er. The courage of every class was nerved by danger, and flourishing republics rose from amongst confusion. In the midst of civil discord, the Popes called in the aid of foreign conquerors; and in the life-time of Dante, a French Prince entered Italy, preaching concord to the republics, and holding out promises of liberty, in order to enslave them. The popular party was attached to the church and to France, the aristocracy favored the descendants of the Cæsars. But although the eyes of mankind began to be opened to the corruption and exorbitant ambition of the Roman Church, religion still maintained its influence. The poetic fictions of mythology had passed away;-the sun of paganism had set;but the pure light of Christianity, which in after ages inspired Milton with his most sublime and affecting images, was darkened by the gloomy dreams of an abstract belief. With the utmost heretical license were mingled the grossest abuses of superstition. Astrologers were burned by the inquisition. The Jesuits amused the credulity of the public, by the revelation of innumerable visions with which they professed to be favored. A belief arose, that the last day was at hand;-and for nearly a century after the death of Dante, the dread of an approaching general judgment continued to agitate the whole of Christendom. When the Pope, at the end of the twelfth century, proclaimed a plenary indulgence to all who should perform a pilgrimage to Rome, it was calculated that, for several weeks, two hundred thousand foreigners succeeded each other daily at the gate of the Eternal City. Literature had taken a scholastic turn. In the preceding century, St. Francis and St. Dominic had turned all the energy of their ardent minds towards the mysteries of religion. By their example, their preaching, their persecution, they had re-awakened the religious zeal, which for some time past had slumbered. The present was the age of St. Thomas Aquinas, whose writings had rendered the study of scholastic theology so universally prevalent. Intricate and useless disquisitions became the leading object of education. The passion for verbal subtlety, which distinguished the revival of letters in Italy, seems indeed to be one of the characteristics, which mark the first stage of the improvement of a nation. It prevailed, for instance, to a great extent, among the young men of Greece, in the days of the sophists. Their facts,' says a writer, 'were few, but their disputes were long; if they could not convince, they could at least reason; one absurdity led them to another, but every absurdity gave rise to a conflict of words,-and words, even without ideas, were as the breath of life to the loquacious Athenians.' In the time of Dante, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise were forever present to the eyes of all good Christians, under a material form. The nature of the punishments prepared for the condemned in another world, was the constant subject of long and learned discussion. It was this state of public opinion and feeling, which no doubt suggested to Dante the plan of his work. The poets who preceded him, imitating the Provençal bards, sought by far-fetched expressions to conceal their want of true feeling. Their language was rude and harsh,—an uncouth mixture of different tongues. A few love-songs, addressed to an imaginary beauty; a few madrigals full of cold conceits and labored harmony,-these are now of little value in our eyes, except as proving the low state of poetry and the poverty of the language, before the appearance of the great Florentine. The names of Ciullo d'Alcamo, a Sicilian, Lucio Drusi of Pisa, Guido Guinicelli, Guido Cavalcante, Pierre de la Vigne and others, remind us of a train of illequipped attendants, announcing the approach of a mighty conqueror. The mysticism, then in fashion, was borrowed from the Academy. Poetry was a strange mixture of Mythology, Platonism, and Christianity; a puerile combination of rhymes and rhythms, strung together to express a far-fetched compliment, conveyed in an allegory. In the midst, then, of political dissensions in which he took an active part, of a corrupt religion, productive either of gross superstition or of besotted atheism,-under the disadvantages of an infant literature and an unformed and semi-barbarous dialect, Dante arose like a giant amongst a generation of pigmies, and constructed that noble monument of genius, which, after a lapse of five centuries, remains without an equal, as it was without a model. The small lights, which faintly glimmered in the poetic horizon, were extinguished on the appearance of the great luminary. The poetry of Europe became impressed with a new character, and the beautiful language of Italy assumed a new being. Dante was born in the year of our Lord, 1265; and his vis ionary journey through the realms of eternal sorrow, purification and bliss, is placed in the Holy Week of the year 1300; when the poet had attained his thirty-fifth year. He probably chose this year for the date of his poem, because it was the period of the jubilee, when multitudes of pilgrims thronged to Rome, to kneel before the holy relics; when the streets and the churches were crowded with persons of all ranks and ages, and presented a scene well calculated to impress the imagination of the poet. The time when he actually began to write his poem is uncertain. He had not passed his life in seeing visions, or in dreaming dreams. His earthly pilgrimage was one of difficulty and struggle. The unclouded fortune which smiled upon his early years was speedily obscured, and the astrological predictions, which foretold his glory, seemed far from their fulfilment. In his youth, he devoted himself to the study of philosophy and speculative theology, and found relaxation from his severer pursuits in the exercise of his talents for music and painting. Naturally enthusiastic in the pursuit of knowledge, of a stern and contemplative disposition, the condition of his country prevented him from giving himself up to the one, or from indulging in the other. The tumults of the camp interfered with the repose of his private life; and such was his reputation as a statesman,* that he is said to have been employed in no less than fourteen embassies to foreign courts. He was also eminently distinguished for his personal courage; and at the battle of Campeldino was severely wounded, while fighting valiantly in the front rank of the Guelf cavalry. After having been elevated to the chief dignities of the State, and having been accustomed to the homage which was paid to his talents, wealth and official greatness, Dante at length found himself, by a political revolution, exiled from his native city, driven about,'-to use his own pathetic words,— by the cold wind that springs out of sad poverty,' and compelled to taste' how bitter is another's bread,-how hard it is to mount and to descend another's stairs.' He wandered from city to city, trusting to the capricious favor of princes for a *Boccaccio relates that Dante, when he was appointed Ambassador to Pope Boniface, broke out into this exclamation, 'If I go, who is there to stay? If I stay, who is there to go?' In the year 1300, he was chosen chief of the Priors, who at that time held the principal authority in the republic. temporary hospitality; finding or fancying signs of coolness in the demeanor of his patrons; unable to restrain his freedom of speech, or to model his haughty deportment to the lowly seeming, which became an exile and a dependent on the bounty of strangers. If his public career was unfortunate, his private situation was not less so. It would seem, indeed, that misfortune is the best school for genius, which withers in the sunshine, but grows more vigorous in the storm. The favor of princes renders it cold and courtly; domestic happiness frequently lulls it to sleep; but when the cords which bind it to earth are severed, it takes its natural flight towards a higher sphere. Thus Milton, bred in the midst of political factions and religious fanaticism, produced his immortal work when the external world was forever shut out from his sight. In his own recollections he found the model of those fierce passions which he represented; and by investing them with a veil of sublimity, rendered them fitting attributes for his fallen spirits. The most exquisite passages in the poem of Dante are produced by his eternal regret for the death of one, whom he loved with that pure and intense feeling which characterized him. The recollection of his youthful affection runs like a golden thread through the gloomy tissue of his thoughts, and illuminates, as with a stream of holy light, the mournful sublimity of his poem. Never was so noble a tribute of homage paid by a poet to the object of his adoration. He has made the name of Beatrice immortal as his own. His laurels bind her brows, and wherever the fame of Dante has reached, the memory of the wise and beautiful Mona Bice will be hel in reverence. He does not describe her character, nor, after the fashion. of modern poets, dwell upon her beauty. He gives us a glimpse of her perfections in a few masterly touches. He places her in Paradise, and represents her, out of pity for him, as leaving her lofty abode, and imploring Virgil to rescue him from perdition, and guide him on his arduous journey. When his courage begins to fail, the magic name of Beatrice restores his fainting spirit; and as he advances, she still watches his progress from her high station in the Empyre At length we meet her in her mystic chariot,-floating in clouds, and surrounded by angels,-clothed in brilliant colors,-her pure brow encircled by a crown of unfading olive, -the brightness of those eyes, which mortal could not gaze upon, shaded by a veil of resplendent whiteness. Soft music announces her approach; but in the midst of her triumph, she addresses her lover in a tone of gentle sadness. We see her, wise and severe, moving him by just reproof to repentance and tears, yet feeling the interest of a sister in his welfare, instructing him in heavenly mysteries, guiding him from sphere to sphere through the regions of bliss, while the stars grow brighter at her presence, and becoming more radiant herself as she approaches the source of Eternal Light. Nor is there perhaps a more charming picture in the Commedia than that, which represents her as resuming her station on a throne of light amongst saints and angels;-shining with new splendor, encircled by divine rays,-yet casting from an infinite distance a sweet and beaming smile upon her lover. This is the last impression we receive of her ;-but her image never deserts the poet, and the prayer, which is offered up in his favor by Saint Bernard to the Holy Virgin, is in the name of the divine Beatrice.* The allegorical attributes which the Poet ascribes to her, are in accordance with the taste of the age ;-but, while other poets fell in love that they might sing their griefs, Dante sung because he loved. 'Io mi son un, che quando Amore spira, noto, ed in quel modo 'Count of me but as one, Who am the scribe of love; that, when he breathes,, It is true that, after the death of Beatrice, and while he yet brooded in melancholy over a loss which seems to have admitted of no consolation, he was persuaded by his friends to marry a lady of high birth and fortune,-Gemma de Manetta de'Donati. As might have been expected, he, who had vowed to devote his genius to immortalize the memory of his first love, enjoyed little happiness in such a union. His The fortunate discovery of the portrait of Beatrice by Signor Melchior Messerini, must now silence all the doubts which have been thrown upon her actual existence. She is represented as young and beautiful-her appearance and dress corresponding to the description given of both by the poet. The picture is supposed to be the work of Giotto or Oderigi.-Vid. Com. di Messerini.-Firenze, 1832. |