Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 57, No. 351, January 1845. Various

all his conceptions. Occasionally bright and beautiful ideas flitted across his imagination; visions of bliss, experienced for a moment, and then lost for ever, as if to render more profound the darkness by which they are surrounded. They are given with exquisite beauty; but they shine amidst the gloom like sunbeams struggling through the clouds. He inherited from the dark ages the austerity of the cloister; but he inherited with it the deep feelings and sublime conceptions which its seclusion had generated. His mind was a world within itself. He drew all his conceptions from that inexhaustible source; but he drew them forth so clear and lucid, that they emerged, embodied as it were, in living images. His characters are emblematic of the various passions and views for which different degrees of punishment were reserved in the world to come; but his conception of them was so distinct, his description so vivid, that they stand forth to our gaze in all the agony of their sufferings, like real flesh and blood. We see them — we feel them — we hear their cries — our very flesh creeps at the perception of their sufferings. We stand on the edge of the lake of boiling pitch — we feel the weight of the leaden mantles — we see the snow-like flakes of burning sand — we hear the cries of those who had lost the last earthly consolations, the hope of death: —

      "Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai

      Risonavan per l' aer senza stelle,

      Perch' io al cominciar ne lacrimai.

      Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,

      Parole di dolore, accenti d' ira,

      Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle

      Facevano un tumulto, il qual s' aggira

      Sempre 'n quell' aria senza tempo tinta,

      Come la rena quando 'l turbo spira.

* * *

      Ed io: maestro, che è tanto greve

      A lor che lamentar li fa si forte?

      Rispose: dicerolti molto breve.

      Questi non hanno speranza di morte."

Inferno, c. iii.

      "Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,

      Resounded through the air pierced by no star,

      That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,

      Horrible languages, outcries of woe,

      Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,

      With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds,

      Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls

      Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd,

      Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies.

* * *

      I then: Master! What doth aggrieve them thus,

      That they lament so loud? He straight replied:

      That will I tell thee briefly. These of death

      No hope may entertain."

Cary's Dante, Inferno, c. iii.

      Here is Dante portrayed to the life in the very outset. What a collection of awful images in a few lines! Loud lamentations, hideous cries, mingled with the sound of clasped hands, beneath a starless sky; and the terrible answer, as the cause of this suffering, "These have not the hope of death."

      The very first lines of the Inferno, when the gates of Hell were approached, and the inscription over them appeared, paints the dismal character of the poem, and yet mingled with the sense of divine love and justice with which the author was penetrated.

      "Per me si va nella città dolente;

      Per me si va nell' eterno dolore;

      Per me si va tra la perduta gente:

      Giustizia mosse 'l mio alto Fattore;

      Fecemi la divina Potestate,

      La somma Sapienza e 'l primo Amore.

      Dinanzi a me non fur cose create,

      Se non eterne; ed io eterno duro:

      Lasciate ogni speranza voi che 'ntrate."

Inferno, c. iii.

      "Through me you pass into the city of woe:

      Through me you pass into eternal pain:

      Through me among the people lost for aye.

      Justice the founder of my fabric moved:

      To rear me was the task of power divine,

      Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.

      Before me things create were none, save things

      Eternal, and eternal I endure.

      All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

Cary's Dante, Inferno, c. iii.

      Dante had much more profound feelings than Homer, and therefore he has painted deep mysteries of the human heart with greater force and fidelity. The more advanced age of the world, the influence of spiritual faith, the awful anticipation of judgment to come, the inmost feelings which, during long centuries of seclusion, had been drawn forth in the cloister, the protracted sufferings of the dark ages, had laid bare the human heart. Its sufferings, its terrors, its hopes, its joys, had become as household words. The Italian poet shared, as all do, in the ideas and images of his age, and to these he added many which were entirely his own. He painted the inward man, and painted him from his own feelings, not the observation of others. That is the grand distinction between him and Homer; and that it is which has given him, in the delineation of mind, his great superiority. The Grecian bard was an incomparable observer; he had an inexhaustible imagination for fiction, as well as a graphic eye for the delineation of real life; but he had not a deep or feeling heart. He did not know it, like Dante and Shakspeare, from his own suffering. He painted the external symptoms of passion and emotion with the hand of a master; but he did not reach the inward spring of feeling. He lets us into his characters by their speeches, their gestures, their actions, and keeps up their consistency with admirable fidelity; but he does not, by a word, an expression, or an epithet, admit us into the inmost folds of the heart. None can do so but such as themselves feel warmly and profoundly, and paint passion, emotion, or suffering from their own experience, not the observation of others. Dante has acquired his colossal fame from the matchless force with which he has portrayed the wildest passions, the deepest feelings, the most intense sufferings of the heart. He is the refuge of all those who labour and are heavy laden — of all who feel profoundly or have suffered deeply. His verses are in the mouth of all who are torn by passion, gnawed by remorse, or tormented by apprehension; and how many are they in this scene of woe!

      A distinguished modern critic2 has said, that he who would now become a great poet must first become a little child. There is no doubt he is right. The seen and unseen fetters of civilization; the multitude of old ideas afloat in the world; the innumerable worn-out channels into which new ones are ever apt to flow; the general clamour with which critics, nursed amidst such fetters, receive any attempts at breaking them; the prevalence, in a wealthy and highly civilized age, of worldly or selfish ideas; the common approximation of characters by perpetual intercourse, as of coins, by continual rubbing in passing from man to man, have taken away all freshness and originality from ideas. The learned, the polished, the highly educated, can hardly escape the fetters which former greatness throws over the soul. Milton could not avoid them: half the images in his poems are taken

2

Macaulay.