No More Learning

Now.

CHARICLEA. Where?

ALCIBIADES. Here.

CHARICLEA. Delightful!

SPEUSIPPUS. But there must be an interval of a year between the
purification and the initiation.

ALCIBIADES. We will suppose all that.

SPEUSIPPUS. And nine days of rigid mortification of the senses.

ALCIBIADES. We will suppose that too. I am sure it was supposed, with as
little reason, when I was initiated.

SPEUSIPPUS. But you are sworn to secrecy.

ALCIBIADES. You a sophist, and talk of oaths! You a pupil of Euripides,
and forget his maxims!

"My lips have sworn it; but my mind is free. " (See Euripides:
Hippolytus, 608. For the jesuitical morality of this line Euripides is
bitterly attacked by the comic poet. )

SPEUSIPPUS. But Alcibiades--

ALCIBIADES. What! Are you afraid of Ceres and Proserpine?

SPEUSIPPUS. No--but--but--I--that is I--but it is best to be safe--I
mean--Suppose there should be something in it.

ALCIBIADES. Now, by Mercury, I shall die with laughing. O Speusippus.
Speusippus! Go back to your old father. Dig vineyards, and judge causes,
and be a respectable citizen. But never, while you live; again dream of
being a philosopher.

SPEUSIPPUS. Nay, I was only--

ALCIBIADES. A pupil of Gorgias and Melesigenes afraid of Tartarus! In
what region of the infernal world do you expect your domicile to be
fixed? Shall you roll a stone like Sisyphus? Hard exercise, Speusippus!

SPEUSIPPUS. In the name of all the gods--

ALCIBIADES. Or shall you sit starved and thirsty in the midst of fruit
and wine like Tantalus? Poor fellow? I think I see your face as you
are springing up to the branches and missing your aim. Oh Bacchus! Oh
Mercury!

SPEUSIPPUS. Alcibiades!

ALCIBIADES. Or perhaps you will be food for a vulture, like the huge
fellow who was rude to Latona.

SPEUSIPPUS. Alcibiades!

ALCIBIADES. Never fear. Minos will not be so cruel. Your eloquence
will triumph over all accusations. The Furies will skulk away like
disappointed sycophants. Only address the judges of hell in the
speech which you were prevented from speaking last assembly. "When I
consider"--is not that the beginning of it? Come, man, do not be
angry. Why do you pace up and down with such long steps? You are not in
Tartarus yet. You seem to think that you are already stalking like poor
Achilles,

"With stride Majestic through the plain of Asphodel. " (See Homer's
Odyssey, xi. 538. )

SPEUSIPPUS. How can you talk so, when you know that I believe all that
foolery as little as you do?

ALCIBIADES. Then march. You shall be the crier. Callicles, you shall
carry the torch. Why do you stare? (The crier and torchbearer were
important functionaries at the celebration of the Eleusinian mysteries. )

CALLICLES. I do not much like the frolic.

ALCIBIADES. Nay, surely you are not taken with a fit of piety. If all
be true that is told of you, you have as little reason to think the gods
vindictive as any man breathing. If you be not belied, a certain golden
goblet which I have seen at your house was once in the temple of Juno at
Corcyra. And men say that there was a priestess at Tarentum--

CALLICLES. A fig for the gods! I was thinking about the Archons. You
will have an accusation laid against you to-morrow. It is not very
pleasant to be tried before the king. (The name of king was given in
the Athenian democracy to the magistrate who exercised those spiritual
functions which in the monarchical times had belonged to the sovereign.
His court took cognisance of offences against the religion of the
state. )

ALCIBIADES. Never fear: there is not a sycophant in Attica who would
dare to breathe a word against me, for the golden plane-tree of the
great king. (See Herodotus, viii. 28. )

HIPPOMACHUS. That plane-tree--

ALCIBIADES. Never mind the plane-tree. Come, Callicles, you were not
so timid when you plundered the merchantman off Cape Malea. Take up the
torch and move. Hippomachus, tell one of the slaves to bring a sow. (A
sow was sacrificed to Ceres at the admission to the greater mysteries. )

CALLICLES. And what part are you to play?

ALCIBIADES. I shall be hierophant. Herald, to your office. Torchbearer,
advance with the lights. Come forward, fair novice. We will celebrate
the rite within.

[Exeunt. ]

*****




CRITICISMS ON THE PRINCIPAL ITALIAN WRITERS.




No. I. DANTE. (January 1824. )

"Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet. " --Milton.

In a review of Italian literature, Dante has a double claim to
precedency. He was the earliest and the greatest writer of his country.
He was the first man who fully descried and exhibited the powers of
his native dialect. The Latin tongue, which, under the most favourable
circumstances, and in the hands of the greatest masters, had still been
poor, feeble, and singularly unpoetical, and which had, in the age of
Dante, been debased by the admixture of innumerable barbarous words
and idioms, was still cultivated with superstitious veneration, and
received, in the last stage of corruption, more honours than it had
deserved in the period of its life and vigour. It was the language of
the cabinet, of the university, of the church. It was employed by all
who aspired to distinction in the higher walks of poetry. In compassion
to the ignorance of his mistress, a cavalier might now and then proclaim
his passion in Tuscan or Provenc'al rhymes. The vulgar might occasionally
be edified by a pious allegory in the popular jargon. But no writer
had conceived it possible that the dialect of peasants and market-women
should possess sufficient energy and precision for a majestic and
durable work. Dante adventured first. He detected the rich treasures of
thought and diction which still lay latent in their ore. He refined them
into purity. He burnished them into splendour. He fitted them for every
purpose of use and magnificence. And he has thus acquired the glory, not
only of producing the finest narrative poem of modern times but also of
creating a language, distinguished by unrivalled melody, and peculiarly
capable of furnishing to lofty and passionate thoughts their appropriate
garb of severe and concise expression.

To many this may appear a singular panegyric on the Italian tongue.
Indeed the great majority of the young gentlemen and young ladies, who,
when they are asked whether they read Italian, answer "yes," never go
beyond the stories at the end of their grammar,--The Pastor Fido,--or an
act of Artaserse. They could as soon read a Babylonian brick as a canto
of Dante. Hence it is a general opinion, among those who know little or
nothing of the subject, that this admirable language is adapted only to
the effeminate cant of sonnetteers, musicians, and connoisseurs.

The fact is that Dante and Petrarch have been the Oromasdes and
Arimanes of Italian literature. I wish not to detract from the merits
of Petrarch. No one can doubt that his poems exhibit, amidst some
imbecility and more affectation, much elegance, ingenuity, and
tenderness. They present us with a mixture which can only be compared to
the whimsical concert described by the humorous poet of Modena:

"S'udian gli usignuoli, al primo albore,
Egli asini cantar versi d'amore. "
(Tassoni; Secchia Rapita, canto i. stanza 6. )

I am not, however, at present speaking of the intrinsic excellencies of
his writings, which I shall take another opportunity to examine, but of
the effect which they produced on the literature of Italy. The florid
and luxurious charms of his style enticed the poets and the public from
the contemplation of nobler and sterner models. In truth, though a
rude state of society is that in which great original works are
most frequently produced, it is also that in which they are worst
appreciated. This may appear paradoxical; but it is proved by
experience, and is consistent with reason. To be without any received
canons of taste is good for the few who can create, but bad for the many
who can only imitate and judge. Great and active minds cannot remain at
rest. In a cultivated age they are too often contented to move on in
the beaten path. But where no path exists they will make one. Thus
the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Divine Comedy, appeared in dark and half
barbarous times: and thus of the few original works which have been
produced in more polished ages we owe a large proportion to men in low
stations and of uninformed minds. I will instance, in our own language,
the Pilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe. Of all the prose works of
fiction which we possess, these are, I will not say the best, but the
most peculiar, the most unprecedented, the most inimitable. Had Bunyan
and Defoe been educated gentlemen, they would probably have published
translations and imitations of French romances "by a person of quality. "
I am not sure that we should have had Lear if Shakspeare had been able
to read Sophocles.

But these circumstances, while they foster genius, are unfavourable to
the science of criticism. Men judge by comparison. They are unable to
estimate the grandeur of an object when there is no standard by which
they can measure it. One of the French philosophers (I beg Gerard's
pardon), who accompanied Napoleon to Egypt, tells us that, when he first
visited the great Pyramid, he was surprised to see it so diminutive. It
stood alone in a boundless plain. There was nothing near it from which
he could calculate its magnitude. But when the camp was pitched beside
it, and the tents appeared like diminutive specks around its base, he
then perceived the immensity of this mightiest work of man. In the same
manner, it is not till a crowd of petty writers has sprung up that the
merit of the great masterspirits of literature is understood.

We have indeed ample proof that Dante was highly admired in his own and
the following age. I wish that we had equal proof that he was admired
for his excellencies. But it is a remarkable corroboration of what has
been said, that this great man seems to have been utterly unable to
appreciate himself. In his treatise "De Vulgari Eloquentia" he talks
with satisfaction of what he has done for Italian literature, of the
purity and correctness of his style. "Cependant," says a favourite
writer of mine,(Sismondi, Literature du Midi de l'Europe. ) "il n'est
ni pur, ni correct, mais il est createur. " Considering the difficulties
with which Dante had to struggle, we may perhaps be more inclined than
the French critic to allow him this praise. Still it is by no means his
highest or most peculiar title to applause. It is scarcely necessary to
say that those qualities which escaped the notice of the poet himself
were not likely to attract the attention of the commentators. The fact
is, that, while the public homage was paid to some absurdities with
which his works may be justly charged, and to many more which were
falsely imputed to them,--while lecturers were paid to expound and
eulogise his physics, his metaphysics, his theology, all bad of their
kind--while annotators laboured to detect allegorical meanings of which
the author never dreamed, the great powers of his imagination, and the
incomparable force of his style, were neither admired nor imitated.
Arimanes had prevailed. The Divine Comedy was to that age what St.
Paul's Cathedral was to Omai. The poor Otaheitean stared listlessly for
a moment at the huge cupola, and ran into a toyshop to play with beads.
Italy, too, was charmed with literary trinkets, and played with them for
four centuries.

From the time of Petrarch to the appearance of Alfieri's tragedies, we
may trace in almost every page of Italian literature the influence of
those celebrated sonnets which, from the nature both of their beauties
and their faults, were peculiarly unfit to be models for general
imitation. Almost all the poets of that period, however different in
the degree and quality of their talents, are characterised by great
exaggeration, and as a necessary consequence, great coldness of
sentiment; by a passion for frivolous and tawdry ornament; and, above
all, by an extreme feebleness and diffuseness of style. Tasso, Marino,
Guarini, Metastasio, and a crowd of writers of inferior merit and
celebrity, were spell-bound in the enchanted gardens of a gaudy and
meretricious Alcina, who concealed debility and deformity beneath the
deceitful semblance of loveliness and health. Ariosto, the great Ariosto
himself, like his own Ruggiero, stooped for a time to linger amidst
the magic flowers and fountains, and to caress the gay and painted
sorceress. But to him, as to his own Ruggiero, had been given the
omnipotent ring and the winged courser, which bore him from the paradise
of deception to the regions of light and nature.

The evil of which I speak was not confined to the graver poets. It
infected satire, comedy, burlesque. No person can admire more than I do
the great masterpieces of wit and humour which Italy has produced. Still
I cannot but discern and lament a great deficiency, which is common to
them all. I find in them abundance of ingenuity, of droll naivete, of
profound and just reflection, of happy expression. Manners, characters,
opinions, are treated with "a most learned spirit of human dealing. " But
something is still wanting. We read, and we admire, and we yawn. We look
in vain for the bacchanalian fury which inspired the comedy of Athens,
for the fierce and withering scorn which animates the invectives of
Juvenal and Dryden, or even for the compact and pointed diction which
adds zest to the verses of Pope and Boileau. There is no enthusiasm,
no energy, no condensation, nothing which springs from strong
feeling, nothing which tends to excite it. Many fine thoughts and fine
expressions reward the toil of reading. Still it is a toil. The Secchia
Rapita, in some points the best poem of its kind, is painfully diffuse
and languid. The Animali Parlanti of Casti is perfectly intolerable. I
admire the dexterity of the plot, and the liberality of the opinions.
I admit that it is impossible to turn to a page which does not contain
something that deserves to be remembered; but it is at least six times
as long as it ought to be. And the garrulous feebleness of the style is
a still greater fault than the length of the work.
It may be thought that I have gone too far in attributing these evils to
the influence of the works and the fame of Petrarch. It cannot, however,
be doubted that they have arisen, in a great measure, from a neglect of
the style of Dante. This is not more proved by the decline of Italian
poetry than by its resuscitation. After the lapse of four hundred and
fifty years, there appeared a man capable of appreciating and imitating
the father of Tuscan literature--Vittorio Alfieri. Like the prince in
the nursery tale, he sought and found the sleeping beauty within the
recesses which had so long concealed her from mankind. The portal
was indeed rusted by time;--the dust of ages had accumulated on the
hangings;--the furniture was of antique fashion;--and the gorgeous
colour of the embroidery had faded. But the living charms which were
well worth all the rest remained in the bloom of eternal youth, and well
rewarded the bold adventurer who roused them from their long slumber. In
every line of the Philip and the Saul, the greatest poems, I think, of
the eighteenth century, we may trace the influence of that mighty
genius which has immortalised the ill-starred love of Francesca, and
the paternal agonies of Ugolino. Alfieri bequeathed the sovereignty of
Italian literature to the author of the Aristodemus--a man of genius
scarcely inferior to his own, and a still more devoted disciple of the
great Florentine. It must be acknowledged that this eminent writer has
sometimes pushed too far his idolatry of Dante. To borrow a sprightly
illustration from Sir John Denham, he has not only imitated his garb,
but borrowed his clothes. He often quotes his phrases; and he has,
not very judiciously as it appears to me, imitated his versification.
Nevertheless, he has displayed many of the higher excellencies of his
master; and his works may justly inspire us with a hope that the Italian
language will long flourish under a new literary dynasty, or rather
under the legitimate line, which has at length been restored to a throne
long occupied by specious usurpers.

The man to whom the literature of his country owes its origin and
its revival was born in times singularly adapted to call forth his
extraordinary powers. Religious zeal, chivalrous love and honour,
democratic liberty, are the three most powerful principles that have
ever influenced the character of large masses of men. Each of them
singly has often excited the greatest enthusiasm, and produced the
most important changes. In the time of Dante all the three, often in
amalgamation, generally in conflict, agitated the public mind. The
preceding generation had witnessed the wrongs and the revenge of the
brave, the accomplished, the unfortunate Emperor Frederic the Second,--a
poet in an age of schoolmen,--a philosopher in an age of monks,--a
statesman in an age of crusaders. During the whole life of the poet,
Italy was experiencing the consequences of the memorable struggle which
he had maintained against the Church. The finest works of imagination
have always been produced in times of political convulsion, as the
richest vineyards and the sweetest flowers always grow on the soil which
has been fertilised by the fiery deluge of a volcano. To look no
further than the literary history of our own country, can we doubt
that Shakspeare was in a great measure produced by the Reformation,
and Wordsworth by the French Revolution? Poets often avoid political
transactions; they often affect to despise them. But, whether they
perceive it or not, they must be influenced by them. As long as their
minds have any point of contact with those of their fellow-men, the
electric impulse, at whatever distance it may originate, will be
circuitously communicated to them.

This will be the case even in large societies, where the division of
labour enables many speculative men to observe the face of nature, or
to analyse their own minds, at a distance from the seat of political
transactions. In the little republic of which Dante was a member the
state of things was very different. These small communities are most
unmercifully abused by most of our modern professors of the science
of government. In such states, they tell us, factions are always
most violent: where both parties are cooped up within a narrow space,
political difference necessarily produces personal malignity. Every man
must be a soldier; every moment may produce a war. No citizen can lie
down secure that he shall not be roused by the alarum-bell, to repel
or avenge an injury. In such petty quarrels Greece squandered the blood
which might have purchased for her the permanent empire of the world,
and Italy wasted the energy and the abilities which would have enabled
her to defend her independence against the Pontiffs and the Caesars.

All this is true: yet there is still a compensation. Mankind has not
derived so much benefit from the empire of Rome as from the city of
Athens, nor from the kingdom of France as from the city of Florence.
The violence of party feeling may be an evil; but it calls forth that
activity of mind which in some states of society it is desirable to
produce at any expense. Universal soldiership may be an evil; but where
every man is a soldier there will be no standing army. And is it no evil
that one man in every fifty should be bred to the trade of slaughter;
should live only by destroying and by exposing himself to be destroyed;
should fight without enthusiasm and conquer without glory; be sent to a
hospital when wounded, and rot on a dunghill when old? Such, over more
than two-thirds of Europe, is the fate of soldiers. It was something
that the citizen of Milan or Florence fought, not merely in the vague
and rhetorical sense in which the words are often used, but in sober
truth, for his parents, his children, his lands, his house, his altars.
It was something that he marched forth to battle beneath the Carroccio,
which had been the object of his childish veneration: that his aged
father looked down from the battlements on his exploits; that his
friends and his rivals were the witnesses of his glory. If he fell, he
was consigned to no venal or heedless guardians. The same day saw him
conveyed within the walls which he had defended. His wounds were dressed
by his mother; his confession was whispered to the friendly priest
who had heard and absolved the follies of his youth; his last sigh was
breathed upon the lips of the lady of his love. Surely there is no sword
like that which is beaten out of a ploughshare. Surely this state of
things was not unmixedly bad; its evils were alleviated by enthusiasm
and by tenderness; and it will at least be acknowledged that it was well
fitted to nurse poetical genius in an imaginative and observant mind.

Nor did the religious spirit of the age tend less to this result than
its political circumstances. Fanaticism is an evil, but it is not the
greatest of evils. It is good that a people should be roused by any
means from a state of utter torpor;--that their minds should be diverted
from objects merely sensual, to meditations, however erroneous, on the
mysteries of the moral and intellectual world; and from interests which
are immediately selfish to those which relate to the past, the future,
and the remote. These effects have sometimes been produced by the worst
superstitions that ever existed; but the Catholic religion, even in
the time of its utmost extravagance and atrocity, never wholly lost the
spirit of the Great Teacher, whose precepts form the noblest code, as
His conduct furnished the purest example, of moral excellence. It is of
all religions the most poetical. The ancient superstitions furnished
the fancy with beautiful images, but took no hold on the heart. The
doctrines of the Reformed Churches have most powerfully influenced
the feelings and the conduct of men, but have not presented them with
visions of sensible beauty and grandeur. The Roman Catholic Church has
united to the awful doctrines of the one that Mr Coleridge calls the
"fair humanities" of the other. It has enriched sculpture and painting
with the loveliest and most majestic forms. To the Phidian Jupiter it
can oppose the Moses of Michael Angelo; and to the voluptuous beauty
of the Queen of Cyprus, the serene and pensive loveliness of the Virgin
Mother. The legends of its martyrs and its saints may vie in ingenuity
and interest with the mythological fables of Greece; its ceremonies and
processions were the delight of the vulgar; the huge fabric of secular
power with which it was connected attracted the admiration of the
statesman. At the same time, it never lost sight of the most solemn
and tremendous doctrines of Christianity,--the incarnate God,--the
judgment,--the retribution,--the eternity of happiness or torment. Thus,
while, like the ancient religions, it received incalculable support from
policy and ceremony, it never wholly became, like those religions, a
merely political and ceremonial institution.

The beginning of the thirteenth century was, as Machiavelli has
remarked, the era of a great revival of this extraordinary system. The
policy of Innocent,--the growth of the Inquisition and the mendicant
orders,--the wars against the Albigenses, the Pagans of the East, and
the unfortunate princes of the house of Swabia, agitated Italy during
the two following generations. In this point Dante was completely
under the influence of his age. He was a man of a turbid and melancholy
spirit. In early youth he had entertained a strong and unfortunate
passion, which, long after the death of her whom he loved, continued to
haunt him. Dissipation, ambition, misfortunes had not effaced it. He was
not only a sincere, but a passionate, believer. The crimes and abuses
of the Church of Rome were indeed loathsome to him; but to all its
doctrines and all its rites he adhered with enthusiastic fondness and
veneration; and, at length, driven from his native country, reduced to
a situation the most painful to a man of his disposition, condemned to
learn by experience that no food is so bitter as the bread of dependence

("Tu proverai si come sa di sale
Lo pane altrui, e come e duro calle
Lo scendere e'l sa'ir per l'altrui scale. "
Paradiso, canto xvii. ),

and no ascent so painful as the staircase of a patron,--his wounded
spirit took refuge in visionary devotion. Beatrice, the unforgotten
object of his early tenderness, was invested by his imagination with
glorious and mysterious attributes; she was enthroned among the highest
of the celestial hierarchy: Almighty Wisdom had assigned to her the care
of the sinful and unhappy wanderer who had loved her with such a perfect
love. ("L'amico mio, e non della ventura. " Inferno, canto ii. ) By a
confusion, like that which often takes place in dreams, he has sometimes
lost sight of her human nature, and even of her personal existence, and
seems to consider her as one of the attributes of the Deity.

But those religious hopes which had released the mind of the sublime
enthusiast from the terrors of death had not rendered his speculations
on human life more cheerful. This is an inconsistency which may often be
observed in men of a similar temperament. He hoped for happiness beyond
the grave: but he felt none on earth. It is from this cause, more than
from any other, that his description of Heaven is so far inferior to the
Hell or the Purgatory. With the passions and miseries of the suffering
spirits he feels a strong sympathy. But among the beatified he appears
as one who has nothing in common with them,--as one who is incapable of
comprehending, not only the degree, but the nature of their enjoyment.
We think that we see him standing amidst those smiling and radiant
spirits with that scowl of unutterable misery on his brow, and that curl
of bitter disdain on his lips, which all his portraits have preserved,
and which might furnish Chantrey with hints for the head of his
projected Satan.

There is no poet whose intellectual and moral character are so closely
connected. The great source, as it appears to me, of the power of the
Divine Comedy is the strong belief with which the story seems to be
told. In this respect, the only books which approach to its excellence
are Gulliver's Travels and Robinson Crusoe. The solemnity of his
asseverations, the consistency and minuteness of his details, the
earnestness with which he labours to make the reader understand the
exact shape and size of everything that he describes, give an air of
reality to his wildest fictions. I should only weaken this statement
by quoting instances of a feeling which pervades the whole work, and to
which it owes much of its fascination. This is the real justification
of the many passages in his poem which bad critics have condemned as
grotesque. I am concerned to see that Mr Cary, to whom Dante owes more
than ever poet owed to translator, has sanctioned an accusation utterly
unworthy of his abilities. "His solicitude," says that gentleman, "to
define all his images in such a manner as to bring them within the
circle of our vision, and to subject them to the power of the pencil,
renders him little better than grotesque, where Milton has since taught
us to expect sublimity. " It is true that Dante has never shrunk from
embodying his conceptions in determinate words, that he has even given
measures and numbers, where Milton would have left his images to float
undefined in a gorgeous haze of language. Both were right. Milton
did not profess to have been in heaven or hell. He might therefore
reasonably confine himself to magnificent generalities. Far different
was the office of the lonely traveller, who had wandered through the
nations of the dead. Had he described the abode of the rejected spirits
in language resembling the splendid lines of the English Poet,--had he
told us of--

"An universe of death, which God by curse
Created evil, for evil only good,
Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds
Perverse all monstrous, all prodigious things,
Abominable, unutterable, and worse
Than fables yet have feigned, or fear conceived,
Gorgons, and hydras, and chimaeras dire"--

this would doubtless have been noble writing. But where would have been
that strong impression of reality, which, in accordance with his plan,
it should have been his great object to produce? It was absolutely
necessary for him to delineate accurately "all monstrous, all prodigious
things,"--to utter what might to others appear "unutterable,"--to relate
with the air of truth what fables had never feigned,--to embody what
fear had never conceived. And I will frankly confess that the vague
sublimity of Milton affects me less than these reviled details of Dante.
We read Milton; and we know that we are reading a great poet. When
we read Dante, the poet vanishes. We are listening to the man who has
returned from "the valley of the dolorous abyss;" ("Lavalle d'abisso
doloroso. "--Inferno, cantoiv. )--we seem to see the dilated eye of
horror, to hear the shuddering accents with which he tells his fearful
tale. Considered in this light, the narratives are exactly what they
should be,--definite in themselves, but suggesting to the mind ideas
of awful and indefinite wonder. They are made up of the images of the
earth:--they are told in the language of the earth. --Yet the whole
effect is, beyond expression, wild and unearthly. The fact is, that
supernatural beings, as long as they are considered merely with
reference to their own nature, excite our feelings very feebly. It is
when the great gulf which separates them from us is passed, when we
suspect some strange and undefinable relation between the laws of the
visible and the invisible world, that they rouse, perhaps, the strongest
emotions of which our nature is capable. How many children, and how many
men, are afraid of ghosts, who are not afraid of God! And this, because,
though they entertain a much stronger conviction of the existence of a
Deity than of the reality of apparitions, they have no apprehension that
he will manifest himself to them in any sensible manner. While this
is the case, to describe superhuman beings in the language, and
to attribute to them the actions, of humanity may be grotesque,
unphilosophical, inconsistent; but it will be the only mode of working
upon the feelings of men, and, therefore, the only mode suited for
poetry. Shakspeare understood this well, as he understood everything
that belonged to his art. Who does not sympathise with the rapture of
Ariel, flying after sunset on the wings of the bat, or sucking in the
cups of flowers with the bee? Who does not shudder at the caldron of
Macbeth? Where is the philosopher who is not moved when he thinks of
the strange connection between the infernal spirits and "the sow's
blood that hath eaten her nine farrow? " But this difficult task of
representing supernatural beings to our minds, in a manner which shall
be neither unintelligible to our intellects nor wholly inconsistent with
our ideas of their nature, has never been so well performed as by
Dante. I will refer to three instances, which are, perhaps, the most
striking:--the description of the transformations of the serpents and
the robbers, in the twenty-fifth canto of the Inferno,--the passage
concerning Nimrod, in the thirty-first canto of the same part,--and the
magnificent procession in the twenty-ninth canto of the Purgatorio.

The metaphors and comparisons of Dante harmonise admirably with that
air of strong reality of which I have spoken. They have a very peculiar
character. He is perhaps the only poet whose writings would become much
less intelligible if all illustrations of this sort were expunged. His
similes are frequently rather those of a traveller than of a poet. He
employs them not to display his ingenuity by fanciful analogies,--not
to delight the reader by affording him a distant and passing glimpse of
beautiful images remote from the path in which he is proceeding, but to
give an exact idea of the objects which he is describing, by comparing
them with others generally known. The boiling pitch in Malebolge was
like that in the Venetian arsenal:--the mound on which he travelled
along the banks of Phlegethon was like that between Ghent and Bruges,
but not so large:--the cavities where the Simoniacal prelates are
confined resemble the Fonts in the Church of John at Florence.
Every reader of Dante will recall many other illustrations of this
description, which add to the appearance of sincerity and earnestness
from which the narrative derives so much of its interest.

Many of his comparisons, again, are intended to give an exact idea of
his feelings under particular circumstances. The delicate shades of
grief, of fear, of anger, are rarely discriminated with sufficient
accuracy in the language of the most refined nations. A rude dialect
never abounds in nice distinctions of this kind. Dante therefore employs
the most accurate and infinitely the most poetical mode of marking
the precise state of his mind. Every person who has experienced the
bewildering effect of sudden bad tidings,--the stupefaction,--the vague
doubt of the truth of our own perceptions which they produce,--will
understand the following simile:--"I was as he is who dreameth his own
harm,--who, dreaming, wishes that it may be all a dream, so that he
desires that which is as though it were not. " This is only one out of a
hundred equally striking and expressive similitudes. The comparisons of
Homer and Milton are magnificent digressions. It scarcely injures their
effect to detach them from the work. Those of Dante are very different.
They derive their beauty from the context, and reflect beauty upon it.
His embroidery cannot be taken out without spoiling the whole web. I
cannot dismiss this part of the subject without advising every person
who can muster sufficient Italian to read the simile of the sheep, in
the third canto of the Purgatorio. I think it the most perfect passage
of the kind in the world, the most imaginative, the most picturesque,
and the most sweetly expressed.

No person can have attended to the Divine Comedy without observing how
little impression the forms of the external world appear to have made on
the mind of Dante. His temper and his situation had led him to fix his
observation almost exclusively on human nature. The exquisite opening of
the eighth* canto of the Purgatorio affords a strong instance of this.
(I cannot help observing that Gray's imitation of that noble line

"Che paia 'lgiorna pianger che si muore,"--

is one of the most striking instances of injudicious plagiarism with
which I am acquainted. Dante did not put this strong personification at
the beginning of his description. The imagination of the reader is so
well prepared for it by the previous lines, that it appears perfectly
natural and pathetic. Placed as Gray has placed it, neither preceded
nor followed by anything that harmonises with it, it becomes a frigid
conceit. Woe to the unskilful rider who ventures on the horses of
Achilles! )

He leaves to others the earth, the ocean, and the sky. His business is
with man. To other writers, evening may be the season of dews and stars
and radiant clouds. To Dante it is the hour of fond recollection and
passionate devotion,--the hour which melts the heart of the mariner and
kindles the love of the pilgrim,--the hour when the toll of the bell
seems to mourn for another day which is gone and will return no more.

The feeling of the present age has taken a direction diametrically
opposite. The magnificence of the physical world, and its influence
upon the human mind, have been the favourite themes of our most eminent
poets. The herd of bluestocking ladies and sonneteering gentlemen seem
to consider a strong sensibility to the "splendour of the grass, the
glory of the flower," as an ingredient absolutely indispensable in the
formation of a poetical mind. They treat with contempt all writers who
are unfortunately

nec ponere lucum
Artifices, nec rus saturum laudare.

The orthodox poetical creed is more Catholic. The noblest earthly object
of the contemplation of man is man himself. The universe, and all its
fair and glorious forms, are indeed included in the wide empire of the
imagination; but she has placed her home and her sanctuary amidst the
inexhaustible varieties and the impenetrable mysteries of the mind.

In tutte parti impera, e quivi regge;
Quivi e la sua cittade, e l'alto seggio.
(Inferno, canto i. )

Othello is perhaps the greatest work in the world. From what does it
derive its power? From the clouds? From the ocean? From the mountains?
Or from love strong as death, and jealousy cruel as the grave? What is
it that we go forth to see in Hamlet? Is it a reed shaken with the wind?
A small celandine? A bed of daffodils? Or is it to contemplate a mighty
and wayward mind laid bare before us to the inmost recesses? It may
perhaps be doubted whether the lakes and the hills are better fitted for
the education of a poet than the dusky streets of a huge capital. Indeed
who is not tired to death with pure description of scenery? Is it not
the fact, that external objects never strongly excite our feelings but
when they are contemplated in reference to man, as illustrating his
destiny, or as influencing his character? The most beautiful object in
the world, it will be allowed, is a beautiful woman. But who that can
analyse his feelings is not sensible that she owes her fascination
less to grace of outline and delicacy of colour, than to a thousand
associations which, often unperceived by ourselves, connect those
qualities with the source of our existence, with the nourishment of our
infancy, with the passions of our youth, with the hopes of our age--with
elegance, with vivacity, with tenderness, with the strongest of natural
instincts, with the dearest of social ties?

To those who think thus, the insensibility of the Florentine poet to
the beauties of nature will not appear an unpardonable deficiency. On
mankind no writer, with the exception of Shakspeare, has looked with
a more penetrating eye. I have said that his poetical character had
derived a tinge from his peculiar temper. It is on the sterner and
darker passions that he delights to dwell. All love excepting the
half-mystic passion which he still felt for his buried Beatrice, had
palled on the fierce and restless exile. The sad story of Rimini is
almost a single exception. I know not whether it has been remarked,
that, in one point, misanthropy seems to have affected his mind, as
it did that of Swift. Nauseous and revolting images seem to have had a
fascination for his mind; and he repeatedly places before his readers,
with all the energy of his incomparable style, the most loathsome
objects of the sewer and the dissecting-room.

There is another peculiarity in the poem of Dante, which, I think,
deserves notice. Ancient mythology has hardly ever been successfully
interwoven with modern poetry. One class of writers have introduced the
fabulous deities merely as allegorical representatives of love, wine,
or wisdom. This necessarily renders their works tame and cold. We may
sometimes admire their ingenuity; but with what interest can we read
of beings of whose personal existence the writer does not suffer us
to entertain, for a moment, even a conventional belief? Even Spenser's
allegory is scarcely tolerable, till we contrive to forget that Una
signifies innocence, and consider her merely as an oppressed lady under
the protection of a generous knight.

Those writers who have, more judiciously, attempted to preserve the
personality of the classical divinities have failed from a different
cause. They have been imitators, and imitators at a disadvantage.
Euripides and Catullus believed in Bacchus and Cybele as little as we
do. But they lived among men who did. Their imaginations, if not their
opinions, took the colour of the age. Hence the glorious inspiration of
the Bacchae and the Atys. Our minds are formed by circumstances: and I
do not believe that it would be in the power of the greatest modern poet
to lash himself up to a degree of enthusiasm adequate to the production
of such works.

Dante, alone among the poets of later times, has been, in this respect,
neither an allegorist nor an imitator; and, consequently, he alone has
introduced the ancient fictions with effect. His Minos, his Charon,
his Pluto, are absolutely terrific. Nothing can be more beautiful or
original than the use which he has made of the River of Lethe. He has
never assigned to his mythological characters any functions inconsistent
with the creed of the Catholic Church. He has related nothing concerning
them which a good Christian of that age might not believe possible. On
this account there is nothing in these passages that appears puerile or
pedantic. On the contrary, this singular use of classical names suggests
to the mind a vague and awful idea of some mysterious revelation,
anterior to all recorded history, of which the dispersed fragments might
have been retained amidst the impostures and superstitions of later
religions. Indeed the mythology of the Divine Comedy is of the elder and
more colossal mould. It breathes the spirit of Homer and Aeschylus, not
of Ovid and Claudian.