli and Quadrio, to which we have already adverted. (Storia Lett., vol. IV, lib. 3, c. 5.) The French, however, are apt, we suspect, to fall into such perplexities. The Abbé de Sades, in his Memoirs of the life of Petrarca, relates of that poet—
that, to avoid a winter passage over the mountains between Milan and Venice, he postponed his journey, &c.
(vol. III, p. 345.)
Now, we shall not venture to say what might have been the state of that country anterior to the deluge : but of this we are certain, that in no author, antient or modern, always excepting M. de Sades, is there the least mention of mountains between Milan and Venice—a tract of country so flat, as to be called, in the chronicles of the time of Petrarca—‘ 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 Mr Andres, who certainly writes in Italian, but is a Spaniard !—and, moreover, generally considered in Italy, as neither very well acquainted with its literature, nor very just to it.

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—‘ Lectures on the History of Literature, antient and modern. ’ He is graciously pleased to represent Dante as
the greatest of Italian and of Christian poets,
—but observes, at the same time, that
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.
Now, the opinion of Mr Hallam is directly opposite to that of this learned Theban.
In one so highly endowed by nature,
observes Mr Hallam,
and so consummate by instruction, we may well sympathize with a resentment which exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh. But the heart of Dante was naturally sensible and even 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.
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, ‘ Il Convito, ’ he remembers Florence with the most affectionate tenderness. He styles the injustice of his fellow-citizens towards himself, a fault, not a crime—and offers up a pathetic prayer,
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 nè altri contro me avria fallato, nè io sofferto avrei pena ingiustamente ; pena, dico, d’esilio e di povertà, poichè 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 Camæna,
Excutienda damus præcordia.
But, in order to obtain just views of those characteristic feelings, their poems should be read through and through ; whereas the generality of critics content themselves with a few popular passages, and judge of the 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 dicta pass current as authority. Dante is, perhaps, the poet most spoken of, and least read by foreigners. It may, therefore, be proper to select a few passages from the many that might be found in his poem, to prove that his heart was as much distinguished for gentleness, as for magnanimity and force.

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 makes me firm ;
The boon companion, who her strong breastplate
Buckles on him that feels no guilt within,
And bids him on, and fear not.
Nevertheless, this inflexibility and pride, melt at once 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 tu (thou), uses the pronoun voi (you) in addressing his preceptor Brunetto, and his mistress Beatrice. Even Mr Cary has not seized this shade of distinction, and translates
Sete voi qui, 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—
......... ìo 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 quì 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 Paradiso, whence we have taken the verses just quoted. He does not lament the loss of innocence and simplicity alone, but also of the refined luxury, the courtesy, the chivalrous spirit of gallantry and love, and the tone of high breeding in society, which in Italy, it seems, were then beginning to disappear.
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 suffices 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 ‘ that song of love ’, 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 Inferno, published a few years since in London, in which the translator complains
of not finding enough of episodes in the poem of Dante—and this radical vice of the poem,
he says,
necessarily fatigues the most intrepid reader.
Now, in as much as the whole poem, and particularly the Inferno, is a tissue of episodes, we are obliged to conclude that, in French literature, the word episode means something very different from what is generally understood. We have, however, too many frightful examples before us, to enter into discussions relating to a foreign language. Mr Ginguené, who has treated Italian literature with more zeal and candour, and who was generally better qualified than many who have undertaken the same task, is, we regret to repeat, one of those examples. The simile of Dante (Inf., Cant. 1.)
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, ‘ scraped from sea to shore
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze. (Cary’s translat.)
is translated by Mr Ginguené,
Comme un voyageur hors d’haleine, descendu sur le rivage, tourne ses regards vers la mer où il a couru tant de dangers.
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 Purgatorio, the poet gazes with fixed eyes upon the shades as they move over the mountain. One stands still and addresses him.
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’, cosi 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.
It is easy to imagine what Dante felt at the sight of this ill-fated and youthful hero. We look to find a eulogy upon him ; but the poet, in his own person, speaks not of Manfredi. It is by the single word sorridendo that the reader is moved to admiration and to pity. Dante employs but that one touch, to express the magnanimity of a hero SMILING, whilst he shows the wound that arrested him in his career of glory,—and discovering, in that smile, his contempt of the vindictive fury of his enemies.

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 ‘ Francesca da Rimini ’, as being most familiar to the English reader, both from its own popularity, and from the beautiful amplification of it which Mr Hunt has lately given to the public. Francesca says to the poet,
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 Juliette in the whole tragedy of Shakespeare. Francesca imputes the passion her brother-in-law conceived for her, not to depravity, but nobleness of heart in him,
† The words ‘ gentile, ’ and ‘ gentilezza, ’ as used by the best writers, from Dante to the present day, denote rather nobleness of soul than amiableness of manners. Gentilezza is a propensity towards all that is beautiful and generous ; and is the alliance of delicacy of sentiment with high courage. Ariosto says, the lion ha il cor gentile.
and to her own loveliness. With a mingled feeling of keen sorrow and complacent naïveté, she says she was fair, and that an ignominious death robbed him of her beauty. She confesses that she loved, because she was beloved :—That charm had deluded her :—and she declares, with transport, that joy had not abandoned her even in hell.
———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 narrative, 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 piu 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 our altered 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 Decameron is found entitled ‘ Il principe Galeotto, ’ apparently to apprise the reader of its being a dangerous book.
Quando leggemmo il disiato riso
Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso
La bocca mì 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 piu 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 put 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 extravagant 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 words, the name and description and character of all those well known individuals. He converses with them—reminds them of their former friendship—and still seeks to mingle his sentiments 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 Guido da Polenta, master of Ravenna, Dante’s protector and most faithful friend. The poet had probably known her when a girl, blooming in innocence and beauty under the paternal roof. He must, at least, have often heard the father mention his ill-fated child. He must therefore have recollected her early happiness, when he beheld the spectacle of her eternal torment ; and this, we think, is the true account of the overwhelming sympathy with which her form overpowers him. The episode, too, was written by him in the very house in which she was born, and in which he had himself, during the last ten years of his exile, found a constant asylum.

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
Guido engaged to give his daughter in marriage to Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy the master of Rimini. Lanciotto, who was hideously deformed in countenance and figure, foresaw, that if he presented himself in person, he should be rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to marry her by proxy, and sent, as his representative, his younger brother Paolo, the handsomest and most accomplished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo arrive, and imagined she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the commencement of her passion. The friends of Guido addressed him in strong remonstrances and mournful predictions of the dangers to which he exposed a daughter, whose high spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with impunity. But Guido was no longer in a condition to make war ; and the necessities of the politician overcame the feelings of the father.
* Opere del Boccaccio, vol. V, towards the end, Florence edition, 1721.

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 sins and merits of each individual. Divine Justice, in his poem, punishes sin whenever it is actually committed ; but human sympathy, or pity, laments or extenuates the offence, according to the circumstances under which it was committed. The poet dispenses censure and praise, according to the general qualities of the persons—the good or evil they had done their country—the glory or the infamy they had left behind them. He, however, carefully abstains from laying down this maxim in words, whilst he invariably acts upon it both in the Inferno and the Purgatorio. In the Paradiso, there is plainly no room for its operation.

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 God’s justice disdains to punish, and his mercy disdains to pardon, those who were useless in their lives.
Fama di lor nel mondo esser non lassa,
Misericordia e Giustizia li sdegna,
Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarde 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 Lucifer against God took neither side, and thought only of themselves.

In those who merited that God should weigh their lives against their sins, Dante has generally implanted a strong desire of celebrity. The prospect of being named by the poet, on his return to the living, suspends awhile the sense of their pains. Great souls, though expiating the guilt and shamefulness of the heaviest sins, entreat him to mention his having seen them. This he always promises ; and often, for the purpose of engaging them to speak with him more freely, pledges his faith that they shall not be forgotten. The shades of those only who in their lives were sunk in habitual crime and infamy, conceal from him their names. It is in the middle age, between barbarism and refinement, that men most strongly feel this desire of having their names preserved from oblivion. The passions, at that period, have yet lost no portion of their vigour, and are ruled by impulse rather than by calculation. Man has then more difficulties to rouse, and more courage to sustain him ; and, rather than be checked in his course, will plunge with eclat into any gulf that opens in his way. .Of this the age of Dante furnishes examples scarcely credible in an age like ours, in which nothing retains sufficient novelty to make a strong impression, and the objects of pursuit are so multiplied, that no one can excite a commanding interest. It is obvious, however, that the strong passions of less polished times bear men on to great virtues—great crimes—great calamities ; and thus form the characters that are most proper for poetry. Dante had only to look round him for characters such as these. He found them already formed for his purpose, without the necessity of a single heightening touch from his own invention. Refinement had not yet produced that sameness of individual physiognomy in the great mass of a nation. Individual originality, now rare, dangerous, ridiculous, and often affected, was then common and undisguised. Poetry, in later times, has succeeded in catching its shades for the purposes of fine comedy—as in the Misanthrope of Moliere ; and of pretty satire—as in Pope’s Rape of the Lock. But all that this species of poetry can do, is to seize that exterior of character which every age and nation decks out after its own fashion ; whilst the poetry, whose business is with the human heart, is coeval and coextensive with human nature. Pope, accordingly, no sooner lighted, in an almost barbarous age, upon a poetical personage, governed both in action and in writing by feeling alone, than he produced the Epistle of Eloisa, and proved that he had genius. Many a woman of that day resembled Eloisa in her misfortunes and her love ; but they left few, if any, letters behind them. Even those of Eloisa have reached us only by their connexion with the writings of her lover. At present, the fair sex write much more, and perhaps feel as much less ; and accordingly, our later poets, not finding poetical characters at home, are driven to seek for them in Turkey and in Persia ;—while the Germans explore the ruins of Teutonic castles—and the Italians prudently confine themselves to the mythology of Greece and Rome. In fine, when nations are in a semi-barbarous state, the passions are their strongest laws : what else they have under the name of law, is yet without consistency or force. The punishment of an injury is left do him who suffered it—and he regards vengeance as a duty. Dante concludes one of his lyric pieces with the following sentiment—
How fair is the honour reaped from revenge !
Che bell’ onor s’acquista in far 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,
rejoins Virgil,
I marked him pointing his finger at you with a menacing and haughty air.
Oh ! my master,
exclaims Dante ;
he was killed by an enemy, and his death has not been yet revenged by any of those to whom that insult was given ; and therefore he disdained to speak to me !
§ Hell, Cant. 29.

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 Divine Justice, he, in fact, places her in Hell ; but he introduces her in such a manner, that human frailty must pity her. Nature had given to her character the poetic cast. Her story, he knew, was one that could not be concealed ;—and he gave the daughter of his friend the celebrity which popular tradition could not bestow. The husband of Francesca was living and powerful when Dante wrote ; but the fearless vengeance of the poet devotes him to infamy ; and foretels, that his place, named after Cain, among the fratricides, awaits him in the very centre of Hell. Indeed, the father of Francesca continued to afford protection to Dante, and not only attended his remains to the tomb, but composed and recited a funeral oration over them. His successors, too, defended the Poet’s sepulchre against the power of Charles de Valois, and the Church—when John the XXIId sent Cardinal Bernardo di Poggetto from Avignon to Ravenna, with orders to drag forth the bones of the poet from the repose of the grave, that they might be burned, and their ashes scattered before the wind.—This, indeed, is mentioned only by Boccaccio in the life of Dante ; and that piece of biography has been generally regarded as a romance. But the fact, we think, is completely verified in the works of Bartolo, a celebrated civilian, who was living at the time, and alludes to it very distinctly in treating of the law de Rejudicandis Reis. (ad cod. I. 1. cod. de Rejudic. &c.)

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 Convito, upon the subject to which we have alluded.

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 proprieta 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 ch’ 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. Perchè 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 perche 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 sè. Cosi 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 de’ 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 finest 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 Purgatory.
Amor che nella mente mi ragiona
Della mia donna sì soavemente,
Move cose di lei meco sovente
Che l’intelletto sovr’ esse disvia :
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 ;
..............................................
Perchè 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
Perche sì fa gentil cio 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 universal 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 : Pluteum 29, Codex 8, page 123.

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 ; wherein, 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 illam vero significata respondeo : et si non eatenus qualiter forsam pusillanimitas appeteret aliquorum, ut sub examine vestri consilii ante Judicium, affectuose deposco. ecce igitur quod per licteras vestri mei : que nepotis, necnon aliorum quamplurium amicorum significatum est nihi : 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 ? hecne meruit conscientia manifesta quibuslibet ? hec sudor et labor continuatus in studiis ? 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. velud 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. (Dantis) que onori non deroget, illam non lentis passibus acceptabo. quod si per nullam talem Florentia introitur, nunquam Florentiam introibo. quid ni ? nonne solis astrorumque specula ubique conspiciam ? nonne dulcissimas veritates potero speculari ubique sub celo, ni prius inglorium, imo ignominiosum populo, Florentineque civitati me reddam ? quippe panis non deficiet.

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. (Parad. Cant. 17.)
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.
* See Purgat., Cant. 1 1 ; towards the end.
It was by such sacrifices he preserved his principles and sustained the magnanimity of his character.